 CHAPTER XI Where a bit of the big river curved inward, like the tongue of a friendly dog, lapping the shore at Athabasca landing, there still remained fingers-row. Nine dilapidated, weather-worn and crazily built shacks put there by the eccentric genius who had foreseen a boom ten years ahead of its time. And the fifth of these nine, counting from either one end or the other, was named by its owner, dirty fingers himself, the good old queen best. It was a shack covered with black tar paper with two windows, like square eyes, fronting the river as if always on the watch for something. Across the front of this shack dirty fingers had built a porch to protect himself from the rain and springtime, from the sun in summertime, and from the snow in the months of winter. For it was here that dirty fingers sat out all of that part of his life which was not spent in bed. Up and down two thousand miles of the three rivers was dirty fingers known, and there were superstitious ones who believed that little gods and devils came to sit and commune with him in the front of his tar paper shack. No one was so wise along those rivers, no one was so satisfied of themself, that he would not have given much to possess the many things that were hidden away in dirty fingers' brain. One would not have suspected the workings of that brain by a look at dirty fingers in the porch of his good old queen best. He was a great, soft lump of a man, a giant of flabbiness. Sitting in his smooth-worn wooden armchair he was almost formless. His head was huge, his hair uncut and scragy, his face smooth as a baby's, fat as a cherub's, and as expressionless as an apple. His folded arms always rested on a huge stomach, whose conspicuousness was increased by an enormous watch-chain made from beaten nuggets of Klondike gold, and dirty fingers' thumb and forefingers were always twiddling at this chain. How he had come by the name of dirty fingers, when his right name was Alexander Toppetfingers, no one could definitely say, unless it was that he always bore an unkempt and unwashed appearance. Whatever the quality of the two hundred and forty odd pounds of flesh in dirty fingers' body, it was the quality of his brain that made people hold him in a sort of awe. For dirty fingers was a lawyer, a wilderness lawyer, a forest-bencher, a legal strategist of the trail, of the river, of the great Timberlands. Stored away in his brain was every rule of equity and common law of the great North Country. For his knowledge he went back two hundred years. He knew that a law did not die of age, that it must be legislated to death, and out of the moldering past he had dug up every trick and trap of his trade. He had no law books, his library was in his head, and his facts were marshaled in pile after pile of closely written, dust-covered papers in his shack. He did not go to court as other lawyers, and there were barristers in Edmonton who blessed him for that. His shack was his tabernacle of justice. There he sat, hands folded, and gave out his decisions, his advice, his sentences. He sat until other men would have gone mad. From morning until night, moving only for his meals or to get out of the heat or storm, he was a fixture on the porch of the good old queen Bess. For hours he would stare at the river, his pale eyes never seeming to blink. For hours he would remain without a move or a word. One constant companion he had, a dog, fat, emotionless, lazy, like his master. Always this dog was sleeping at his feet or dragging himself wearily at his heels when dirty fingers elected to make a journey to the little store where he bartered for food and necessities. It was Father Leon who came first to see Kent in his cell the morning after Kent's unsuccessful attempt at flight. An hour later it was Father Leon who traveled the beaten path to the door of dirty fingers' shack. If a visible emotion of pleasure ever entered into dirty fingers' face, it was when the little missioner came occasionally to see him. It was then that his tongue let itself loose, and until late at night they talked of many things of which other men knew but little. This morning Father Leon did not come casually but determinately on business, and when dirty fingers learned what that business was, he shook his head disconsolately, folded his fat arms more tightly over his stomach, and stated the sheer impossibility of his going to see Kent. It was not his custom. People must come to him, and he did not like to walk. It was fully a third of a mile from his shack to barracks, possibly half a mile, and it was mostly upgrade. If Kent could be brought to him in his cell, Kent waited. It was not difficult for him to hear voices in Kedsty's office when the door was open, and he knew that the inspector did not come in until after the missioner had gone on its mission to dirty fingers. Usually he was at the barracks an hour or so earlier. Kent made no effort to figure out a reason for Kedsty's lateness, but he did observe that after his arrival there was more than the usual movement between the office door and the outside of the barracks. Once he was positive that he heard Cardigan's voice, and then he was equally sure that he heard Mercer's. He grinned at that. He must be wrong, for Mercer would be in no condition to talk for several days. He was glad that a turn in the hall hid the door of the detachment office from him, and that the three cells were in an alcove, safely out of sight of the curious eyes of visitors. He was also glad that he had no other prisoner for company. His situation was one in which he wanted to be alone. To the plan that was forming itself in his mind, solitude was as vital as the cooperation of Alexander Toppetfinger's. Just how far could he win that cooperation was the problem which confronted him now, and he waited anxiously for the return of Father Leon, listening for the sound of his footsteps in the outer hall. If, after all, that inspirational thought of last night came to nothing, if fingers should fail him, he shrugged his shoulders. If that happened he could see no other chance. He would have to go on and take his medicine at the hands of a jury. But if fingers played up to the game, he looked out on the river again, and again it was the river that seemed to answer him. If fingers played with him, they would beat Kedsty in the whole event division, and in winning he would prove out the greatest psychological experiment he had ever dared to make. The magnitude of the thing when he stopped to think about it was a little appalling, but his faith was equally large. He did not consider his philosophy at all supernatural. He had brought it down to the level of the average man and woman. He believed that every man and woman possessed a subliminal consciousness, which it was possible to rouse to tremendous heights if the right psychological key was found to fit its particular lock, and he believed he possessed the key which fitted the deeply buried and long hidden thing in Dirty Finger's remarkable brain. Because he believed in this metaphysics which he had not read out of Aristotle, he had faith that fingers would prove his salvation. He felt growing in him stronger than ever a strange kind of elation. He felt better physically than last night. The few minutes of strenuous action in which he had half killed Mercer had been a pretty good test, he told himself. It had left no bad effect, and he need no longer fear of the reopening of his wound. A dozen times he had heard a far door open and close. Now he heard it again, and a few moments later it was followed by a sound which drew a low cry of satisfaction from him. Dirty Finger's, because of overweight and lack of exercise, had what he called an asthmatic wind, and it was this strenuous working of his lungs that announced his approach to Kent. His dog was also afflicted, and for the same reasons, so that when they travelled together there was some rivalry between them. We're both bad put out for wind, thank God, Dirty Finger's would say sometimes. It's a good thing, for if we had more of it, we'd walk farther, and we don't like walking. The dog was with fingers now, also Father Leon and Pelley. Pelley unlocked the cell, then relocked it again after fingers, and the dog entered. With a nod and a hopeful look the missioner returned with Pelley to the detachment office. Fingers wiped his red face with a big handkerchief, gasping deeply for breath. Tugs, his dog, was panting as if he had just finished the race of his life. A difficult climb, wheezed fingers, a most difficult climb. He sat down, rolling out like a big bag of jelly in the one chair in the cell, and began to fan himself with his hat. Kent had already taken stock of the situation. In fingers' floored countenance, and in his almost colourless eyes, he detected a bit of excitement which fingers was trying to hide. Kent knew what it meant. Father Leon had found it necessary to play his full hand to lure fingers up the hill, and had given him a hint of what it was that Kent had in store for him. Already the psychological key had begun to work. Kent sat down on the edge of his cot and grinned sympathetically. It hasn't always been like this, has it, Fingers? He said then, leaning a bit forward and speaking with a sudden, low-voiced seriousness. There was a time, twenty years ago, when you didn't puff after climbing a hill. Twenty years make a big difference sometimes. Yes, sometimes, agreed Fingers in a wheezy whisper. Twenty years ago you were a fighter. It seemed to Kent that a deeper colour came into Dirty Fingers' pale eyes in the few seconds that followed these words. A fighter, he repeated. Most men were fighters in those days of the gold rushes, weren't they, Fingers? I've heard a lot of the old stories about them in my wanderings, and some of them have made me thrill. They weren't afraid to die, and most of them were pretty white when it came to a showdown. You were one of them, Fingers. I heard the story one winter, far north. I've kept it to myself, because I've sort of had the idea that you didn't want people to know, or you would have told it yourself. That's why I wanted you to come to see me, Fingers. You know the situation. It's either the noose or iron bars for me. Naturally, one would seek for assistance among those who have been his friends. But I do not, with the exception of Father Leon. Just friendship won't save me, not the sort of friendship we have today. That's why I sent for you. Don't think that I am prying into secrets that are sacred to you, Fingers. God knows I don't mean it that way. But I've got to tell you of a thing that happened a long time ago before you can understand. You haven't forgotten, you will never forget, Ben Tatman? As Kent spoke the name, a name which dirty Fingers had heard no lips but his own speak aloud in nearly a quarter of a century, a strange and potent force seemed suddenly to take possession of the forest-benchers' huge and flabby body. It rippled over and threw him like an electrical voltaism, making his body rigid, stiffening what had seemed to be fat into muscle, tensing his hands until they knotted themselves slowly into fists. The wheeze went out of his breath, and it was the voice of another man who answered Kent. You have heard about Ben Tatman? Yes, I heard it away up in the porcupine country. They say it happened twenty years ago or more. This Tatman, so I was told, was a young fellow, green from San Francisco, a bank clerk, I think, who came into the gold country and brought his wife with him. They were both chuckful of courage, and the story was that each worshipped the ground the other walked on and that the girl had insisted on being her husband's comrade in adventure. Of course, neither guessed the sort of thing that was ahead of them. Then came that death winter in Lost City. You know better than I what the laws were in those days, fingers. Food failed to come up. Snow came early. The thermometer never rose over fifty below zero for three straight months, and Lost City was an inferno of starvation and death. You could go out and kill a man, then, and perhaps get away with it, fingers. But if you stole so much as a crust of bread or a single bean, you were taken to the edge of the camp and told to go. And that meant certain death, death from hunger and cold, more terrible than shooting or hanging, and for that reason it was the penalty for theft. Tatman wasn't a thief. It was seeing his young wife slowly dying of hunger and his horror at the thought of seeing her fall, as others were falling, a victim to scurvy that made him steal. He broke into a cabin in the dead of night and stole two cans of beans and a pan of potatoes, more precious than a thousand times their weight in gold, and he was caught. Of course there was the wife, but those were the days when a woman couldn't save a man, no matter how lovely she was. Tatman was taken to the edge of camp and given his pack and his gun, but no food, and the girl, hooded and booted, was at his side, for she was determined to die with him. For her sake Tatman had lied up to the last minute, protesting his innocence. But the beans and the potatoes were found in his cabin, and that was evidence enough. And then, just as they were about to go straight out into the blizzard that meant death within a few hours, then Kent rose to his feet and walked to the little window and stood there, looking out. Fingers, now and then, a superman is born on earth, and a superman was there in that crowd of hunger-stricken and embittered men. At the last moment he stepped out and in a loud voice declared that Tatman was innocent and that he was guilty. Unafraid he made a remarkable confession. He had stolen the beans and the potatoes and had slipped them into the Tatman cabin when they were asleep. Why? Because he wanted to save the woman from hunger. Yes, he lied, Fingers. He lied because he loved the wife that belonged to another man. Lied because in him there was a heart as true as any heart God ever made. He lied, and his lie was a splendid thing. He went out into that blizzard, strengthened by a love that was greater than his fear of death, and the camp never heard of him again. Tatman and his wife returned to their cabin and lived. Fingers, Kent whirled suddenly from the window, Fingers, and Fingers, like a Sphinx, sat and stared at Kent. You were that man, Kent went on, coming nearer to him. You lied because you loved a woman, and you went out to face death because of that woman. The men at Lost City didn't know it, Fingers. The husband didn't know it, and the girl, that girl-wife you worshipped in secret, didn't dream of it. But that was the truth, and you know it deep down in your soul. You fought your way out, you lived, and all these years down here in your porch you've been dreaming of a woman, of the girl you were willing to die for a long time ago. Fingers, am I right? And if I am, will you shake hands? Slowly Fingers had risen from his chair. No longer were his eyes dull and lifeless, but flaming with a fire that Kent had lighted again after many years. And he reached out a hand and gripped Kent's, still staring at him as though something had come back to him from the dead. I thank you, Kent, for your opinion of that man, he said. Somehow you haven't made me ashamed. But it was only the shell of a man that won out that day when I took Tatman's place. Something happened. I don't know what. But you see me now. I never went back into the diggings. I degenerated. I became what I am. And you are today just what you were when you went out to die from Mary Tatman, cried Kent. The same heart and the same soul are in you. Wouldn't you fight again today for her? A stifled cry came from Fingers' lips. My God, yes, Kent, I would. And that's why I wanted you, of all men, to come to me, Fingers, Kent went on swiftly, to you, of all the men on earth. I wanted to tell my story. And now will you listen to it? Will you forgive me for bringing up this memory that must be precious to you, only that you might more fully understand what I am going to say? I don't want you to think of it as a subterfuge on my part. It is more than that. It is Fingers. Is it inspiration? Listen and tell me. And for a long time after that James Kent talked and Fingers listened. The soul within him writhing and dragging itself back into fierce life, demanding for the first time in many years the something which it had once possessed, but which it had lost. It was not the lazy, mysterious, silent, dirty Fingers who sat in the cell with Kent. In him the spirit of twenty years ago had roused itself from long slumber and the thrill of it pounded in his blood. Two fisted Fingers they had called him then, and he was two fisted Fingers in this hour with Kent. Twice Father Leon came to the head of the cell alcove, but turned back when he heard the low and steady murmur of Kent's voice. Nothing did Kent keep hidden, and when he had finished something that was like the fire of a revelation had come into Fingers' face. My God! he breathed deeply. Kent, I've been sitting down there in my porch a long time, and a good many strange things have come to me but never anything like this. Oh, if it wasn't for this accursed flesh of mine! He jumped from his chair more quickly than he had moved in ten years, and he laughed as he had not laughed in all that time. He thrust out a great arm and doubled it up, like a prize fighter testing his muscle. Old! I'm not old. I was only twenty-eight when that happened up there, and I'm forty-eight now. That isn't old. It's what's in me that's grown old. I'll do it, Kent. I'll do it if I hang for it. Kent fairly leaped upon him. God bless you! he cried huskily. God bless you, Fingers! Look! Look at that! He pulled Fingers to the little window, and together they looked out upon the river, shimmering gloriously under a sun-filled sky of blue. Two thousand miles of it, he breathed. Two thousand miles of it, running straight through the heart of that world we both have known. No, you're not old, Fingers. The things you used to know are calling you again, as they are calling me, for somewhere off there are the ghosts of lost city, ghosts and realities. Ghosts and hopes, said Fingers. Hopes make life, softly whispered Kent, as if to himself. And then, without turning from the window, his hand found Fingers and clasped it tight. It may be that mine, like yours, will never come true, but they're fine to think about Fingers. Funny, isn't it, that their names should be so strangely alike? Mary and Marat? I say, Fingers. Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Both turned from the window as Constable Pelley came to the door of the cell. They recognized this intimation that their time was up, and with his foot Fingers roused his sleeping dog. It was a new Fingers who walked back to the river five minutes later, and it was an amazed and discomforted dog who followed at his heels, for at times the misshapen and flesh-ridden tugs was compelled to trot for a few steps to keep up. And Fingers did not sink into the chair on the shady porch when he reached his shack. He threw off his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, and for hours after that he was buried deep in the accumulated masses of dust-covered legal treasures stored away in hidden corners of the good old Queen Bess. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 12 of The Valley of Silent Men This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Valley of Silent Men by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 12 That morning Kent had heard wild songs floating up from the river, and now he felt like shouting forth his own joy and exultation in song. He wondered if he could hide the truth from the eyes of others, and especially from Kedsty if he came to see him. It seemed that some glimmer of the hope blazing within him must surely reveal itself no matter how he tried to hold it back. He felt the vital forces of that hope more powerful within him now than in the hour when he had crept from the hospital window with freedom in his face. For then he was not sure of himself. He had not tested his physical strength. And in the present moment, fanned by his unbound optimism, the thought came to him that perhaps it was good luck and not bad that had thrown Mercer in his way. For with fingers behind him now his chances for a clean getaway were better. He would not be taking a hazardous leap chanced on the immediate smiles of fortune. He would be going deliberately, prepared. He blessed the man who had been known as Dirty Fingers, but whom he could not think of now in the terms of that name. He blessed the day he had heard that chanced story of fingers, far north. He no longer regarded him as the fat pig of a man he had been for so many years. For he looked upon the miracle of a great awakening. He had seen the soul of fingers lift itself up out of its tabernacle of flesh and grow young again. He had seen stagnant blood race with new fire. He had seen emotions roused that had slept for long years. And he felt toward fingers in the face of that awakening, differently than he had felt toward any other living man. His emotion was one of deep and embracing comradeship. Father Leon did not come again until afternoon, and then he brought information that thrilled Kent. The missioner had walked down to see fingers, and fingers was not on his porch. Neither was the dog. He had knocked loudly on the door, but there was no answer. Where was fingers? Kent shook his head, feigning and anxious questioning, but inside him his heart was leaping. He knew. He told Father Leon he was afraid all fingers' knowledge of the law could do him but little good that fingers had told him as much, and the little missioner went away considerably depressed. He would talk with fingers again, he said, and offer certain suggestions he had in mind. Kent shuckled when he was gone. How shocked LaPère would be if he too could know! The next morning Father Leon came again, and his information was even more thrilling to Kent. The missioner was displeased with fingers. Last night, noticing a light in his shack, he had walked down to see him, and he had found three men closely drawn up about a table with the dirty fingers. One of them was Ponte, the half-breed. Another was Kinnu, the outcast dog-rib from over on Sand Creek. The third was Mui, the old Indian trailer. Kent wanted to jump up and shout for those three with the three greatest trailers in all that part of the Northland. Fingers had lost no time, and he wanted to voice his approbation like a small boy on the Fourth of July. But his face, seen by Father Leon, betrayed none of the excitement that was in his blood. Fingers had told him he was going into a timber deal with these men, a long-distance deal where there would be much travelling, and that he could not interrupt himself just then to talk about Kent. Would Father Leon come again in the morning? And he had gone again that morning, and fingers' place was locked up. All the rest of the day Kent waited eagerly for fingers. For the first time Kedsty came to see him, and as a matter of courtesy said he hoped fingers might be of assistance to him. He did not mention Mercer and remained no longer than a couple of minutes standing outside the cell. In the afternoon Dr. Cartigan came and shook hands warmly with Kent. He had found a tough job waiting for him. He said Mercer was all cut up in a literal, as well as a mental way. He had five teeth missing, and he had to have seventeen stitches taken in his face. It was Cartigan's opinion that someone had given him a considerable beating, and he grinned at Kent. Then he added in a whisper, My God Kent, how I wish you had made it! It was four o'clock when fingers came. Even less than yesterday did he look like the old fingers. He was not wheezing. He seemed to have lost flesh. His face was alive. That was what struck Kent the new life in it. There was color in his eyes, and Toggs, the dog, was not with him. He smiled when he shook hands with Kent and nodded and chuckled. And Kent, after that, gripped him by the shoulders and shook him in his silent joy. I was up all last night, said fingers in a low voice. I don't dare move much in the day, or people will wonder. But God bless my soul. I did move last night, Kent. I must have walked ten miles, more or less. And things are coming, coming. And Ponte, Canoe, Mui, are working like devils, whispered fingers. It's the only way, Kent. I've gone through all my law, and there's nothing in man-made law that can save you. I've read your confession, and I don't think you could even get off with the penitentiary. A noose is already tied around your neck. I think you'd hang. We've simply got to get you out some other way. I've had a talk with Kedsty. He has made arrangements to have you sent to Edmonton two weeks from tomorrow. We'll need all that time, but it's enough. For three days thereafter, fingers came to Kent's cell each afternoon, and each time was looking better. Something was swiftly putting hardness into his flesh and form into his body. The second day he told Kent that he had found the way at last, and that when the hour came escape would be easy, but he thought it best not to let Kent in on the little secret just yet. He must be patient and have faith. That was the chief thing, to have faith at all times, no matter what happened. Several times he emphasized that no matter what happens. The third day he puzzled Kent. He was restless, a bit nervous. He still thought it best not to tell Kent what his scheme was until tomorrow. He was in the cell not more than five or ten minutes, and there was an unusual pressure in the grip of his hand when he bade Kent good-bye. Somehow Kent did not feel so well when he had gone. He waited impatiently for the next day. It came, and hour after hour he listened for fingers heavy tread in the hall. The morning passed. The afternoon lengthened. Night came, and fingers had not come. Kent did not sleep much between the hour when he went to bed and morning. It was eleven o'clock when the missioner made his call. Before he left Kent gave him a brief note for fingers. He had just finished his dinner, and Carter had taken the dishes away when Father Leon returned. A look at his face, and Kent knew that he bore unpleasant tidings. Fingers is an apostate, he said, his lips twitching as if to keep back a denunciation still more emphatic. He was sitting on his porch again this morning, half asleep, and says that after a great deal of thought he has come to the definite opinion that he can do nothing for you. He read your note and burned it with a match. He asked me to tell you that the scheme he had in mind was too risky for him. He says he won't come up again, and the missioner was rubbing his brown knotted hands together raspingly. Go on, said Kent a little thickly. He has also sent Inspector Kedzty the same word, finished Father Leon. His words to Kedzty is that he can see no fighting chance for you, and that it is useless effort on his part to put up a defense for you. Jimmy, his hand touched Kent's arm gently. Kent's face was white. He faced the window, and for a space he did not see. Then, with pencil and paper, he wrote again to fingers. It was late in the afternoon before Father Leon returned with an answer. Again it was verbal. Fingers had read his note and had burned it with a match. He was particular that the last scrap of it was turned into ash, the missioner said, and he had nothing to say to Kent that he had not previously said. He simply could not go on with their plans. He simply could not go on with their plans. And he requested Kent not to write to him again. He was sorry, but that was his definite stand in the matter. Even then Kent could not bring himself to believe. All the rest of the day he tried to put himself in fingers' brain, but his old trick of losing his personality and that of another failed him this time. He could find no reason for the sudden change in fingers unless it was that fingers had frankly confessed to Father Leon fear. The influence of mind, in this instance, had failed in its assault upon a massive matter. Fingers' nerve had gone back on him. The fifth day Kent rose from his cot with hope still not quite dead in his heart. But that day passed, and the sixth, and the missioner brought word that fingers was the old dirty fingers again sitting from morning till night on his porch. On the seventh day came the final crash to Kent's hopes. Kent's program had changed. He, Kent, was to start for Edmonton the following morning under charge of Pelly and a special constable. After this Kent felt a strange change come over him. Years seemed to multiply themselves in his body. His mind, beaten back, no longer continued in its old channels of thought. The thing pressed upon him now is fatalistic. Fingers had failed him. Fortune had failed him. Everything had failed, and for the first time in the weeks of his struggle against death and a thing worse than death he cursed himself. There was a limit to optimism and a limit to hope. His limit was reached. In the afternoon of this seventh day came a depressing gloom. It was filled with a drizzling rain. Hour after hour this drizzle kept up thickening as the night came. He ate his supper by the light of a cell lamp. By eight o'clock it was black outside. In that blackness there was an occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. On the roof of the barracks the rain beat steadily and monotonously. His watch was in his hand. It was a quarter after nine o'clock when he heard the door at the far exit of the hall open and close. He had heard it a dozen times since supper and paid no attention to it, but this time it was followed by a voice at the detachment office that hit him like an electrical shock. Then a moment later came low laughter. It was a woman who laughed. He stood up. He heard the detachment office door close and silence followed. The watch in his hand seemed ticking off the seconds with frantic noise. He shoved it into his pocket and stood staring out into the prison alcove. A few minutes later the office door opened again. This time it was not closed. He heard distinctly a few light hesitating footsteps and his heart seemed to stop its beating. They came to the head of the lighted alcove and for perhaps the space of a dozen seconds there was silence again. Then they advanced. Another moment and Kent was staring through the bars into the glorious eyes of Marat-Radisson. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 of The Valley of Silent Men This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Valley of Silent Men by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 13 In that moment Kent did not speak. He made no sound. He gave no sign of welcome but stood in the middle of a cell staring. If life had hung upon speech in those few seconds he would have died but everything he would have said and more was in his face. The girl must have seen it. With her two hands she was gripping at the bars of the cell and looking through at him. Kent saw that her face was pale in the lamp glow. And that pallor her violet eyes were like pools of black. The hood of her dripping raincoat was thrown partly back and against the whiteness of her cheeks her hair glistened wet and her long lashes were heavy with the rain. Kent, without moving over the narrow space between them, reached out his hands and found his voice. Marat! Her hands had tightened about the bars until they were bloodless. Her lips were parted. She was breathing quickly but she did not smile. She made no response to his greeting, gave no sign even of recognition. What happened after that was so sudden and amazing that his heart stopped dead still. Without warning she stepped back from the cell and began to scream and then drew away from him, still facing him and still screaming as if something had terrified her. Kent heard the crash of a chair in the detachment office, excited voices and the running of feet. Marat Radisson had withdrawn to the far corner of the alcove and as Carter and Pelly ran toward her she stood a picture of horror pointing at Kent's cell. The two constables rushed past her. Close behind them followed the special officer detail to take Kent to Edmonton. Kent had not moved. He was like one petrified. Close up against the bars came the faces of Pelly, Carter and the special constable filled with the expressions of men who had expected to look in upon tragedy. And then behind their backs Kent saw the other thing happen. Swift as a flash Marat Radisson's hand went in and out of her raincoat and at the backs of the three men she was leveling a revolver. Not only did Kent see that swift change but the still swifter change that came into her face. Her eyes shot to his just once and they were filled with a laughing, exultant fire. With one mighty throb Kent's heart seemed to leap out through the bars of his prison and at the look in his face and eyes Carter swung suddenly around. Please don't make any disturbance, gentlemen, said Marat Radisson. The first man that makes a suspicious move I shall kill. Her voice was calm and thrilling. It had a deadly ring in it. The revolver in her hand was held steadily. It was a slim barreled black thing. The very color of it was menacing. And behind it were the girl's eyes, pools of flame. The three men were facing them now, shocked to speechlessness. Automatically they seemed to obey her command to throw up their hands. Then she leveled her grim little gun straight at Pelly's heart. You have the key, she said. Unlock the cell. Pelly fumbled and produced the key. She watched him closely. Then suddenly the special constable dropped his arm with a coarse laugh. A pretty trick, he said, but the bluff won't work. Oh, but it will, came the reply. The little black gun was shifted to him, even as the constable's fingers touched his revolver holster. With half-smiling lips Marat's eyes blazed at him. Please put up your hands, she commanded. The constable hesitated. Then his fingers gripped the butt of his gun. Kent, holding his breath, saw the almost imperceptible tensing of Marat's body and the wavering of Pelly's arms over his head. Another moment, and he too would have called the bluff, if it were that. But that moment did not come. From the slim, black barrel of the girl's revolver leaped forth a sudden spurt of smoke and flame, and the special constable lurched back against the cell bars, caught himself as he half fell, and then stood with his pistol arm hanging limp and useless at his side. He had not made a sound, but his face was twisted in pain. Open the cell door! A second time the deadly-looking little gun was pointed straight at Pelly's heart. The half-smile was gone from the girl's lips now. Her eyes blazed a deeper fire. She was breathing quickly, and she leaned a little toward Pelly, repeating her command. The words were partly drowned in a sudden crash of thunder. But Pelly understood. He saw her lips form the words, and half heard, Open the door, or I shall kill you. He no longer hesitated. The key graded in the lock, and Kent himself flung the door wide open and sprang out. He was quick to see and seize upon opportunity and swift to act. The astounding audacity of the girl's ruse, her clever acting in feigning horror to line the guards up at the cell door, and the thrilling decisiveness with which she had used the little black gun in her hand, sent every drop of blood in his body of fire. No sooner was he outside his cell than he was the old Jim Kent, fighting man. He whipped Carter's automatic out of its holster, and covering Pelly and the Special Constable relieved them of their guns. Behind him he heard Mahut's voice, calm and triumphant, Lock them in the cell, Mr. Kent. He did not look at her, but swung his gun on Pelly and the Special Constable, and they backed through the door into the cell. Carter had not moved. He was looking straight at the girl, and the little black gun was leveled at his breast. Pelly and the wounded man did not see, but on Carter's lips was a strange smile. His eyes met Kent, and there was revealed for an instant a silent flash of comradeship and an unmistakable something else. Carter was glad. It made Kent want to reach out and grip his hand, but in place of that he backed him into the cell, turned the key in the lock, and with the key in his hand faced Mahut Radhison. Her eyes were shining gloriously. He had never seen such splendid fighting eyes, nor the bird-like swiftness with which she turned and ran down the hall, calling him to follow her. He was only a step behind her in passing Kedsty's office. She reached the outer door and opened it. It was pitch dark outside, and a deluge of rain beat into their faces. He observed that she did not replace the hood of her raincoat when she darted out. As he closed the door, her hand groped to his arm, and from that found his hand. Her fingers clung to his tightly. He did not ask questions as they faced the black chaos of rain. A rending streak of lightning revealed her for an instant. Her bare head bowed to the wind. Then came a crash of thunder that shook the earth under their feet, and her fingers closed more tightly about his hand. And in that crash he heard her voice, half laughing, half broken, saying, I'm afraid of thunder! In that storm his laugh rang out, a great, free, joyous laugh. He wanted to stop in that instant, sweep her up into his arms and carry her. He wanted to shout like an insane man in his mad joy. And a moment before she had risked everything in facing three of the bravest men in the service, and had shot one of them. He started to say something, but she increased her speed until she was almost running. She was not leading Jim in the direction of the river, but toward the forest, beyond Kedzdi's bungalow. Not for an instant did she falter in that drenched and impenetrable darkness. There was something imperative in the clasp of her fingers, even though they tightened perceptibly when the thunder crashed. They gave Kent the conviction that there was no doubt in her mind as to the point she was striving for. He took advantage of the lightning, for each time it gave him a glimpse of her bare, wet head bowed to the storm, her white profile, and her slim figure fighting over the sticky earth under her feet. It was this presence of her and not the thought of escape that excited him now. She was at his side. Her hand lay close in his. The lightning gave him glimpses of her. He felt the touch of her shoulder, her arm, her body as they drew close together. The life and warmth and thrill of her seemed to leap into his own veins through the hand he held. He had dreamed of her, and now suddenly she had become a part of him, and the glory of it rode overwhelmingly over all other emotions that were struggling in his brain. The glory of the thought that it was she who had come to him in the last moment, who had saved him and who is now leading him to freedom through the crash of storm. At the crest of a low knoll between Barracks and Kedzty's bungalow, she stopped for the first time. He had there again the almost irresistible impulse to reach out in the darkness and take her into his arms, crying out to her of his joy, of a happiness that had come to him greater even than the happiness of freedom. But he stood, holding her hand, his tongue speechless, and he was looking at her when the lightning revealed her again. In a rending flash it cut open the night so close that the hiss of it was like the passing of a giant rocket, and involuntarily she shrank against him and her free hand caught his arm at the instant thunder crashed low over their heads. His own hand groped out, and in the blackness it touched for an instant her wet face and then her drenched hair. Marat, he cried, where are we going? Down there came her voice. Her hand had left his arm and he sensed that she was pointing, though he could not see. Ahead of them was a chaotic pit of gloom, a sea of blackness, and in the heart of that sea he saw a light. He knew that it was a lamp in one of Kedsty's windows, and then Marat was guiding herself by that light when she started down the slope with her hand still in his. That she had made no effort to withdraw it made him unconscious of the almost drowning discomfort of the fresh deluge of rain that beat their faces. One of her fingers had gripped itself convulsively about his thumb like a child afraid of falling, and each time the thunder crashed that soft hold on his thumb tightened and Kent's soul acclaimed. They drew swiftly nearer to the light, for it was not far from the knoll to Kedsty's place. Kent's mind leaped ahead. A little west by north from the inspector's bungalow was Kim's bayou, and it was undoubtedly to the forest trail over which he had gone at least once before, on the night of the mysterious assault upon Mui, that Marat was leading him. Questions began to rush upon him now, immediate, demanding questions. They were going to the river. They must be going to the river. It was the quickest and surest way of escape. Had Marat prepared for that? And was she going with him? He had no time to answer. Their feet struck the gravel path leading to the door of Kedsty's place, and straight up this path the girl turned, straight toward the light blazing in the window. Then, to his amazement, he heard in the sweep of storm her voice crying out in glad triumph, We're home! Home! His breath came in a sudden gulp. He was more than astounded. He was shocked. Was she mad for playing an amazingly improper joke? She had freed him from a cell to lead him to the home of the inspector of police, the deadliest enemy the world now held for him. He stopped, and Marat Radisson tugged at his hand, pulling him after her, insisting that he follow. She was clutching his thumb as though she thought he might attempt to escape. It is safe, Monsieur Jean's, she cried. Don't be afraid. Monsieur Jean's. And the laughing note of mockery in her voice. He rallied himself and followed her up the three steps to the door. Her hand found the latch, the door opened, and swiftly they were inside. The lamp in the window was close to them, but for a space he could not see because of the water in his eyes. He blinked it out, drew a hand across his face, and looked at Marat. She stood three or four paces from him. Her face was very white, and she was panting as if hard-run for breath. But her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him. The water was running from her in streams. You are wet, she said, and I am afraid you will catch cold. Come with me. Again she was making fun of him just as she had made fun of him at Cardigans. She turned and he ran upstairs behind her. At the top she waited for him, and as he came up she reached out her hand, as if apologizing for having taken it from him when they entered the bungalow. He held it again as she led him down the hall to a door farthest from the stair. This she opened and they entered. It was dark inside, and the girl withdrew her hand again, and Kent heard her moving across the room. In that darkness a new and thrilling emotion possessed him. The air he was breathing was not the air he had breathed in the hall. In it was the sweet scent of flowers and of something else, the faint and intangible perfume of a woman's room. He waited, staring. His eyes were wide when a match leaped into flame in Marrette's fingers. Then he stood in the glow of a lamp. He continued to stare in the stupidity of a shock to which he was not accustomed. Marrette, as if to give him time to acquaint himself with his environment, was taking off her raincoat. Under it her slim little figure was dry except where the water had run down from her uncovered head to her shoulders. He noticed that she wore a short skirt and boots, adorably small boots of splendidly worked caribou. And then suddenly she came toward him with both hands reaching out to him. Please shake hands and say you're glad, she said. Don't look so frightened. This is my room and you are safe here. He held her hands tight, staring into the wonderful, violet eyes that were looking at him with the frank and unembarrassed directness of a child. I don't understand, he struggled. Marrette, where is Kedsdie? He should be returning very soon. And he knows you are here, of course? She nodded. I have been here for a month. Kent's hands closed tightly about hers. I—I don't understand, he repeated. Tonight Kedsdie will know that it was you who rescued me, and you who shot Constable Willis. Good God, we must lose no time in getting away! There is great reason why Kedsdie dare not betray my presence in his house, she said quietly. He would die first, and he will not suspect that I have brought you to my room, that an escaped murderer is hiding under the very roof of the Inspector of Police. They will search for you everywhere, but here. Isn't it splendid? He planned it all, every move, even to the screaming in front of yourself. You mean Kedsdie? She withdrew her hands and stepped back from him, and again he saw in her eyes a flash of the fire that had come into them when she leveled her gun at the three men in the prison alcove. No, not Kedsdie. He would hang you, and he would kill me if he dared. I mean that great, big, funny-looking friend of yours, Mr. Fingers. The manner in which Kent stared at Marad-Adu-Saint after her announcement that it was dirty fingers who had planned his escape must have been, he thought afterward, little less than imbecile. He had wronged Fingers, he believed. He had called him a coward and a backslider. In his mind he had reviled him for helping to raise his hopes to the highest pitch, only to smash them in the end. And all the time dirty fingers had been planning this. Kent began to grin. The thing was clear in a moment, that is, the immediate situation was clear, or he thought it was. But there were questions. One, ten, a hundred of them. They wanted a pile over the end of his tongue, questions that had little or nothing to do with Kedsdie. He saw nothing now but Marat. She had begun to take down her hair. It fell about her in wet, shining masses. Kent had never seen anything like it. It clung to her face, her neck, her shoulders and arms, and shrouded her slender body to her hips, lovely in its confusion. Little drops of water glistened in it, like diamonds in the lamp glow, trickling down and dropping to the floor. It was like a glowing coat of velvety sable beaten by storm. Marat ran her arms up through it, shaking it out in clouds, and a mist of rain leaped out from it, some of it striking Kent in the face. He forgot fingers. He forgot Kedsdie. His brain flamed only with the electrifying nearness of her. It was the thought of her that had inspired the greatest hope in him. It was his dreams of her, somewhere on the Big River, that had given him his great courage to believe in the ultimate of things. And now time and space had taken a leap backward. She was not four or five hundred miles north. There was no long quest ahead of him. She was here within a few feet of him, tossing the wet from that glorious hair he had yearned to touch, brushing it out now with her back toward him in front of her mirror. And as he sat there, uttering no word, looking at her, the demands of the immense responsibility that had fallen upon him and of the great fight that lay ahead pounded within him with naked fists. Fingers had planned. She had executed. It was up to him to finish. He saw her not as a creature to win, but as a priceless possession. Her fight had now become his fight. The rain was beating against the window near him. Out there was blackness, the river, the big world. His blood leaped with the old fighting fire. They were going to-night. They must be going to-night. Why should they wait? Why should they waste time under Kedzdy's roof when freedom lay out there for the taking? He watched the swift movements of her hand listen to the silken rustle of the brush as it smoothed out her long hair. Bewilderment, reason, desire for action fought inside him. Suddenly she faced him again. It is just this moment occurred to me, she said, that you haven't said thank you. So suddenly that he startled her he was at her side. He did not hesitate this time as he had hesitated in his room at Cardigan's place. He caught her two hands and his, and with them he felt the soft, damp crush of her hair between his fingers. Words tumbled from his lips. He could not remember afterward all that he said. Her eyes widened and they never for an instant left his own. Thank her! He told her what had happened to him in the heart and soul of him from the hour she had come to him at Cardigan's. He told her of dreams and plans, of his determination to find her again after he had escaped if it took him all his life. He told her of Mercer, of his discovery of her visit to Kim's Bayou, of his scheme to follow her down the three rivers, to seek for her at Fort Simpson, to follow her to the Valley of Silent Men wherever it was. Thank her! He held her hand so tight they hurt and his voice trembled. Under the cloud of her hair a slow fire burned in Maradi-San's cheeks, but it did not show in her eyes. They looked at him so steadily, so unfalteringly, that his own face burned before he had finished what was in his mind to say, and he freed her hands and stepped back from her again. Forgive me for saying all that, he entreated, but it's true. You came to me there at Cardigan's place like something I'd always dreamed about, but never expected to find. And you came to me again at the cell like, yes, I know how I came, she interrupted him. Through the mud and the rain, Mr. Kent, and it was so black I lost my way and was terrified to think that I might not find barracks. I was half an hour behind Mr. Fanger's schedule. For that reason I think Inspector Kedgstein may return at any moment, and you must not talk so loud or so much. Lord, he breathed in a whisper, I have said a lot in a short time, haven't I? But it isn't a hundredth part of what I want to get out of my system. I won't ask them a million questions that want to be asked, but I must know why we are here. Why have we come to Kedgstein's? Why didn't we make for the river? There couldn't be a better night to get away. But it is not so good as the fifth night from now will be, she said, resuming the task of drying her hair. On that night you may go to the river. Our plans were a little upset, you know, by Inspector Kedgstein's change in the date on which you were to leave for Edmonton. Arrangements have been made so that on the fifth night you may leave safely. And you? I shall remain here. And then she added in a low voice that struck his heart cold. I shall remain to pay Kedgstein the price which he will ask for what has happened tonight. Good God! he cried. She turned on him swiftly. No, no, I don't mean that he will hurt me, she cried, a fierce little note in her voice. I would kill him before that. I'm sorry I told you, but you must not question me. You shall not. She was trembling. He had never seen her excited like that before, and as she stood there before him, he knew that he was not afraid for her in the way that had flashed into his mind. She had not spoken empty words. She would fight. She would kill if it was necessary to kill. And he saw her all at once, as he had not seen her before. He remembered a painting which he had seen a long time ago in Montreal. It was L'Esprit de la Solitude, the Spirit of the Wild, painted by Conn, the picturesque French-Canadian friend of Lord Strathcona and Montréal, and a genius of the far backwoods who had drawn his inspiration from the heart of the wilderness itself. And that painting stood before him now in flesh and blood. Its crudeness gone, but the marvellous spirit it had breathed remaining. Shrouded in her tumbled hair, her lips a little parted, every line of her slender body vibrant with an emotion which seemed consuming her, her beautiful eyes aglow with its fire, he saw in her, as Conn must have seen at another time, the soul of the Great North itself. She seemed to him to breathe of the God's country far down the three rivers, of its almost savage fearlessness, its beauty, its sunshine, and its storm, its tragedy, its pathos, and its song. In her was the courage and the glory of that North. He had seen and now he felt these things, and the thrill of them swept over him like an inundation. He had heard her soft laugh. She had made fun of him when he thought he was dying. She had kissed him. She had fought for him. She had clung in terror to his hand when the lightning flashed. And now she stood with her little hands clenched in her hair like a storm about to break. A moment ago she was so near that he had almost taken her in his arms. Now, in an instant, she had placed something so vast between them that he would not have dared to touch her hand or her hair. Like sun and cloud and wind she changed, and for him each change added to the wonder of her. And now it was storm. He saw it in her eyes, her hands, her body. He felt the electrical nears of it in those low-spoken, trembling words, You shall not. The room seemed surcharged for a moment with impending shock. And then his physical eyes took in again the slimness of her, seized upon the alluring smallness of her, and the fact that he could have tossed her to the ceiling without great effort. And yet he saw her as one sees a goddess. No, I won't ask you questions when you look at me like that, he said, finding his tongue. I won't ask you what this price is that Kedzdi may demand, because you're not going to pay it. If you won't go with me, I won't go. I'd rather stay here and be hung. I'm not asking you questions, so please don't shoot. But if you told me the truth, and you belong in the North, you're going back with me, or I'm not going. I'll not budge an inch. She drew a deep breath as if something had greatly relieved her. Again her violet eyes came out from the shadow into sunlight, and her trembling mouth suddenly broke into a smile. It was not apologetic. There was about it a quick and spontaneous gladness which she made no effort at all to conceal. That is nice of you, she said. I'm glad to hear you say it. I never knew how pleasant it was to have someone who was willing to be hung for me. But you will go, and I will not go. There isn't time to explain all about it just now, for Inspector Kedsty will be here very soon, and I must dry my hair and show you your hiding place, if you have to hide. She began to brush her hair again. In the mirror Kent caught a glimpse of the smile still trembling on her lips. I'm not questioning you, he guarded himself again. But if you could only understand how anxious I am to know where Kedsty is, how fingers found you, why you made us believe you were leaving the landing, and then returned, and how badly I want to know something about you, I almost believe you'd talk a little while you're drying your hair. It was Mui, the old Indian, she said. It was he who found out in some way that I was here, and then Monsieur Fingers came himself one night when the Inspector was away, got in through a window, and simply said that you had sent him, when I was just about to shoot him. You see, I knew you weren't going to die. Kedsty had told me that. I was going to help you in another way, if Monsieur Fingers hadn't come. Inspector Kedsty was over there tonight, at his cabin, when the thing happened down there. It was a part of Fingers' scheme to keep him out of the way. Suddenly she grew rigid. The brush remained poised in her hair. Kent, too, heard the sound that she had heard. It was a loud tapping at one of the curtain windows, the tapping of some metallic object. And that window was fifteen feet above the ground. With a little cry, the girl threw down her brush, ran to the window, and raised and lowered the curtain once. Then she turned to Kent, swiftly dividing her hair into thick strands, and weaving them into a braid. It is Mui, she cried. Kedsty is coming! She caught his hand and hurried him toward the head of the bed, where too long curtains were strung on a wire. She drew these apart. Behind them were what seemed to Kent an innumerable number of feminine garments. You must hide in them, if you have to, she said, the excited little tremble in her voice again. I don't think it will come to that, but if it does, you must. Burry yourself way back in them and keep quiet. If Kedsty finds you are here, she looked into his eyes, and it seemed to Kent that there was something which was very near to fear in them now. If he should find you here, it would mean something terrible for me. She went on, her hands creeping to his arms. I cannot tell you what it is now, but it would be worse than death. Were you promised to stay here, no matter what happens down there, no matter what you may hear? Will you, Mr. Kent? Not if you call me Mr. Kent, he said, something thickening in his throat. Will you, Jeans? Will you, no matter what happens, if I promise, when I come back, to kiss you? Her hands slipped almost caressingly from his arms. And then she had turned swiftly and was gone through the partly open door, closing it after her, before he could give his promise. End of Chapter 14. Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 15 of The Valley of Silent Men This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline The Valley of Silent Men by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 15 For a space he stood where she had left him, staring at the door through which he had gone. The nearness of her in those last few seconds of her presence, the caressing touch of her hands, what he had seen in her eyes, her promise to kiss him if he did not reveal himself, these things and the thought of the splendid courage that must be inspiring her to face Kedsty now, made him blind even to the door and the wall at which he was apparently looking. He saw only her face as he had seen it in that last moment, her eyes, the tremble of her lips, and the fear which she had not quite hidden from him. She was afraid of Kedsty, he was sure of it. For she had not smiled, there was no flicker of humor in her eyes when she called him Jeans, an intimate use of the names Jim and James in the far north. It was not facetiously that she had promised to kiss him. An almost tragic seriousness had possessed her. And it was that seriousness that thrilled him, that and the amazing frankness with which she had coupled the name Jeans with the promise of her lips. Once before she had called him Jeans. But it was Monsieur Jeans then, and there had been a bit of taunting laughter in her voice. Jim or James meant nothing, but Jeans. He had heard mothers called little children that in moments of endearment. He knew that wives and sweethearts used it in that same way. For Jim and James were not uncommon names up and down the three rivers, even among the half-breeds in French. And Jeans was the closer and the more intimate thing bred of it. His heart was thumping riotously as he went to the door and listened. A little while ago, when she faced him with flashing eyes, commanding him not to question her, he had felt an abyss under his feet. Now he was on a mountain. And he knew that no matter what he heard, unless it was her cry for help, he would not go down. After a little he opened the door a mere crack so that sound might come to him. She had not forbidden that. Through the crack he could see a dim glow of light in the lower hall. But he heard no sound, and it occurred to him that old Mui could still run swiftly and that it might be some time before Kedzdi would arrive. As he waited he looked about the room. His first impression was that Maret must have lived in it for a long time. It was a woman's room without the newness of sudden and unpremeditated occupancy. He knew that formally it had been Kedzdi's room, but nothing of Kedzdi remained in it now. And then, as his wondering eyes beheld the miracle, a number of things struck him with amazing significance. He no longer doubted that Radisson was of the far Northland. His faith in that was absolute. If there had been a last question in his mind, it was wiped away because she called him Jeans. Yet this room seemed to give the lie to his faith. Fascinated by his discovery of things, he drew away from the door and stood over the dressing table in front of the mirror. Maret had not prepared the room for him, and her possessions were there. It did not strike him as sacrilege to look at them, the many intimate little things that are mysteriously used in the process of a lady's toilette. It was their number and variety that astounded him. He might have expected them in the boudoir of the Governor-General's daughter at Ottawa, but not here, and much less farther North. What he saw was of exquisite material and workmanship. And then, as if attracted by a magnet, his eyes were drawn to something else. It was a row of shoes, neatly and carefully arranged on the floor at one side of the dressing table. He stared at them, astounded. Never had he seen such an array of feminine footwear intended for the same pair of feet. And it was not northern footwear. Every individual little beauty in that amazing row stood on a high heel. Their variety was something to which he had long been a stranger. There were buttoned boots, laced boots, brown boots, black boots, and white boots with dangerously high and fragile-looking heels. There were dainty little white kid slippers, slippers with bows, slippers with cut steel buckles, and slippers with dainty ribbon ties. There were high heeled oxfords and high heeled patent leather pumps. He gassed. He reached over, moved by an automatic sort of impulse, and took a satiny little pump in his hand. The size of it gave him a decidedly pleasant mental shock, and beginning to feel like one prying into a sleeper's secrets, he looked inside it. The size was there, number three, and it had come from favres in Montreal. One after another he looked inside half a dozen others, and all of them had come from favres in Montreal. The little shoes, more than all else that he had seen or that had happened, sent a question pounding through his brain. Who was Marais Radisson? And that question was followed by other questions until they tumbled over one another in his head. If she was from Montreal, why was she going north? If she belonged in the north, if she was a part of it, why was she taking all of this apparently worthless footwear with her? Why had she come to Athabasca Landing? What was she to Kedsty? Why was she hiding under his roof? Why, he stopped himself, trying to find one answer in all that chaos of questions. It was impossible for him to take his eyes from the shoes. A thought seized him. Ludicrously he dropped upon his knees in front of the row, and with a face growing hotter each moment examined them all. But he wanted to know, and the discovery he made was that most of the footwear had been worn, some of it so slightly, however, that the impression of the foot was barely visible. He rose to his feet and continued his inquiry. Of course, she had expected him to look about. One couldn't help seeing unless one were blind. He would have cut off a hand before opening one of the dressing-table drawers. But Maretta herself had told him to hide behind the curtains if it became necessary, and it was an excusable caution for him to look behind those curtains now to see what sort of hiding place he had. He returned to the door first and listened. There was still no sound from below. Then he drew the curtains apart as Maretta drawn them. Only he looked longer. He would tell her about it when she returned, if the act needed an apology. His impression was a man's impression. What he saw was a billowing, filmy mass of soft stuff, and out of it there greeted him the faintest possible scent of lilac sachet powder. He closed the curtains with a deep breath of utter joy and of consternation. The two emotions were jumbled to him. The shoes, all that mass of soft stuff behind the curtains, were exquisitely feminine. The breath of perfume had come to him straight out of a woman's soul. There were seduction and witchery to it. He saw Maretta, an enrapturing vision of loveliness, floating before his eyes in that sacred and mysterious vestment of which he had stolen a half-frightened glimpse. In white, the white cobwebby thing of laces and embroidery that had hung straight before his eyes, in white, with her glorious black hair, her violet eyes, her—and then it was that the incongruity of the thing, the almost sheer impossibility of it, clashed in upon his vision. Yet his faith was not shaken. Marette Radisson was of the North. He could not disbelieve that, even in the face of these amazing things that confronted him. Suddenly he heard a sound that was like the explosion of a gun under his feet. It was the opening and closing of the hall door, but mostly the closing. The slam of it shook the house and rattled the glass in the windows. Kedsty had returned, and he was in a rage. Kent extinguished the light so that the room was in darkness. Then he went to the door. He could hear the quick, heavy tread of Kedsty's feet. After that came the closing of a second door, followed by the rumble of Kedsty's voice. Kent was disappointed. The Inspector of Police and Marette were in a room too far distant for him to distinguish what was said. But he knew that Kedsty had returned to barracks and had discovered what had happened there. After an interval his voice was a steady rumble. It rose higher. He heard the crash of a chair. Then the voice ceased, and after it came the tramping of Kedsty's feet. Not once did he catch the sound of Marette's voice, but he was sure that in the interval of silence she was talking. Then Kedsty's voice broke forth more furiously than before. Kent's fingers dug into the sill of the door. Each moment added to his conviction that Marette was in danger. It was not physical violence he feared. He did not believe Kedsty capable of perpetrating that upon a woman. It was fear that he would take her to barracks. The fact that Marette had told him there was a powerful reason why Kedsty would not do this failed to assure him. For she had also told him that Kedsty would kill her if he dared. He held himself in readiness. At a cry from her or the first move on Kedsty's part to take her from the bungalow he would give battle in spite of Marette's warning. He almost hoped one of these two things would happen. As he stood there listening, waiting, the thought became almost a prayer. He had Pelly's revolver. Within twenty seconds he could have Kedsty looking down the barrel of it. The night was ideal for escape. Within half an hour they would be on the river. They could even load up with provisions from Kedsty's place. He opened the door a little more, scarcely making an effort to combat the impulse that dragged him out. Marette must be in danger, or she would not have confessed to him that she was in the house of a man who would like to see her dead. Why she was there did not interest him deeply now. It was the fact of the moment that was moving him swiftly toward action. The door below opened again and Kent's body grew rigid. He heard Kedsty charging through the lower hall like a mad bull. The outer door opened, slam shut, and he was gone. Kent drew back into the darkness of his room. It was some moments before he heard Marette coming slowly up the stairs. She seemed to be groping her way, though there was a dim illumination out there. Then she came through the door into the blackness of her room. Jeams! she whispered. He went to her. Her hand reached out, and again they rested on his arms. You—you didn't come down the stair? No. You didn't hear? I heard no words, only Kedsty's voice. It seemed to him that her voice, when she spoke again, trembled with an immeasurable relief. You were good, Jeams. I am glad. In that darkness he could not see, yet something reached into him, thrilling him, quickening his pulse with the thing to which his eyes were blind. He bent down. He found her lips upturned, offering him the sweetness of the kiss which was to be his reward. And as he felt their warmth upon his own, he felt also the slightest pressure of her hands upon his arms. He is gone. We will light the lamp again, she said then. End of Chapter 15, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 16 of The Valley of Silent Men This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Valley of Silent Men by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 16 Kent stood still while Marrette moved in that gloom, found matches, and lighted the lamp. He had not spoken a word after the kiss. He had not taken advantage of it. The gentle pressure of her hands had restrained him from taking her in his arms. But the kiss itself fired him with a wild and glorious thrill that was like a vibrant music to which every atom of life in his body responded. If he claimed his reward at all, he had expected her kiss to be perhaps indifferent, at least neutral. But the lips she had given him there in the darkness of the room were warm, living, breathing lips. They had not been snatched away from him too quickly. Their sweetness, for an instant, had lingered. Then in the lamp-glow he was looking into Marrette Radisson's face. He knew that his own was a flame. He had no desire to hide its confession, and he was eager to find what lay in her own eyes. And he was astonished and then startled. The kiss had not disturbed Marrette. It was as if it had never happened. She was not embarrassed, and there was no hint of color in her face. It was her deathly whiteness that startled him, a pallor emphasized by the dark masses of her hair and a strange glow in her eyes. It was not a glow brought there by the kiss. It was fear fading slowly out of them as he looked until at last it was gone, and her lips trembled with an apologetic smile. He was very angry, she said. How easily some men lose their tempers, don't they, Jeans? The little break in her voice, her brave effort to control herself, and the whimsical bit of smile that accompanied her words, made him want to do what the gentle pressure of her hands had kept him from doing a few moments before. Pick her up in his arms. What she was trying to hide he saw plainly. She had been in danger, a danger greater than that which she had quietly and fearlessly faced at barracks. And she was still afraid of that menace. It was the last thing which he wanted him to know, and yet he knew it. A new force swept through him. It was the force which comes of mastery, of possessorship, of fighting grimly against odds. It rose in a mighty triumph. It told him this girl belonged to him that she was his to fight for, and he was going to fight. Mahat saw the change that came into his face. For a moment after she had spoken there was silence between them. Outside the storm beat in a fiercer blast. A roll of thunder crashed over the bungalow. The windows rattled in a sweep of wind and rain. Kent, looking at her, his muscles hardening, his face growing grimmer, nodded toward the window at which Mui's signal had come. It is a splendid night for us, he said, and we must go. She did not answer. In the eyes of the law I am a murderer, he went on. You saved me. You shot a man. In those same eyes you are a criminal. It is folly to remain here. It is sheer suicide for both of us. If Kedsty does not do what I told him to do to-night, I shall kill him, she said. The quietness of her words, the steadiness of her eyes, held him speechless. Again it seemed to him, as it seemed to him in his room at Cardigan's place, that it was a child who was looking at him and speaking to him. If she had shown fear a few moments before, that fear was not revealed in her face now. She was not excited. Her eyes were softly and quietly beautiful. She amazed him and discomputed him. Against that childlike sureness he felt himself helpless. Its potency was greater than his strength and greater than his determination. It placed between them instantly a vast gulf, a gulf that might be bridged by a prayer and entreaty, but never by force. There was no hint of excitement in her threat against Kedsty, and yet in the very calmness of it he felt its deadliness. A whimsical half-smile was trembling on an ellipse again, and a warmer glow came into her eyes. Do you know, she said, that according to an old and sacred code of the North you belong to me? I have heard of that code, he replied. A hundred years ago I should have been your slave. If it exists today I am happy. Yes, you see the point, James, don't you? You are about to die, probably. I think they would have hanged you, and I saved your life. Therefore your life belongs to me, for I insist that the code still lives. You are my property, and I am going to do with you as I please, until I turn you over to the rivers. And you are not going to-night. You shall wait here for Lissalle and his brigade. Lissalle? Jean Lissalle? She nodded. Yes, that is why you must wait. We have made a splendid arrangement. When Lissalle and his brigade start North, you go with them, and no one will ever know. You are safe here. No one will think of looking for you under the roof of the Inspector of Police. But you, Meret, he caught himself, remembering her injunction not to question her. Meret shrugged her slim shoulders, the slightest bit, and nodded for him to look upon what she knew he had already seen, her room. It is not uncomfortable, she said. I have been here for a number of weeks, and nothing has happened to me. I am quite safe. Inspector Kedzty has not looked inside that door since the day your big red-headed friend saw me down in the poplars. He has not put a foot on the stair. That is the deadline, and I know you are wondering. You are asking yourself a great many questions. Abondre, Monsieur Jean, you are burning up with them. I can see it. And I—there was something suddenly pathetic about her as she sank into the big-armed, upholstered chair which had been Kedzty's favorite reading chair. She was tired, and for a moment it seemed to Kent that she was almost ready to cry. Her ringers twisted nervously at the shining end of the braid in her lap, and more than ever he thought how slim and helpless she was, yet how gloriously unafraid, how unconquerable with that something within her that burned like the fire of a dynamo. The flame of that force had gone down now, as though the fire itself was dying out. But when she raised her eyes to him, looking up at him from out of the big chair, he knew that back of the yearning, childlike glow that lay in them, the heart of that fire was living and unquenchable. Again, for him, she had ceased to be a woman. It was the soul of a child that lay in her wide-open, wonderfully blue eyes. Twice before he had seen that miracle and had held him now, as it had held him that first time when she had stood with her back at Cardigan's door. And as it had changed then, so it changed now, slowly, and she was a woman again, with that great gulf of unapproachableness between them. But the yearning was still there, revealing itself to him, and yet, like the sun, infinitely remote from him. I wish that I might answer those questions for you, she said, in a voice that was low and tired. I should like to have you know, because I have great faith in you, James. But I cannot. It is impossible. It is inconceivable. If I did—she made a hopeless little gesture— if I told you everything, you would not like me any more. And I want you to like me, until you go north with Mr. Jean and his brigade. And when I do that, cried Kent, almost savagely, I shall find this place you call the Valley of Silent Men, if it takes me all my life. It was becoming a joy for him to see the sudden flashes of pleasure that leaped into her eyes. She attempted no concealment. Whatever her emotions were, they revealed themselves unaffectedly, and with a simple freedom from embarrassment that swept him with an almost reverential worship. And what he had just said pleased her. Unreservedly, her glowing eyes and her partly smiling lips told him that, and she said, I am glad you feel that way, James. And I think you would find it, in time, because her little trick of looking at him so steadily, as if there was something inside him which she was trying to see more clearly, made him feel more helplessly than ever her slave. It was as if, in those moments, she forgot that he was a flesh and blood, and was looking into his heart to see what was there before she gave voice to things. And then, she said, still twisting her braid between her slim fingers, you would find it, perhaps, because you are one who would not give up easily. Shall I tell you why I came to see you at Dr. Cardigan's? It was curiosity, at first, largely that. Just why or how I was interested in the man you freed is one of the things I cannot tell you. And I cannot tell you why I came to the landing. Nor can I say a word about Kedzdi. It may be some day that you will know, and then you will not like me. For nearly four years before I saw you that day, I had been in a desolation. It was a terrible place. I ate my heart and soul out with its ugliness, its loneliness, its emptiness. A little while longer and I would have died. Then the thing happened that brought me away. Can you guess what it was? He shook his head. No. To all the others it was a beautiful place, Montreal. You were at school there, he guessed. Yes, the Villa Maria. I wasn't quite sixteen then. They were kind. I think they liked me. But each night I prayed one prayer. You know what the three rivers are to us, to the people of the north. The Athabasca is grandmother. The slave is mother. The Mackenzie is daughter. And over them watches always the goddess Niska, the gray goose. And my prayer was that I might go back to them. In Montreal there were people, people everywhere, thousands and tens of thousands of them, so many that I was lonely and heart sick and wanted to get away. For the gray goose blood is in me, James. I love the forests. And Niska's god doesn't live in Montreal. Her son doesn't rise there. Her moon isn't the same there. The flowers are not hers. The winds tell different stories. The air is another air. People, when they look at you, look in another way. Away down the three rivers I had loved men. There I was learning to hate them. Then something happened. I came to Athabasca Landing. I went to see you because she clasped her two hands tightly in her lap. Because after those four terrible years you were the first man I found who was playing a great big square game to the end. Don't ask me how I found it out. Please, don't ask me anything. I am telling you all you can know, all you shall know. But I did find it out. And then I learned that you were not going to die. Kenzie told me that. And when I had talked with you I knew that you would play any game square and I made up my mind to help you. That is why I am telling you all this, just to let you know that I have faith in you and that you must not break that faith. You must not insist on knowing more about me. You must still play the game. I am playing mine and you must play yours. And to play yours clean you must go with LaCelle's brigade and leave me with Ked's tea. You must forget what has happened. You must forget what may happen. You cannot help me. You can only harm me. And if, some day, a long time from now, you should happen to find the Valley of Silent Men, he waited, his heart pounding like a fist. I may be there, she finished, in a voice so low that it was scarcely above a whisper. It seemed to him that she was looking a long way off and it was not in his direction. And then she smiled, not at him, but in a half-hopeless little way. I think I shall be disappointed if you don't find it, she said then, and her eyes were pure as the blue flowers from which they had stolen their color as she looked at him. You know the great Sulphur country beyond Fort Simpson, westward between the two Mnahanis? Yes, that is where Kilbane and his patrol were lost. The Indians call it the Devil country, is that it? She nodded. They say no living thing has ever been through the Sulphur country, she said. But that is not true. I have been through it. It is beyond the Sulphur country you must go to find the Valley of Silent Men, straight through that gap between the north and the south Nihani. That is the way you must go if you should ever find it, James. For otherwise you would have to come down from Dawson or go up from Skagway. And the country is so great that you would never come upon it in a thousand years. The police will not find you there. You will always be safe. Perhaps I shall tell you more before the brigade comes. But that is all tonight. I may never tell you anything more and you must not question me. Speechless he had stood all the life of his soul burning like a fire in his eyes as he looked at her and listened to her. And now, quietly and unexcitedly, he said, Marat, I am going to play this game as you want me to play it, because I love you. It is only honest for me to tell you in words what you must already know. And I am going to fight for you as long as there is a drop of blood in my body. If I go with Jean-Lacel's brigade, will you promise me? His voice trembled. He was repressing a mighty emotion. But not by the quiver of one of her long lashes did Marat Radisson give evidence that she had even heard his confession of love. She interrupted him before he had finished. I can promise you nothing, no matter what you do. James, James, you are not like those other men I learned to hate. You will not insist? If you are like them, yes, you may go away from here tonight and not wait for Jean-Lacel. Listen, the storm will not break for hours. If you are going to demand a price for playing the game as I want you to play it, you may go. You have my permission. She was very white. She rose from the big chair and stood before him. There was no anger in her voice or gesture, but her eyes glowed like luminous stars. There was something in them which he had not seen before, and suddenly a thought struck his heart cold as ice. With a low cry he stretched out his hands. My God, Marat, I am not a murderer. I did not kill John Barkley. She did not answer him. You do not believe me, he cried. You believe that I killed Barkley and that now, a murderer, I dare to tell you that I love you. She was trembling. It was like a little shiver running through her. For only a flash it seemed to him that he had caught a glimpse of something terrible, a thing she was hiding, a thing she was fighting as she stood there with her two little clenched hands. For in her face, in her eyes, in the beating throb of her white throat, he saw in that moment the almost hidden agony of a hurt thing. And then it was gone, even as he entreated again pleading for her faith. I did not kill John Barkley. I am not thinking of the regimes, she said. It is of something they had forgotten the storm. It was howling and beating at the windows outside. But suddenly there came a sound that rose above the monotonous tumult of it, and Marat started as if it had sent an electric shock through her. Kent, too, turned toward the window. It was the metallic tap, tap, tapping which once before had warned them of approaching danger. And this time it was insistent. It was as if a voice was crying out to them from beyond the window. It was more than premonition. It was the alarm of a near and impending menace. And in that moment Kent's son's hands go swiftly to her throat, and her eyes leap with sudden fire, and she gave a little cry as she listened to the sound. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Roger Maline