Isobel (13 page)

For a few moments Deane lay panting, clasping one of Billy's hands.
Little Mystery slipped to the floor and began to investigate the
cabin. Deane smiled into Billy's eyes.

"You've come again— just in time," he said, quite steadily. "Seems
queer, don't it, Billy?"

For the first time he spoke the other's name as if he had known him a
lifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, and
in spite of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane saw
the look.

"She didn't come," he whispered. "I left her—"

He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to his
lips. Billy felt a choking grief.

"You must be quiet," he said. "Don't try to talk now. You have no
fire, and I will build one. Then I'll make you something hot."

He went to move away, but one of Deane's hands detained him.

"Not until I've said something to you, Billy," he insisted. "You
know— you understand. I'm dying. It's liable to come any minute now,
and I've got to tell you— things. You must understand— before I go.
I won't be long. I killed a man, but I'm— not sorry. He tried to
insult her— my wife— an' you— you'd have killed him, too. You
people began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north— among the
Eskimos— an' lived there— long time. The Eskimos— they loved the
little girl an' wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels—
some sort. Then we heard you were goin' to hunt for me— up there—
among the Eskimos. So we set out with the box. Box was for her— to
keep her from fearful cold. We didn't dare take the baby— so we left
her up there. We were going back— soon— after you'd made your hunt.
When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in the
box— an' so— so you found us. You know— after that. You thought it
was— coffin— an' she told you I was dead. You were good— good to
her— an' you must go down there where she is, and take little Isobel.
We were goin' to do as you said— an' go to South America. But we had
to have the baby, an' I came back. Should have told you. We knew
that— afterward. But we were afraid— to tell the secret— even to
you—"

He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin,
cold hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting to
stifle the sobbing grief in his breath.

"You were good— good— good— to her," repeated Deane, weakly, "You
loved her— an' it was right— because you thought I was dead an' she
was alone an' needed help. I'm glad— you love her. You've been good—
'n' honest— an I want some one like you to love her an' care for her.
She ain't got nobody but me— an' little Isobel. I'm glad— glad—
I've found a man— like you!"

He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy's tense face
between them, staring straight into his eyes.

"An'— an'— I give her to you," he said. "She's an angel, and she's
alone— needs some one— an' you— you'll be good to her. You must go
down to her— Pierre Couchée's cabin— on the Little Beaver. An'
you'll be good to her— good to her—"

"I will go to her," said Billy, softly. "And I swear here on my knees
before the great and good God that I will do what an honorable man
should do!"

Deane's rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with a
sigh of relief.

"I worried— for her," he said. "I've always believed in a God—
though I killed a man— an' He sent you here in time!" A sudden
questioning light came into his eyes. "The man who stole little
Isobel," he breathed— "who was he?"

"Pelliter— the man out there— killed him when he came to the cabin,"
said Billy. "He said his name was Blake— Jim Blake."

"Blake! Blake! Blake!" Again Deane's voice rose from the edge of death
to a shriek. "Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with red
hair— red beard— yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake— Blake—" He
sank back again, with a thrilling, half-mad laugh. "Then— then it's
all been a mistake— a funny mistake," he said; and his eyes closed,
and his voice spoke the words as though he were uttering them from out
of a dream.

Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man's
last words. Deane's hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white.
And then Deane whispered:

"We fought— I thought I killed him— an' threw him into the sea. His
right name was Samuelson. You knew him— by that name— but he went
often— by Blake— Jim Blake. So— so— I'm not a murderer— after
all. An' he— he came back for revenge— and— stole— little—
Isobel. I'm— I'm— not— a— murderer. You— you— will— tell— her.
You'll tell her— I didn't kill him— after all. You'll tell her—
an'— be— good— good—"

He smiled. Billy bent lower.

"Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorable
man should do," he replied.

Deane made no answer. He did not hear. The smile did not fade entirely
from his lips. But Billy knew that in this moment death had come in
through the cabin door. With a groan of anguish he dropped Deane's
stiffening hand. Little Isobel pattered across the floor to his side.
She laughed; and suddenly Billy turned and caught her in his arms,
and, crumpled down there on the floor beside the one brother he had
known in life, he sobbed like a woman.

It was little Isobel who pulled MacVeigh together, and after a little
he rose with her in his arms and turned her from the wall while he
covered Deane's face with the end of a blanket. Then he went to the
door. The Eskimos were building fires. Pelliter was seated on the
sledge a short distance from the cabin, and at Billy's call he came
toward him.

"If you don't mind, you can take her over to one of the fires for a
little while," said Billy. "Scottie is dead. Try and make the chief
understand,"

He did not wait for Pelliter to question him, but closed the door
quietly and went back to Deane. He drew off the blanket and gazed for
a moment into the still, bearded face.

"My Gawd, an' she's waitin' for you, 'n' looking for you, an' thinks
you're coming back soon," he whispered. "You 'n' the kid!"

Reverently he began the task ahead of him. One after another he went
into Deane's pockets and drew forth what he found. In one pocket there
was a small knife, some cartridges, and a match box. He knew that
Isobel would prize these and keep them because her husband had carried
them, and he placed them in a handkerchief along with other things he
found. Last of all he found in Deane's breast pocket a worn and faded
envelope. He peered into the open end before he placed it on the
little pile, and his heart gave a sudden throb when he saw the blue
flower petals Isobel had given him. When he was done he crossed
Deane's hands upon his breast. He was tying the ends of the
handkerchief when the door opened softly behind him.

The little dark chief entered. He was followed by four other Eskimos.
They had left their weapons outside. They seemed scarcely to breathe
as they ranged themselves in a line and looked down upon Scottie
Deane. Not a sign of emotion came into their expressionless faces, not
the flicker of an eyelash did the immobility of their faces change. In
a low, clacking monotone they began to speak, and there was no
expression of grief in their voices. Yet Billy understood now that in
the hearts of these little brown men Scottie Deane stood enshrined
like a god. Before he was cold in death they had come to chant his
deeds and his virtues to the unseen spirits who would wait and watch
at his side until the beginning of the new day. For ten minutes the
monotone continued. Then the five men turned and without a word,
without looking at him, went out of the cabin. Billy followed them,
wondering if Deane had convinced them that he and Pelliter were his
friends. If he had not done that he feared that there would still be
trouble over little Isobel. He was delighted when he found Pelliter
talking with one of the men.

"I've found a flunkey here whose lingo I can get along with," cried
Pelliter. "I've been telling 'em what bully friends we are, and have
made 'em understand all about Blake. I've shaken hands with them all
three or four times, and we feel pretty good. Better mix a little.
They don't like the idea of giving us the kid, now that Scottie's
dead. They're asking for the woman."

Half an hour later MacVeigh and Pelliter returned to the cabin. At the
end of that time he was confident that the Eskimos would give them no
further trouble and that they expected to leave Isobel in their
possession. The chief, however, had given Billy to understand that
they reserved the right to bury Deane.

Billy felt that he was now in a position where he would have to tell
Pelliter some of the things that had happened to him on his return to
Churchill. He had reported Deane's death as having occurred weeks
before as the result of a fall, and when he returned to Fort Churchill
he knew that he would have to stick to that story. Unless Pelliter
knew of Isobel, his love for her, and his own defiance of the Law in
giving them their freedom, his comrade might let out the truth and
ruin him.

In the cabin they sat down at the table. Pelliter's arm was in a
sling. His face was drawn and haggard and blackened by powder. He drew
his revolver, emptied it of cartridges, and gave it to little Isobel
to play with. He kept up his spirits among the Eskimos, but he made no
effort to conceal his dejection now.

"I've lost her," he said, looking at Billy. "You're going to take her
to her mother?"

"Yes."

"It hurts. You don't know how it's goin' to hurt to lose her," he
said.

MacVeigh leaned across the table and spoke earnestly.

"Yes, I know what it means, Pelly," he replied. "I know what it means
to love some one— and lose. I know. Listen."

Quickly he told Pelliter the story of the Barren, of the coming of
Isobel, the mother, of the kiss she had given him, and of the flight,
the pursuit, the recapture, and of that final moment when he had taken
the steel cuffs from Deane's wrists. Once he had begun the story he
left nothing untold, even to the division of the blue-flower petals
and the tress of Isobel's hair. He drew both from his pocket and
showed them to Pelliter, and at the tremble in his voice there came a
mistiness in his comrade's eyes. When he had finished Pelliter reached
across with his one good arm and gripped the other's hand.

"An' what she said about the blue flower is comin' true, Billy," he
whispered. "It's bringing happiness to you, just as she said, for
you're going down to her—"

MacVeigh interrupted him.

"No, it's not," he said, softly. "She loved him— as much as the girl
down there will ever love you, Pelly, and when I tell her what has
happened— her heart will break. That can't bring happiness— for me!
"

The hours of that day bore leaden weights for Billy. The two men made
their plans. A number of the Eskimos agreed to accompany Pelliter as
far as Eskimo Point, whence he would make his way alone to Churchill.
Billy would strike south to the Little Beaver in search of Couchée's
cabin and Isobel. He was glad when night came. It was late when he
went to the door, opened it, and looked out.

In the edge of the timber-line it was black, black not only with the
gloom of night, but with the concentrated darkness of spruce and
balsam and a sky so low and thick that one could almost hear the
wailing swish of it overhead like the steady sobbing of surf on a
seashore. It was black, save for the small circles of light made by
the Eskimo fires, about which half a hundred of the little brown men
sat or crouched. The masters of the camp were all awake, but twice as
many dogs, exhausted and footsore, lay curled in heaps, as inanimate
as if dead. There was present a strange silence and a strange and
unnatural gloom that was not of the night alone, a silence broken only
by the low moaning of the wind out on the Barren, the restlessness in
the air above the tree-tops, and the crackling of the fires. The
Eskimos were as motionless as so many dead men. Their round,
expressionless eyes were wide open. They sat or crouched with their
backs to the Barren, their faces turned into the still deeper
blackness of the forest. Some distance away, like a star, there
gleamed the small and steady light in the cabin window. For two hours
the eyes of those about the fires had been fixed on that light. And at
intervals there had risen from among the stony-faced watchers the
little chief, whose clacking voice joined for a few moments each time
the wailing of the wind, the swish of the low-hanging sky, and the
crackling of the fires. But there was sound of no other voice or
movement. He alone moved and spoke, for to the others the clacking
sounds he made was speech, words spoken each time for the man who lay
dead in the cabin.

A dozen times Pelliter and MacVeigh had looked out to the fires, and
looked each time at the hour. This time Billy said:

"They're moving, Pelly! They're jumping to their feet and coming this
way!" He looked at his watch again. "They're mighty good guessers.
It's a quarter after twelve. When a chief or a big man dies they bury
him in the first hour of the new day. They're coming after Deane."

He opened the door and stepped out into the night. Pelliter joined
him. The Eskimos advanced without a sound and stopped in a shadowy
group twenty paces from the cabin. Five of these little fur-clad men
detached themselves from the others and filed into the cabin, with the
chief man at their head. As they bent over Deane they began to chant a
low monotone which awakened little Isobel, who sat up and stared
sleepily at the strange scene. Billy went to her and gathered her
close in his arms. She was sleeping again when he put her down among
the blankets. The Eskimos were gone with their burden. He could hear
the low chanting of the tribe.

"I found her, and I thought she was mine," said Pelliter's low voice
at his side. "But she ain't, Billy. She's yours."