The Hound From The North

She moved restlessly from the bureau to the window. The curtained aperture looked out upon the far-reaching cornfields, which were now only a mass of brown stubble. In the distance, beyond the dyke, she could see the white steam of the traction-engine and the figures of many men working. The carts and racks were moving in the picture, but for all else the view was one of peaceful, unbroken calm.

Her mind passed on to the time when the party had broken up. She remembered how in searching for Iredale she had found the two men quarrelling, or something in that nature. Again Leslie had been on the verge of telling her something, but the moment had gone by and he had kept silence. She tried to deny the significance of these things, but reason checked her, and her heart sank to zero. And she no longer tried to defend her lover.

Then came the recollection of that picnic. The screech-owls; the boats laden with their human freight moving suspiciously over the waters of the great lake. She thought of the graveyard and the ghostly procession. And all the time her look was hardening and the protests of her heart slowly died out. If she had doubted Hervey’s words, all these things of which she now thought were facts evident to her own senses. The hard light in her eyes changed to the bright flash of anger. This man had come to her with his love, she reminded herself, and she had yielded to him all that she had power to bestow. The brown eyes grew darker until their glowing depths partially resembled those of her brother.

As the anger in her heart rose her pain increased, and she recoiled in horror at the thought that this man had dared to offer her his love while his hands were stained with black crime. At best he was a law-breaker; at the worst he was–

She paced her room with agitated steps. The blood rose to her head again, and she felt dizzy and dazed. What could she do? What must she do? She longed for some one to whom she could tell all that was in her heart, but she could not speak of it–she dared not. She felt that she must be going mad. Through all her agony of mind she knew that she loved this man who was–a murderer.

She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she lied to deceive herself. No, no, he was not guilty. He had not been proved guilty, and no man is guilty until he is proved so. Thoughts crowded thick and fast on her sorely-taxed brain, and again and again her hands went up to her head with the action of one who is mentally distracted. But in spite of the conflict that raged within her the angry light in her eyes grew, and a look which was out of all keeping with the sweet face was slowly settling itself upon her features. Again she cried in her heart, “What shall I do?”

Suddenly a light broke through her darkness and revealed to her a definite course. This man must not be judged, at least by her, without a hearing. Why should she not go to him? Why not challenge him with the story? If he were the murderer, perhaps he would strike her to the earth, and add her to the list of his victims. She laughed bitterly. It would be good to die by his hand, she thought. Under any circumstances life was not worth living. The thought fascinated her. Yes, she would do it. Then her spirit of justice rose and rebelled. No. He would then go unpunished. Leslie’s death would remain unavenged. The murderer would have triumphed.

She thought long; she moved wildly about the room. And as the hours passed a demon seemed to come to her and take hold of her. It was the demon which looked out of her brother’s eyes, and which now looked out of hers. He whispered to her, and her willing ears listened to all he said. Her heart, torn by conflicting passions, drank in the cruel promptings.

“Why not kill him? Why not kill him?” suggested the demon. “If he is guilty, kill him, and your life will not have been lived in vain. If he be a murderer it were but justice. You will have fulfilled your promise of vengeance. After that you could turn your hand against yourself.”

And her heart echoed the question, “Why not?”

For nearly an hour she continued to pace her room. Yes, yes! Hers was the right, she told herself. If he were the murderer she did not care to live. They should die together; they should journey beyond together. She thought over all the details, and all the time the demon looked out of her eyes and jogged her with fresh arguments when her heart failed. She knew where her brother kept his pistols. She would wait until he had set out for Winnipeg. Then, on the morrow, she would ride over to Lonely Ranch.

She nursed her anger; she encouraged it at every turn. And she longed for the morrow. But outwardly she grew calm. Only her eyes betrayed her. And they were not the eyes of perfect sanity. They glowed with a lurid fire, the fire which shone in the fierce, dark eyes of her brother.

CHAPTER XVI

AN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS

Alice searched all over the farm for her friend. The last place in which she thought of looking was the little bedroom the two girls shared. Here at length she arrived, and a shock awaited her.

Prudence was sitting beside the window. She was gazing out at the bare, harvested fields, nor did she turn at her friend’s approach. It was not until Alice spoke that she looked round.

“Here you are, Prue! Why, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed, as she noted the grey pallor of the face before her; the drawn lines about the mouth, the fiercely burning eyes. “You poor soul, you are ill; and you never told me a word about it. I have been looking everywhere for you. It is tea-time. What is it, dear?”

“Do I look ill?” Prudence asked wearily. She passed her hand across her forehead. She was almost dazed. Then she went on as she turned again to the window: “I’m all right; my head is aching–that’s all. I don’t think I want any tea.” The next moment she was all alertness. “Has Hervey returned from the fields?”

“Hervey? Yes; why? He’s returned and gone away again; gone into Winnipeg. He nearly frightened poor mother Hephzy out of her wits. Came in all of a sudden and declared he must hurry off to Winnipeg at once, and he wanted Andy to drive him. You know his way. He wouldn’t give any explanation. He was like a bear to his mother. My fingers were just itching to slap his face. But come along, dear, you must have some tea. It’ll do your head good.”

While she was speaking Alice’s eyes never left her friend’s face. There was something about Prudence’s expression she didn’t like. Her mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely persisted when the other shook her head.

Eventually her persuasions prevailed.

“Mother Hephzy’s fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her up. The long-suffering Mary has been catching it in consequence. So come along and be your most cheerful self, Prue. The poor old dears must be humoured.”

And Alice with gentle insistence led her companion down to the parlour.

“And where, miss, have you been all this precious time?” asked Mrs. Malling, when the two girls reached the parlour. “Sleeping, I’ll be bound, to judge by them spectacles around your eyes. There’s no git-up about young folk now-a-days,” she went on, turning to Sarah. “Six hours’ sleep for healthy-minded women, I says; not an hour more nor an hour less. Sister Emma was allus one o’ them for her sy-esta.” Then she turned back to Prudence. “Maybe she learned you, my girl.”

“I haven’t been sleeping, mother,” Prudence protested, taking her place at the table. “I don’t feel very well.”

“Ah, you don’t say so,” exclaimed the old lady, all anxiety at once. “An’ why didn’t you tell me before? Now maybe you’ve got a touch o’ the sun?”

“Have you been faint and giddy?” asked Sarah, fixing her quiet eyes upon the girl’s face.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a headache–nothing more.”

“Ah; cold bath and lemon soda,” observed her mother practically.

“Tea, and be left alone,” suggested Sarah.

“‘Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the cure which best is for the taking.’”

Her steady old eyes seemed able to penetrate mere outward signs.

“Quite right, ‘Aunt’ Sarah,” said Alice decidedly. “Leave the nostrums and quackeries alone. Prue will be all right after a nice cup of tea. Now, mother Hephzy, one of your best for the invalid, and, please, I’ll have some more ham.”

“That you shall, you flighty harum-scarum. And to think o’ the likes o’ you dictating to me about nostrums and physickings,” replied the farm-wife, with a comfortable laugh. “I’ll soon be having Mary teaching me to toss a buckwheat ‘slap-jack.’ Now see an’ cut from the sides o’ that ham where the curin’s primest. I do allow as the hams didn’t cure just so, last winter. Folks at my board must have of the best.”

“I never knew any one to get anything else here,” laughed Alice. Then she turned her head sharply and sat listening.

Mrs. Malling looked over towards the window. Prudence silently sipped her tea, keeping her eyes lowered as much as possible. She knew that, in spite of their talk, these kindly people were worried about her, and she tried hard to relieve their anxiety.

“Some one for us,” said Alice, as the sound of horse’s hoofs came in through the open window.

“Some one from Lakeville, I expect,” said Mrs. Malling, making a guess.

“That’s George Iredale’s horse,” said Sarah, who had detected the sound of a pacer’s gait.

Prudence looked up in a startled, frightened way. Sarah was looking directly at her. She made no further comment aloud, but contented herself with a quiet mental note.

“Something wrong,” she thought; “and it’s to do with him. Poor child, poor child. Maybe she’s fretting herself because–”

Her reflections were abruptly broken off as the sound of a man’s voice hailing at the front door penetrated to the parlour.

“Any one in?” cried the voice; and instantly Alice sprang to her feet.

“It’s Robb!” she exclaimed. There was a clatter as her chair fell back behind her; she nearly fell over it, reached the door, and the next moment those in the parlour heard the sound of joyous exclamations proceeding from the hall.

Prudence’s expression was a world of relief. Her mother was overjoyed.

“This is real good. Bring him in! Bring him in, Miss Thoughtless! Don’t keep him there a-philandering when there’s good fare in the parlour!”

“‘Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love of yore; not of to-day,’”

murmured Sarah, with a pensive smile, while she turned expectantly to greet the visitor.

Radiant, her face shining with conscious happiness, Alice led her fiancé into the room. And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting before the farm-wife’s generous board almost before he was aware of it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of questions from, at least, three of the ladies present.

Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a “bunk” to a schoolboy. It was more delightful to him by reason of the knowledge that he would have to pay up for it afterwards with extra exertions and overtime work.

“You didn’t tell us when you were coming,” said Alice.

“Didn’t know myself. Thought I’d ride over from Iredale’s place on spec’.”

“And you’re come from there now?” asked Mrs. Malling.

Prudence looked up eagerly.

“Yes; I’ve just bought all his stock for a Scotch client of mine.”

“Scotch?” Sarah turned away with a motion of disgust.

“What, has George sold all his beasties at last?” exclaimed the farm-wife.

“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? He’s giving up his ranch.”

Robb looked round the table in surprise. There was a pause. Then Mrs. Malling broke it–

“He has spoken of it–hinted. But we wasn’t expectin’ it so soon. He’s made his pile.”

“Yes, he must have done so,” said Robb readily. “The price he parted with his cattle to me for was ridiculous. I shall make a large profit out of my client. It’ll all help towards furnishing, Al,” he went on, turning to his fiancée.

“I’m so glad you are doing well now, Robb,” the girl replied, with a happy smile.

“Yes.” Then the man turned to Mrs. Malling. “We’re going to get married this fall. I hope Alice has been learning something of housekeeping”–with a laugh.

“Why, yes. Alice knows a deal more than she reckons to let on, I guess,” said the farm-wife, with a fat chuckle.

Prudence now spoke for the first time since Robb’s arrival. She looked up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally, there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.

“When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?”

Robb turned to her at once.

“Can’t say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no preparations. Besides, I’ve got to see him again in a day or two.”

“Then you will stay out here?” asked Alice eagerly.

“Well, no.” Robb shook his head with a comical expression of chagrin. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. But I’ll come over here when I’m in the neighbourhood, if possible.” Then to Mrs. Malling, “May I?”

“Why, certainly,” said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness. “If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well, you can just pass right along for the future.”

When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.

“Alice,” said she, “you stay right here. Sarah and I’ll clear away. Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you’ll feel better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on comfortably without us for once.”

Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of other matters that concerned only herself and another.

The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room. They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say and so little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that night.

The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone. There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the steady rise and fall of her bosom.

A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden, but Prudence’s gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought her.

Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then came the slow, heavy patter of the creature’s feet. Neche approached the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to convey something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive nothing but kindness.

For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry. Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl’s dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew himself further into the room.

The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing. Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him. Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly, he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated, and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were uncertain of something.

He was inclined to resent the presence of these two, but the caress of the soft, warm hand checked any hostile demonstration beyond a whine, half plaintive, half of anger.

The disturbing sound drew Alice’s attention, and she looked over to where Prudence was standing; it was then she encountered the unblinking stare of the hound’s wicked eyes. The sight thrilled her for a moment, nor could she repress a slight shudder. She nudged her companion and drew his attention without speaking. Robb followed the direction of her gaze, and a silence followed whilst he surveyed the strange apparition.

He could only see the dog’s head–the rest of the creature was hidden behind the window curtain–and its enormous size suggested the great body and powerful limbs which remained concealed. To Robb there was a suggestion of hell about the cruel lustre of the relentless eyes.

At last he broke into a little nervous laugh.

“By Jove!” he said. “I thought for the moment I’d got ’em. Gee-whizz! The brute looks like the devil himself. What is it? Whose?”

Without replying, Alice called to her friend.

“Let Neche come in, Prue,” she said. “That is”–dubiously–“if you think it’s safe.” Then she turned to Robb. “He’s so savage that I’m afraid of him. Still, with Prue here, I think he’ll be all right; he’s devoted to her.”

At the sound of the girl’s voice Prudence turned back from the window like one awakening from a dream. Her eyes still had a far-away look in them, and though she had heard the voice it seemed doubtful as to whether she had taken the meaning of the words. For a moment her eyes rested on Alice’s face, then they drooped to the dog at her side, but Alice was forced to repeat her question before the other moved. Then, in silence, she stepped back and summoned the dog to her with an encouraging chirrup. Neche needed no second bidding. There was a scramble and a scraping of sharp claws upon the woodwork, then the animal stood in the room. And his attitude as he eyed the two seated upon the sofa said as plainly as possible, “Well, which one is it to be first?”

Robb felt uneasy. Alice was decidedly alarmed at the dog’s truculent appearance.

But the tension was relieved a moment later by the brute’s own strange behaviour. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Neche plumped down upon his hind-quarters. His pricked ears drooped, and his two fore paws began to beat a sort of tattoo upon the floor. Then followed a broken whine, tremulous and blandishing, and the great head moved from side to side with that curious movement which only dogs use to express their gladness. Then the strange, three-legged beast went further. Down he threw himself full length upon the floor and grovelled effusively, whining and scraping the boards in a perfect fervour of abject delight.

Robb looked hard at the dog. Then he laughed and turned to Alice.

“What is the creature’s name? I didn’t catch it.”

“Neche,” she replied.

Robb held out his hand encouragingly and called the dog by name. The animal continued to squirm but did not offer to come nearer. Every now and then its head was turned back, and the green eyes looked up into Prudence’s face. At last Robb ceased his efforts. His blandishments were ineffectual beyond increasing the dog’s effusive display.

“A husky,” he said, looking across at Prudence. “A bad dog to have about the house. He reminds me of the animals we had up north in our dog-train. They’re devils to handle and as fierce as wild cats. We had one just like him. Unusually big brute. He was our ‘wheeler.’ The most vicious dog of the lot. The resemblance is striking. By Jove!” he went on reminiscently, “he was a sulky, cantankerous cuss. His name was ‘Sitting Bull,’ after the renowned Sioux Indian chief. We had to be very careful of the other dogs on account of his ‘scrapping’ propensities. He killed one poor beast I think we nicknamed him rather appropriately. He was affectionately dubbed ‘Bully.’”

As Robb pronounced the name he held out his hand again and flicked his fingers. The dog rose from his grovelling posture and came eagerly forward, wagging his lank tail. He rubbed his nose against the man’s hand and slowly licked the sun-tanned skin.

Robb’s brows drew together in a pucker of deep perplexity. He looked the animal over long and earnestly, and slowly there crept into his eyes an expression of wondering astonishment. He was interrupted in his inspection by the girl at his side.

“Why, he’s treating you like an old friend, Robb.”

The man sat gazing down upon the wiry coat of the beast.

“Yes,” he said shortly. Then he looked over at Prudence. “Yours?” he went on.

The girl shook her head.

“No, he belongs to Hervey.”

“Um! I wonder where he got him from,” in a meditative tone.

“Somewhere out in the wilds of the Yukon,” put in Alice.

“Ah! The Yukon.” And Robb’s face was serious as he turned towards the window and looked out at the creeping shadows of evening.

There was a pause. Prudence was thinking of anything but the subject of Robb’s inquiries. Alice was curious, but she forbore to question. She had heard her lover’s account of his misadventure in the Alaskan hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous affair. But the man’s thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to depart.

He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb hesitated, then he turned and looked back.

“Poor old Bully,” he said.

With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and, accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.

“Al,” he said slowly, “I know that dog. And his name is Bully. Don’t say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again–soon. Good-bye, little woman.”

That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH

There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can say what the end will be?