_ CHAPTER XI. A Visit Cut Short
Like the great majority of the denizens of the wilderness, Maigan could be a steadfast friend or a bitter enemy. He would readily have given his life for the one and torn the other asunder. Not being very far removed from a wolfish ancestry he was necessarily suspicious, intolerant at first of strangers and prepared to use his clean and cutting fangs at the shortest notice. But he was also more cautious than the dog of civilization and less apt to blurt his feelings right out. After his first outburst he appeared to quiet down, growling but a very little, very low, and stood at the girl's side, watchful and ready for immediate action.
Madge stood on the wooden step that had been cleared of snow, in front of the little door of rough planks. She watched the people coming in Indian file down the path that had been beaten down in the deep snow. For a moment she had thought that they might be bringing help, that miraculously a doctor had been found at once, that these people were friends eager to help, to remove the sick man to Carcajou and thence to some hospital further down the railway line. But such people would have cried out inquiries. They would have come with some shout of greeting. But these newcomers came along without a word until their leader was but a few yards away, when he stopped and looked at the girl during a moment's silence.
"Where's Hugo Ennis?" he finally asked, gruffly.
"He is in the shack," replied the girl, timidly. "He is dreadfully ill and lying on his bunk."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He was shot--shot by accident, and now I'm afraid that he is going to die."
"Well, I'll go in and see. We'll all go in. We're mighty cold after that long ride. Stand aside!"
"I think you might go in," the girl told him, still blocking the way, "but the others must not. I--I won't allow him to be disturbed. Don't--don't you understand me? I'm telling you that he's dying. I--I won't have him disturbed. And--and who are you? You don't look like a friend of his. What's your purpose in coming here?"
The first feeling of timidity that had seized her seemed to have left her utterly. There remained to her but an instinct--a will to defend the man, to protect him from unwarranted intrusion, and she spoke with authority. But another of the visitors addressed her.
"We're folks belongin' to these townships," he said. "What we want to know is who you are, and what right ye've got to order us about and say who's goin' in and who's to keep out?"
Something in his words caused her cheeks to burn, but strangely enough she felt quite calm and strong in her innocence of any evil, and she answered quietly enough.
"My name is Madge Nelson, if you want to know, and I am here at this moment because I am taking care of Mr. Ennis. I feel responsible for his welfare and will continue until he is better and able to speak for himself, or--or until he is dead. I repeat that one of you may come in--but no more."
It appeared that her manner impressed the men to some extent, if not the three women who crowded behind. One of the visitors was scratching the back of his neck.
"Look a-here, Aleck, I reckon that gal is talking sense, if Hugo's real bad like she says. We ain't got no call to butt in an' make him worse. I know when Mirandy was sick the Doc he told me ter take a club if I had to, to keep folks out. Let Pat Kilrea go in if he wants to an' we'll stay outside an' wait."
"Sure, that's right enough," said old man Prouty.
Pat advanced, but Maigan began to growl.
"Say, young 'ooman, I'll bash that dog's head in if you don't keep him still," he said, truculently. "Keep a holt of him."
Madge pulled the dog back and quieted him.
"Be good, Maigan," she said. "It's all right, old fellow."
She entered the shack behind Pat Kilrea and closed the door. In doing this she meant no offense to the others, who didn't mind, knowing that with a cold of some twenty below people don't care for an excess of ventilation. They stood, the men silently, the women putting their heads together and whispering.
"Ain't she the brazen sassy thing?" remarked Mrs. Kilrea.
"Guess she ain't no better'n she should be," opined Sophy, acidly, as she watched the door keenly.
Pat Kilrea went to the bunk and for an instant considered the sick man's face. Then he scratched his head again.
"Hello, Hugo!" he finally called out. "What's the matter with ye? Ain't--ain't tryin' to hide behind a gal's skirts, are ye?"
His arm was seized from behind. The girl's eyes flashed at him.
"I--I don't know who you are!" she exclaimed. "But if--if you say such things I'll turn that dog on you, so help me God!"
"I--I don't reckon as I meant it," stammered Pat. "He--he does look turriple sick, now me eyes is gettin' used to the light. Why, why don't you speak, man?"
But the sufferer on the bunk made no answer save in some low fast words that were disconnected and meaningless. Slowly, nearly tenderly, Pat touched a hand that felt burning hot and a forehead that was moist and clammy. Then he turned to the girl again.
"Well, I must say I'm sorry," he acknowledged. "Looks to me like he was done for. What are ye goin' to do for him? We--we didn't reckon to find nothin' like this when we come, though Papineau told us he were sick."
"Mr. Papineau's errand was to telegraph for the doctor," she replied, with a hand pressed to her bosom. "At--at first, when I heard you coming, I thought he had perhaps arrived and--and that you were intending to take him away. Do--do you really think he's going to die?"
"Well, I'm scared it looks a good deal that way. Of course we might be able to take him in the sleigh, but--but he don't look much as if he could stand the trip--does he?--an'--an' I don't reckon we can do much good stayin' round here either."
He stepped over to the door and opened it.
"That gal's right," he said. "Hugo looks desperate sick."
"Sure it ain't nothin' that's ketchin', are ye?" asked his wife, drawing back a little.
"I didn't never hear that pistol bullets was contagious," he answered.
"But who did it?" cried McIntosh. "And--and how d'ye know 'twas just an accident. Seems to me we'd ought to find out something more about it. It--it don't sound just natural."
"I tell you he was shot by accident. I did it, God forgive me," faltered Madge.
Sophy McGurn, at this, pushed her way forward until she stood in front of Madge, and pointed an accusing finger at her. Her eyes were flashing. To Maigan her move seemed a threatening one and she recoiled as the animal crouched a little, with fangs bare and lips slavering.
"Hold him, miss, hold him quick!" cried Aleck Mclntosh. "Git back there, Sophy, what's the matter with ye? D'ye want to be torn to pieces? What's that ye was goin' to say?"
"She--she never shot him by accident! She--she did it on purpose, for revenge, that's what she did, the she-devil!"
She was still standing before Madge and her voice was shaking with excitement, while her arms and hands trembled with her passion.
"What's all that?" cried Pat Kilrea. "Ye wasn't here to see, was ye? How d'ye know she done it a-purpose, for revenge? Ye must have some reason for sayin' such things. Out with 'em!"
But now Sophy was shrinking back, afraid of her own outburst, fearing that she might have revealed something. Her voice shook again as she replied.
"I--I ain't got any reason," she stammered. "I--I was just thinking so. It--it came to me all of a sudden. Maybe I'm mistaken."
"Mistaken, was it?" asked Pat Kilrea. "Folks ain't got any right to be mistaken when it comes to accusin' others of murder. If you hadn't had some reason to speak that way ye'd have kept yer mouth shut, I'm thinking. Why don't ye come right out with it?"
"I--I didn't really mean anything by it," stammered Sophy again.
"What revenge was that you was referring to?" he persisted.
"Nothing--nothing at all. How should I know what she would do?"
"Then you ought to have kept still an' held yer tongue," said Pat.
"But it seems to me as if we'd ought to investigate this thing a little," ventured Prouty. "We ain't got anythin' here but this 'ere young 'ooman's word for what's happened. She can tell us how it came about, anyways, seems to me, and we can judge if it sounds sensible and correct like."
"That's right," put in Kilrea. "That's fair and proper."
"I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know about it," asserted Madge, quietly. "I--I came here to see Mr. Ennis on a matter that--that concerns us only. And I had occasion to open my bag. Among the things in it there was a revolver. It fell out of my hands and exploded, and--and the bullet struck him. I--I never knew that he had been shot. He never even told me, and then he hitched the dog to the sleigh and took me over to Mrs. Papineau's, where I have been staying. And it was she who discovered that he had been injured. She'll tell you so herself if you go to her. And--and he told her it was an accident, as he would tell you now if--if he wasn't dying."
"You'd fixed it up to spend the night at Papineau's?" asked Mrs. Kilrea, who had hitherto kept somewhat in the background.
"That was the arrangement we had made," answered the girl. "There was no other place where I could stay. But I'd have gone up there alone if I'd known how badly he was hurt. I've stayed with them ever since, of course, for there was no one to take me back. Mr. Papineau hadn't returned. He was trapping."
"I don't see but what she must be tellin' the truth," opined Mrs. Kilrea. "There ain't anything wrong or improper in all this, savin' a girl handlin' a revolver, which ain't wise. We can go over to Papineau's and make sure it's just as she says."
"But there's one thing ain't clear," said Pat Kilrea. "What business did she come on, anyways?"
Madge drew herself up and looked at him calmly.
"I've already told you that this concerns Mr. Ennis and myself," she told him, "and I deny that you have any right...."
Just then there was a roar from the tote-road as big Stefan, lashing his dogs, bumped down the path at a wild gallop and, a minute later, threw himself off the sled and was among them.
"How do, peoples?" he shouted, advancing truculently towards Pat and Mclntosh. "Papineau telt me as how Hugo he get hurted bad and sick. And he say you peoples ask him whole lot qvestions about him. I vant to know vhat all you is doin' here, und--und if I ain't satisfied I take some of you and--and vipe up de ground vid you, hear me!"
His manner was ominously calm, but his words sent a shiver through the crowd. He was and looked a tremendous figure. He had moved to the side of the girl, as if to defend her, and his clear blue eyes went searchingly from one man to the next.
"Papineau he tells me in Carcajou it look like you come ofer here to make drouble for Hugo an' mebbe for dis young leddy. So I come here fast like my togs can take me, sure ting. Und I vant to know vhen you vants to start droubles. Der leddies can move leetle vay to one side if dey like, to make room. Ve need plenty, I tank. Who vant to start de row now, who begin? I tak' you vun at a time or altogedder, how you like!"
He took a step forward and the men all moved back hurriedly. The ladies had swiftly accepted his advice and were retreating fast, now and then looking back in terror.
"But look here, Stefan, what are you butting in for?" Kilrea took courage to ask while he kept discreetly out of reach. "We came to see if everything was all right and proper here. We're satisfied now and are going back. Got to hurry away, sun's getting low."
The Swede sniffed at him contemptuously, and drew off a big mitt of muskrat hide. With some difficulty he drew from his clothing a huge silver watch and looked at it.
"Glad you vas in a hurry. I tank I 'elp you a bit make tings lifely. I gif you all yoost tree minutes ter get started. Den if any man he ain't aboard dat sleigh I yoost vipes up de ground vit him a bit. If you knows vhat is good for ye, den make tracks, qvick. I ban gettin' hurry mineself, eh!"
"But what right have you to be ordering us about?" shouted Aleck Mclntosh, imprudently.
"My frient, you's knowed as de laziest man in Carcajou and some say in Ontario. I helps you along, sure."
He had dashed towards him with devastating speed. The fellow turned to run, but a second later the slack of some of his garments was in Stefan's huge hand. Struggling and backing he found himself half lifted, half propelled on the ground, all the way to the sled. There he was lifted high and dumped in, like a bag of feed.
"Any oders as need help?" roared Stefan.
But they were hastening for all they were worth. Kilrea took the reins. The three women were already seated. The others jumped in and the horses started home again, even before the Carcajou Vigilantes had finished spreading robes over their shaky knees. Striking a bit of flat bare rock, the runners spat out fire and squealed, after which the heavy sled slithered and slipped over the crackling snow, so that presently the outfit disappeared around the first bend in the tote-road.
Miss Sophy McGurn looked particularly down-hearted. None of the interesting events she expected had taken place. She had merely succeeded in nearly giving herself away and arousing suspicions.
And the girl was still there, with Hugo! She had believed that Hugo would be found sheepish and embarrassed, or in a regular fury, while the stranger would weep and wring her hands and seek to explain. And the invading crowd was to have manifested its indignation at this breach of all decency and proper custom, and sent the woman away, while they would have told the man what they thought of him, in spite of his rage, and warned him that he must mend his ways or quit the country.
And now they had all been driven away, and that girl had stood and spoken as if she had some right to be there, and had been indignant at any inquiry into her motives for coming to Roaring River. Worse than all Pat Kilrea and his wife seemed to have turned against her, after absolving the two of blame.
She shrank back, drawing her fur cap further down over her eyes and ears. Now the cold seemed more bitter than she had ever felt it before, in spite of the thermometer's rise, and the road was so long and dreary that it seemed as if it never would end.
And Hugo Ennis was dying--and in her heart Sophy McGurn felt certain that the girl had shot to kill, and was waiting there until he should die. Perhaps she had rummaged about the place and found money or other valuables, for Ennis always seemed to have some funds, though he spent prudently and carefully, and never seemed to have dollars to throw away. And the end of it would be that the girl would leave and the man would be dead and all the dreams of marriage first and of a revenge following had turned into this thing, which was a nightmare.
She reached her home half frozen, in spite of the robes, and could not eat her food. Her mother had a few mild words to say about long excursions out in the back country, in this sort of weather. Then the girl left the table suddenly, and slammed the door of her room shut, in a towering rage. A little later, after she had lain down, came tears, for it seemed to her at this time that she had never truly loved Ennis until she heard that he was dying, and now he was lost to her forever. _