Man-Size

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Kiss yore man," he ordered.

  The girl said nothing. She still struggled to escape, using every ounce of strength she possessed.

  The fury of her resistance amused him. He laughed again, throwing back the heavy bristling jaw in a roar of mirth.

  "Yore man—yore master," he amended.

  He smothered her with his foul kisses, ravished her lips, her eyes, the soft hot cheeks, the oval of the chin, and the lovely curve of the throat. She was physically nauseated when he flung her from him against the wall and strode from the room with another horrible whoop of exultation.

  She clung to the wall, panting, eyes closed. A shocking sense of degradation flooded her soul. She felt as though she were drowning in it, fathoms deep. Her lids fluttered open and she saw the gambler. He was still sitting on the stool. A mocking, cynical smile was in the eyes that met Jessie's.

  "And Tom Morse—where, oh, where is he?" the man jeered.

  A chill shook her. Dry sobs welled up in her throat. She was lost.

  For the first time she knew the cold clutch of despair at her heart.

  Whaley did not intend to lift a hand for her. He had sat there and let

  West work his will.

  "Angus McRae gave me instructions aplenty," he explained maliciously. "I was to keep my hands off you. I was to mind my own business. When you see him again—if you ever do—will you tell him I did exactly as he said?"

  She did not answer. What was there to say? In the cabin was no sound except that of her dry, sobbing breath.

  Whaley rose and came across the room. He had thrown aside the gambler's mask of impassivity. His eyes were shining strangely.

  "I'm going—now—out into the storm. What about you? If you're here when West comes back, you know what it means. Make your choice. Will you go with me or stay with him?"

  "You're going home?"

  "Yes." His smile was enigmatic. It carried neither warmth nor conviction.

  The man had played his cards well. He had let West give her a foretaste of the hell in store for her. Anything rather than that, she thought. And surely Whaley would take her home. He was no outlaw, but a responsible citizen who must go back to Faraway to live. He had to face her father and Winthrop Beresford of the Mounted—and Tom Morse. He would not harm her. He dared not.

  But she took one vain precaution. "You promise to take me to my father. You'll not—be like him." A lift of the head indicated the man who had just gone out.

  "He's a fool. I'm not. That's the difference." He shrugged his shoulders. "Make your own choice. If you'd rather stay here—"

  But she had made it. She was getting hurriedly into her furs and was putting on her mittens. Already she had adjusted the snowshoes.

  "We'd better hurry," she urged. "He might come back."

  "It'll be bad luck for him if he does," the gambler said coolly. "You ready?"

  She nodded that she was.

  In another moment they were out of the warm room and into the storm. The wind was coming in whistling gusts, carrying with it a fine sleet that whipped the face and stung the eyeballs. Before she had been out in the storm five minutes, Jessie had lost all sense of direction.

  Whaley was an expert woodsman. He plunged into the forest, without hesitation, so surely that she felt he must know where he was going. The girl followed at his heels, head down against the blast.

  Before this day she had not for months taken a long trip on webs. Leg muscles, called into use without training, were sore and stiff. In the darkness the soft snow piled up on the shoes. Each step became a drag. The lacings and straps lacerated her tender flesh till she knew her duffles were soaked with blood. More than once she dropped back so far that she lost sight of Whaley. Each time he came back with words of encouragement and good cheer.

  "Not far now," he would promise. "Across a little bog and then camp.

  Keep coming."

  Once he found her sitting on the snow, her back to a tree.

  "You'd better go on alone. I'm done," she told him drearily.

  He was not angry at her. Nor did he bully or browbeat.

  "Tough sledding," he said gently. "But we're 'most there. Got to keep going. Can't quit now."

  He helped Jessie to her feet and led the way down into a spongy morass. The brush slapped her face. It caught in the meshes of her shoes and flung her down. The miry earth, oozing over the edges of the frames, clogged her feet and clung to them like pitch.

  Whaley did his best to help, but when at last she crept up to the higher ground beyond the bog every muscle ached with fatigue.

  They were almost upon it before she saw a log cabin looming out of the darkness.

  She sank on the floor exhausted. Whaley disappeared into the storm again. Sleepily she wondered where he was going. She must have dozed, for when her eyes next reported to the brain, there was a brisk fire of birch bark burning and her companion was dragging broken bits of dead and down timber into the house.

  "Looks like she's getting her back up for a blizzard. Better have plenty of fuel in," he explained.

  "Where are we?" she asked drowsily.

  "Cabin on Bull Creek," he answered. "Better get off your footwear."

  While she did this her mind woke to activity. Why had he brought her here? They had no food. How would they live if a blizzard blew up and snowed them in? And even if they had supplies, how could she live alone for days with this man in a cabin eight by ten?

  As though he guessed what was in her mind, he answered plausibly enough one of the questions.

  "No chance to reach Faraway. Too stormy. It was neck or nothing. Had to take what we could get."

  "What'll we do if—if there's a blizzard?" she asked timidly.

  "Sit tight."

  "Without food?"

  "If it lasts too long, I'll have to wait for a lull and make a try for Faraway. No use worrying. We can't help what's coming. Got to face the music."

  Her eyes swept the empty cabin. No bed. No table. One home-made three-legged stool. A battered kettle. It was an uninviting prospect, even if she had not had to face possible starvation while she was caged with a stranger who might any minute develop wolfish hunger for her as he had done only forty-eight hours before.

  He did not look at her steadily. His gaze was in the red glow of the fire a good deal. She talked, and he answered in monosyllables. When he looked at her, his eyes glowed with the hot red light reflected from the fire, Live coals seemed to burn in them.

  In spite of the heat a little shiver ran down her spine.

  Silence became too significant. She was afraid of it. So she talked, persistently, at times a little hysterically. Her memory was good. If she liked a piece of poetry, she could learn it by reading it over a few times. So, in her desperation, she "spoke pieces" to this man whose face was a gray mask, just as the girls had done at her school in Winnipeg.

  Often, at night camps, she had recited for her father. If she had no dramatic talent, at least she had a sweet, clear voice, an earnestness that never ranted, and some native or acquired skill in handling inflections.

  "Do you like Shakespeare?" she asked. "My father's very fond of him.

  I know parts of several of the plays. 'Henry V' now. That's good.

  There's a bit where he's talking to his soldiers before they fight the

  French. Would you like that?"

  "Go on," he said gruffly, sultry eyes on the fire.

  With a good deal of spirit she flung out the gallant lines. He began to watch her, vivid, eager, so pathetically anxious to entertain him with her small stock of wares.

  "But, if it be a sin to covet honor,

  I am the most offending soul alive."

  There was about her a quality very fine and taking. He caught it first in those two lines, and again when her full young voice swelled to English Harry's prophecy.

  "And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

  From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be
remembered.

  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:

  For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

  Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

  This day shall gentle his condition:

  And gentlemen in England now abed

  Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

  And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

  That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

  As he watched her, old memories stirred in him. He had come from a good family in the Western Reserve, where he had rough-and-tumbled up through the grades into High School. After a year here he had gone to a Catholic School, Sacred Heart College, and had studied for the priesthood. He recalled his mother, a gentle, white-haired old lady, with fond pride in him; his father, who had been the soul of honor. By some queer chance she had lit on the very lines that he had learned from the old school reader and recited before an audience the last day prior to vacation.

  He woke from his reveries to discover that she was giving him Tennyson, that fragment from "Guinevere" when Arthur tells her of the dream her guilt has tarnished. And as she spoke there stirred in him the long-forgotten aspirations of his youth.

  "… for indeed I knew

  Of no more subtle master under heaven

  Than is the maiden passion for a maid,

  Not only to keep down the base in man,

  But teach high thought and amiable words

  And courtliness, and the desire of fame,

  And love of truth, and all that makes a man."

  His eyes were no longer impassive. There was in them, for the moment at least, a hunted, haggard look. He saw himself as he was, in a blaze of light that burned down to his very soul.

  And he saw her too transformed—not a half-breed, the fair prey of any man's passion, but a clean, proud, high-spirited white girl who lived in the spirit as well as the flesh.

  "You're tired. Better lie down and sleep," he told her, very gently.

  Jessie looked at him, and she knew she was safe. She might sleep without fear. This man would not harm her any more than Beresford or Morse would have done. Some chemical change had occurred in his thoughts that protected her. She did not know what it was, but her paean of prayer went up to heaven in a little rush of thanksgiving.

  She did not voice her gratitude to him. But the look she gave him was more expressive than words.

  Out of the storm a voice raucous and profane came to them faintly.

  "Ah, crapaud Wulf, pren' garde. Yeu-oh! (To the right!) Git down to it, Fox. Sacre demon! Cha! Cha! (To the left!)"

  Then the crack of a whip and a volley of oaths.

  The two in the cabin looked at each other. One was white to the lips. The other smiled grimly. It was the gambler that spoke their common thought.

  "Bully West, by all that's holy!"

  CHAPTER XXIV

  WEST MAKES A DECISION

  Came to those in the cabin a string of oaths, the crack of a whip lashing out savagely, and the yelps of dogs from a crouching, cowering team.

  Whaley slipped a revolver from his belt to the right-hand pocket of his fur coat.

  The door burst open. A man stood on the threshold, a huge figure crusted with snow, beard and eyebrows ice-matted. He looked like the storm king who had ridden the gale out of the north. This on the outside, at a first glance only. For the black scowl he flung at his partner was so deadly that it seemed to come red-hot from a furnace of hate and evil passion.

  "Run to earth!" he roared. "Thought you'd hole up, you damned fox, where I wouldn't find you. Thought you'd give Bully West the slip, you'n' that li'l' hell-cat. Talk about Porcupine Creek, eh? Tried to send me mushin' over there while you'n' her—"

  What the fellow said sent a hot wave creeping over the girl's face to the roots of her hair. The gambler did not speak, but his eyes, filmed and wary, never lifted from the other's bloated face.

  "Figured I'd forget the ol' whiskey cache, eh? Figured you could gimme the double-cross an' git away with it? Hell's hinges, Bully West's no fool! He's forgot more'n you ever knew."

  The man swaggered forward, the lash of the whip trailing across the puncheon floor. Triumph rode in his voice and straddled in his gait. He stood with his back to the fireplace absorbing heat, hands behind him and feet set wide. His eyes gloated over the victims he had trapped. Presently he would settle with both of them.

  "Not a word to say for yoreselves, either one o' you," he jeered. "Good enough. I'll do what talkin' 's needed, then I'll strip the hide off'n both o' you." With a flirt of the arm he sent the lash of the dog-whip snaking out toward Jessie.

  She shrank back against the wall, needlessly. It was a threat, not an attack; a promise of what was to come.

  "Let her alone." They were the first words Whaley had spoken. In his soft, purring voice they carried out the suggestion of his crouched tenseness. If West was the grizzly bear, the other was the forest panther, more feline, but just as dangerous.

  The convict looked at him, eyes narrowed, head thrust forward and down. "What's that?"

  "I said to let her alone."

  West's face heliographed amazement. "Meanin'—?"

  "Meaning exactly what I say. You'll not touch her."

  It was a moment before this flat defiance reached the brain of the big man through the penumbra of his mental fog. When it did, he strode across the room with the roar of a wild animal and snatched the girl to him. He would show whether any one could come between him and his woman.

  In three long steps Whaley padded across the floor. Something cold and round pressed against the back of the outlaw's tough red neck.

  "Drop that whip."

  The order came in a low-voiced imperative. West hesitated. This man—his partner—would surely never shoot him about such a trifle. Still—

  "What's eatin' you?" he growled. "Put up that gun. You ain't fool enough to shoot."

  "Think that hard enough and you'll never live to know better. Hands off the girl."

  The slow brain of West functioned. He had been taken wholly by surprise, but as his cunning mind Worked the situation out, he saw how much it would be to Whaley's profit to get rid of him. The gambler would get the girl and the reward for West's destruction. He would inherit his share of their joint business and would reinstate himself as a good citizen with the Mounted and with McRae's friends.

  Surlily the desperado yielded. "All right, if you're so set on it."

  "Drop the whip."

  The fingers of West opened and the handle fell to the floor. Deftly the other removed a revolver from its place under the outlaw's left armpit.

  West glared at him. That moment the fugitive made up his mind that he would kill Whaley at the first good opportunity. A tide of poisonous hatred raced through his veins. Its expression but not its virulence was temporarily checked by wholesome fear. He must be careful that the gambler did not get him first.

  His voice took on a whine intended for good-fellowship. "I reckon I was too pre-emtory. O' course I was sore the way you two left me holdin' the sack. Any one would 'a' been now, wouldn't they? But no use friends fallin' out. We got to make the best of things."

  Whaley's chill face did not warm. He knew the man with whom he was dealing. When he began to butter his phrases, it was time to look out for him. He would forget that his partner had brought him from Faraway a dog-team with which to escape, that he was supplying him with funds to carry him through the winter. He would remember only that he had balked and humiliated him.

  "Better get into the house the stuff from the sled," the gambler said.

  "And we'll rustle wood. No telling how long this storm'll last."

  "Tha's right," agreed West. "When I saw them sun dogs to-day I figured we was in for a blizzard. Too bad you didn't outfit me for a longer trip."

  A gale was blowing from the north, carrying on its whistling breath a fine hard sleet that cut the eyeballs like powdered glass. The men fought their way to
the sled and wrestled with the knots of the frozen ropes that bound the load. The lumps of ice that had gathered round these had to be knocked off with hammers before they could be freed. When they staggered into the house with their packs, both men were half-frozen. Their hands were so stiff that the fingers were jointless.

  They stopped only long enough to limber up the muscles. Whaley handed to Jessie the revolver he had taken from West.

  "Keep this," he said. His look was significant. It told her that in the hunt for wood he might be blinded by the blizzard and lost. If he failed to return and West came back alone, she would know what to do with it.

  Into the storm the two plunged a second time. They carried ropes and an axe. Since West had arrived, the gale had greatly increased. The wind now was booming in deep, sullen roars and the temperature had fallen twenty degrees already. The sled dogs were nowhere to be seen or heard. They had burrowed down into the snow where the house would shelter them from the hurricane as much as possible.

  The men reached the edge of the creek. They struggled in the frozen drifts with such small dead trees as they could find. In the darkness Whaley used the axe as best he could at imminent risk to his legs. Though they worked only a few feet apart, they had to shout to make their voices carry.

  "We better be movin' back," West called through his open palms. "We got all we can haul."

  They roped the wood and dragged it over the snow in the direction they knew the house to be. Presently they found the sled and from it deflected toward the house.

  Jessie had hot tea waiting for them. They kicked off their webs and piled the salvaged wood into the other end of the cabin, after which they hunkered down before the fire to drink tea and eat pemmican and bannocks.

  They had with them about fifty pounds of frozen fish for the dogs and provisions enough to last the three of them four or five meals. Whaley had brought West supplies enough to carry him only to Lookout, where he was to stock for a long traverse into the wilds.