The Hunted Woman

by James Oliver Curwood

  CHAPTER XXIII

  There was no doubt in the mind of John Aldous now. The attempt upon Joanneleft him but one course to pursue: he must take her with him, in spite ofthe monumental objections which he had seen a few hours before. He realizedwhat a fight this would mean for him, and with what cleverness and resourcehe must play his part. Joanne had not given herself to him as she had oncegiven herself to Mortimer FitzHugh. In the "coyote," when they had faceddeath, she had told him that were there to be a to-morrow in life for themshe would have given herself to him utterly and without reservation. Andthat to-morrow had dawned. It was present. She was his wife. And she hadcome to him as she had promised. In her eyes he had seen love and trust andfaith--and a glorious happiness. She had made no effort to hide thathappiness from him. Consciousness of it filled him with his own greathappiness, and yet it made him realize even more deeply how hard his fightwas to be. She was his wife. In a hundred little ways she had shown himthat she was proud of her wifehood. And again he told himself that she hadcome to him as she had promised, that she had given into his keeping allthat she had to give. And yet--_she was not his wife!_

  He groaned aloud, and his fingers dug into the flesh of his knees as hethought of that. Could he keep that terrible truth from her? If she wentwith him into the North, would she not guess? And, even though he kept thetruth from her until Mortimer FitzHugh was dead, would he be playing fairwith her? Again he went over all that he had gone over before. He knew thatJoanne would leave him to-morrow, and probably forever, if he told her thatFitzHugh was alive. The law could not help him, for only death--and neverdivorce--would free her. Within himself he decided for the last time. Hewas about to do the one thing left for him to do. And it was the honourablething, for it meant freedom for her and happiness for them both. To him,Donald MacDonald had become a man who lived very close to the heart and theright of things, and Donald had said that he should take her. This was thegreatest proof that he was right.

  But could he keep Joanne from guessing? Could he keep her from discoveringthe truth until it was time for her to know that truth? In this necessityof keeping her from suspecting that something was wrong he saw his greatestfight. Compared with it, the final settlement with Quade and MortimerFitzHugh sank into a second importance. He knew what would happen then. ButJoanne--Joanne on the trail, as his wife----

  He began pacing back and forth in his room, clouding himself in the smokeof his pipe. Frequently Joanne's mind had filled him with an exquisitedelight by its quickness and at times almost magic perceptiveness, and herealized that in these things, and the fineness of her woman's intuition,now lay his greatest menace. He was sure that she understood the meaning ofthe assault upon her that night, though she had apparently believed whathe and Blackton had told them--that it had been the attack ofirresponsible and drunken hoodlums. Yet he was certain that she had alreadyguessed that Quade had been responsible.

  He went to bed, dreading what questions and new developments the morningmight bring forth. And when the morning came, he was both amazed anddelighted. The near tragedy of the previous night might never have happenedin so far as he could judge from Joanne's appearance. When she came out ofher room to meet him, in the glow of a hall lamp, her eyes were like stars,and the colour in her cheeks was like that of a rose fresh from its slumberin dew.

  "I'm so happy, and what happened last night seems so like a bad dream," shewhispered, as he held her close to him for a few moments before descendingthe stairs. "I shall worry about Peggy, John. I shall. I don't understandhow her husband dares to bring her among savages like these. You wouldn'tleave me among them, would you?" And as she asked the question, and hislips pressed hers, John Aldous still believed that in her heart she knewthe truth of that night attack.

  If she did know, she kept her secret from him all that day. They left TeteJaune before sunrise with an outfit which MacDonald had cut down to sixhorses. Its smallness roused Joanne's first question, for Aldous haddescribed to her an outfit of twenty horses. He explained that a largeoutfit made travel much more difficult and slow, but he did not tell herthat with six horses instead of twenty they could travel lessconspicuously, more easily conceal themselves from enemies, and, ifnecessary, make quick flight or swift pursuit.

  They stopped to camp for the night in a little basin that drew from Joannean exclamation of joy and wonder. They had reached the upper timber-line,and on three sides the basin was shut in by treeless and brush-naked wallsof the mountains. In the centre of the dip was a lake fed by a tiny streamthat fell in a series of ribbonlike cataracts a sheer thousand feet fromthe snow-peaks that towered above them. Small, parklike clumps of sprucedotted the miniature valley; over it hung a sky as blue as sapphire andunder their feet was a carpet of soft grass sprayed with little blueforget-me-nots and wild asters.

  "I have never seen anything a half so beautiful as this!" cried Joanne, asAldous helped her from her horse.

  As her feet touched the ground she gave a little cry and hung limply in hisarms.

  "I'm lame--lame for life!" she laughed in mock humour. "John, I can'tstand. I really can't!"

  Old Donald was chuckling in his beard as he came up.

  "You ain't nearly so lame as you'll be to-morrow," he comforted her. "An'you won't be nearly so lame to-morrow as you'll be next day. Then you'llbegin to get used to it, Mis' Joanne."

  "_Mrs. Aldous_, Donald," she corrected sweetly. "Or--just Joanne."

  At that Aldous found himself holding her so closely that she gave a littlegasp.

  "Please don't," she expostulated. "Your arms are terribly strong, John!"

  MacDonald had turned away, still chuckling, and began to unpack. Joannelooked behind her, then quickly held up her softly pouted lips. Aldouskissed her, and would have kissed her again but she slipped suddenly fromhis arms and going to Pinto began to untie a dishpan that was fastened tothe top of his pack.

  "Get to work, John Aldous!" she commanded.

  MacDonald had camped before in the basin, and there were tepee poles readycut, as light and dry as matchwood. Joanne watched them as they put up thetent, and when it was done, and she looked inside, she cried delightedly:

  "It's the snuggest little home I ever had, John!"

  After that she busied herself in a way that was a constantly growingpleasure to him. She took possession at once of pots and pans and kettles.She lost no time in impressing upon both Aldous and MacDonald the fact thatwhile she was their docile follower on the trail she was to be at the headof affairs in camp. While they were straightening out the outfit, hobblingthe horses, and building a fire, she rummaged through the panniers and tookstock of their provisions. She bossed old Donald in a manner that made himfairly glow with pleasure. She bared her white arms to the elbows and madebiscuits for the "reflector" instead of bannock, while Aldous brought waterfrom the lake, and MacDonald cut wood. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyeswere laughing, joyous, happy. MacDonald seemed years younger. He obeyed herlike a boy, and once Aldous caught him looking at her in a way that set himthinking again of those days of years and years ago, and of other camps,and of another woman--like Joanne.

  MacDonald had thought of this first camp--and there were porterhouse steaksfor supper, which he had brought packed in a kettle of ice. When they satdown to the meal, Joanne was facing a distant snow-capped ridge that cutthe skyline, and the last of the sun, reflected from the face of themountain on the east, had set brown-and-gold fires aglow in her hair. Theywere partly through when her eyes rested on the distant snow-ridge. Aldoussaw her looking steadily. Suddenly she pointed beyond him.

  "I see something moving over the snow on that mountain!" she cried a littleexcitedly. "It is hurrying toward the summit--just under the skyline! Whatis it?"

  Aldous and MacDonald looked toward the ridge. Fully a mile away, almosteven with the skyline now, a small dark object was moving over the whitesurface of the snow.

  "It ain't a goat," said MacDonald, "because a goat is white, and wecouldn't see it on the snow. It ain't a
sheep, 'cause it's too dark, an'movin' too slow. It must be a bear, but why in the name o' sin a bear wouldbe that high, I don't know!"

  He jumped up and ran for his telescope.

  "A grizzly," whispered Joanne tensely. "Would it be a grizzly, John?"

  "Possibly," he answered. "Indeed, it's very likely. This is a grizzlycountry. If we hurry you can get a look at him through the telescope."

  MacDonald was already studying the object through his long glass when theyjoined him.

  "It's a bear," he said.

  "Please--please let me look at him," begged Joanne.

  The dark object was now almost on the skyline. Half A minute more and itwould pass over and out of sight. MacDonald still held his eye to thetelescope, as though he had not heard Joanne. Not until the moving objecthad crossed the skyline, and had disappeared, did he reply to her.

  "The light's bad, an' you couldn't have made him out very well," he said."We'll show you plenty o' grizzlies, an' so near you won't want atelescope. Eh, Johnny?"

  As he looked at Aldous there was a strange look in his eyes, and during theremainder of the supper he was restless, and ate hurriedly. When he hadfinished he rose and picked up his long rifle.

  "There's sheep somewhere near this basin, Johnny," he explained. "An' Ireckon Joanne'll scold us if we don't keep her in fresh meat. I'm goin' tobring in some mutton if there's any to be got, an' I probably won't be backuntil after dark."

  Aldous knew that he had more to say, and he went with him a few stepsbeyond the camp.

  And MacDonald continued in a low, troubled voice:

  "Be careful, Johnny. Watch yo'rself. I'm going to take a look over into thenext valley, an' I won't be back until late. It wasn't a goat, an' itwasn't a sheep, an' it wasn't a bear. It was two-legged! It was a man,Johnny, an' he was there to watch this trail, or my name ain't DonaldMacDonald. Mebby he came ahead of us last night, an' mebby he was herebefore that happened. Anyway, be on your guard while I look over into thenext range."

  With that he struck off in the direction of the snow-ridge, and for a fewmoments Aldous stood looking after the tall, picturesque figure until itdisappeared behind a clump of spruce. Swiftly he was telling himself thatit was not the hunting season, and that it was not a prospector whom theyhad seen on the snow-ridge. As a matter of caution, there could be but oneconclusion to draw. The man had been stationed there either by Quade orFitzHugh, or both, and had unwittingly revealed himself.

  He turned toward Joanne, who had already begun to gather up the supperthings. He could hear her singing happily, and as he looked she pressed afinger to her lips and threw a kiss to him. His heart smote him even as hesmiled and waved a hand in response. Then he went to her. How slim andwonderful she looked in that glow of the setting sun, he thought. How whiteand soft were her hands, how tender and fragile her lovely neck! And howhelpless--how utterly helpless she would be if anything happened to him andMacDonald! With an effort he flung the thought from him. On his knees hewiped the dishes and pots and pans for Joanne. When this was done, heseized an axe and showed her how to gather a bed. This was a new anddelightful experience for Joanne.

  "You always want to cut balsam boughs when you can get them," he explained,pausing before two small trees. "Now, this is a cedar, and this is abalsam. Notice how prickly and needlelike on all sides these cedar branchesare. And now look at the balsam. The needles lay flat and soft. Balsammakes the best bed you can get in the North, except moss, and you've got todry the moss."

  For fifteen minutes he clipped off the soft ends of the balsam limbs andJoanne gathered them in her arms and carried them into the tepee. Then hewent in with her, and showed her how to make the bed. He made it a narrowbed, and a deep bed, and he knew that Joanne was watching him, and he wasglad the tan hid the uncomfortable glow in his face when he had finishedtucking in the end of the last blanket.

  "You will be as cozy as can be in that," he said.

  "And you, John?" she asked, her face flushing rosily. "I haven't seenanother tent for you and Donald."

  "We don't sleep in a tent during the summer," he said. "Just ourblankets--out in the open."

  "But--if it should rain?"

  "We get under a balsam or a spruce or a thick cedar."

  A little later they stood beside the fire. It was growing dusk. The distantsnow-ridge was swiftly fading into a pale and ghostly sheet in the graygloom of the night. Up that ridge Aldous knew that MacDonald was toiling.

  Joanne put her hands to his shoulders.

  "Are you sorry--so very, very sorry that you let me come, John?"

  "I didn't let you come," he laughed softly, drawing her to him. "You came!"

  "And are you sorry?"

  "No."

  It was deliciously sweet to have her tilt up her head and put her soft lipsto his, and it was still sweeter when her tender hands stroked his cheeks,and eyes and lips smiled their love and gladness. He stood stroking herhair, with her face laying warm and close against him, and over her head hestared into the thickening darkness of the spruce and cedar copses. Joanneherself had piled wood on the fire, and in its glow they were dangerouslyilluminated. With one of her hands she was still caressing his cheek.

  "When will Donald return?" she asked.

  "Probably not until late," he replied, wondering what it was that had set astone rolling down the side of the mountain nearest to them. "He hunteduntil dark, and may wait for the moon to come up before he returns."

  "John----"

  "Yes, dear?----" And mentally he measured the distance to the nearest clumpof timber between them and the mountain.

  "Let's build a big fire, and sit down on the pannier canvases."

  His eyes were still on the timber, and he was wondering what a man with arifle, or even a pistol, might do at that space. He made a good target, andMacDonald was probably several miles away.

  "I've been thinking about the fire," he said. "We must put it out, Joanne.There are reasons why we should not let it burn. For one thing, the smokewill drive any game away that we may hope to see in the morning."

  Her hands lay still against his cheek.

  "I--understand, John," she replied quickly, and there was the smallest bitof a shudder in her voice. "I had forgotten. We must put it out!"

  Five minutes later only a few glowing embers remained where the fire hadbeen. He had spread out the pannier canvases, and now he seated himselfwith his back to a tree. Joanne snuggled close to him.

  "It is much nicer in the dark," she whispered, and her arms reached upabout him, and her lips pressed warm and soft against his hand. "Are youjust a little ashamed of me, John?"

  "Ashamed? Good heaven----"

  "Because," she interrupted him, "we have known each other such a very shorttime, and I have allowed myself to become so very, very well acquaintedwith you. It has all been so delightfully sudden, and strange, and Iam--just as happy as I can be. You don't think it is immodest for me to saythese things to my husband, John--even if I have only known him threedays?"

  He answered by crushing her so closely in his arms that for a few momentsafterward she lay helplessly on his breast, gasping for breath. His brainwas afire with the joyous madness of possession. Never had woman come toman more sweetly than Joanne had come to him, and as he felt her throbbingand trembling against him he was ready to rise up and shout forth achallenge to a hundred Quades and Culver Ranns hiding in the darkness ofthe mountains. For a long time he held her nestled close in his arms, andat intervals there were silences between them, in which they listened tothe glad tumult of their own hearts, and the strange silence that came tothem from out of the still night.

  It was their first hour alone--of utter oblivion to all else butthemselves; to Joanne the first sacrament hour of her wifehood, to him thefirst hour of perfect possession and understanding. In that hour theirsouls became one, and when at last they rose to their feet, and the mooncame up over a crag of the mountain and flooded them in its golden light,there was in Joanne's face a tenderness and a
gentle glory that made JohnAldous think of an angel. He led her to the tepee, and lighted a candlefor her, and at the last, with the sweet demand of a child in the manner ofher doing it, she pursed up her lips to be kissed good-night.

  And when he had tied the tent-flap behind her, he took his rifle and satdown with it across his knees in the deep black shadow of a spruce, andwaited and listened for the coming of Donald MacDonald.