The Barrier

by Beach, Rex Ellingwood

  "Dat's damn lie!" said the Frenchman.

  "No, it isn't. He's under indictment for it back in California. He shot her down in cold blood, then ran off with my kid. That's her he calls Necia. She's mine. Ain't I right, Lieutenant?"

  At this final desperate effort to fix the crime upon his rival, Burrell turned on him with loathing.

  "It's no use, Stark. We heard you say she killed herself. We were standing outside the door, both of us, and got it from your own lips."

  Until this moment the man had stood on his own feet, but now he began to sag, seeing which, Poleon supported him to the bed, where he sank weakly, collapsing in every joint and muscle.

  "It's a job," he snarled. "You put this up, you three, and came here to gang me." An unnatural shudder convulsed him as his wounds bit at him, and then he flared up viciously. "But I'll beat you all. I've got the girl! I've got her!"

  "Necia!" cried Burrell, suddenly remembering, for this affray had driven all else from his mind.

  Stark crouched on the edge of his bunk—a ghastly, gray, grinning thing! One weapon still remained to him, and he used it.

  "Yes, I've got my daughter!"

  "Where is she?" demanded the trader, hoarsely. "Where's my girl?"

  The gambler chuckled; an agony seized him till he hiccoughed and strangled; then, as the spell passed, he laughed again.

  "She's got you in her head, like the mother had, but I'll drive it out; I'll treat her like I did her—"

  Gale uttered a terrible cry and moved upon him, but Burrell shouldered the trader aside, himself possessed by a cold fury that intensified his strength tenfold.

  "Stop it, Gale! Let me attend to this. I'll make him tell!"

  "Oh, will you?" mocked the girl's father.

  "Where is she?"

  "None of your damned business." Again he was seized with a paroxysm that left him shivering and his lips colorless. The blankets were soaked and soggy with blood, and his feet rested in a red pool.

  "Ben Stark," said the tortured lover, "you're a sick man, and you'll be gone in half an hour at this rate. Won't you do one decent thing before you die?"

  "Bah! I'm all right."

  "I'll get you a doctor if you'll tell us where she is. If you don't—I'll—let you die. For God's sake, man, speak up!"

  The wounded man strove to rise, but could not, then considered for a moment before he said:

  "I sent her away."

  "Where?"

  "Up-river, on that freighter that left last night. She'll go out by Skagway, and I'll join her later, where I can have her to myself. She's forty miles up-river now, and getting farther every minute—oh, you can't catch her!"

  The three men stared at one another blankly.

  "Why did she go?" said Gale, dully.

  "Because I told her who she was, and who you are; because she thinks you killed her mother; because she was glad to get away." Now that he was grown too weak to inflict violent pain, the man lied malevolently, gloating over what he saw in the trader's face.

  "Never mind, old man, I'll bring her back," said Burrell, and laid a comforting hand on Gale's shoulder, for the fact that she was safe, the fact of knowing something relieved him immensely; but Stark's next words plunged him into even blacker horror than the trader felt.

  "You won't want her if you catch her. Runnion will see to that."

  "Runnion!"

  "Yes, I sent him with her."

  The lover cried out in anguish, and hid his face in his hands.

  "He's wanted her for a long time, so I told him to go ahead—"

  None of them noticed Poleon Doret, who, upon this unnatural confession, alone seemed to retain sufficient control to doubt and to reason. He was thinking hard, straightening out certain facts, and trying to square this horrible statement with things he had seen and heard to-night. All of a sudden he uttered a great cry, and bolted out into the darkness unheeded by Gale and Burrell, who stood dazed and distraught with a fear greater than that which was growing in Stark at sight of his wounds.

  The gambler looked down at his injuries, opened and closed the fingers of his hand as if to see whether he still maintained control of them, then cried out at the two helpless men:

  "Well, are you going to let me bleed to death?"

  It brought the soldier out of his trance.

  "Why—no, no! We'll get a doctor."

  But Gale touched him on the shoulder and said:

  "He's too weak to get out. Lock him in, and let him die in the dark."

  Stark cursed affrightedly, for it is a terrible thing to bleed to death in the dark, and in spite of himself the Lieutenant wavered.

  "I can't do that. I promised."

  "He told that lie to my girl. He gave her to that hound," said the trader, but Burrell shoved him through the door.

  "No! I can't do that." And then to the wounded man he said, "I'll get a doctor, but God have mercy on your soul." He could not trust himself to talk further with this creature, nor be near him any longer, for though he had a slight knowledge of surgery, he would sooner have touched a loathsome serpent than the flesh of this monstrous man.

  He pushed Gale ahead of him, and the old man went like a driven beast, for his violence had wasted itself, and he was like a person under the spell of a strong drug. At the doctor's door Burrell stopped.

  "I never thought to ask you," he said, wearily; "but you must be hurt? He must have wounded you?"

  "I reckon he did—I don't know." Then the man's listless voice throbbed out achingly, as he cried in despair: "She believed him, boy! She believed his lies! That's what hurts." Something like a sob caught in his throat, and he staggered away under the weight of his great bereavement.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE LOVE OF POLEON DORET

  To the girl crouching at the stern of Runnion's boat it seemed as if this day and night would never end. It seemed as if the procession of natural events must have ceased, that there was no longer any time, for she had been suffering steadily for hours and hours without end, and began to wonder dreamily whether she had not skipped a day in her reckoning between the time when she first heard of the strike on her claim and this present moment. It occurred to her that she was a rich girl now in her own right, and she smiled her crooked smile, as she reflected that the thing she had longed for without hope of attainment had come with confusing swiftness, and had left her unhappier than ever....

  Would the day never come? She pulled the rugs up closer about her as the morning chill made her shiver. She found herself keeping mechanical count with the sound of the sweeps—they must be making good speed, she thought, and the camp must be miles behind now. Had it been earlier in the season, when the river ran full of drift, they never could have gone thus in the dark, but the water was low and the chances of collision so remote as to render blind travel safe. Even yet she could not distinguish her oarsman, except as a black bulk, for it had been a lowering night and the approaching dawn failed to break through the blanket of cloud that hung above the great valley. He was a good boatman, however, as she gathered from the tireless regularity of his strokes. He was a silent man, too, and she was grateful for that. She snuggled down into her blanket and tried to sleep, but she only dozed for a minute, it seemed, to find her eyes fly wide open again. So, restless and tired of her lonely vigil, she gave a premonitory cough, and said to her companion:

  "You must be tired rowing so steadily?"

  "Oh, I don't mind it," he replied.

  At the sound of his voice she sat bolt upright. It couldn't be—if this were Runnion he would have spoken before! She ventured again, tremulously:

  "Have you any idea what time it is?"

  "About three o'clock. I fancy."

  "Who are you?" The question came like a shot.

  "Don't you know?"

  "What are YOU doing here, Mr. Runnion?"

  "I'm rowing," he answered, carelessly.

  "Why didn't you speak?" A vague feeling of uneasiness came over her, a suspicio
n that all was not right, so she waited for him to explain, and when he did not, she repeated her question. "What made you keep still so long? You knew who I was?"

  "Well, it's the first time I ever took you on a midnight row, and I wanted to enjoy it."

  The mockery in his voice quickened her apprehension. Of a sudden the fear of being misjudged impelled her to end this flight that had become so distasteful in a moment, preferring to face the people at the post rather than continue her journey with this man.

  "I've changed my mind, Mr. Runnion," she said. "I don't want to go down to the Mission. I want you to take me back."

  "Can't do it," he said; "the current is too swift."

  "Then set me ashore and I'll walk back. It can't be far to town."

  "Twenty-five miles. We've been out about three hours." He kept on rowing steadily, and although the distance they had gone frightened her, she summoned her courage to say:

  "We can make that easily enough. Come, run in to the bank."

  He ceased rowing and let the boat drift with dragging sweeps, filled his pipe and lighted it, then took up his oars again and resumed his labors.

  "Please do as I ask you, Mr. Runnion. I've decided I don't want to go any farther." He laughed, and the sound aroused her. "Put me ashore this minute!" she cried, indignantly. "What do you mean?"

  "You've got a fierce temper, haven't you?"

  "Will you do it or not?"

  When he made no answer, except to continue the maddening monotony of his movements, she was seized with a rash resolve to wrench the oars out of his hands, and made a quick motion towards him, at which he shouted:

  "Sit down! Do you want to upset us?"

  The unstable craft lurched and dipped dangerously, and, realizing the futility of her mad impulse, she sank back on her knees.

  "Put me ashore!"

  "No," he said, "not till I'm ready. Now, keep your seat or we'll both drown; this ain't a ferry-boat." After a few strokes, he added, "We'll never get along together unless you tame that temper."

  "We're not going to get along together, Mr. Runnion—only as far as the Mission. I dare say you can tolerate me until then, can you not?" She said this bitingly.

  "Stark told me to board the first boat for St. Michael's," he said, disregarding her sarcasm, "but I've made a few plans of my own the last hour or so."

  "St. Michael's! Mr. Stark told you—why, that's impossible! You misunderstood him. He told you to row me to the Mission. I'm going to Father Barnum's house."

  "No, you're not, and I didn't misunderstand him. He wants to get you outside, all right, but I reckon you'd rather go as Mrs. Runnion than as the sweetheart of Ben Stark."

  "Are you crazy?" the girl cried. "Mr. Stark kindly offered to help me reach the Father at his Mission. I'm nothing to him, and I'm certainly not going to be anything to you. If I'd known you were going to row the boat, I should have stayed at home, because I detest you."

  "You'll get over that."

  "I'm not in the humor for jokes."

  He rested again on his oars, and said, with deliberation:

  "Stark 'kindly offered' did he? Well, whenever Ben Stark 'kindly' offers anything, I'm in on the play. He's had his eye on you for the last three months, and he wants you, but he slipped a cog when he gave me the oars. You needn't be afraid, though, I'm going to do the square thing by you. We'll stop in at the Mission and be married, and then we'll see whether we want to go to St. Michael's or not, though personally I'm for going back to Flambeau."

  During the hours while he had waited for Necia to discover his identity, the man's mind had not been idle; he had determined to take what fortune tossed into his lap. Had she been the unknown, unnoticed half-breed of a month or two before, he would not have wasted thought upon priests or vows, but now that a strange fate had worked a change in her before the world, he accepted it.

  The girl's beauty, her indifference, the mistaken attitude of Stark urged him, and, strongest of all, he was drawn by his cupidity, for she would be very rich, so the knowing ones said. Doubtless that was why Stark wanted her, and, being a man who acknowledged no fidelity to his kind or his Creator, Runnion determined to outwit his principal, Doret, Burrell, and all the rest. It was a chance to win much at the risk of nothing, and he was too good a gambler to let it pass.

  With his brusque declaration Necia realized her position—that she was a weak, lonely girl, just come into womanhood, so cursed by good looks that men wanted her, so stained by birth that they would not take her honestly; realized that she was alone with a dissolute creature and beyond help, and for the first time in her life she felt the meaning of fear.

  She saw what a frail and helpless thing she was; nothing about her was great save her soul, and that was immeasurably vexed and worried. She had just lived through a grief that had made her generous, and now she gained her first knowledge of the man-animal's gross selfishness.

  "You are absolutely daft," she said. "You can't force me to marry you."

  "I ain't going to force you; you'll do it willingly."

  "I'll die first. I'll call the first man we see—I'll tell Father Barnum, and he'll have you run out of the country—it would only take a word from me."

  "If you haven't changed your mind when we get to his place, I'll run through without stopping; but there isn't another priest between there and St. Mike's, and by the time we get to the mouth of the river, I guess you'll say yes to most anything. However, I'd rather marry you at Holy Cross if you'll consent, and I'm pretty sure you will—when you think it over."

  "We won't discuss it."

  "You don't understand yet," he continued, slowly. "What will people say when they know you ran away with me."

  "I'll tell them the truth."

  "Huh! I'm too well known. No man on the river would ever have you after that."

  "You—you—" Her voice was a-quiver with indignation and loathing, but her lips could not frame an epithet fit for him. He continued rowing for some time, then said:

  "Will you marry me?"

  "No! If this thing is ever known, Poleon will kill you—or father."

  For a third time he rested on his oars.

  "Now that we've come to threats, let me talk. I offered to marry you and do the square thing, but if you don't want to, I'll pass up the formality and take you for my squaw, the same as your father took Alluna. I guess you're no better than your mother, so your old man can't say much under the circumstances, and if he don't object, Poleon can't. Just remember, you're alone with me in the heart of a wilderness, and you've got to make a choice quick, because I'm going ashore and make some breakfast as soon as it's light enough to choose a landing-place. If you agree to come quietly and go through with this thing like a sensible girl, I'll do what's right, but if you don't—then I'll do what's wrong, and maybe you won't be so damned anxious to tell your friends about this trip, or spread your story up and down the river. Make up your mind before I land."

  The water gurgled at the bow again, and the row-locks squeaked. Another hour and then another passed in silence before the girl noted that she no longer seemed to float through abysmal darkness, but that the river showed in muddy grayness just over the gunwale. She saw Runnion more clearly, too, and made out his hateful outlines, though for all else she beheld they might have been miles out upon a placid sea, and so imperceptible was the laggard day's approach that she could not measure the growing light. It was a desolate dawn, and showed no glorious gleams of color. There was no rose-pink glow, no merging of a thousand tints, no final burst of gleaming gold; the night merely faded away, changing to a sickly pallor that grew to ashen gray, and then dissolved the low-hung, distorted shadows a quarter of a mile inland on either hand into a forbidding row of unbroken forest backed by plain, morass, and distant hills untipped by slanting rays. Overhead a bleak ruin of clouds drifted; underneath the river ran, a bilious yellow. The whole country so far as the eye could range was unmarred by the hand of man, untracked save by the feet of the crafty fores
t people.

  She saw Runnion gazing over his shoulder in search of a shelving beach or bar, his profile showing more debased and mean than she had ever noticed it before. They rounded a bend where the left bank crumbled before the untiring teeth of the river, forming a bristling chevaux-de-frise of leaning, fallen firs awash in the current. The short side of the curve, the one nearest them, protected a gravel bar that made down-stream to a dagger-like point, and towards this Runnion propelled the skiff. The girl's heart sank and she felt her limbs grow cold.

  The mind of Poleon Doret worked in straight lines. Moreover, his memory was good. Stark's statement, which so upset Gale and the Lieutenant, had a somewhat different effect upon the Frenchman, for certain facts had been impressed upon his subconsciousness which did not entirely gibe with the gambler's remarks, and yet they were too dimly engraved to afford foundation for a definite theory. What he did know was this, that he doubted. Why? Because certain scraps of a disjointed conversation recurred to him, a few words which he had overheard in Stark's saloon, something about a Peterborough canoe and a woman. He knew every skiff that lay along the waterfront, and of a sudden he decided to see if this one was where it had been at dusk; for there were but two modes of egress from Flambeau, and there was but one canoe of this type. If Necia had gone up-river on the freighter, pursuit was hopeless, for no boatman could make headway against the current; but if, on the other hand, that cedar craft was gone—He ran out of Stark's house and down to the river-bank, then leaped to the shingle beneath. It was just one chance, and if he was wrong, no matter; the others would leave on the next up-river steamer; whereas, if his suspicion proved a certainty, if Stark had lied to throw them off the track, and Runnion had taken her down-stream—well, Poleon wished no one to hinder him, for he would travel light.

  The boat WAS gone! He searched the line backward, but it was not there, and his excitement grew now, likewise his haste. Still on the run, he stumbled up to the trading-post and around to the rear, where, bottom up, lay his own craft, the one he guarded jealously, a birch canoe, frail and treacherous for any but a man schooled in the ways of swift water and Indian tricks. He was very glad now that he had not told the others of his suspicions; they might have claimed the right to go, and of that he would not be cheated. He swung the shell over his shoulders, then hurried to the bank and down the steep trail like some great, misshapen turtle. He laid it carefully in the whispering current, then stripped himself with feverish haste, for the driving call of a hot pursuit was on him, and although it was the cold, raw hours of late night, he whipped off his garments until he was bare to the middle. He seized his paddle, stepped in, then knelt amidships and pushed away. The birch-bark answered him like a living thing, leaping and dancing beneath the strokes which sprung the spruce blade and boiled the water to a foam, while rippling, rising ridges stood out upon his back and arms as they rose and fell, stretched and bent and straightened.