CHAPTER XVIII
Kent did not move. His senses for a space were stunned. He was almostphysically insensible to all emotions but that one of shock and horror.He was staring at Kedsty's gray-white, twisted face when he heardMarette's door close. A cry came from his lips, but he did not hearit--was unconscious that he had made a sound. His body shook with asudden tremor. He could not disbelieve, for the evidence was there.From behind, as he had sat in his chair Marette Radisson had struck theInspector of Police with some blunt object. The blow had stunned him.And after that--
He drew a hand across his eyes, as if to clear his vision. What he hadseen was impossible. The evidence was impossible. Assaulted, in deadlyperil, defending either honor or love, Marette Radisson was of theblood to kill. But to creep up behind her victim--it was inconceivable!Yet there had been no struggle. Even the automatic on the floor gave noevidence of that. Kent picked it up. He looked at it closely, and againthe unconscious cry of despair came in a half groan from his lips. Foron the butt of the Colt was a stain of blood and a few gray hairs.Kedsty had been stunned by a blow from his own gun!
As Kent placed it on the table, his eyes caught suddenly a gleam ofsteel under the edge of a newspaper, and he drew out from theirhiding-place the long-bladed clipping scissors which Kedsty had used inthe preparation of his scrap-books and official reports. It was thelast link in the deadly evidence--the automatic with its telltalestain, the scissors, the tress of hair, and Marette Radisson. He felt asensation of sudden dizziness. Every nerve-center in his body hadreceived its shock, and when the shock had passed it left him sweating.
Swiftly the reaction came. It was a lie, he told himself. The evidencewas false. Marette could not have committed that crime, as the crimehad visualized itself before his eyes. There was something which he hadnot seen, something which he could not see, something that was hidingitself from him. He became, in an instant, the old James Kent. Theinstinctive processes of the man-hunter leaped to their stations liketrained soldiers. He saw Marette again, as she had looked at him whenhe entered the room. It was not murder he had caught in her wide-openeyes. It was not hatred. It was not madness. It was a quivering,bleeding soul crying out to him in an agony that no other human eyeshad ever revealed to him before. And suddenly a great voice cried outin his brain, drowning all other things, telling him how contemptible athing was love unless in that love was faith.
With his heart choking him, he turned again to Kedsty. The futility ofthe thing which he had told himself was faith gripped at himsickeningly, yet he fought for that faith, even as his eyes lookedagain upon the ghastly torture that was in Kedsty's face.
He was becoming calmer. He touched the dead man's cheek and found thatit was no longer warm. The tragedy must have occurred an hour before.He examined more closely the abrasion on Kedsty's forehead. It was nota deep wound, and the blow that had made it must have stunned theInspector of Police for only a short time. In that space the otherthing had happened. In spite of his almost superhuman effort to keepthe picture away from him, Kent saw it vividly--the swift turning tothe table, the inspiration of the scissors, the clipping of the longtress of hair, the choking to death of Kedsty as he regainedconsciousness. Over and over again he whispered to himself theimpossibility of it, the absurdity of it, the utter incongruity of it.Only a brain gone mad would have conceived that monstrous way ofkilling Kedsty. And Marette was not mad. She was sane.
Like the eyes of a hunting ferret his own eyes swept quickly about theroom. At the four windows there were long curtain cords. On the walls,hung there as trophies, were a number of weapons. On one end ofKedsty's desk, used as a paperweight, was a stone tomahawk. Stillnearer to the dead man's hands, unhidden by papers, was a boot-lace.Under his limp right hand was the automatic. With these possibleinstruments of death close at hand, ready to be snatched up withouttrouble or waste of time, why had the murderer used a tress of woman'shair?
The boot-lace drew Kent's eyes. It was impossible not to see it,forty-eight inches long and quarter-inch-wide buckskin. He beganseeking for its mate, and found it on the floor where Marette Radissonhad been standing. And again the unanswerable question pounded inKent's brain--why had Kedsty's murderer used a tress of hair instead ofa buckskin lace or one of the curtain cords hanging conspicuously atthe windows?
He went to each of these windows and found them locked. Then, a lasttime, he bent over Kedsty. He knew that in the final moments of hislife Kedsty had suffered a slow and torturing agony. His twisted faceleft the story. And the Inspector of Police was a powerful man. He hadstruggled, still partly dazed by the blow. But it had taken strength toovercome him even then, to hold his head back, to choke life out of himslowly with the noose of hair. And Kent, now that the significance ofwhat he saw began to grow upon him more clearly, felt triumphing overall other things in his soul a slow and mighty joy. It wasinconceivable that with the strength of her own hands and body MaretteRadisson had killed Kedsty. A greater strength than hers had held himin the death-chair, and a greater strength than hers had choked lifefrom the Inspector of Police!
He drew slowly out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behindhim. He found that the front door was as Kedsty had left it, unlocked.
Close to that door he stood for a space, scarcely allowing himself tobreathe. He listened, but no sound came down the dimly illuminedstairway.
A new thing was pressing upon him now. It rode over the shock oftragedy, over the first-roused instincts of the man-hunter,overwhelming him with the realization of a horror such as had neverconfronted him before. It gripped him more fiercely than the merekilling of Kedsty. His thought was of Marette, of the fate which dawnand discovery would bring for her. His hands clenched and his jawstightened. The world was against him, and tomorrow it would be againsther. Only he, in the face of all that condemning evidence in the roombeyond, would disbelieve her guilty of Kedsty's death. And he, JimKent, was already a murderer in the eyes of the law.
He felt within him the slow-growing inspiration of a new spirit, thegathering might of a new force. A few hours ago he was an outcast. Hewas condemned. Life, for him, had been robbed of its last hope. And inthat hour of his grimmest despair Marette Radisson had come to him.Through storm that had rocked the earth under her feet and set ablazethe chaotic blackness of the sky over her head she had struggled--forhim. She had counted no cost. She had measured no chances. She hadsimply come--_because she believed in him_. And now, upstairs, she wasthe victim of the terrible price that was the first cost of hisfreedom. For he believed, now that the thought came to him like adagger stroke, that this was so. Her act in freeing him had broughtabout the final climax, and as a result of it, Kedsty was dead.
He went to the foot of the stair. Quietly, in his shoeless feet, hebegan to climb them. He wanted to cry out Marette's name even before hecame to the top. He wanted to reach up to her with his armsoutstretched. But he came silently to her door and looked in.
She lay in a crumpled, huddled heap on her bed. Her face was hidden,and all about her lay her smothering hair. For a moment he wasfrightened. He could not see that she was breathing. So still was shethat she was like one dead.
His footsteps were unheard as he moved across the room. He knelt downbeside her, reached out his arms, and gathered her into them.
"Marette!" he cried in a low voice.
He felt the sudden quiver, like a little shock, that ran through her.He crushed his face down, so that it lay in her hair, still damp fromits wetting. He drew her closer, tightening his arms about her slenderbody, and a little cry came from her a cry that was a broken thing, asob without tears.
"Marette!"
It was all he said. It was all he could say in that moment when hisheart was beating like a drum against her breast. And then he felt theslow pressure of her hands against him, saw her white face, her wide,staring eyes within a few inches of his own, and she drew away fromhim, back against the wall, still huddled like a child on the bed, withher eyes fixed on him in a way that frightened him
. There were no tearsin them. She had not been crying. But her face was as white as he hadseen it down in Kedsty's room. Some of the horror and shock had goneout of it. In it was another look as her eyes glowed upon Kent. It wasa look of incredulity, of disbelief, a thing slowly fading away underthe miracle of an amazing revelation. The truth thrust itself upon him.
Marette had not expected that he would come to her like this. She hadbelieved that he would take flight into the night, escaping from her ashe would have run from a plague. She put up her two hands, in the trickthey had of groping at her white throat, and her lips formed a wordwhich she did not speak.
Kent, to his own amazement, was smiling and still on his knees. Hepulled himself to his feet, and stood up straight, looking down at herin that same strange, comforting, all-powerful way. The thrill of itwas passing into her veins. A flush of color was driving the deathlypallor from her face. Her lips were parted, and she breathed quickly, alittle excitedly.
"I thought--you would go!" she said.
"Not without you," he said. "I have come to take you with me."
He drew out his watch. It was two o'clock. He held it down so that shecould look at the dial.
"If the storm keeps up, we have three hours before dawn," he said. "Howsoon can you be ready, Marette?"
He was fighting to make his voice quiet and unexcited. It was aterrific struggle. And Marette was not blind to it. She drew herselffrom the bed and stood up before him, her two hands still clasped ather throbbing throat.
"You believe--that I killed Kedsty," she said in a voice that wasforced from her lips. "And you have come to help me--to pay me for whatI tried to do for you? That is it--Jeems?"
"Pay you?" he cried. "I couldn't pay you in a million years! From thatday you first came to Cardigan's place you gave me life. You came whenthe last spark of hope in me had died. I shall always believe that Iwould have died that night. But you saved me.
"From the moment I saw you I loved you, and I believe it was that lovethat kept me alive. And then you came to me again, down there, throughthis storm. Pay you! I can't. I never shall be able to. Because youthought I had killed a man made no difference You came just the same.And you came ready to kill, if necessary--for me. I'm not trying totell myself _why_! But you did. You were ready to kill. And I am ready tokill--tonight--for you! I haven't got time to think about Kedsty. I'mthinking about you. If you killed him, I'm just telling myself therewas a mighty good reason for it. But I don't believe it was you whokilled him. You couldn't do it--with those hands!"
He reached out suddenly and seized them, slipping his grip to herwrists, so that her hands lay upward in his own, hands that were small,slim-fingered, soft-palmed, beautiful.
"They couldn't!" he cried, almost fiercely. "I swear to God theycouldn't!"
Her eyes and face flamed at his words. "You believe that, Jeems?"
"Yes, just as you believe that I did not kill John Barkley. But theworld is against us. It is against us both now. And we've got to huntthat hidden valley of yours together. Understand, Marette? AndI'm--rather glad."
He turned toward the door. "Will you be ready in ten minutes?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes, in ten minutes."
He ran out into the hall and down the stair, locking the front door.Then he returned to his hiding-place under the roof. He knew that astrange sort of madness was in his blood, for in the face of tonight'stragedy only madness could inspire him with the ecstatic thrill thatwas in his veins. Kedsty's death seemed far removed from a moreimportant thing--the fact that from this hour Marette was his to fightfor, that she belonged to him, that she must go with him. He loved her.In spite of whoever she was and whatever she had done, he loved her.Very soon she would tell him what had happened in the room below, andthe thing would be clear.
There was one little corner of his brain that fought him. It kepttelling him, like a parrot, that it was a tress of Marette's hair aboutKedsty's throat, and that it was the hair that had choked him. ButMarette would explain that, too. He was sure of it. In the face of thefacts below he was illogical and unreasonable. He knew it. But his lovefor this girl, who had come strangely and tragically into his life, waslike an intoxicant. And his faith was illimitable. She did not killKedsty. Another part of his brain kept repeating that over and over,even as he recalled that only a few hours before she had told him quitecalmly that she would kill the Inspector of Police--if a certain thingshould happen.
His hands worked as swiftly as his thoughts. He laced up his serviceboots. All the food and dishes on the table he made into a compactbundle and placed in the shoulder-pack. He carried this and the rifleout into the hall. Then he returned to Marette's room. The door wasclosed. At his knock the girl's voice told him that she was not quiteready.
He waited. He could hear her moving about quickly in her room. Aninterval of silence followed. Another five minutespassed--ten--fifteen. He tapped at the door again. This time it wasopened.
He stared, amazed at the change in Marette. She had stepped back fromthe door to let him enter, and stood full in the lamp-glow. Her slim,beautiful body was dressed in a velvety blue corduroy; the coat wasclose-fitting and boyish; the skirt came only a little below her knees.On her feet were high-topped caribou boots. About her waist was aholster and the little black gun. Her hair was done up and crowdedunder a close-fitting turban. She was exquisitely lovely, as she stoodthere waiting for him, and in that loveliness Kent saw there was notone thing out of place. The corduroy, the turban, the short skirt, andthe high, laced boots were made for the wilderness. She was not atenderfoot. She was a little _sourdough_--clear through! Gladness leapedinto Kent's face. But it was not the transformation of her dress alonethat amazed him. She was changed in another way. Her cheeks wereflushed. Her eyes glowed with a strange and wonderful radiance as shelooked at him. Her lips were red, as he had seen them that first timeat Cardigan's place. Her pallor, her fear, her horror were gone, and intheir place was the repressed excitement of one about to enter upon astrange adventure.
On the floor was a pack only half as large as Kent's and when he pickedit up, he found it of almost no weight. He fastened it to his own packwhile Marette put on her raincoat and went down the stair ahead of him.In the hall below she was waiting, when he came down, with Kedsty's bigrubber slicker in her hands.
"You must put it on," she said.
She shuddered slightly as she held the garment. The color was almostgone from her cheeks, as she faced the door beyond which the dead mansat in his chair, but the marvelous glow was still in her eyes as shehelped Kent with his pack and the slicker and afterward stood for aninstant with her hands touching his breast and her lips as if about tospeak something which she held back.
A few steps beyond them they heard the storm. It seemed to rush uponthe bungalow in a new fury, beating at the door, crashing over theirheads in thunder, daring them to come out. Kent reached up and turnedout the hall light.
In darkness he opened the door. Rain and wind swept in. With his freehand he groped out, found Marette, drew her after him, and closed thedoor again. Entering from the lighted hall into the storm was likebeing swallowed in a pit of blackness. It engulfed and smothered them.Then came suddenly a flash of lightning, and he saw Marette's face,white and drenched, but looking at him with that same strange glow inher eyes. It thrilled him. Even in the darkness it was there. It hadbeen there since he had returned to her from Kedsty and had knelt ather bedside, with his arms about her for a moment.
Only now, in the beat of the storm, did an answer to the miracle of itcome to him. It was because of _him_. It was because of his _faith_ in her.Even death and horror could not keep it from her eyes. He wanted to cryout the joy of his discovery, to give wild voice to it in the teeth ofthe wind and the rain. He felt sweeping through him a force mightierthan that of the night. Her hands were on his arm, as if she was afraidof losing him in that pit of blackness; the soft cling of them was likea contact through which came a warm thrill of electrical life. He putout his arm an
d drew her to him, so that for a moment his face pressedagainst the top of her wet little turban.
And then he heard her say: "There is a scow at the bayou, Jeems. It isclose to the end of the path. M'sieu Fingers has kept it there,waiting, ready."
He had been thinking of Crossen's place and an open boat. He blessedFingers again, as he took Marette's hand in his own and started for thetrail that led through the poplar thicket.
Their feet slopped deep in wet and mud, and with the rain there was awind that took their breath away. It was impossible to see a tree anarm's length away, and Kent hoped that the lightning would comefrequently enough to guide him. In the first flare of it he looked downthe slope that led riverward. Little rivulets of water were runningdown it. Rocks and stumps were in their way, and underfoot it wasslippery. Marette's fingers were clinging to his again, as she had heldto them on the wild race up to Kedsty's bungalow from the barracks. Hehad tingled then in the sheer joy of their thrill, but it was adifferent thrill that stirred him now--an overwhelming emotion ofpossessorship. This night, with its storm and its blackness, was themost wonderful of all his nights.
He sensed nothing of its discomfort. It could not beat back the joyousracing of the blood in his body. Sun and stars, day and night, sunshineand cloud, were trivial and inconsequential to him now. For close tohim, struggling with him, fighting through the night with him, trustinghim, helpless without him, was the living, breathing thing he lovedmore than he loved his own life. For many years, without knowing it, hehad waited for this night, and now that it was upon him, it inundatedand swept away his old life. He was no longer the huntsman, but thehunted. He was no longer alone, but had a priceless thing to fight for,a priceless and helpless thing that was clinging to his fingers in thedarkness. He did not feel like a fugitive, but as one who has come intoa great triumph. He sensed no uncertainty or doubt.
The river lay ahead, and for him the river had become the soul and thepromise of life. It was Marette's river and his river, and in a littlewhile they would be on it. And Marette would then tell him aboutKedsty. He was sure of that. She would tell him what had happened whilehe slept. His faith was illimitable.
They came into the sodden dip at the foot of the ridge, and thelightning revealed to him the edge of the poplar growth in whichO'Connor had seen Marette many weeks ago. The bayou trail wound throughthis, and Kent struck out for it blindly in the darkness. He did nottry to talk, but he freed his companion's hand and put his arm abouther when they came to the level ground, so that she was sheltered byhim from the beat of the storm. Then brush swished in their faces, andthey stopped, waiting for the lightning again. Kent was not anxious forit to come. He drew the girl still closer, and in that pit ofblackness, with the deluge about her and the crash of thunder over herhead, she snuggled up against his breast, the throb of her body againsthim, waiting, watching, with him. Her frailty, the helplessness of her,the slimness of her in the crook of his arm, filled him with anexquisite exultation. He did not think of her now as the splendid,fearless creature who had leveled her little black gun at the three menin barracks. She was no longer the mysterious, defiant, unafraid personwho had held him in a sort of awe that first hour in Kedsty's place.For she was crumpled against him now, utterly dependent and afraid. Inthat chaos of storm something told him that her nerve was broken, thatwithout him she would be lost and would cry out in fear. _And he wasglad_! He held her tighter; he bent his head until his face touched thewet, crushed hair under the edge of her turban. And then the lightningsplit open the night again, and he saw the way ahead of him to thetrail.
Even in darkness it was not difficult to follow in the clean-cut wagonpath. Over their heads the tops of the poplars swished and wailed.Under their feet the roadway in places was a running stream orinundated until it became a pool. In pitch blackness they struck such apool, and in spite of the handicap of his packs and rifle Kent stoppedsuddenly, and picked Marette up in his arms, and carried her until theyreached high ground. He did not ask permission. And Marette, for aminute or two, lay crumpled up close in his arms, and for a thrillinginstant his face touched her rain-wet cheek.
The miracle of their adventure was that neither spoke. To Kent thesilence between them had become a thing which he had no desire tobreak. In that silence, excused and abetted by the tumult of the storm,he felt that a wonderful something was drawing them closer and closertogether, and that words might spoil the indescribable magic of thething that was happening. When he set Marette on her feet again, herhand accidentally fell upon his, and for a moment her fingers closedupon it in a soft pressure that meant more to him than a thousand wordsof gratitude.
A quarter of a mile beyond the poplar thicket they came to the edge ofthe spruce and cedar timber, and Soon the thick walls of the forestshut them in, sheltering them from the wind, but the blackness was evenmore like that of a bottomless pit. Kent had noticed that the thunderand lightning were drifting steadily eastward, and now the occasionalflashes of electrical fire scarcely illumined the trail ahead of them.The rain was not beating so fiercely. They could hear the wail of thespruce and cedar tops and the slush of their boots in mud and water. Aninterval came, where the spruce-tops met overhead, when it was almostcalm. It was then that Kent threw out of him a great, deep breath andlaughed joyously and exultantly.
"Are you wet, little Gray Goose?"
"Only outside, Big Otter. My feathers have kept me dry."
Her voice had a trembling, half-sobbing, half-rejoicing note in it. Itwas not the voice of one who had recently killed a man. In it was apathos which Kent knew she was trying to hide behind brave words. Herhands clung to the arm of his rubber slicker even as they stood there,close together, as if she was afraid something might drag them apart inthat treacherous gloom. Kent, fumbling for a moment, drew from an innerpocket a dry handkerchief. Then he found her face, tilted it a bitupward, and wiped it dry. He might have done the same thing to a childwho had been crying. After that he scrubbed his own, and they went on,his arm about her again.
It was half a mile from the edge of the forest to the bayou, and half adozen times in that distance Kent took the girl in his arms and carriedher through water that almost reached his boot tops. The lightning nolonger served them. The rain still fell steadily, but the wind had gonewith the eastward sweep of the storm. Close-hung with the forest walls,the bayou itself was indiscernible in the blackness. Marette guided himnow, though Kent walked ahead of her, holding firmly to her hand.Unless Fingers had changed its location, the scow should be somewherewithin forty or fifty paces of the end of the trail. It was small, atwo-man scow, with a tight little house built amidships. And it wastied close up against the shore. Marette told him this as they felttheir way through brush and reeds. Then he stumbled against somethingtaut and knee-high, and he found it was the tie-rope.
Leaving Marette with her back to the anchor tree, he went aboard. Thewater was three or four inches deep in the bottom of the scow, but thecabin was built on a platform raised above the floor of the boat, andKent hoped it was still dry. He groped until he found the twisted wirewhich held the door shut. Opening it, he ducked his head low andentered. The little room was not more than four feet high, and forgreater convenience he fell upon his knees while fumbling under hisslicker for his water-proof box of matches. The water had not yet risenabove the floor.
The first light he struck revealed the interior to him. It was a tinycabin, scarcely larger than some boxes he had seen. It was about eightfeet long by six in width, and the ceiling was so low that, evenkneeling, his head touched it. His match burned out, and he lightedanother. This time he saw a candle stuck in a bit of split birch thatprojected from the wall. He crept to it and lighted it. For a moment helooked about him, and again he blessed Fingers. The little scow wasprepared for a voyage. Two narrow bunks were built at the far end, oneso close above the other that Kent grinned as he thought of squeezingbetween. There were blankets. Within reach of his arm was a tiny stove,and close to the stove a supply of kindling and dry woo
d. The wholething made him think of a child's playhouse. Yet there was still roomfor a wide, comfortable, cane-bottomed chair, a stool, and asmooth-planed board fastened under a window, so that it answered thepurpose of a table. This table was piled with many packages.
He stripped off his packs and returned for Marette. She had come to theedge of the scow and called to him softly as she heard him splashingthrough the water. Her arms were reaching toward him, to meet him inthe darkness. He carried her through the shallow sea about his feet andlaughed as he put her down on the edge of the platform at the door. Itwas a low, joyous laugh. The yellow light of the candle sputtered intheir wet faces. Only dimly could he see her, but her eyes were shining.
"Your nest, little Gray Goose," he cried gently.
Her hand reached up and touched his face. "You have been good to me,Jeems," she said, a little tremble in her voice. "You may--kiss me."
Out in the beat of the rain Kent's heart choked him with song. His soulswelled with the desire to shout forth a paean of joy and triumph atthe world he was leaving this night for all time. With the warm thrillof Marette's lips he had become the superman, and as he leaped ashorein the darkness and cut the tie-rope with a single slash of his knife,he wanted to give voice to the thing that was in him as the rivermenhad chanted in the glory of their freedom the day the big brigadestarted north. And he _did_ sing, under his laughing, sobbing breath.With a giant's strength he sent the scow out into the bayou, and thenback and forth he swung the long one-man sweep, twisting the craftriverward with the force of two pairs of arms instead of one. Behindthe closed door of the tiny cabin was all that the world now held worthfighting for. By turning his head he could see the faint illuminationof the candle at the window. The light--the cabin--Marette!
He laughed inanely, foolishly, like a boy. He began to hear a dull,droning murmur, a sound that with each stroke of the sweep grew into amore distinct, cataract-like roar. It was the river. Swollen by flood,it was a terrifying sound. But Kent did not dread it. It was _his_ river;it was his friend. It was the pulse and throb of life to him now. Thegrowing tumult of it was not menace, but the joyous thunder of manyvoices calling to him, rejoicing at his coming. It grew in his ears.Over his head the black sky opened again, and a deluge of rain fellstraight down. But above the sound of it the rush of the river drewnearer, and still nearer. He felt the first eddying swirl of it againstthe scow head, and powerful hands seemed to reach in out of thedarkness. He knew that the nose of the current had caught him and wascarrying him out on the breast of the stream. He shipped the sweep andstraightened himself, facing the utter chaos of blackness ahead. Hefelt under him the slow and mighty pulse of the great flood as it swepttoward the Slave, the Mackenzie, and the Arctic. And he cried out atlast in the downpour of storm, a cry of joy, of exultation, of hopethat reached beyond the laws of men--and then he turned toward thelittle cabin, where through the thickness of sodden night the tinywindow was glowing yellow with candle-light.
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