during that terrible space which followed an eternity of time rolled slowly through the little cabin on the gray loon—that eternity which lies somewhere between life and death and which is sometimes meted out to a human life in seconds instead of eons.
in those seconds pierrot did not move from where he stood in the doorway. mctaggart, huddled over with the weight in his arms, and staring at pierrot, did not move. but the willow’s eyes were opening. and a convulsive quiver ran through the body of baree, where he lay near the wall. there was not the sound of a breath. and then, in that silence, a great gasping sob came from nepeese.
then pierrot stirred to life. like mctaggart, he had left his coat and mittens outside. he spoke, and his voice was not like pierrot’s. it was a strange voice.
“the great god has sent me back in time, m’sieu,” he said. “i, too, travelled by way of the east, and saw your trail where it turned this way.”
no, that was not like pierrot’s voice! a chill ran through mctaggart now, and slowly he let go of nepeese. she fell to the floor. slowly he straightened.
“is it not true, m’sieu?” said pierrot again. “i have come in time?”
what power was it—what great fear, perhaps, that made mctaggart nod his head, that made his thick lips form huskily the words, “yes—in time.” and yet it was not fear. it was something greater, something more all-powerful than that. and pierrot said, in that same strange voice:
“i thank the great god!”
the eyes of madman met the eyes of madman now. between them was death. both saw it. both thought that they saw the direction in which its bony finger pointed. both were certain. mctaggart’s hand did not go to the pistol in his holster, and pierrot did not touch the knife in his belt. when they came together, it was throat to throat—two beasts now, instead of one, for pierrot had in him the fury and strength of the wolf, the cat, and the panther.
mctaggart was the bigger and heavier man, a giant in strength; yet in the face of pierrot’s fury he lurched back over the table and went down with a crash. many times in his life he had fought, but he had never felt a grip at his throat like the grip of pierrot’s hands. they almost crushed the life from him at once. his neck snapped—a little more, and it would have broken. he struck out blindly from his back, and twisted himself to throw off the weight of the halfbreed’s body. but pierrot was fastened there, as sekoosew the ermine had fastened itself at the jugular of the partridge, and bush mctaggart’s jaws slowly swung open, and his face began to turn from red to purple.
cold air rushing through the door, pierrot’s voice and the sound of battle roused nepeese quickly to consciousness and the power to raise herself from the floor. she had fallen near baree, and as she lifted her head, her eyes rested for a moment on the dog before they went to the fighting men. baree was alive! his body was twitching; his eyes were open; he made an effort to raise his head as she was looking at him.
then she dragged herself to her knees and turned to the men, and pierrot, even in the blood-red fury of his desire to kill, must have heard the sharp cry of joy that came from her when she saw that it was the factor from lac bain who was underneath. with a tremendous effort she staggered to her feet, and for a few moments she stood swaying unsteadily as her brain and her body readjusted themselves. even as she looked down upon the blackening face from which pierrot’s fingers were choking the life, bush mctaggart’s hand was groping blindly for his pistol. he found it. unseen by pierrot, he dragged it from its holster. it was one of the black devils of chance that favoured him again, for in his excitement he had not snapped the safety shut after shooting baree. now he had only strength left to pull the trigger. twice his forefinger closed. twice there came deadened explosion close to pierrot’s body.
in pierrot’s face nepeese saw what had happened. her heart died in her breast as she looked upon the swift and terrible change wrought by sudden death. slowly pierrot straightened. his eyes were wide for a moment—wide and staring. he made no sound. she could not see his lips move. and then he fell toward her, so that mctaggart’s body was free. blindly and with an agony that gave no evidence in cry or word she flung herself down beside him. he was dead.
how long nepeese lay there, how long she waited for pierrot to move, to open his eyes, to breathe, she would never know. in that time mctaggart rose to his feet and stood leaning against the wall, the pistol in his hand, his brain clearing itself as he saw his final triumph. his work did not frighten him. even in that tragic moment as he stood against the wall, his defense—if it ever came to a defense—framed itself in his mind. pierrot had murderously assaulted him—without cause. in self-defense he had killed him. was he not the factor of lac bain? would not the company and the law believe his word before that of this girl? his brain leaped with the old exultation. it would never come to that—to a betrayal of this struggle and death in the cabin—after he had finished with her! she would not be known for all time as la bête noir. no, they would bury pierrot, and she would return to lac bain with him. if she had been helpless before, she was ten times more helpless now. she would never tell of what had happened in the cabin.
he forgot the presence of death as he looked at her, bowed over her father so that her hair covered him like a silken shroud. he replaced the pistol in its holster and drew a deep breath into his lungs. he was still a little unsteady on his feet, but his face was again the face of a devil. he took a step, and it was then there came a sound to rouse the girl. in the shadow of the farther wall baree had struggled to his haunches, and now he growled.
slowly nepeese lifted her head. a power which she could not resist drew her eyes up until she was looking into the face of bush mctaggart. she had almost lost consciousness of his presence; her senses were cold and deadened—it was as if her own heart had stopped beating along with pierrot’s. what she saw in the factor’s face dragged her out of the numbness of her grief back to the abyss of her own peril. he was standing over her. in his face there was no pity, nothing of horror at what he had done—only an insane exultation as he looked—not at pierrot’s dead body, but at her. he put out a hand, and it rested on her head. she felt his thick fingers crumpling her hair, and his eyes blazed like embers of fire behind watery films. she struggled to rise, but with his hands at her hair he held her down.
“great god!” she breathed.
she uttered no other words, no plea for mercy, no other sound but a dry, hopeless sob. in that moment neither of them heard or saw baree. twice in crossing the cabin his hind-quarters had sagged to the floor. now he was close to mctaggart. he wanted to give a single lunge to the man-brute’s back and snap his thick neck as he would have broken a caribou-bone. but he had no strength. he was still partially paralyzed from his fore-shoulder back. but his jaws were like iron, and they closed savagely on mctaggart’s leg.
with a yell of pain the factor released his hold on the willow, and she staggered to her feet. for a precious half-minute she was free, and as the factor kicked and struck to loose baree’s hold, she ran to the cabin door and out into the day. the cold air struck her face; it filled her lungs with new strength; and without thought of where hope might lie she ran through the snow into the forest.
mctaggart appeared at the door just in time to see her disappear. his leg was torn where baree had fastened his fangs, but he felt no pain as he ran in pursuit of the girl. she could not go far. an exultant cry, inhuman as the cry of a beast, came in a great breath from his gaping mouth as he saw that she was staggering weakly as she fled. he was halfway to the edge of the forest when baree dragged himself over the threshold. his jaws were bleeding where mctaggart had kicked him again and again before his fangs gave way. halfway between his ears was a seared spot, as if a red-hot poker had been laid there for an instant. this was where mctaggart’s bullet had gone. a quarter of an inch deeper, and it would have meant death. as it was, it had been like the blow of a heavy club, paralyzing his senses and sending him limp and unconscious against the wall. he could move on his feet now without falling, and slowly he followed in the tracks of the man and the girl.
as she ran, nepeese’s mind became all at once clear and reasoning. she turned into the narrow trail over which mctaggart had followed her once before, but just before reaching the chasm, she swung sharply to the right. she could see mctaggart. he was not running fast, but was gaining steadily, as if enjoying the sight of her helplessness, as he had enjoyed it in another way on that other day. two hundred yards below the deep pool into which she had pushed the factor—just beyond the shallows out of which he had dragged himself to safety—was the beginning of blue feather’s gorge. an appalling thing was shaping itself in her mind as she ran to it—a thing that with each gasping breath she drew became more and more a great and glorious hope. at last she reached it and looked down. and as she looked, there whispered up out of her soul and trembled on her lips the swan-song of her mother’s people.
our fathers—come!
come from out of the valley.
guide us—for to-day we die,
and the winds whisper of death!
she had raised her arms. against the white wilderness beyond the chasm she stood tall and slim. fifty yards behind her the factor from lac bain stopped suddenly in his tracks. “ah,” he mumbled. “is she not wonderful!” and behind mctaggart, coming faster and faster, was baree.
again the willow looked down. she was at the edge, for she had no fear in this hour. many times she had clung to pierrot’s hand as she looked over. down there no one could fall and live. fifty feet below her the water which never froze was smashing itself into froth among the rocks. it was deep and black and terrible, for between the narrow rock walls the sun did not reach it. the roar of it filled the willow’s ears.
she turned and faced mctaggart.
even then he did not guess, but came toward her again, his arms stretched out ahead of him. fifty yards! it was not much, and shortening swiftly.
once more the willow’s lips moved. after all, it is the mother soul that gives us faith to meet eternity—and it was to the spirit of her mother that the willow called in the hour of death. with the call on her lips she plunged into the abyss, her wind-whipped hair clinging to her in a glistening shroud.
