hugh sat in his little room for a long time that night, reviewing his adventures of this scant half day in rudolm. he found it very difficult to decide what to do, in the light of this unexpected turn of his affairs, the disappearance of the two edmonds. of one thing he was hotly certain, that john edmonds had not vanished of his own will. the very fact of hugh’s being there, urged to come by both the brothers, showed that their absence was entirely unplanned. he was less certain, however, of the chances of their ever coming safe home again. linda ingmarsson was sure they would, but she was only one woman holding her opinion against a score of men. he wished that he could make some effort of his own to find his friends, wished it more and more as he went slowly over the situation and realized how desperate it was. what could he do, a boy, alone, knowing nothing of woodcraft and the cruel mysteries of the forest? nothing, reason told him plainly, absolutely nothing.

quite evidently he must go back to that cousin in new york who was to help him if things went wrong. that things had gone wrong, from the moment of his getting off the train, onward through his terrifying interview with half-breed jake, was not to be denied. this seemed to be one of the few certain facts in the whirling confusion of his affairs. he recollected now how the friendly porter had felt misgivings as to the length of his stay in rudolm and had reminded him that the train that would carry him back to the world he knew, would go through at six o’clock in the morning. after long pondering, he decided to take it.

just as he was about to go to bed he heard a sound at the window, a handful of pebbles striking against the glass. he got up to look out and saw some one standing on the doorstep below.

“it is i, jethro brown,” called a cautious voice. “can you come down? i want to talk to you.”

hugh took up his candle and stole on tiptoe down the stairs. all of the ingmarssons were sound asleep. he contrived to shoot back the bolts and open the front door without a sound. the clerk from the hotel, looking more lank and awkward than ever in the candle light, stood waiting outside.

“i saw your window was bright and i had some things to tell you,” he said. “i am sorry to bring you down.”

hugh blew out the candle and they sat down together on the doorstep.

“it is all right,” he said; “you wouldn’t have found me to-morrow. i am going away early in the morning.”

“going?” echoed the other in a tone of the greatest disappointment and dismay. then he heaved a deep sigh.

“well,” he remarked, “i suppose it is the only thing you can do, but somehow i had kind of hoped you were going to stay.”

“why?” hugh stared in astonishment, for what difference could it make to any one whether he remained in rudolm or went away?

jethro sat staring at the ground between his feet and shuffled them uneasily several times.

“that half-breed jake has been at the hotel all evening,” he said at last. “he has been talking a long time about the edmonds boys and how they have disappeared because they had to. it is true that john’s books at the bank were pretty badly mixed and they have had an expert up to go over them, but nothing has been proved yet, one way or the other. it seemed to me, at last, that jake talked rather too much. he always hated the edmonds boys, they were too square and honest and they had blocked him more than once in some of his devilment. if there is a mean or a cruel or a crooked way of doing a thing, he will do it. that’s jake.”

“but why is every one so afraid of him?” inquired hugh. “he is only one man against all of you.”

“it is just part of living here to be afraid of him, i suppose, and to try to keep out of trouble with him,” jethro answered slowly. “the indians fear him so much that they will do anything he says; he understands them as very few men do and he uses his knowledge to get what he wants. a man who can control these chippewas has a lot of power. there is a white deer that ranges these woods once in a long time and is supposed to bring bad luck. the indians have a saying that whoever sees the white deer or opposes half-breed jake is sure to die inside a year.”

“but the swedes have better sense than that!” exclaimed hugh.

“the swedes are very superstitious too, and once they are convinced of a thing it is hard to make them change. and it does seem that whoever stands in jake’s way is cursed with bad fortune until he gives it up. there are only a few that ever dared stand out against him, such as the edmonds boys, and where are they?”

hugh sat quiet, watching the moon come up over the eastern rim of the valley. he found jethro as talkative as the swedes were silent, but he felt no very great interest in these accounts of half-breed jake, a man whom he instinctively hated and would, he hoped, never see again. only wonder as to why jethro wished him to stay in rudolm and what all these details had to do with himself, held his lagging attention.

“do you see that road,” jethro went on heatedly, “that road yonder that leads over the hill? that would have meant a lot to the people here, but it came to nothing. it was to be built through the woods as far as jasper peak and would have opened up the country at the upper end of the lake. jake stopped it. he calls all that country his, and is bound to keep the fishing and the hunting and trapping for himself. he killed the plan with open threats and secret lies: at first the men went at it with a rush, but in the end somehow the whole thing fell through. it was the first time he ever scored a real victory off oscar dansk.”

hugh turned, his interest caught at last.

“that is one person i want to know about,” he said. “who is this oscar dansk?”

“he is linda ingmarsson’s younger brother,” jethro answered. “you know that much and it is hard to tell you a great deal more. oscar isn’t like the rest of us. i don’t quite know what to say about him; he is always dreaming about something big, some way. his father must have been quite a great person back in sweden; he was poor to the end of his life, just as every one in rudolm is poor, but you can see that oscar and linda are not quite the same kind of people as the rest.”

“he doesn’t live here in rudolm?” hugh said.

“not now, he lives out beyond jasper peak. he is proving up on some kind of a claim, homesteading, right in the country that half-breed jake calls his. he was here in april when war was declared and went down pell-mell to duluth to enlist, wanted to go into the navy, i think, these swedes all do. but they wouldn’t take him, or for the army either, i don’t know why. he came back in a few days, looking grim and set and not saying a word to any one. he went right off into the woods again and we’ve scarcely seen him since. it was a cruel disappointment, i think, as bad as when he couldn’t build his road.”

“but why did he care so much about the road?”

hugh’s curiosity about that mysterious highway had grown greater and greater, yet even now it was not to be satisfied.

“he had something big in his mind,” jethro said vaguely, “so big i never quite understood it. he was a fellow who could always see farther than the rest of us, i think. john edmonds used to say he did, although even he lost faith in the plan about the road at last, and that nearly broke oscar’s heart. some people even said they had quarreled, but i don’t believe it. oscar wasn’t the sort to bear a grudge.”

jethro thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned at last to face hugh squarely.

“that is what i am getting at,” he said. “oscar dansk can find john and dick edmonds if any man on earth can do it. but some one would have to go out through the woods to tell him, otherwise it might be weeks before he hears what has happened. and the only person to go is you.”

“i?” cried hugh in amazement, “i? why, that’s impossible.”

“all right,” said the other briefly, “i was afraid maybe you would take it that way. of course, after all, you oughtn’t to try it. well, good-night.”

he shambled off into the dark, leaving hugh still staring in astonishment. he wished that he had not said quite so decisively that the plan was impossible, so that at least he might have heard more of it. how strange it was that, after leading up to the subject so long, jethro should have dropped it so quickly. probably he himself knew that it was impossible as well as did hugh.

very slowly he went up to bed, still wondering. it was in vain that he tried to compose his mind to sleep: he could not, for thinking of what jethro had said. for an hour he tossed and turned and puzzled and pondered. at last he got up and went to the window, thinking that he might feel sleepy if he sat there for a while.

the moon was very bright now, so that all the little square houses showed plainly, as did the white expanse of the empty street. nothing stirred in all of the sleeping town; the very quiet and peace did indeed make him feel drowsy almost at once. he yawned a great yawn and was just about to turn from the window when a moving shadow caught his eye. some one was coming down the deserted street, some one who walked noiselessly but swiftly and with great determination. it was a woman, he could see, an indian squaw, with broad, bent shoulders and heavy dark hair. even at that distance and in the deceiving moonlight he felt certain that it was the woman he had seen before, laughing mary.

she turned in at the gate and came hurrying up the path, but she did not reach the door. two men followed her, one lithe and stooping, the other tall and moving with great strides—there was no doubt in hugh’s mind that it was half-breed jake. he seized the woman by the shoulder and whirled her about just as, very plainly, she was on the point of mounting the doorstep and knocking at the door. there followed an altercation, whispered, yet so full of fierceness and passionate gesture that hugh, at his window, could feel the fury of their quarrel even there. it was almost like watching a dance of shadows, so noiseless did they manage to be, although now and then he caught a low-voiced sentence, couched in guttural chippewa, and once, to his surprise, he heard his own name, spoken very distinctly by laughing mary.

she was not smiling now but speaking volubly, gesticulating, urging and insisting something, to which jake slowly and determinedly shook his head. she kept pointing to the bale of furs still under his arm and seemed to be voicing her desire with such violence in the face of his continued refusal that finally, in angry impatience, he raised his arm as though to strike her. she winced and cowered, but still persisted, advancing her dark wrinkled face almost into his to utter her last word. whatever she said seemed to have effect, for jake’s arm dropped to his side and, muttering angrily, he stooped down to open his pack and give her what she demanded. what the coveted article was, hugh could not see, for the indian husband, kaniska, was standing in the way.

then all three went out quickly through the gate, as silent and as swift as ghosts. for the first time, hugh noticed that jake, who walked behind, moved with a slight unevenness in his giant stride.

it had grown so late that hugh in spite of his curiosity and excitement was sleepy at last. he lay down again, going over and over once more the puzzles of the day. what ought he to do? what had these strange people to do with him? why did jethro say that he was the only one to go on that impossible errand, why did the fellow not go himself? if there were really a chance of his helping the edmonds boys, hugh would have risked anything gladly, but this plan was such absolute madness! no, thought hugh, he had made up his mind, he would not change it again, he would go to-morrow.

he arose at five, packed his belongings and, on hearing linda stirring in the kitchen, went down to explain to her. she heard him through in silence and without protest.

“i suppose you must know best,” was her only comment.

when he made an attempt to thank her for all her kindness, she refused to listen.

“the edmonds boys are my friends,” she said, “and for them i would do much. this was nothing.”

she came to the door to bid him good-by and stood watching him as he went down the path to the gate. the morning mist lay heavy in the little valley and stretched upward in wreaths over the hills. the air was cold, so that he turned up his coat-collar and walked very briskly. once he looked back and saw that linda ingmarsson had come out to the gate and stood leaning over it almost as though she were about to call him back. she made no sign, however, so he turned once more and walked on toward the station. he found that he was early, that the little building was still locked and that he must sit down on the narrow bench at the edge of the platform and wait. the mist lifted, little by little, until he began to see the miles of blue water, the hills and the vast unbroken forest sweeping down to the water’s edge. how would it be, he thought with a shudder, to be lost in that unending maze of green?

presently he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and around the corner of the building. he glanced up quickly and saw that it was jethro brown again, wearing a dingy straw hat on the back of his head and carrying a suitcase. he loitered at the other end of the platform and would not have come near, but hugh arose from his seat and went straight to him.

“you must tell me,” he said, “why you thought i was the only one to carry that news to oscar dansk. i have thought of nothing else all night.”

jethro flushed.

“i shouldn’t ever have spoken of it at all,” he stammered, “i don’t know what possessed me. i just got to thinking and felt that something ought to be done, that some one ought to go. but i should not have come to you, of course you couldn’t do it.”

“if i did go,” hugh persisted, “how would i ever find the way?”

he did not really know himself why he asked the question.

the other turned and pointed.

“you would follow that road to the top of the hill and where it ends you would find a trail that runs across the range of forest beyond. it leads to a little chippewa village on two rivers; there’s an indian boy there, shokatan, who could guide you the rest of the way. he got to be quite a friend of mine when he came in to the indian school near here and he knows english, though he probably won’t be willing to speak it now. i could give you a letter and i know he would help you.”

it was plain that jethro had thought it all out.

hugh still stood pondering.

“why don’t any of the swedes go?” he asked, “aren’t they willing?”

“they are willing enough,” jethro returned, “but they have given up. they say there is no hope. once they have made up their minds there is no changing them.”

“and why,” questioned hugh bluntly, “don’t you go yourself?”

“oh,” jethro answered simply, “i forgot to tell you that. of course i would go only i am leaving to-day. i’ve enlisted. i’ve got my orders. i’m going to fort snelling.”

“oh,” cried hugh, “how did you manage? my father wouldn’t let me. how old are you?”

“i am a little under age but i made them take me,” replied jethro. “there wasn’t much trouble about getting consent, i haven’t any one that my going would make any difference to.”

hugh’s whole view of the affair underwent a sudden and tremendous change. if jethro was going to the war, why, that made everything different! he must think and think quickly, for, far off among the hills, he heard the whistle of the approaching train.

“well,” jethro said, breaking into his reverie, “i will be taking the forward coach when the train comes in, so i may not see you again. good-by.”

he reached out his huge, red hand and hugh shook it, still half dazed.

“did you write that letter to the indian?” he said, and, as the other nodded, “give it to me. i haven’t decided yet but i—i might need it.”

jethro pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to him.

“no, no,” he cried, immediately after, “it is not the right thing at all for you to go. do not think about it again. here’s the train. good-by.”

“good-by,” said hugh, still in doubt, “good-by and good luck.”

jethro strode away down the platform just as the big locomotive came thundering in. hugh was turning slowly toward the pullman coaches at the further end when he heard quick short footsteps behind him and little carl ingmarsson very red and breathless came panting up.

“i wanted to say good-by,” he said; “we never knew you were going until mother told us.” he laid his square, firm little hand in hugh’s.

“it was good of you to come,” returned hugh. “what did your mother say about my going?”

“she didn’t say much,” carl replied, “i think she had been crying.”

“crying?” echoed hugh; “why?” this seemed the most amazing thing of all the surprises that had come to him.

“i think she didn’t want you to go,” the little boy answered, “i don’t understand it. she doesn’t often cry.”

so there was more than one person who wanted him to help and was confident of his success. and even half-breed jake and laughing mary seemed to feel that he was in some way involved in the matter. should he go or stay? time was passing.

the grinning porter looked at him doubtfully, then picked up his stool and climbed up the steps of the last car. the long train, with its shining brass rails, hooded vestibules and sleepy passengers peering from the windows, looked as though it had come from another world than this wild, wooded country where such strange things could come to pass. the brakeman glanced inquiringly over his shoulder and shouted,

“all aboard!”

the bell began to jangle, the wheels creaked and groaned, the heavy cars slowly gathered headway—there was still time to run and catch the last step, but hugh did not move. the line of cars, with a final echoing whistle, slid away into the morning mist and disappeared behind the shoulder of a hill, leaving him behind, committed at last to his adventure.