carington stood a moment, looking after the boy. then he readjusted the straps of the knapsack, which he had taken again when jack had loaded himself with the bearskin, and went rapidly down through the more open forest.

at first he had meant to look quietly about the cabin, hoping to find the place where the children were buried. on reflection, he changed his mind, and determined to go at once to the colketts’s, for which he had a ready excuse. there was still enough of light, but he had not as yet the least idea where the little graveyard lay. better, perhaps, he thought, to ask dorothy, and to return at mid-morning, when joe would be away. that there was the least peril in his search he did not think, despite lyndsay’s warning. it had interested him, and he meant to be guided by it so far as to have some other guide than joe in september. that was all.

at the edge of the clearing he climbed over the snake-fence, and walked at once to the well, being hot and thirsty. mrs. colkett, seeing him, came out of the cabin, and met him as he began to lower the bucket. he turned as she came.

371“good evening, mrs. colkett. is joe about? i have a job for him.”

“he’s ’round somewhere. joe!” she called, in a high-pitched voice; “joe!”

the man came from the cow-shed, and joined them at the well.

“was you wantin’ me, sir?”

“yes, joe. i mean to build a cabin on the island this fall. remson will do it. i saw him yesterday. he wants you to get out a lot of squared lumber. can you do it?”

“yes.”

“i will give you the measurements before i leave. it will be a pretty good job for you. mind you pick out good stuff.”

“i will; no fear of that. want some water, sir?”

“yes.”

joe let down the bucket, and brought it up brimming. he set it on the rim of the well. meanwhile carington sat on the ledge, and, tilting the bucket, wetted his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“that’s jolly good. by george, but i am warm! i have had a hard tramp.” as he completed this brief refreshing of the outer man, he looked up, and for a moment considered the scaffold of big bones on which time and care had left susan colkett but a minimum amount of flesh.

he took no more deliberate notice than do most people of the features, which gave him, however, in their general effect, a sense of strangeness and of vague discomfort. the eyes were too big, and, like the cheek-bones, too red, the features large. beside 372her the stout husband, muscular and not unkindly of look, presented an odd contrast. there did not seem much harm in him, and how miserably poor they must be!

“come over soon,” said carington; “i will tell you then more precisely what i want.”

“he’ll come,” said the woman.

“very good.”

“would you mind, sir, to give joe a little in advance? i’ll see he comes.”

“why not? certainly!”

“the fact is, joe he’d never think to ask it; he’s that modest.”

carington, who had been looking at her husband’s face, was of opinion that he was pretty full of whisky, and just now dulled with drink. still, he was a good workman, and the misery in which they lived was but too obvious. he might have found a more certain agent, but then he would have lacked excuses for the interviews which his present purpose required.

“i will tell you just what we want when you come over, and, as to pay, i shall be glad to give you now a moderate advance.”

“thank you, sir,” said joe.

“he’ll come to-morrow, sure. fact is,” she went on, “we ain’t a dollar, and there’s no work, and this house, there’s a man in mackenzie’s got a mortgage on it, and the pork’s about out.”

“will you have to go?”

“that’s what we’ll have to do.”

“rather hard, that.”

373“i wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t to leave them dead children, sir, and no man to care for their graves. ’t ain’t like as if we was rich.”

“are they buried here, mrs. colkett?”

“yes, they’re put away, back in the woods. you might call that buried. we are just clean broke, mr. carington, and that’s all there is to say.”

“i am sorry for you.” and he was, despite all he knew, being a man pitiful of what led to crime or to want. “i shall be very glad to give you help now.”

“the lawyer man he’s coming to-morrow, pretty early. if we ain’t got twenty dollars, the cow must go.”

“can he take it? i don’t understand that.”

“he says so. i don’t rightly know. we poor folk can’t ever tell. we most always get the worst of it.”

she played her part and told her lie well, looking down as she spoke, and at last wiping her eyes, while joe uneasily shifted from one foot to another as he stood.

carington put his hand in his pocket, and took out the roll of notes. as he unfolded them, the woman’s eyes considered them with a quick look of ferocious greed. he counted out twenty-five dollars, and gave the money into her hand, replacing the roll in his pocket as she thanked him. after this he took the bucket, tilted out of it half the water, and, raising it, drank. as he buried his head in its rim, susan caught joe by the arm, and pointed to the thirsty man, whose back was toward them. she looked 374around in haste, took a step toward a broken ax-helve, which lay near by, and then stood still, as carington set down the bucket. he had been nearer death than he ever knew.

as he turned, the woman’s face again struck him. it was deeply flushed; the large, sensual lower lip was drawn down, so as to uncover a row of large yellow teeth, and the face was stern.

“thank you, sir,” she said again, quick to notice his look of scrutiny.

“you are welcome. come, joe. i want to talk over the lumber.”

as joe went by her, susan caught his arm with so fierce a grip that he exclaimed aloud.

“what is it?” said carington, pausing.

“i hurt my foot last week, and i just stumped my toes—that’s all.”

they walked on and reached the house. here she passed them and went in. while they stood a moment in talk, she moved to the far corner, and took from its rack joe’s old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifle. she knew that, as usual, it was loaded. then she hesitated, set it down against the table, and fetched a bowl of milk to the door.

“you might like a drink of milk?” she said. “come in. it’s good. dory fetched it; our cow’s run dry. hers was better anyway. it’s right rich.”

carington might have thought of jael as mrs. colkett faced him. “she brought him butter in a lordly dish.” his thoughts, however, were far away.

“no, thank you,” he replied, absently.

“won’t you rest a bit, sir?”

375“no, i must go.”

profoundly disappointed, she went in, sat down, took hold of the rifle, and then set it aside, as she listened.

“i am not over sure of the way, joe.” he knew it well enough. “come with me a bit.”

“yes, sir.” they went around the cabin and struck off into a forest road. at the brook, which crossed it some fifty yards from the house, carington turned off the road. he had brought joe thus far with the indistinct intention of sounding him about the lost tombstone. suddenly, however, joe said:

“i wouldn’t go down the trail by the stream, sir.”

“why not?”

“it’s shorter, but it’s awful muddy.”

“oh, that doesn’t matter.”

“you’d lose your way, sure.”

“nonsense.”

the man’s manner was so uneasy that carington at once concluded that the trail might lead near to the object of his search.

“good night,” he said, abandoning his intention to question joe. “i shall take the brook trail. don’t come with me. i see you are very lame.”

“don’t you try that way, sir. you—you—i got stuck in that swamp last fall. it’s real bad.”

carington was now still more certain of the cause of the lumberman’s persistent warnings. “i’ll risk it,” he said and set off. “good night.”

“good night. keep the left side, if you will take the trail.”

“all right, joe.”

376he crossed the rivulet, and kept to the right bank. joe stood a moment looking after him. the brook-path would bring carington full in sight of the tombstone, and the shadows were not yet deep enough to hide it. a great fear came upon him of a sudden. he turned, and ran limping back to the house.

“what is it?” she cried, as he stumbled in. “is he dead? have you done it?”

“no, no! i couldn’t stop him! he’s gone down the brook. oh, lord, he’ll see it, and i’m done for! he’s a-goin right for it.”

she broke out, “here!” and thrust the rifle into his hand. “now is your chance! it’s a heap of money. go! go! you are ruined, anyway. ruined! he’ll see it. he’ll see it, sure. make it safe. quick!”

the man stood still. “i can’t! i just can’t!” he was shaking as with ague.

“coward! fool! give it to me.” and she tore the rifle from his hand.

“susie! susie! it’s murder.”

he caught her arm, and her gown, which tore in his grasp. she thrust him aside with a blow of her open hand on the chest. he fell over a chair, and got up, limping, unsteady, in extreme pain from his hurt foot. she was gone.

“i will kill you if you follow me,” he heard, as she passed the open window.

he believed her. he was afraid. he went to the door, limped back, and, falling into a chair, stuffed fingers into his ears, while sweat of terror ran down his cheeks. a moment passed, then another, and, despite 377his childlike precaution, he heard his rifle ring through the forest stillness, and upon this he burst into tears, and cried aloud, “oh, lord, oh, lord god!”

as he spoke, he rose up, and stood in agony of expectation. the woman came in.

“where’s your powder and ball?”

“i ain’t none. last charge,” he gasped. “did you miss him?”

“miss! no. take an ax, and go and make sure. he ain’t to be feared now. i hit him sure. go and get the money. haven’t you that much pluck, you sot?”

“i dassen’t.”

“he’s got his gun, joe, and i had a notion he might be just crippled, and i’d come and get a load and make certain.”

as she spoke, he stood by her, swaying on his feet, dazed.

“great god, are you a man!” she cried.

“not that sort,” he said, slowly. “did you say you done it, susie?”

“did i? you fool! go and get the money. he won’t hinder you none.”

“i couldn’t, susie.”

she looked about her, in no wise intimidated or hurried. an ax stood in the corner.

“what! what! you mustn’t!” he cried.

“go and get a spade,” she said. “i’ll fetch the money.” and, seizing the ax, she thrust him aside as he stood in the doorway. “you white-livered coward, get out of my way, or i’ll brain you.”

he shrunk aside. he could only say, “susie! susie! don’t—don’t!”

378“off with you!” and passing him, with no more words, she ran around the cabin and disappeared in the darkening forest.

this time she moved with extreme caution, so as to approach her victim in another direction. nevertheless, being, like most of the forest-dwelling women, a fair shot, she felt coolly certain of her prey.

after leaving joe, carington had followed the brook, or rather the trail beside it, for some hundred yards, when he noticed a gleam of white among the shadows. anything unusual in the forest is sure to win instant notice from men accustomed to wandering and to keeping all their senses alert. moreover, he was now keenly observant. he stopped, and, crossing the brook, broke through the undergrowth, and stood at once in a clearing some twenty yards wide. as he came nearer to the three little mounds, now dimly visible, he saw the white slab, and instantly understood that his guess had been correct. a little while he remained still, in thought recalling what dorothy had said, and gradually seeing in his mind the pitifulness of it all: the crude animal eagerness of the mother; the rough, unthinking man’s wish to please her.

at last, laying aside his rifle, he knelt down, and, unable to see, felt with his hands the surface of the stone. “ah!” he exclaimed, recognizing on the back the dints poor joe’s tool had made. next he struck a match, and, guarding it with his hands, read the inscription. the match went out before he had quite done. he lit another.

“ah me!” he murmured; “this is a strange world.” 379and he read, “of such are the kingdom of heaven.” “what a sad business!”

he lifted his hand to cast aside the still-burning match. at this instant, while still on his knees, there was a flash of light. he heard no sound, but fell across the graves, motionless.

meanwhile, jack, with swift feet, eager for home, trotted down the broken road, and, to his disgust, finding no porcupines, struck easily into the cross-road, and, passing the boulder, moved away along the forest-track. at last the way became less and less plain; but, trusting by habit to his sense of direction, he pushed on into the wood.

a little surprised not to meet his friend, he concluded that he might possibly have missed his way. for the first time the boy hesitated. then, as he stood, he heard a rifle, and, sure at once that carington must have shot something, he ran with greater speed. in a few moments the tangle of undergrowth checked his pace. some five minutes or more went by, and he saw a flare of light. thinking it strange, he hurried his steps, and then, of a sudden, stood still.

the woman had carefully approached her prey, ax in hand, and at last saw, as she strained her vision, that carington’s rifle lay out of his reach. reassured, she went on more boldly. looking around, and seeing no one near, she calmly lifted the man’s head, and let it fall. this seemed enough. she took the roll of money, and began to disengage the watch-guard; but, unable to release the catch in the buttonhole of his jacket, struck one of the matches which, as usual, she had in her pocket, caught up a scrap of birch-bark, 380and, lighting it, saw by the flare how to undo the chain. as she dropped the watch into her bosom, a long gasp broke from the chest of the man beneath her.

“he ain’t done for,” she exclaimed, and rose to her feet, the roll of burning birch in one hand, the ax in the other. she stepped back a pace, cast down the blazing bark, which flashed forth anew as she let her right hand slip up the handle and lifted the ax.

a voice rang out to the left, “stand, or i’ll shoot!”

she set a foot on the fading bit of fire, and, still gripping the ax, fled, with one hoarse cry, through the woods, striking against the trees, falling, tearing her hands and clothes in the raspberry vines.

joe heard her coming, and stumbled out.

“he ain’t dead,” she cried, “and there’s another man there. i got the money, though. come! quick! take blankets—go on to the road. i’ll be there in a minute. don’t stand staring. you’re drunk!”

he was. all day long he had been drinking; and when she went out, he found his bottle and emptied it, half crazed with fear. he obeyed her with difficulty and came out staggering—letting the blankets trail, and stumbling as he went. then he halted.

“where am i going?”

“oh, the river! the river!—the dugout! fool! sot! the dugout’s at the lower landing, isn’t it? i left it this morning.”

“yes, it’s there.”

“then wait at the road.”

she went back into the cabin, caught up some 381garments, and threw them out of the window. next she raked the fire out onto the floor, and, when again at the door, caught the kerosene-can from a shelf, with no tremor or haste, uncorked it, and threw it onto the scattered fire. a great yellow blaze went up, and she barely escaped in time. she stood a moment, and turned away laughing. “there won’t be much for that lawyer-man, i guess.” one of her starved hens, which had ventured into the cabin to forage, was hurled out by the blast, blind and scorched, and reeled about making strange noises. “gosh, but that’s funny!” she cried, snatching the ax and following joe.

at the fence she found joe.

“what’s been a-doin’, susie?”

“shut up, and hurry, if you want to save your neck.”

“’t ain’t my neck.”

“what!” she cried. there was that in her voice which quieted the man, and they went as swiftly as a reeling head and hurt leg permitted down to the landing.

“set down,” she cried, and pushed off the pirogue. “can you paddle?”

“i can.”

“then do it,” and they went away into the darkness, down the hurry of the stream.

jack had dimly understood that something was wrong as he came through the edge of the wood, but, as the birch flared up in its fall through the air, he caught sight of a man’s body, and of the backward step of one about to strike with an ax. then he 382called to her. as she fled he ran out, and, hearing the noise of her retreat more and more distant, he dropped beside the man.

“it’s mr. carington! is he dead? she shot him! i heard it—oh, this is awful! what shall i do?”

“mr. carington!” he called. “mr. carington!” as he shook his shoulder, he guessed it was blood he felt on his hand.

he stood up at last, and listened. there was no sound but the deep murmur of the distant river. more at ease, he struck a match, for the birch flame was out, and, bending over, looked at the body.

“by george! he’s not dead; he’s breathing.” and still his anxiety was intense. he took both rifles, dropped a shell in each, ran to the edge of the clearing, and laid them down. running back, and catching carington under the arms, he tried to drag him to a shelter. it was in vain. the tall, sturdy man was beyond his powers. but, as he tugged at him, carington groaned aloud. at the next pull, he spoke:

“what’s wrong? who are you?”

“i am jack, sir. you have been shot.”

“did i do it?—my rifle?” he murmured, feebly.

“no—a woman.”

“what? what’s that? a woman!” the shock of the ball-wound and the subsequent faintness, kept up by loss of blood, were partly over.

“i am dreadfully weak. what an infernal business! where am i?”

“in the woods; in the woods. can you get over to the bush? they might come back.”

383“i’ll try. great scott! it’s my left shoulder.” and he fell in the effort to get to his feet. “i can’t do it. get my flask. ah, that’s better.”

this time he crawled with one arm and jack’s help to the margin of the clearing, and at last lay among the underbrush.

“tie a handkerchief, tight, here, around my arm-pit. i don’t think it bleeds. it might. now lie down, and keep an eye over yonder. in a while i shall be better. what a deuce of a business! now keep quiet. are you loaded?”

“yes—both rifles.”

jack waited, a hand on his rifle. presently carington said, feeling his pocket with the right hand, “george! that’s it. i was a fool. it’s gone! and my watch!”

“how’s that?”

“no matter now. halloa, jack, what is that light?”

“light?”

“yes,” for the upward glow of the blazing cabin now rose in the sky overhead, and soon began to send arrowy flashes of illumination through the trees.

“can’t be the woods,” said carington. “they are all wet, and there are few pines. let us try to get out of it.”

this time he did better, but it was slow work, and jack became more and more anxious as the light grew behind them, and now and then sparks fell through the foliage about their path. they were soon close to the shore.

“stop!” cried the boy. “who’s there?”

384“good heavens!” said lyndsay. “jack! jack!” and rose, at his side, repeated his name. “what is wrong?”

“i got a little hurt,” said carington, leaning against a tree. “that is all. it is of no consequence.”

“he’s shot,” jack blurted out. “a woman shot him. oh, but i’m glad to see you!”

at this rose exclaimed, “shot!” and caught at a great, friendly pine near by and held fast to it, until a moment of its stay sufficed to steady her. “is it bad?” she said, in a voice which elsewhere might have told enough, had the comment of her face been visible.

“no,” said carington, cheerfully. “it is really of no account, miss lyndsay. let us get away. i can tell you all to-morrow.”

lyndsay put a strong arm around him, and, thus aided, they were soon at the shore, where michelle in carington’s canoe lay ready beside lyndsay’s.

“mr. carington’s hurt,” said lyndsay, and in a few words explained the matter.

carington, too weak and dazed to resist, or indeed to care, found himself in a minute in tom’s boat with lyndsay, while rose and jack followed in michelle’s canoe.

“down-stream,” said lyndsay, “and hurry, my men.”

“where are you taking me?” asked carington, feebly.

“to the cliff camp, of course, my dear fellow. we are going to get even on the bear business.”

“you are very good.” he was in dreadful pain, 385but even this did not prevent the pleasant reflection that he was to be under the roof with rose lyndsay.

“by george!” he added, “it hurts.”

“i know well enough,” said lyndsay. “you are not bleeding, however. i still have one of these leaden hornets in me. it takes the pluck out of a fellow, at first.”

“i should think it did!” said carington.

“don’t talk now. it can’t be serious. to-morrow, or later, we shall want to hear more.”

meanwhile rose in her own canoe was hearing from jack all that he knew of the day’s misadventure.

“that will do,” she said, at last, and fell back on her seat, deep in thought. there are some fruits which only winter ripens quickly.