CHAPTER XX
AWAITING THE HANGMAN
Stretched on a rough bed of blanket-covered branches, in a low,
squat log cabin, a man lay smoking his pipe, and conversing in
snatches with two other men who sat by the door, also smoking pipes.
The man on the bed was not yet thirty years old, but his face was
furrowed with lines of care—not only lines of care, but of character.
The hair about his temples was sprinkled with gray, a fact that
added to the dignity of his countenance. In his whole attitude, as
he lay, there was a certain masterful repose and self-confidence,
an air of peace and understanding that sat well upon him.
The men at the door, on the other hand, were nervous and miserable,
and shifted their positions uneasily now and again. A small fire
burned in the middle of the room.
“What time is it, boys?” asked the man on the bunk.
“Three o'clock, Mac,” replied Timmins, pulling on his watch with
fingers that shook, and straining his eyes in the dim light.
“Four or five hours more. That's what I hate, this waiting. I'll
be mighty glad when I hear the steps outside.”
“Don't, Mac, for heaven's sake!” muttered Buxton hoarsely, his
languid drawl gone for once. Then, he burst out: “McTavish, I can't
stand this—this thing that's going to happen. It's murder, that's
what it is! Why don't you tell all the circumstances of that night
Indian Tom was killed?
“It wouldn't get me off, if I did. Can't you see that Fitzpatrick
is going to get me, even if he has to do it with his own hands? I
did tell about going to Peter Rainy in the woods, and it only
strengthened the circumstantial evidence. If I told of the other
person I was with when the shot came, it would only draw out a
flood of revelations, and not in the slightest change the verdict.
Besides, it would bring at least half-a-dozen people to their graves
in shame and sorrow. No, Buxton, even if I could get myself off,
I haven't any right to do it.”
Donald lighted his pipe again and fell into a somber reverie. For
two weeks now, he had been in his cabin, awaiting the end. The men
that sentenced him to death had ordained a fortnight in which he
might change his mind, and save himself, if he would. Now, this
was the finish. He sighed with relief. Then, a tender light came
into his eyes. Only the day before, Jean Fitzpatrick, white and
still with pain, had come to him, and had begged him, on her knees,
to save himself at her expense.
“If you don't confess that I was with you that night, I'll do it
myself,” she had cried, beside Herself.
And he had answered:
“Princess, if you do, I'll deny it.”
But even that had not convinced her, and she had risen with a firm
purpose in her mind. Then, in the supreme renunciation of his life,
he had told her everything; that he was a nobody, according to law;
that her father was merely working out to a triumphal conclusion
the revenge he had plotted so many years, and that there was but
one way of cleaning the slate, which bore the writing of so many
lives.
“When your father has done away with me I think he will be satisfied,
for my father's heart will be broken and all the ambitions that
have carried him to where he is will fall to ashes. I have a mother
and a sister—ah, they would love you, my mother and sister!—and
think what these revelations would mean to them. Disgrace and
dishonor!
“Donald, what about me?” she had cried, weeping. “You haven't
thought about me. You speak of your father and your mother and
sister, but you haven't even mentioned me. Am I nothing to you?
Oh, forgive me! I don't mean that! But, Donald, if I lose you, I
shall die, too. Don't you see I can't live without you? You found
me a girl innocent and ignorant of life, and of men. You were a
good man, and you gave me a good love. And I gave you my love, the
love of a grown woman, suddenly on fire with things I had never
suspected before. Love can't come to me again. Oh, can't you think
of me? And yourself! Haven't you the desire to live life to its
greatest fulfilment? Can you give me up this way?”
Utterly selfish was her grief. But it was the innocent, instinctive
selfishness of the wild thing robbed of its due. Hers was a nature
as strong in its renunciation as in its seeking, but she had not
come to renunciation yet... She stroked his head, pushing back the
fur cap that he wore.
“Oh, my lover, my boy, your hair is streaked with gray! Oh, my poor
darling!”
He smiled wanly.
“That,” he said faintly, “came after I had thought of you—and
given you up!”
Then, the greater woman awakened in her, the woman that has drawn
man's head upon her breast to comfort him since the world began;
the woman that has borne the sons and daughters of the earth amid
pain and fear and ingratitude; the woman that has ever stood aside,
alike in right and wrong, that the man may achieve his destiny.
So, then, stood Jean Fitzpatrick in sight of the trimmed tree-limb
that was soon to bear the body of him whom she knew to be hers.
Her weeping was stilled, and the eyes that looked into the eyes of
Donald McTavish bore alike the pain and the glory of woman's eternal
sacrifice. And to them both came the sense of peace that follows
a bitter struggle won. They talked a while of intimate, tender
things, and then she left him.
“Look at him, Timmins,” whispered Buxton in an awed whisper. “Did
you ever see a face with such glory in it all your life? He's seen
something that you and I will never see, here or hereafter!”
Timmins looked... The light gradually died out before his eyes.
“What time is it, boys?” asked Donald.
“Four o'clock, Mac,” answered Timmins, glancing with difficulty at
the watch that shook in his fingers.
“Let me have my pencil and note-book, will you? I want to write a
letter or two.” The men hesitated, and the condemned man smiled.
“Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll try any funny business at this late
date. I give you my word, and that's still good, isn't it?
“It sure is, Mac,” said Buxton, and he brought him the articles
required.
When the prisoner had begun to write awkwardly by the flickering
light, the men engaged in a whispered conversation.
“Say, Mac—” Timmins began hesitatingly, and paused. Then, abruptly,
he continued boldly: “I've got a proposition to make you.”
“What is it?”
“Buxton and me have agreed it's the only fair thing to do. You take
my revolver, and bang us both over the head with it, and make your
get-away. We'll frame up a good story of a desperate struggle,
and all that, to tell 'em when we come to. Then, nobody'll suffer,
and we won't all have murder on our souls. But give us time to fix
the story up beforehand,” he concluded, whimsically. “You see, we
mightn't be able to think alike afterward.”
Donald actually laughed.
“It's no go, boys,” he said gratefully; “but I'll always remember
your—” He halted blankly, and Buxton cleared his throat viciously,
and spat into the fire. The fact that “always” consisted for him
of perhaps four hours, at most, occurred to the man about to die
with something of surprise for a moment. Then, he went on writing.
He had just sealed a letter, and given it to Timmins, when he
thought he detected a noise outside the cabin. Whether it was a
step or a gruff whisper, he could not say. He listened curiously.
Who should be about at this hour? Surely, it was too early for
the—
“I wonder, do they keep their grub in this shack?” came the whisper
of a man, speaking to a companion.
Where Donald lay, with his ear almost against the logs, the voices
were distinct through the chinks, but did not reach the two guards
at the door. He remained silent. There was a sound of breathing,
and then stealthy steps, as the men pursued their investigations
along the walls. What should he do? Who were they? If he spoke, he
might precipitate some calamity of which he had no inkling. Thinking
hard, he could reason out no situation in the camp that would call
for men to be slinking about looking for food. Besides, every one
knew that the little cabin was not a storehouse.
Knowing their man and sure of their own ability to cope with any
situation that might arise, Timmins and Buxton had not been
over-careful in making the door of the cabin fast. At best, the
bar was only a piece of wood that turned on a peg, and its main
use was to keep the door tightly closed on account of the cold
draft that entered every crack. McTavish had been under guard since
the morning of his arrest, and the watchers were grown careless.
Now, the piece of wood was not turned full across the edge of the
entrance—in fact, it just managed to keep it shut. A good stiff
pull would—
There was a jerk at the outside handle, a cracking and scraping of
wood, an icy blast set the little fire roaring. An instant later,
a long gun, with a muffled face behind it, appeared and covered
the three men.
“Here, you in the corner, get up, and let's see who you are?” said
the man with the gun, and Donald, before that uncompromising barrel,
stood.
“Well, by the great Lucifer,” came the soft oath, “if it isn't
McTavish!”
“What do you want?” demanded Donald; “and who are you?” He resented
this intrusion. The time for letters was growing less and less.
“What, don't you recognize me?” The man thrust his head forward,
and worked his face out of the capote that covered the features.
It was Seguis.
“Well, this is luck,” the half-breed was saying to himself. “All
I have to do now is to take him out of here, and the coast is clear
for my own operations.”
He said a few words in Ojibway, and a couple of men appeared behind
him in the doorway, as he stepped inside.
“Take off your snowshoes,” he ordered Timmins, and the
under-storekeeper obeyed with real joy. Had Seguis known it, the
two men in front of him were much farther from resistance than was
their prisoner.
Under command, McTavish donned the rackets, and followed his new
captor out of doors. He was entirely prepared for traveling, even
to gauntlets, for the temperature of the cabin had been but a few
degrees higher than that of outdoors.
Seguis, with a few words to a couple of followers, gave Donald into
their charge, bidding him accompany them. Timmins and Buxton,
chuckling together, said nothing of the event that Seguis had
interrupted, and even McTavish, in his exalted nervous state, was
not fool enough to remark: “Don't take me away!—for I'm due to be
hanged in the morning.”
Seguis and his free-traders had found the approaches to the camp
ridiculously easy. In fact, for the last few days sentries had been
withdrawn, Fitzpatrick resting assured that the free-traders would
not make an aggressive move. He had learned in a parley that all
Seguis and his men asked was peace, and a chance to follow their
own path. The factor was waiting for reinforcements from Fort
Severn, which he had asked Braithwaite to secure, if possible,
among the friendly trappers; and, until they should arrive, and
the present matter of discipline be off his hands, he had no desire
to make an attack. Consequently, Seguis's party had crept stealthily
closer and closer to the camp, undetected. It was the time when
sleep in the North country is almost a coma, and the quiet approach
aroused no one. In the light of the aurora and the stars, two log
cabins stood forth conspicuously. Knowing Fitzpatrick's love of
ceremony and distinction, Seguis gathered that the larger and better
one was his. If so, the other probably contained provisions.
During the time that he talked to McTavish and his guards, he had
not realized the strange situation in which he found them. As he
came nearer and nearer to Jean Fitzpatrick, his mind had grown more
and more intense against McTavish. What had happened to the
unfortunate Hudson Bay man, he only knew imperfectly. But that the
former should be in constant communication with the girl was a spur
to his jealous imagination. If he could but get his rival out of
the way, for a while at least, things would be so much easier. The
bird had fallen unexpectedly into his hand, and for a time he did
nothing but congratulate himself. McTavish was now on his way to
Sturgeon Lake temporarily, and was safely off the board... But,
after a while, the strangeness of the situation in the cabin struck
him, and he turned to Timmins.
“What was going on in this place when I came in?” he asked.
“We were guarding McTavish.”
“What for?”
“He was to be hanged to-morrow for the murder of Indian Tom.”
Seguis's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged.
“Damnation, you idiot!” he said at last, wrathfully. “Why didn't
you tell me? I wouldn't have interfered for the world.”
