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º

THE HUNTED WOMAN

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR,
THE CourAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM
THE HONOR OF THE BIG SNows
THE GOLD HUNTEEs
THE WOLF HUNTERs
THE DANGER TRAIL
PHILIP STEELE
THE GREAT LAKES
FLOWER OF THE NORTH
ISOBEL
RAZAN
GoD's CountRY—AND THE WOMAN
THE HUNTED WOMAN
THE GRIZZLY KING
BAREE, SON OF KAZAN
“Look at MacDonald. . . . It's not the gold, but MacDonald, that's taking me north, Ladygray.
. . . Up there, another grave is calling MacDonald.”


THE
HUNTED WOMAN
&
º
• . . . "
* * * * *
• *" º
* *
BY ' s
JAMES OLIVER CURwooD
Author of KAZAN, ETC.
Illustrated BY
FRANK B. HOFFMAN
/*N
ºve
NEW YORK
G R O S S E T & D UN LA P
PU B L IS HERS
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by
JAMES OLIVER CURwood
All rights reserved, including that of
* †. translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian
Wały
32.17
{{{…} * A3
2 CA 2:2 *\ o
Kºłº, *
2--1a- 1423
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
TO MY WIFE
AND
OUR COMRADES OF THE TRAIL
* *
418187
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“‘Look at MacDonald. . . . It’s not the gold,
but MacDonald, that’s taking me North, Lady-
gray. . . . Up there, another grave is call-
ing MacDonald.’” (See page 144) . . Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
A tall, slim, exquisitely poised figure. *
“‘Another o’ them Dotty Dimples come out to
save the world. I thought I’d help eggicate her a
little, an’so I senther to Bill's place’” . . . . 10
“A crowd was gathering. . . . A slim, exquis-
itely formed woman in shimmering silk was stand-
ing beside a huge brown bear” . . . . . 102
“‘The tunnel is closed,” she whispered. .
‘That means we have just forty-five minutes to
live. . . . Let us not lie to one another.’”. 200
THE HUNTED WOMAN
THE HUNTED WOMAN
CHAPTER I
even appalling to the woman who sat with the pearl-
gray veil drawn closely about her face. For eighteen
hours she had been a keenly attentive, wide-eyed, and
partly frightened bit of humanity in this onrush of “the
horde.” She had heard a voice behind her speak of it as
“the horde”—a deep, thick, gruff voice which she knew
without looking had filtered its way through a beard.
She agreed with the voice. It was the Horde—that
horde which has always beaten the trails ahead for civiliza-
tion and made of its own flesh and blood the foundation
of nations. For months it had been pouring steadily into
the mountains—always in and never out, a laughing,
shouting, singing, blaspheming Horde, every ounce of it
toughened sinew and red brawn, except the Straying
Angels. One of these sat opposite her, a dark-eyed girl
with over-red lips and hollowed cheeks, and she heard the
bearded man say something to his companions about
“dizzy dolls” and “the little angel in the other seat.”
This same voice, gruffened in its beard, had told her that
ten thousand of the Horde had gone up ahead of them.
Then it whispered something that made her hands suddenly
3
I' WAS all new—most of it singularly dramatic and
4. THE HUNTED WOMAN
tighten and a hot flush sweep through her. She lifted
her veil and rose slowly from her seat, as if to rearrange
her dress. Casually she looked straight into the faces of
the bearded man and his companion in the seat behind.
They stared. After that she heard nothing more of the
Straying Angels, but only a wildly mysterious confabula-
tion about “rock hogs,” and “coyotes” that blew up
whole mountains, and a hundred and one things about
the “rail end.” She learned that it was taking five
hundred steers a week to feed the Horde that lay along
the Grand Trunk Pacific between Hogan's Camp and the
sea, and that there were two thousand souls at Tête
Jaune Cache, which until a few months before had slum-
bered in a century-old quiet broken only by the Indian
and his trade. Then the train stopped in its twisting trail,
and the bearded man and his companion left the car. As
they passed her they glanced down. Again the veil was
drawn close. A shimmering tress of hair had escaped its
bondage; that was all they saw.
The veiled woman drew a deeper breath when they were
gone. She saw that most of the others were getting
off. In her end of the car the hollow-cheeked girl and
she were alone. Even in their aloneness these two women
had not dared to speak until now. The one raised her
veil again, and their eyes met across the aisle. For a
moment the big, dark, sick-looking eyes of the “angel”
stared. Like the bearded man and his companion, she,
too, understood, and an embarrassed flush added to the
colour of the rouge on her cheeks. The eyes that looked
across at her were blue—deep, quiet, beautiful. The
THE HUNTED WOMAN 5
lifted veil had disclosed to her a face that she could not
associate with the Horde. The lips smiled at her—the
wonderful eyes softened with a look of understanding, and
then the veil was lowered again. The flush in the girl’s
cheek died out, and she smiled back.
“You are going to Tête Jaune?” she asked.
“Yes. May I sit with you for a few minutes? I want
to ask questions—so many!”
The hollow-cheeked girl made room for her at her side.
“You are new?”
“Quite new—to this.”
The words, and the manner in which they were spoken,
made the other glance quickly at her companion.
“It is a strange place to go—Téte Jaune,” she said.
“It is a terrible place for a woman.”
* “And yet you are going?”
“I have friends there. Have you?”
“No.”
The girl stared at her in amazement. Her voice and
her eyes were bolder now.
“And without friends you are going—there?” she cried.
“You have no husband—no brother 35
“What place is this?” interrupted the other, raising her
veil so that she could look steadily into the other's face.
“Would you mind telling me?”
“It is Miette,” replied the girl, the flush reddening her
cheeks again. “There's one of the big camps of the
railroad builders down on the Flats. You can see it
through the window. That river is the Athabasca.”
“Will the train stop here very long?”
The Little Angelshrugged her thin shoulders despairingly.
6 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Long enough to get me into The Cache mighty late to-
night,” she complained. “We won’t move for two hours.”
“I’d be so glad if you could tell me where I can go for
a bath and something to eat. I’m not very hungry—but
I’m terribly dusty. I want to change some clothes, too.
Is there a hotel here?”
Her companion found the question very funny. She had
a giggling fit before she answered.
“You’re sure new,” she explained. “We don’t have
hotels up here. We have bed-houses, chuck-tents, and
bunk-shacks. You ask for Bill's Shack down there on the
Flats. It’s pretty good. They’ll give you a room, plenty
of water, and a looking-glass—an’ charge you a dollar.
I’d go with you, but I’m expecting a friend a little later,
and if I move I may lose him. Anybody will tell you
where Bill's place is. It's a red an’ white striped **
and it’s respectable.”
The stranger girl thanked her, and turned for her bag.
As she left the car, the Little Angel’s eyes followed her
with a malicious gleam that gave them the strange glow
of candles in a sepulchral cavern. The colours which she
unfurled to all seeking eyes were not secret, and yet she
was filled with an inward antagonism that this stranger
with the wonderful blue eyes had dared to see them and
recognize them. She stared after the retreating form—a
tall, slim, exquisitely poised figure that filled her with
envy and a dull sort of hatred. She did not hear a step
behind her. A hand fell familiarly on her shoulder, and a
coarse voice laughed something in her ear that made her
jump up with an artificial little shriek of pleasure. The
man nodded toward the end of the now empty car.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 7
“Who’s your new friend?” he asked.
“She’s no friend of mine,” snapped the girl. “She’s
another one of them Dolly Dimples come out to save the
world. She's that innocent she wonders why Téte Jaune
ain’t a nice place for ladies without escort. I thought I’d
help eggicate her a little an’so I sent her to Bill’s place.
Oh, my Lord, I told her it was respectable!”
She doubled over the seat in a fit of merriment, and her
companion seized the opportunity to look out of the
window.
The tall, blue-eyed stranger had paused for a moment
on the last step of the car to pin up her veil, fully revealing
her face. Then she stepped lightly to the ground, and
found herself facing the sunlight and the mountains. She
drew a slow; deep breath between her parted lips, and
Jºurned wonderingly, for a moment forgetful. It was the
†. time she had left the train since entering the moun-
tains, and she understood now why some one in the coach
had spoken of the Miette Plain as Sunshine Pool. Where-
ever she looked the mountains fronted her, with their
splendid green slopes reaching up to their bald caps of
gray shale and reddish rock or gleaming summits of snow.
Into this “pool”—this pocket in the mountains—the sun
descended in a wonderful flood. It stirred her blood like
a tonic. She breathed more quickly; a soft glow coloured
her cheeks; her eyes grew more deeply violet as they
caught the reflection of the blue sky. A gentle wind
fretted the loose tendrils of brown hair about her face.
And the bearded ‘mān, staring through the car window,
saw her thus, and for an hour after that the hollow-cheeked
girl wondered at the strange change in him.
8 THE HUNTED WOMAN
The train had stopped at the edge of the big fill over-
!ooking the Flats. It was a heavy train, and a train that
was helping to make history—a combination of freight,
passenger, and “cattle.” It had averaged eight miles an
hour on its climb toward Yellowhead Pass and the end of
steel. The “cattle” had already surged from their stifling
and foul-smelling cars in a noisy inundation of curiously
mixed humanity. They were of a dozen different nation-
alities, and as the girl looked at them it was not with
revulsion or scorn but with a sudden quickening of heart-
beat and a little laugh that had in it something both of
wonder and of pride. This was the Horde, that crude,
monstrous thing of primitive strength and passions that
was overturning mountains in its fight to link the new
Gränd Trunk Pacific with the seaport on the Pacific. In
that Horde, gathered in little groups, shifting, sweeping
slowly toward her and past her, she saw something as
omnipotenta;§the mountains themselves. They could not
know defeat. She sensed it without ever having seen
them before. For her the Horde now had a heart and a
soul. These were the builders of empire—the man-beasts
who made it possible for Civilization to creep warily and
without peril into new places and new worlds. With a
a curious shock she thought of the half-dozen lonely little
wooden crosses she had seen through the car window at
odd places along the line of rail.
And now she sought her way toward the Flats. To do
this she had to climb over a track that was waiting for
ballast. A car shunted past her, and on its side she saw
the big, warning red placards—DYNAMITE. * - .. That one word
seemed to breathe to her the spirit of the wonderful energy
A tall, slim, exquisiteſ: poised figure. . . . “Another o' them Dotty Dim-
ples come out to save the world. I thought I'd help eggicate her a little, an’
so I sent her to Bºi's place. Oh, my Lord, I told her it was respectable!”
º - -

THE HUNTED WOMAN 9
that was expending itself all about her. From farther
on in the mountains came the deep, sullen detonations of
the “little black giant” that had been rumbling past her
in the car. It came again and again, like the thunderous
voice of the mountains themselves calling out in protest
and defiance. And each time she felt a curious thrill
under her feet and the palpitant touch of something that
was like a gentle breath in her ears. She found another
track on her way, and other cars slipped past her crunch-
ingly. Beyond this second track she came to a beaten road
that led down into the Flats, and she began to descend.
Tents shone through the trees on the bottom. The
rattle of the cars grew more distant, and she heard the
hum and laughter of voices and the jargon of a phono-
graph. At the bottom of the slope she stepped aside to
allow a team and wagon to pass. The wagon was loaded
with boxes that rattled and crashed about as the wheels
bumped over stones and roots. The driver of the team
did not look at her. He was holding back with his whole
weight; his eyes bulged a little; he was sweating, in his
face was a comedy of expression that made the girl Smile
in spite of herself. Then she saw one of the bobbing boxes
and the smile froze into a look of horror. On it was
painted that ominous word—DYNAMITE!
Two men were coming behind her.
“Six horses, a wagon an’ old Fritz—blown to hell an’
not a splinter left to tell the story,” one of them was
saying. “I was there three minutes after the explosion
and there wasn’t even a ravelling or a horsehair left. This
dynamite's a dam’ funny thing. I wouldn’t be a rock-hog
for a unillion!”
10 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I’d rather be a rock-hog than Joe—drivin’ down this
hill a dozen times a day,” replied the other.
The girl had paused again, and the two men stared at
her as they were about to pass. The explosion of Joe's
dynamite could not have startled them more than the
beauty of the face that was turned to them in a quietly
appealing inquiry. -
“I am looking for a place called—Bill’s Shack,” she
said, speaking the Little Sister's words hesitatingly. “Can
you direct me to it, please?”
The younger of the two men looked at his companion
without speaking. The other, old enough to regard
feminine beauty as a trap and an illusion, turned aside to
empty his mouth of a quid of tobacco, bent over, and
pointed under the trees.
“Can’t miss it—third tent-house on your right, with
canvas striped like a barber-pole. That phonnygraff you
hear is at Bill’s.”
“Thank you.”
She went on.
Behind her, the two men stood where she had left them.
They did not move. The younger man seemed scarcely
to breathe.
“Bill’s place?” he gasped then. “I’ve a notion to tell
her. I can’t believe—”
“Shucks!” interjected the other.
“But I don’t. She isn’t that sort. She looked like a
Madonna—with the heart of her clean gone. I never saw
anything so white an' so beautiful. You call me a fool
if you want to—I’m goin’ on to Bill’s!”
He strode ahead, chivalry in his young and palpitating
THE HUNTED WOMAN II
heart. Quickly the older man was at his side, clutching
his arm.
“Come along, you cotton-head!” he cried. “You ain’t
old enough or big enough in this camp to mix in with Bill.
Besides,” he lied, seeing the wavering light in the youth's
eyes, “I know her. She's going to the right place.”
At Bill’s place men were holding their breath and
staring. They were not unaccustomed to women. But
such an one as this vision that walked calmly and undis-
turbed in among them they had never seen. There were
half a dozen lounging there, Smoking and listening to the
phonograph, which some one now stopped that they might
hear every word that was spoken. The girl's head was
high. She was beginning to understand that it would
have been less embarrassing to have gone hungry and
dusty. But she had come this far, and she was deter-
mined to get what she wanted—if it was to be had. The
colour shone a little more vividly through the pure
whiteness of her skin as she faced Bill, leaning over his
little counter. In him she recognized the Brute. It was
blazoned in his face, in the hungry, seeking look of his
eyes—in the heavy pouches and thick crinkles of his
neck and cheeks. For once Bill Quade himself was at a
loss.
“I understand that you have rooms for rent,” she said
unemotionally. “May I hire one until the train leaves
for Tête Jaune Cache?”
The listeners behind her stiffened and leaned forward.
One of them grinned at Quade. This gave him the con-
fidence he needed to offset the fearless questioning in the
12 THE HUNTED WOMAN
blue eyes. None of them noticed a newcomer in the door.
Quade stepped from behind his shelter and faced her.
“This way,” he said, and turned to the drawn curtains
beyond them. -
She followed. As the curtains closed after them a
chuckling laugh broke the silence of the on-looking group.
The newcomer in the doorway emptied the bowl of his
pipe, and thrust the pipe into the breast-pocket of his
flannel shirt. He was bareheaded. His hair was blond,
shot a little with gray. He was perhaps thirty-eight, no
taller than the girl herself, slim-waisted, with trim, athletic
shoulders. His eyes, as they rested on the still-fluttering
curtains, were a cold and steady gray. His face was thin
and bronzed, his nose a trifle prominent. He was a man
far from handsome, and yet there was something of
fascination and strength about him. He did not belong
to the Horde. Yet he might have been the force behind
it, contemptuous of the chuckling group of rough-visaged
men, almost arrogant in his posture as he eyed the curtains
and waited.
What he expected soon came. It was not the usual
giggling, the usual exchange of badinage and coarse jest
beyond the closed curtains. Quade did not come out
rubbing his huge hands, his face crinkling with a sort of
exultant satisfaction. The girl preceded him. She flung
the curtains aside and stood there for a moment, her face
flaming like fire, her blue eyes filled with the flash of
lightning. She came down the single step. Quade fol-
lowed her. He put out a hand. -
“Don’t take offence, girly,” he expostulated. “Look
here—ain’t it reasonable to s'pose—”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 13
He got no farther. The man in the door had advanced,
placing himself at the girl’s side. His voice was low and
unexcited. . -
“You have made a mistake?” he said.
She took him in at a glance—his clean-cut, strangely
attractive face, his slim build, the clear and steady gray
of his eyes.
“Yes, I have made a mistake—a terrible mistake!”
“I tell you it ain’t fair to take offence,” Quade went on.
“Now, look here—” -
In his hand was a roll of bills. The girl did not know
that a man could strike as quickly and with as terrific
effect as the gray-eyed stranger struck then. There was
one blow, and Quade went down limply. It was so sudden
that he had her outside before she realized what had
happened. -
“I chanced to see you go in,” he explained, without a
tremor in his voice. “I thought you were making a
mistake. I heard you ask for shelter. If you will come
with me I will take you to a friend’s.” -
“If it isn’t too much trouble for you, I will go,” she
said. “And for that—in there—thank you!”
CHAPTER II

Tº: passed down an aisle through the tall trees,
on each side of which faced the vari-coloured and
many-shaped architecture of the little town. It
was chiefly of canvas. Now and then a structure of logs
added an appearance of solidity to the whole. The girl
did not look too closely. She knew that they passed
places in which there were long rows of cots, and that
others were devoted to trade. She noticed signs which
advertised soft drinks and cigars—always “soft drinks,”
which sometimes came into camp marked as “dynamite,”
“salt pork,” and “flour.” She was conscious that every
one stared at them as they passed. She heard clearly the
expressions of wonder and curiosity of two women and a
girl who were spreading out blankets in front of a room-
ing-tent. She looked at the man at her side. She
appreciated his courtesy in not attempting to force an
acquaintanceship. In her eyes was a ripple of amusement.
“This is all strange and new to me—and not at all
uninteresting,” she said. “I came expecting—everything.
And I am finding it. Why do they stare at me so? Am I
a curiosity?”
“You are,” he answered bluntly. “You are the most
beautiful woman they have ever seen.”
His eyes encountered hers as he spoke. He had
answered her question fairly. There was nothing that
14
THE HUNTED WOMAN 15
was audacious in his manner or his look. She had asked
for information, and he had given it. In spite of herself
the girl’s lips trembled. Her colour deepened. She
smiled. -
“Pardon me,” she entreated. “I seldom feel like laugh-
ing, but I almost do now. I have encountered so many
curious people and have heard so many curious things
during the past twenty-four hours. You don't believe in
concealing your thoughts out here in the wilderness, do
you?” * . . *
“I haven't expressed my thoughts,” he corrected. “I
was telling you what they think.”
“Oh-h-h—I beg your pardon again!”
“Not at all,” he answered lightly, and now his eyes
were laughing frankly into her own. “I don’t mind
informing you,” he went on, “that I am the biggest
curiosity you will meet between this side of the mountains
and the sea. I am not accustomed to championing
women. I allow them to pursue their own course without
personal interference on my part. But—I suppose it will
give you some satisfaction if I confess it—I followed you
into Bill’s place because you were more than ordinarily
beautiful, and because I wanted to see fair play. I knew
you were making a mistake. I knew what would happen.”
They had passed the end of the street, and entered a
little green plain that was soft as velvet underfoot. On
the farther side of this, sheltered among the trees, were
two or three tents. The man led the way toward these.
“Now, I suppose I’ve spoiled it all,” he went on, a
touch of irony in his voice. “It was really quite heroic
of me to follow you into Bill's place, don't you think?
\
}
16 THE HUNTED WOMAN
i
You probably want to tell me so, but don’t quite dare.
And I should play up to my part, shouldn't I? But I
cannot—not satisfactorily. I’m really a bit disgusted
with myself for having taken as much interest in you as
I have. I write books for a living. My name is John
Aldous.”
With a little cry of amazement, his companion stopped.
Without knowing it, her hand had gripped his arm.
“You are John Aldous—who wrote ‘Fair Play,’ and
“Women!’” she gasped.
“Yes,” he said, amusement in his face.
“I have read those books—and I have read your plays,”
she breathed, a mysterious tremble in her voice. “You
despise women!”
“Devoutly.”
She drew a deep breath. Her hand dropped from his
3.TOOl. *.
“This is very, very funny,” she mused, gazing off to the
sun-capped peaks of the mountains. “You have flayed
women alive. You have made them want to mob you.
And yet 95
“Millions of them read my books,” he chuckled.
“Yes—all of them read your books,” she replied, looking
straight into his face. “And I guess—in many ways—
you have pointed out things that are true.”
It was his turn to show surprise.
“You believe that?”
“I do. More than that—I have always thought that I
knew your secret—the big, hidden thing under your work,
the thing which you do not reveal because you know the
world would laugh at you. And so—you despise me!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 17
“Not you.”
“I am a woman.”
He laughed. The tan in his cheeks burned a deeper
red.
“We are wasting time,” he warned her. “In Bill’s
place I heard you say you were going to leave on the
Tête Jaune train. I am going to take you to a real dinner.
And now—I should let those good people know your
name.”
A moment—unflinching and steady—she looked into
his face.
“It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the
dreadfulest woman in fiction. Joanne Gray.”
“I am sorry,” he said, and bowed low. “Come. If I
am not mistaken I smell new-baked broad.”
As they moved on he suddenly touched her arm. She
felt for a moment the firm clasp of his fingers. There was
a new light in his eyes, a glow of enthusiasm.
“I have it!” he cried. “You have brought it to me—
the idea. I have been wanting a name for her—the
woman in my new book. She is to be a tremendous
surprise. I haven’t found a name, until now—one that
fits. I shall call her Ladygray!”
He felt the girl flinch. He was surprised at the sudden
startled look that shot into her eyes, the swift ebbing of
the colour from her cheeks. He drew away his hand at
the strange change in her. He noticed how quickly she
was breathing—that the fingers of her white hands were
clasped tensely.
“You object,” he said.
| “Not enough to keep you from using it,” she replied
18 THE HUNTED WOMAN
in a low voice. “I owe you a great deal.” He noted,
too, how quickly she had recovered herself. Her head was
a little higher. She looked toward the tents. “You were
not mistaken,” she added. “I smell new-made bread!”
“And I shall emphasize the first half of it—Ladygray,”
said John Aldous, as if speaking to himself. “That
diminutizes it, you might say—gives it the touch of senti-
ment I want. You can imagine a lover saying ‘Dear little
Ladygray, are you warm and comfy? He wouldn’t say
Ladygray as if she wore a coronet, would he?”
“Smell-o'-bread—fresh bread!” Sniffed Joanne Gray, as
if she had not heard him. “It’s making me hungry.
Will you please hurry me to it, John Aldous?”
They were approaching the first of the three tent-houses,
over which was a crudely painted sign which read “Otto
Brothers, Guides and Outfitters.” It was a large, square
tent, with weather-faded red and blue stripes, and from
it came the cheerful sound of a woman’s laughter. Half
a dozen trampish-looking Airedale terriers roused them-
selves languidly as they drew nearer. One of them stood
up and snarled. - º
“They won’t hurt you,” assured Aldous. “They belong
to Jack Bruce and Clossen Otto—the finest bunch of
grizzly dogs in the Rockies.” Another moment, and a
woman had appeared in the door. “And that is Mrs.
Jack Otto,” he added under his breath. “If all women
were like her I wouldn’t have written the things you have
read!”
He might have added that she was Scotch. But this
was not necessary. The laughter was still in her good-
humoured face. Aldous looked at his companion, and hº
THE HUNTED WOMAN 19
found her smiling back. The eyes of the two women had
already met. / |
Briefly Aldous explained what had happend at Quade's,
and that the young woman was leaving on the Tête
Jaune train. The good-humoured smile left Mrs. Otto's
face when he mentioned Quade.
“I’ve told Jack I’d like to poison that man some day,”
she cried. “You poor dear, come in, I’ll get you a cup
of tea.”
“Which always means dinner in the Otto camp,” added
Aldous.
“I’m not so hungry, but I’m tired—so tired,” he heard
the girl say as she went in with Mrs. Otto, and there was
a new and strangely pathetic note in her voice. “I want
to rest—until the train goes.”
He followed them in, and stood for a moment near the
door.
“There’s a room in there, my dear,” said the woman,
drawing back a curtain. “Make yourself at home, and
lie down on the bed until I have the tea ready.”
When the curtain had closed behind her, John Aldous
spoke in a low voice to the woman.
“Will you see her safely to the train, Mrs. Otto?” he
asked. “It leaves at a quarter after two. I must be
going.”
He felt that he had sufficiently performed his duty.
He left the tent, and paused for a moment outside to
touzle affectionately the trampish heads of the bear dogs.
Then he turned away, whistling. He had gone a dozen
teps when a low voice stopped him. He turned. Joanne
had come from the door.


20 THE HUNTED WOMAN
For one moment he stared as if something more won-
derful than anything he had ever seen had risen before
him. The girl was bareheaded, and she stood in a sun
mellowed by a film of cloud. Her head was piled with
lustrous coils of gold-brown hair that her hat and veil
had hidden. Never had he looked upon such wonderful
hair, crushed and crumpled back from her smooth forehead;
nor such marvellous whiteness of skin and pure blue depths
of eyes! In her he saw now everything that was strong
and splendid in woman. She was not girlishly sweet.
She was not a girl. She was a woman—glorious to look
at, a soul glowing out of her eyes, a strength that thrilled
him in the quiet and beautiful mystery of her face.
“You were going without saying good-bye,” she said.
“Won’t you let me thank you—a last time?”
Her voice brought him to himself again. A moment he
bent over her hand. A moment he felt its warm, firm
pressure in his own. The smile that flashed to his lips
was hidden from her as he bowed his blond-gray head.
“Pardon me for the omission,” he apologized. “Good-
bye—and may good luck go with you!”
Their eyes met once more. With another bow he had
turned, and was continuing his way. At the door Joanne
Gray looked back. He was whistling again. His careless,
easy stride was filled with a freedom that seemed to come
to her in the breath of the mountains. And then she, too,
smiled strangely as she reëntered the tent.
CHAPTER III
ward vanquishment he at least was feeling its effect.
For years his writings had made him the target for a
world of women, and many men. The men he had regarded
with indifferent toleration. The women were his life—
the “frail and ineffective creatures” who gave spice to his
great adventure, and made his days anything but monoto-
nous. He was not unchivalrous. Deep down in his heart—
and this was his own secret—he did not even despise women.
But he had seen their weaknesses and their frailties as
perhaps no other man had ever seen them, and he had
written of them as no other man had ever written. This
had brought him the condemnation of the host, the admira-
tion of the few. His own personal veneer of antagonism
against woman was purely artificial, and yet only a few
had guessed it. He had built it up about him as a sort
of protection. He called himself “an adventurer in the
mysteries of feminism,” and to be this successfully he had
argued that he must destroy in himself the usual heart-
emotions of the sex-man and the animal.
How far he had succeeded in this he himself did not
know—until these last moments when he had bid good-bye
to Joanne Gray. He confessed that she had found a cleft
in his armour, and there was an uneasy thrill in his blood.
It was not her beauty alone that had affected him. He
21
I' JOHN ALDOUS had betrayed no visible sign of in-
22 THE HUNTED WOMAN
had trained himself to look at a beautiful woman as he
might have looked at a beautiful flower, confident that if
he went beyond the mere admiration of it he would find
only burned-out ashes. But in her he had seen something
that was more than beauty, something that for a flashing
moment had set stirring every molecule in his being. He
had felt the desire to rest his hand upon her shining hair!
He turned off into a winding path that led into the
thick poplars, restraining an inclination to look back in
the direction of the Otto camp. He pulled out the pipe
he had dropped into his shirt pocket, filled it with fresh
tobacco, and began Smoking. As he smoked, his lips wore
a quizzical smile, for he was honest enough to give Joanne
Gray credit for her triumph. She had awakened a new
kind of interest in him—only a passing interest, to be
sure—but a new kind for all that. The fact amused him.
In a large way he was a humourist—few guessing it, and
he fully appreciated the humour of the present situation—
that he, John Aldous, touted the world over as a woman-
hater, wanted to peer out through the poplar foliage and
see that wonderful gold-brown head shining in the sun
Once more!
He wandered more slowly on his way, wondering with
fresh interest what his friends, the women, would say
when they read his new book. His title for it was “Moth-
ers.” It was to be a tremendous surprise.
Suddenly his face became serious. He faced the sound
of a distant phonograph. It was not the phonograph in
Quade's place, but that of a rival dealer in soft drinks at
the end of the “street.” For a moment Aldous hesitated,
Then he turned in the direction of the camp.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 23
Quade was bolstered up on a stool, his back against the
thin partition, when John Aldous sauntered in. There
was still a groggy look in his mottled face. His thick
bulk hung a bit limply. In his heavy-lidded eyes, under-
hung by watery pouches of sin and dissipation, there was
a vengeful and beastlike glare. He was surrounded by
his friends. One of them was taking a wet cloth from his
head. There were a dozen in the canvas-walled room,
all with their backs to the door, their eyes upon their fallen
and dishonoured chief. For a moment John Aldous paused
in the door. The cool and insolent smile hovered about
his lips again, and little crinkles had gathered at the
corners of his eyes.
“Did I hit you pretty hard, Bill?” he asked.
Every head was turned toward him. Bill Quade stared,
his mouth open. He staggered to his feet, and stood
dizzily.
“You—damn you!” he cried huskily.
Three or four of the men had already begun to move
toward the stranger. Their hands were knotted, their
faces murderously dark.
“Wait a minute, boys,” warned Aldous coolly. “I’ve
got something to say to you—and Bill. Then eat me alive
if you want to. Do you want to be square enough to
give me a word?”
Quade had settled back sickly on his stool. The others
had stopped, waiting. The quiet and insolently confident
Smile had not left Aldous' lips.
“You’ll feel better in a few minutes, Bill,” he consoled.
“A hard blow on the jaw always makes you sick at the
pit of the stomach. That dizziness will pass away shortly.
3.


24 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Meanwhile, I’m going to give you and your pals a little
verbal and visual demonstration of what you're up against,
and warn you to bait no traps for a certain young woman
whom you’ve lately seen. She's going on to Tête Jaune.
And I know how your partner plays his game up there.
I’m not particularly anxious to butt into your affairs and
the business of this pretty bunch that’s gathered about
you, but I’ve come to give you a friendly warning for all
that. If this young woman is embarrassed up at Tête
Jaune you’re going to settle with me.”
Aldous had spoken without a tremor of excitement in
his voice. Not one of the men noticed his speaking lips,
his slim hands, or his careless posture as he leaned in the
door. They were looking straight into his eyes, strangely
scintillating and deadly earnest. In such a man mere
bulk did not count.
“That much—for words,” he went on. “Now I’m
going to give you the visual demonstration. I know your
game, Bill. You're already planning what you’re going
to do. You won’t fight fair—because you never have.
You’ve already decided that some morning I’ll turn up
missing, or be dug out from under a fall of rock, or go
peacefully floating down the Athabasca. See! There’s
nothing in that hand, is there?”
He stretched out an empty hand toward them, palm up.
“And now!”
A twist of the wrist so swift their eyes could not follow,
a metallic click, and the startled group were staring into
the black muzzle of a menacing little automatic.
“That’s known as the sleeve trick, boys,” explained
Aldous with his imperturbable smile. “It’s a relic of the
THE HUNTED WOMAN 25
old gun-fighting days when the best man was quickest.
From now on, especially at night, I shall carry this little
friend of mine just inside my wristband. There are eleven
shots in it, and I shoot fairly straight. Good-day!”
Before they had recovered from their astonishment he
was gone.
He did not follow the road along which Joanne had
come a short time before, but turned again into the
winding trail that led riverward through the poplars.
Where before he had been a little amused at himself, he
was now more seriously disgusted. He was not afraid of
Quade, who was perhaps the most dangerous man along
the line of rail. Neither was he afraid of the lawless men
who worked his ends. But he knew that he had made
powerful enemies, and all because of an unknown woman
whom he had never seen until half an hour before. It
was this that disturbed his equanimity—the woman of it,
and the knowledge that his interference had been unso-
licited and probably unnecessary. And now that he had
gone this far he found it not easy to recover his balance.
Who was this Joanne Gray? he asked himself. She was
not ordinary—like the hundred other women who had
gone on ahead of her to Tête Jaune Cache. If she had
been that, he would soon have been in his little shack on
the shore of the river, hard at work. He had planned
work for himself that afternoon, and he was nettled to
discover that his enthusiasm for the grand finale of a
certain situation in his novel was gone. Yet for this he
did not blame her. He was the fool. Quade and his
friends would make him feel that sooner or later.
His trail led him to a partly dry muskeg bottom.
26 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Beyond this was a thicker growth of timber, mostly spruce
and cedar, from behind which came the rushing sound
of water. A few moments more and he stood with the
wide tumult of the Athabasca at his feet. He had chosen
this spot for his little cabin because the river ran wild
here among the rocks, and because pack-outfits going
into the southward mountains could not disturb him by
fording at this point. Across the river rose the steep
embankments that shut in Buffalo Prairie, and still beyond
that the mountains, thick with timber rising billow on bil-
low until trees looked like twigs, with gray rock and glisten-
ing snow shouldering the clouds above the last purple line.
The cabinin which he had lived and worked for many weeks
faced the river and the distant Saw Tooth Range, and was
partly hidden in a clump of jack-pines. He opened the door
and entered. Through the window to the south and west he
could see the white face of Mount Geikie, and forty miles
away in that wilderness of peaks, the sombre frown of
Hardesty; through it the sun came now, flooding his work
as he had left it. The last page of manuscript on which
he had been working was in his typewriter. He sat down
to begin where he had left off in that pivotal situation in
his masterpiece.
He read and re-read the last two or three pages of the
manuscript, struggling to pick up the threads where he
had dropped them. With each reading he became more
convinced that his work for that afternoon was spoiled.
And by whom? By what? A little fiercely he packed his
pipe with fresh tobacco. Then he leaned back, lighted
it, and laughed. More and more as the minutes passed
he permitted himself to think of the strange young woman
THE HUNTED WOMAN 27
whose beauty and personality had literally projected
themselves into his workshop. He marvelled at the crudity
of the questions which he asked himself, and yet he per-
sisted in asking them. Who was she? What could be
her mission at Tête Jaune Cache? She had repeated to
him what she had said to the girl in the coach—that at
Tête Jaune she had no friends. Beyond that, and her
name, she had offered no enlightenment.
In the brief space that he had been with her he had
mentally tabulated her age as twenty-eight—no older,
Her beauty alone, the purity of her eyes, the freshness of
her lips, and the slender girlishness of her figure, might
have made him say twenty, but with those things he had
found the maturer poise of the woman. It had been a
flashlight picture, but one that he was sure of.
Several times during the next hour he turned to his
work, and at last gave up his efforts entirely. From a
peg in the wall he took down a little rifle. He had found
it convenient to do much of his own cooking, and he had
broken a few laws. The partridges were out of season, but
temptingly fat and tender. With a brace of young
broilers in mind for supper, he left the cabin and followed
the narrow foot-trail up the river. He hunted for half an
hour before he stirred a covey of birds. Two of these he
shot. Concealing his meat and his gun near the trail he
continued toward the ford half a mile farther up, wonder-
ing if Stevens, who was due to cross that day, had got
his outfit over. Not until then did he look at his watch.
He was surprised to find that the Tête Jaune train had
been gone three quarters of an hour. For some unac-
countable reason he felt easier. He went on, whistling.
28 THE HUNTED WOMAN
At the ford he found Stevens standing close to the
river's edge, twisting one of his long red moustaches in
doubt and vexation.
“Damn this river,” he growled, as Aldous came up.
“You never can tell what it’s going to do overnight.
Look there? Would you try to cross?”
“I wouldn’t,” replied Aldous. “It’s a foot higher than
yesterday. I wouldn’t take the chance.”
“Not with two guides, a cook, and a horse-wrangler on
your pay-roll—and a hospital bill as big as Geikie staring
you in the face?” argued Stevens, who had been sick for
three months. “I guess you’d pretty near take a chance.
I’ve a notion to.”
“I wouldn’t,” repeated Aldous.
“But I’ve lost two days already, and I’m taking that
bunch of sightseers out for a lump sum, guaranteeing
'em so many days on the trail. This ain’t what you might
call on the trail. They don’t expect to pay for this delay,
and that outfit back in the bush is costing me thirty
dollars a day. We can get the dunnage and ourselves
over in the flat-boat. It’ll make our arms crack—but
we can do it. I’ve got twenty-seven horses. I’ve a
notion to chase 'em in. The river won’t be any lower
to-morrow.”
“But you may be a few horses ahead.”
Stevens bit off a chunk of tobacco and sat down. For
a few moments he looked at the muddy flood with an
ugly eye. Then he chuckled, and grinned.
“Came through the camp half an hour ago,” he said.
“Hear you cleaned up on Bill Quade.”
“A bit,” said Aldous.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 29
Stevens rolled his quid and spat into the water slushing
at his feet.
“Guess I saw the woman when she got off the train,”
he went on. “She dropped something. I picked it up,
but she was so darned pretty as she stood there looking
about I didn’t dare go up an’ give it to her. If it had
been worth anything I’d screwed up my courage. But it
wasn't—so I just gawped like the others. It was a piece
of paper. Mebby you’d like it as a souvenir, seein’ as
you laid out Quade for her.”
As he spoke, Stevens fished a crumpled bit of paper
from his pocket and gave it to his companion. Aldous
had sat down beside him. He smoothed the page out on
his knee. There was no writing on it, but it was crowded
thick with figures, as if the maker of the numerals had
been doing some problem in mathematics. The chief
thing that interested him was that wherever monetary
symbols were used it was the “pound” and not the
“dollar” sign. The totals of certain columns were rather
startling.
“Guess she’s a millionaire if that’s her own money she’s
been figgering,” said Stevens. “Notice that figger there!”
He pointed with a stubby forefinger. “Pretty near a
billion, ain’t it?”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” said Aldous.
He was thinking of the “pound” sign. She had not
looked like the Englishwomen he had met. He folded
the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.
Stevens eyed him seriously.
“I was coming over to give you a bit of advice before
I left for the Maligne Lake country,” he said. “You’d
30 THE HUNTED WOMAN
better move. Quade won’t want you around after this.
Besides 99
“What?”
'''“My kid heard something,” continued the packer, edg:
ing nearer. “You was mighty good to the kid when I was
down an’ out, Aldous. I ought to tell you. It wasn’t
an hour ago the kid was behind the tent an” he heard
Quade and Slim Barker talking. So far as I can find
from the kid, Quade has gone nutty over her. He’s
ravin’. He told Slim that he’d give ten thousand dollars
to get her in his hands. What sent the boy down to me
was Quade tellin' Slim that he’d get you first. He told
Slim to go on to Tête Jaune—follow the girl!”
“The deuce you say!” cried Aldous, clutching the other’s
arm suddenly. “He’s done that?”
“That’s what the kid says.”
Aldous rose to his feet slowly. The careless smile was
playing about his mouth again. A few men had learned
that in those moments John Aldous was dangerous.
“The kid is undoubtedly right,” he said, looking down
at Stevens. “But I am quite sure the young woman is
capable of taking care of herself. Quade has a tremendous
amount of nerve, setting Slim to follow her, hasn’t he?
Slim may run up against a husband or a brother.”
Stevens haunched his shoulders.
“It’s not the woman I’m thinking about. It’s you.
I’d sure change my location.”
“Why wouldn’t it be just as well if I told the police
of his threat?” asked Aldous, looking across the river with
a glimmer of humour in his eyes.
“Oh, hell!” was the packer's rejoinder.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 31
Slowly he unwound his long legs and rose to his feet.
“Take my advice—move!” he said. “As for me, I’m
going to cross that cussed river this afternoon or know
the reason why.”
He stalked away in the direction of his outfit, chewing
viciously at his quid. For a few moments Aldous stood
undecided. He would liked to have joined the half-dozen
men he saw lounging restfully a distance beyond the
grazing ponies. But Stevens had made him acutely aware
of a new danger. He was thinking of his cabin—and the
priceless achievement of his last months of work, his
manuscript. If Quade should destroy that
He clenched his hands and walked swiftly toward his
camp. To “burn out” an enemy was one of Quade's
favourite methods of retaliation. He had heard this. He
also knew that Quade’s work was done so cleverly that
the police had been unable to call him to account.
Quade's status had interested Aldous from the begin-
ning. He had discovered that Quade and Culver Rann,
his partner at Tête Jaune, were forces to be reckoned with
even by the “powers” along the line of rail. They were
the two chiefs of the “underground,” the men who con-
trolled the most dangerous element from Miette to Fort
George. He had once seen Culver Rann, a quiet, keen-
eyed, immaculately groomed man of forty—the cleverest
scoundrel that had ever drifted into the Canadian west.
He had been told that Rann was really the brain of the
combination, and that the two had picked up a quarter of
a million in various ways. But it was Quade with whom
he had to deal now, and he began to thank Stevens for
his warning. He was filled with a sense of relief when he
32 THE HUNTED WOMAN .
reached his cabin and found it as he had left it. He
always made a carbon copy of his work. This copy he
now put into a waterproof tin box, and the box he con-
cealed under a log a short distance back in the bush.
“Now go ahead, Quade,” he laughed to himself, a
curious, almost exultant ring in his voice. “I haven’t
had any real excitement for so long I can’t remember, and
if you start the fun there's going to be fun!”
He returned to his birds, perched himself behind a bush
at the river's edge, and began skinning them. He had
almost finished when he heard hoarse shouts from up the
river. From his position he could see the stream a hundred
yards below the ford. Stevens had driven in his horses.
He could see them breasting the first sweep of the current,
their heads held high, struggling for the opposite shore.
He rose, dropped his birds, and stared.
“Good God, what a fool!” he gasped.
He saw the tragedy almost before it had begun. Still
three hundred yards below the swimming horses was the
gravelly bar which they must reach on the opposite side.
He noted the grayish strip of smooth water that marked
the end of the dead-line. Three or four of the stronger
animals were forging steadily toward this. The others
grouped close together, almost motionless in their last
tremendous fight, were left farther and farther behind.
Then came the break. A mare and her yearling colt had
gone in with the bunch. Aldous saw the colt, with its
small head and shoulders high out of the water, sweep
down like a chip with the current. A cold chill ran
through him as he heard the whinneying scream of the
mother—a warning cry that held for him the pathos and
tº
\
t
*
THE HUNTED WOMAN
the despair of a creature that was human. *Hå.
it meant. “Wait—I’m coming—I’m comingºw;
cry. He saw the mare give up and folloºſesi
'; *†, , ;
with the deadly current, her eyes upon he º
heads behind her wavered, then turned, apſ A:
moment the herd was sweeping º # tºti
Aldous felt like turning his head. But the spºtaºlº s
fascinated him, and he looked. He dº not tº
Stevens and his loss as the first of the herd #lungăd inj.
among the rocks. He stood with white facear f clenched?&
hands, leaning over the water boiling at his fººt, cursing ; :
softly in his helplessness. To him came the last terriñe. 3
cries of the perishing animals. He saw head after head º
go under. Out of the white spume of a great rock against "...
which the flood split itself with the force of an avalanche ~ *
he saw one horse pitched bodily, as if thrown from a huge
catapault. The last animal had disappeared when chance
turned his eyes upstream and close in to shore. Here
flowed a steady current free of rock, and down this—head
and shoulders still high out of the water—came the colt!
What miracle had saved the little fellow thus far Aldous
did not stop to ask. Fifty yards below it would meet the
fate of the others. Half that distance in the direction of
the maelstrom below was the dead trunk of a fallen spruce
overhanging the water for fifteen or twenty feet. In a
flash Aldous was racing toward it. He climbed out on it,
leaned far over, and reached down. His hand touched
the water. In the grim excitement of rescue he forgot
his own peril. There was one chance in twenty that the
colt would come within his reach, and it did. He made
a single lunge and caught it by the ear. For a moment






34 THE HUNTED WOMAN
after that his heart turned sick. Under the added strain
the dead spruce sagged down with a warning crack. But
it held, and Aldous hung to his grip on the ear. Foot by
foot he wormed his way back, until at last he had dragged
the little animal ashore.
And then a voice spoke behind him, a voice that he
would have recognized among ten thousand, low, Sweet,
thrilling.
“That was splendid, John Aldous!” it said. “If I
were a man I would want to be a man like you!”
He turned. A few steps from him stood Joanne Gray.
Her face was as white as the bit of lace at her throat. Her
lips were colourless, and her bosom rose and fell swiftly.
He knew that she, too, had witnessed the tragedy. And
the eyes that looked at him were glorious.
CHAPTER IV
T JOHN ALDOUS Joanne's appearance at this
moment was like an anti-climax. It plunged him
headlongforasingle momentinto what he believed
to be the absurdity of a situation. He had a quick mental
picture of himself out on the dead spruce, performing a
bit of mock-heroism by dragging in a half-drowned colt
by one ear. In another instant this had passed, and he
was wondering why Joanne Gray was not on her way to
Tête Jaune.
“It was splendid!” she was saying again, her eyes
glowing at him. “I know men who would not have
risked that for a human!”
“Perhaps they would have been showing good judg-
ment,” replied Aldous.
He noticed now that she was holding with one hand
the end of a long slender sapling which a week or two
before he had cut and trimmed for a fish-pole. He nodded
toward it, a half-cynical smile on his lips.
“Were you going to fish me out—or the colt?” he asked.
“You,” she replied. “I thought you were in danger.”
And then she added, “I suppose you are deeply grateful
that fate did not compel you to be saved by a woman.”
“Not at all. If the spruce had snapped, I would have
caught at the end of your sapling like any drowning rat-
or man. Allow me to thank you.”
35
36 THE HUNTED WOMAN
She had stepped down to the level strip of sand on
which the colt was weakly struggling to rise to its feet.
She was breathing quickly. Her face was still pale. She
was without a hat, and as she bent for a moment over the
colt Aldous felt his eyes drawn irresistibly to the soft thick
coils of her hair, a glory of colour that made him think
of the lustrous brown of a ripe wintelberry. She looked
up suddenly and caught his eyes upon her.
“I came quite by accident,” she explained quickly.
“I wanted to be alone, and Mrs. Otto said this path would
lead to the river. When I saw you I was about to turn
back. And then I saw the other—the horses coming
down the stream. It was terrible. Are they all drowned?”
“All that you saw. It wasn’t a pretty sight, was it?”
There was a suggestive inquiry in his voice as he added,
“If you had gone to Tête Jaune you would have missed
the unpleasantness of the spectacle.”
“I would have gone, but something happened. They
say it was a cave-in, a slide—something like that. The
train cannot go on until to-morrow.”
“And you are to stay with the Ottos?”
She nodded.
Quick as a flash she had seemed to read his thoughts.
“I am sorry,” she added, before he could speak. “I
can see that I have annoyed you. I have literally pro-
jected myself into your work, and I am afraid that I have
caused you trouble. Mrs. Otto has told me of this man
they call Quade. She says he is dangerous. And I have
made him your enemy.”
“I am not afraid of Quade. The incident was nothing
more than an agreeable interruption to what was becoming
*
THE HUNTED WOMAN 37
a rather monotonous existence up here. I have always
believed, you know, that a certain amount of physical
excitement is good oil for our mental machinery. That,
perhaps, was why you caught me hauling at His Coltship's
ear.”
He had spoken stiffly. There was a hard note in his
voice, a suggestion of something that was displeasing in
his forced laugh. He knew that in these moments he was
fighting against his inner self—against his desire to tell
her how glad he was that something had held back the
Tête Jaune train, and how wonderful her hair looked in
the afternoon sun. He was struggling to keep himself
behind the barriers he had built up and so long maintained
in his writings. And yet, as he looked, he felt something
crumbling into ruins. He knew that he had hurt her.
The hardness of his words, the coldness of his smile, his
apparently utter indifference to her had sent something
that was almost like a quick, physical pain into her eyes.
He drew a step nearer, so that he caught the soft contour
of her cheek. Joanne Gray heard him, and lowered her
head slightly, so that he could not see. She was a moment
too late. On her cheek Aldous saw a single creeping
drop—a tear.
In an instant he was at her side. With a quick move-
ment she brushed the tear away before she faced
him.
“I’ve hurt you,” he said, looking her straight in the
eyes. “I’ve hurt you, and God knows I’m a brute for
doing it. I’ve treated you as badly as Quade—only in a
different way. I know how I’ve made you feel—that
you’ve been a nuisance, and have got me into trouble,
38 THE HUNTEE) WOMAN
and that I don’t want to have anything more to do with
you. Have I made you feel that?”
“I am afraid—you have.”
He reached out a hand, and almost involuntarily her
own came to it. She saw the change in his face, regret,
pain, and then that slow-coming, wonderful laughter in
his eyes. g
“That’s just how I set out to make you feel,” he con-
fessed, the warmth of her hand sending a thrill through
him. “I might as well be frank, don’t you think? Until
you came I had but one desire, and that was to finish my
book. I had planned great work for to-day. And you
spoiled it. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. And it
made me—ugly.”
“And that was—all?” she whispered, a tense waiting
in her eyes. “You didn’t thin 33
“What Quade thought,” he bit in sharply. The grip of
his fingers hurt her hand. “No, not that. My God, I
didn’t make you think that ?”
“I’m a stranger—and they say women don’t go to Tête
Jaune alone,” she answered doubtfully.
“That’s true, they don't—not as a general rule. Es-
pecially women like you. You're alone, a stranger, and
too beautiful. I don’t say that to flatter you. You are
beautiful, and you undoubtedly know it. To let you go
on alone and unprotected among three or four thousand
men like most of those up there would be a crime. And
the women, too—the Little Sisters. They’d blast you.
If you had a husband, a brother or a father waiting for
you it would be different. But you’ve told me you
haven’t. You have made me change my mind about my
THE HUNTED WOMAN 39
book. You are of more interest to me just now than that.
Will you believe me? Will you let me be a friend, if you
need a friend?”
To Aldous it seemed that she drew herself up a little
proudly. For a moment she seemed taller. A rose-flush
of colour spread over her cheeks. She drew her hand
from him. And yet, as she looked at him, he could see
that she was glad.
“Yes, I believe you,” she said. “But I must not accept
your offer of friendship. You have done more for me now
than I can ever repay. Friendship means service, and to
serve me would spoil your plans, for you are in great haste
to complete your book.”
“If you mean that you need my assistance, the book
can wait.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” she cut in quickly, her lips
tightening slightly. “It was utterly absurd of me to hint
that I might require assistance—that I cannot take care
of myself. But I shall be proud of the friendship of John
Aldous.”
“Yes, you can take care of yourself, Ladygray,” said
Aldous softly, looking into her eyes and yet speaking as
if to himself. “That is why you have broken so curiously
into my life. It’s that—and not your beauty. I have
known beautiful women before. But they were—just
women, frail things that might snap under stress. I have
always thought there is only one woman in ten thousand
who would not do that—under certain conditions. I
believe you are that one in ten thousand. You can go on
to Tête Jaune alone. You can go anywhere alone—and
care for yourself.”
40 THE HUNTED WOMAN
He was looking at her so strangely that she held her
breath, her lips parted, the flush in her cheeks deepening.
“And the strangest part of it all is that I have always
known you away back in my imagination,” he went on.
“You have lived there, and have troubled me. I could
not construct you perfectly. It is almost inconceivable
that you should have borne the same name—Joanne.
Joanne, of ‘Fair Play.’”
She gave a little gasp.
“Joanne was—terrible,” she cried. “She was bad—bad
to the heart and soul of her!”
“She was splendid,” replied Aldous, without a change
in his quiet voice. “She was splendid—but bad. I
racked myself to find a soul for her, and I failed. And yet
she was splendid. It was my crime—not hers—that she
lacked a soul. She would have been my ideal, but I
spoiled her. And by spoiling her I sold half a million
copies of the book. I did not do it purposely. I would
have given her a soul if I could have found one. She went
her way.”
“And you compare me to-her?”
“Yes,” said Aldous deliberately. “You are that Joanne.
But you possess what I could not give to her. Joanne of
‘Fair Play” was splendid without a soul. You have what
she lacked. You may not understand, but you have
come to perfect what I only partly created.”
The colour had slowly ebbed from Joanne's face. There
was a mysterious darkness in her eyes.
“If you were not John Aldous I would—strike you,”
she said. “As it is—yes—I want you as a friend.”
She held out her hand. For a moment he felt its
THE HUNTED WOMAN
warmth again in his own. He bowed over it. Her eyes
rested steadily on his blond head, and again she noted
the sprinkle of premature gray in his hair. For a second
time she felt almost overwhelmingly the mysterious
strength of this man. Perhaps each took three breaths
before John Aldous raised his head. In that time some-
thing wonderful and complete passed between them.
Neither could have told the other what it was. When their
eyes met again, it was in their faces.
“I have planned to have supper in my cabin to-night,”
said Aldous, breaking the tension of that first moment.
“Won’t you be my guest, Ladygray?”
“Mrs. Otto ” she began.
“I will go to her at once and explain that you are going
to eat partridges with me,” he interrupted. “Come—let
me show you into my workshop and home.”
He led her to the cabin and into its one big room.
“You will make yourself at home while I am gone,
won’t you?” he invited. “If it will give you any pleasure
you may peel a few potatoes. I won’t be gone ten min-
utes.”
Not waiting for any protest she might have, Aldous
slipped back through the door and took the path up to
the Ottos’.
CHAPTER V
S SOON as he had passed from the view of the
A cabin door Aldous shortened his pace. He knew
that never in his life had he needed to readjust
himself more than at the present moment. A quarter of
an hour had seen a complete and miraculous revolution
within him. It was a change so unusual and apparently
so impossible that he could not grasp the situation and
the fact all at once. But the truth of it swept over him
more and more swiftly as he made his way along the dark,
narrow trail that led up to the Miette Plain. It was
something that not only amazed and thrilled him. First—
as in all things—he saw the humour of it. He, John
Aldous of all men, had utterly obliterated himself, and
for a woman. He had even gone so far as to offer the
sacrifice of his most important work. Frankly he had
told Joanne that she interested him more just now than
his book. Again he repeated to himself that it had not
been a surrender—but an obliteration. With a pair of
lovely eyes looking quietly into him, he had wiped the
slate clean of the things he had preached for ten years and
the laws he had made for himself. And as he came in
sight of the big Otto tent, he found himself smiling, his
breath coming quickly, strange voices singing within him.
He stopped to load and light his pipe before he faced
Mrs. Otto, and he clouded himself in as much smoke as
42
THE HUNTED WOMAN 43
possible while he explained to her that he had almost
forced Joanne to stop at his cabin and eat partridges with
him. He learned that the Tête Jaune train could not go
on until the next day, and after Mrs. Otto had made him
take a loaf of fresh bread and a can of home-made marma-
lade as a contribution to their feast, he turned back toward
the cabin, trying to whistle in his old careless way.
The questions he had first asked himself about Joanne
forced themselves back upon him now with deeper import.
Almost unconsciously he had revealed himself to her. He
had spread open for her eyes and understanding the page
which he had so long hidden. He had as much as con-
fessed to her that she had come to change him—to complete
what he had only half created. It had been an almost
inconceivable and daring confession, and he believed that
she understood him. More than that, she had read about
him. She had read his books. She knew John Aldous—
the man.
But what did he know about her beyond the fact that
her name was Joanne Gray, and that the on-sweeping
Horde had brought her into his life as mysteriously as a
storm might have flung him a bit of down from a Swan's
breast? Where had she come from? And why was she
going to Tête Jaune? It must be some important motive
was taking her to a place like Tête Jaune, the rail-end, a
place of several thousand men, with its crude muscle and
brawn and the seven passions of man. It was an impossi-
ble place for a young and beautiful woman unprotected.
If Joanne had known any one among the engineers or
contractors, or had she possessed a letter of introduction
to them, the tense lines would not have gathered so deeply
44 THE HUNTED WOMAN .
about the corners of Aldous’ mouth. But these men
whose brains were behind the Horde—the engineers and
the contractors—knew what women alone and unprotected
meant at Tête Jaune. Such women floated in with the
Horde. And Joanne was going in with the Horde. There
lay the peril—and the mystery of it.
So engrossed was Aldous in his thoughts that he had
come very quietly to the cabin door. It was Joanne's
voice that roused him. Sweet and low she was singing a
few lines from a song which he had never heard.
She stopped when Aldous appeared at the door. It
seemed to him that her eyes were a deeper, more wonderful
blue as she looked up at him, and smiled. She had found
a towel for an apron, and was peeling potatoes.
“You will have some unusual excuses to make very
soon,” she greeted him. “We had a visitor while you
were gone. I was washing the potatoes when I looked
up to find a pair of the fiercest, reddest moustaches I have
ever seen, ornamenting the doorway. The man had two
eyes that seemed about to fall out when he saw me. He
popped away like a rabbit—and—and—there's something
he left behind in his haste!” .
Joanne's eyes were flooded with laughter as she nodded
at the door. On the sill was a huge quid of tobacco.
“Stevens!” Aldous chuckled. “God bless my soul, if
you frightened him into giving up a quid of tobacco like
that you sure did startle him some!” He kicked Stevens’
lost property out with the toe of his boot and turned to
Joanne, showing her the fresh bread and marmalade.
“Mrs. Otto sent these to you,” he said. “And the train
won’t leave until to-morrow.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 45
In her silence he pulled a chair in front of her, sat down
close, and thrust the point of his hunting knife into one
of the two remaining potatoes.
“And when it does go I’m going with you,” he added.
He expected this announcement would have some effect
on her. As she jumped up with the pan of potatoes,
leaving the one still speared on the end of his knife, he
caught only the corner of a bewitching smile.
“You still believe that I will be unable to take care of
myself up at this terrible Tête Jaune?” she asked, bending
for a moment over the table. “Do you?”
“No. You can care for yourself anywhere, Ladygray,”
he repeated. “But I am quite sure that it will be less
troublesome for me to see that no insults are offered you
than for you to resent those insults when they come.
Tête Jaune is full of Quades,” he added.
The smile was gone from her face when she turned to
him. Her blue eyes were filled with a tense anxiety.
“I had almost forgotten that man,” she whispered.
“And you mean that you would fight for me—again?”
“A thousand times.”
The colour grew deeper in her cheeks. “I read some-
thing about you once that I have never forgotten, John
Aldous,” she said. “It was after you returned from
Thibet. It said that you were largely made up of two
emotions—your contempt for woman and your love of
adventure; that it would be impossible for you not to see
a flaw in one, and that for the other—physical excitement—
you would go to the ends of the earth. Perhaps it is
this—your desire for adventure—that makes you want to
go with me to Tête Jaune?”
46 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I am beginning to believe that it will be the greatest
adventure of my life,” he replied, and something in his
quiet voice held her silent. He rose to his feet, and stood
before her. “It is already the Great Adventure,” he
went on. “I feel it. And I am the one to judge. Until
to-day I would have staked my life that no power could
have wrung from me the confession I am going to make
to you voluntarily. I have laughed at the opinion the
world has held of me. To me it has all been a colossal
joke. I have enjoyed the hundreds of columns aimed at
me by excited women through the press. They have all
asked the same question: Why do you not write of the
good things in women instead of always the bad? I have
never given them an answer. But I answer you now—here.
I have not picked upon the weaknesses of women because
I despise them. Those weaknesses—the destroying frail-
ties of womankind—I have driven over roughshod through
the pages of my books because I have always believed
that Woman was the one thing which God came nearest
to creating perfect. I believe they should be perfect. And
because they have not quite that perfection which should
be theirs I have driven the cold facts home as hard as I
could. I have been a fool and an iconoclast instead of a
builder. This confession to you is proof that you have
brought me face to face with the greatest adventure of all.”
The colour in her cheeks had centred in two bright
spots. Her lips formed words which came slowly,
strangely.
“I guess—I understand,” she said. “Perhaps I, too,
would have been that kind of an iconoclast—if I could
have put the things I have thought into written words.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 47
She drew a deep breath, and went on, her eyes full upon
him, speaking as if out of a dream. “The Great Adven-
ture—for you. Yes; and perhaps for both.”
Her hands were drawn tightly to her breast. Something
about her as she stood there, her back to the table, drew
John Aldous to her side, forced the question from his lips:
“Tell me, Ladygray—why are you going to Tête Jaune?”
In that same strange way, as if her lips were framing
words beyond their power to control, she answered:
“I am going—to find—my husband.”
CHAPTER VI
stood before her after those last words. A slight
noise outside gave him the pretext to turn to the
door. She was going to Tête Jaune—to find her husband!
He had not expected that. For a breath, as he looked
out toward the bush, his mind was in a strange daze. A
dozen times she had given him to understand there was no
husband, father, or brother waiting for her at the rail-end.
She had told him that she was alone—without friends.
And now, like a confession, those words had come strangely
from her lips.
What he had heard was one of Otto's pack-horses coming
down to drink. He turned toward her again.
Joanne stood with her back still to the table. She had
slipped a hand into the front of her dress and had drawn
forth a long thick envelope. As she opened it, Aldous
saw that it contained banknotes. From among these she
picked out a bit of paper and offered it to him.
“That will explain—partly,” she said. *
It was a newspaper clipping, worn and faded, with a
date two years old. It had apparently been cut from an
English paper, and told briefly of the tragic death of
Mortimer FitzHugh, son of a prominent Devonshire
family, who had lost his life while on a hunting trip in the
British Columbia Wilds.
S:T, his head bowed a little, John Aldous
48
THE HUNTED WOMAN 49
“He was my husband,” said Joanne, as Aldous finished.
“Until six months ago I had no reason to believe that the
statement in the paper was not true. Then—an acquain-
tance came out here hunting. He returned with a strange
story. He declared that he had seen Mr. FitzHugh alive.
Now you know why I am here. I had not meant to tell
you. It places me in a light which I do not think that
I can explain away—just now. I have come to prove or
disprove his death. If he is alive—”
For the first time she betrayed the struggle she was
making against some powerful emotion which she was
fighting to repress. Her face had paled. She stopped
herself with a quick breath, as if knowing that she had
already gone too far.
“I guess I understand,” said Aldous. “For some
reason your anxiety is not that you will find him dead,
Ladygray, but that you may find him alive.”
“Yes—yes, that is it. But you must not urge me
farther. It is a terrible thing to say. You will think I
am not a woman, but a fiend. And I am your guest.
You have invited me to supper. And—the potatoes are
ready, and there is no fire!”
She had forced a smile back to her lips. John Aldous
whirled toward the door.
“I will have the partridges in two seconds!” he cried.
“I dropped them when the horses went through the
rapids.”
The oppressive and crushing effect of Joanne's first
mention of a husband was gone. He made no effort to
explain or analyze the two sudden changes that swept over
bim. He accepted them as facts, and that was all.
50 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Where a few moments before there had been the leaden
grip of something that seemed to be physically choking
him, there was now again the strange buoyancy with which
he had gone to the Otto tent. He began to whistle as
he went to the river’s edge. He was whistling when he
returned, the two birds in his hand. Joanne was waiting
for him in the door. Again her face was a faintly tinted
vision of tranquil loveliness; her eyes were again like the
wonderful blue pools over the sunlit mountains. She
Smiled as he came up. He was amazed—not that she
had recovered so completely from the emotional excite-
ment that had racked her, but because she betrayed in no
way a sign of grief—of suspense or of anxiety. A few
minutes ago he had heard her singing. He could almost
believe that her lips might break into song again as she
stood there.
From that moment until the sun sank behind the
mountains and gray shadows began to creep in where the
light had been, there was no other reference to the things
that had happened or the things that had been said since
Joanne’s arrival. For the first time in years John Aldous
completely forgot his work. He was lost in Joanne.
With the tremendous reaction that was working out in
him she became more and more wonderful to him with
each breath that he drew. He made no effort to control
the change that was sweeping through him. His one
effort was to keep it from being too apparent to her.
The way in which Joanne had taken his invitation was
as delightful as it was new to him. She had become both
guest and hostess. With her lovely arms bared halfway
to the shoulders she rolled out a batch of biscuits. “Hot
THE HUNTED WOMAN 51
biscuits go so well with marmalade,” she told him. He
built a fire. Beyond that, and bringing in the water, she
gave him to understand that his duties were at an end,
and that he could smoke while she prepared the supper.
With the beginning of dusk he closed the cabin door that
he might have an excuse for lighting the big hanging lamp
a little earlier. He had imagined how its warm glow
would flood down upon the thick soft coils of her shining
hair.
Every fibre in him throbbed with a keen and exquisite
satisfaction as he sat down opposite her. During the
meal he looked into the quiet, velvety blue of her eyes a
hundred times. He found it a delightful sensation to talk
to her and look into those eyes at the same time. He told
her more about himself than he had ever told another soul.
It was she who spoke first of the manuscript upon which
he was working. He had spoken of certain adventures
that had led up to the writing of one of his books.
“And this last book you are writing, which you call
‘Mothers,’” she said. “Is it to be like ‘Fair Play?’”
“It was to have been the last of the trilogy. But it
won’t be now, Ladygray. I’ve changed my mind.”
“But it is so nearly finished, you say?”
“I would have completed it this week. I was rushing
it to an end at fever heat when—you came.”
He saw the troubled look in her eyes, and hastened to
add:
“Let us not talk about that manuscript, Ladygray.
Some day I will let you read it, and then you will under-
stand why your coming has not hurt it. At first I was
unreasonably disturbed because I thought that I must
52 THE HUNTED WOMAN
finish it within a week from to–day. I start out on a
new adventure then—a strange adventure, into the
North.”
“That means—the wild country?” she asked. “Up
there in the North—there are no people?”
“An occasional Indian, perhaps a prospector now and
then,” he said. “Last year I travelled a hundred and
twenty-seven days without seeing a human face except
that of my Cree companion.”
She had leaned a little over the table, and was looking
at him intently, her eyes shining.
“That is why I have understood you, and read between
the printed lines in your books,” she said. “If I had been
a man, I would have been a great deal like you. I love
those things—loneliness, emptiness, the great spaces where
you hear only the whisperings of the winds and the fall
of no other feet but your own. Oh, I should have been a
man! It was born in me. It was a part of me. And I
loved it—loved it.”
A poignant grief had shot into her eyes. Her voice
broke almost in a sob. Amazed, he looked at her in
silence across the table.
“You have lived that life, Ladygray?” he said after a
moment. “You have seen it?”
“Yes,” she nodded, clasping and unclasping her slim
white hands. “For years and years, perhaps even more
than you, John Aldous! I was born in it. And it was
my life for a long time—until my father died.” She
paused, and he saw her struggling to subdue the quivering
throb in her throat. “We were inseparable,” she went on,
her voice becoming suddenly strange and quiet. “He
THE HUNTED WOMAN 53
was father, mother—everything to me. It was too won-
derful. Together we hunted out the mysteries and the
strange things in the out-of-the-way places of the earth.
It was his passion. He had given birth to it in me. I
was always with him, everywhere. And then he died,
soon after his discovery of that wonderful buried city of
Mindano, in the heart of Africa. Perhaps you have
read 9 3
“Good God,” breathed Aldous, so low that his voice
did not rise above a whisper. “Joanne—Ladygray—you
are not speaking of Daniel Gray—Sir Daniel Gray, the
Egyptologist, the antiquarian who uncovered the secrets
of an ancient and wonderful civilization in the heart of
darkest Africa?”
66 Yes.”
“And you—are his daughter?”
She bowed her head.
Like one in a dream John Aldous rose from his chair
and went to her. He seized her hands and drew her up
so that they stood face to face. Again that strange and
beautiful calmness filled her eyes.
“Our trails have strangely crossed, Lady Joanne,”
he said. “They have been crossing—for years. While
Sir Daniel was at Murja, on the eve of his great discovery,
. I was at St. Louis on the Senegal coast. I slept in that
little Cape Verde hotel, in the low whitewashed room
overlooking the sea. The proprietor told me that Sir
Daniel had occupied it before me, and I found a broken
fountain pen in the drawer of that sickly black teakwood
desk, with the carved serpent’s head. And I was at
Gampola at another time, headed for the interior of
54 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Ceylon, when I learned that I was travelling again one of
Sir Daniel’s trails. And you were with him!”
“Always,” said Joanne.
For a few tense moments they had looked steadily into
each other’s eyes. Swiftly, strangely, the world was bridg-
ing itself for them. Their minds swept back swiftly as
the fire in a thunder-sky. They were no longer strangers,
They were no longer friends of a day. The grip of Aldous’
hands tightened. A hundred things sprang to his lips.
Before he could speak, he saw a sudden, startled change
leap into Joanne's face. She had turned her face a little,
so that she was looking toward the window. A frightened
cry broke from her lips. Aldous whirled about. There
was nothing there. He looked at Joanne again. She was
white and trembling. Her hands were clutched at her
breast. Her eyes, big and dark and staring, were still fixed
on the window.
“That man!” she panted. “His face was there—
against the glass—like a devil’s!”
“Quade?”
“Yes.”
She caught at his arm as he sprang toward the door.
“Stop!” she cried. “You mustn't go ou 3 5.
For a moment he turned at the door. He was as she
had seen him in Quade's place, terribly cool, a strange,
quiet Smile on his lips. His eyes were gray, smiling steel.
“Close the door after me and lock it until I return,” he
said. “You are the first woman guest I ever had, Lady-
gray. I cannot allow you to be insulted!”
As he went out she saw him slip something from his
pocket. She caught the glitter of it in the lamp-glow.
CHAPTER VII
He ran with the quickness of a hare around the end
of the cabin, past the window, and then stopped to
listen, his automatic in his hand, his eye piercing the
gloom for some moving shadow. He had not counted on
an instant’s hesitation. He would shoot Quade, for he
knew why the mottled beast had been at the window.
Stevens’ boy had been right. Quade was after Joanne.
His ugly soul was disrupted with a desire to possess her,
and Aldous knew that when roused by passion he was
more like a devil-fish than a man—a creeping, slimy,
night-seeking creature who had not only the power of the
underworld back of him, but wealth as well. He did not
think of him as a man as he stood listening, but as a beast.
He was ready to shoot. But he saw nothing. He heard
no sound that could have been made by a stumbling foot or
a moving body. An hour later, the moon would have been
up, but it was dark now except for the stars. He heard the
hoot of an owl a hundred yards away. Out in the river
something splashed. From the timber beyond Buffalo
Prairie came the yapping bark of a coyote. For five minutes
he stood as silent as one of the rocks behind him. He
realized that to go on—to seek blindly for Quade in the
darkness, would be folly. He went back, tapped at the door,
and reëntered the cabin when Joanne threw back the lock. ſ
55
I WAS in the blood of John Aldous to kill Quade.
56 THE HUNTED WOMAN
She was still pale. Her eyes were bright.
“I was coming—in a moment,” she said. “I was
beginning to fear that 53
“—he had struck me down in the dark?” added Aldous,
as she hesitated. “Well, he would like to do just that,
Joanne.” Unconsciously her name had slipped from him,
It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to
call her Joanne now. “Is it necessary for me to tell you
what this man Quade is—why he was looking through the
window?”
She shuddered.
“No–no—I understand!”
“Only partly,” continued Aldous, his face white and
set. “It is necessary that you should know more than
you have guessed, for your own protection. If you were
like most other women I would not tell you the truth, but
would try to shield you from it. As it is you should know.
There is only one other man in the Rocky Mountains
more dangerous than Bill Quade. He is Culver Rann, up
at Tête Jaune. They are partners—partners in crime, in
sin, in everything that is bad and that brings them gold.
Their influence among the rougher elements along the line
of rail is complete. They are so strongly entrenched that
they have put contractors out of business because they
would not submit to blackmail. The few harmless police
we have following the steel have been unable to touch
them. They have cleaned up hundreds of thousands,
chiefly in three things—blackmail, whisky, and women.
Quade is the viler of the two. He is like a horrible beast.
Culver Rann makes me think of a sleek and shining ser-
pent. But it is this man Quade—”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 57
He found it almost impossible to go on with Joanne's
blue eyes gazing so steadily into his.
“—whom we have made our enemy,” she finished for
him.
“Yes—and more than that,” he said, partly turning his
head away. “You cannot go on to Tête Jaune alone,
Joanne. You must go nowhere alone. If you do 33
“What will happen?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps nothing would happen. But
you cannot go alone. I am going to take you back to
Mrs. Otto now. And to-morrow I shall go on to Tête
Jaune with you. It is fortunate that I have a place up
there to which I can take you, and where you will be
safe.”
As they were preparing to go, Joanne glanced ruefully
at the table.
“I am ashamed to leave the dishes in that mess,” she
said.
He laughed, and tucked her hand under his arm as they
went through the door. When they had passed through
the little clearing, and the darkness of the spruce and
balsam walls shut them in, he took her hand.
“It is dark and you may stumble,” he apologized.
“This isn’t much like the shell plaza in front of the Cape
Werde, is it?”
“No. Did you pick up any of the little red bloodshells?
I did, and they made me shiver. There were strange
stories associated with them.”
He knew that she was staring ahead into the blank wall
of gloom as she spoke, and that it was not thought of the
bloodshells, but of Quade, that made her fingers close
58 THE HUNTED WOMAN
more tightly about his own. His right hand was gripping
the butt of his automatic. Every nerve in him was on the
alert, yet she could detect nothing of caution or prepared-
ness in his careless voice.
“The bloodstones didn’t trouble me,” he answered.
“I can’t remember anything that upset me more than the
snakes. I am a terrible coward when it comes to anything
that crawls without feet. I will run from a snake no
longer than your little finger—in fact, I’m just as scared
of a little grass snake as I am of a python. It’s the thing,
and not its size, that horrifies me. Once I jumped out of
a boat into ten feet of water because my companion caught
an eel on his line, and persisted in the argument that it
was a fish. Thank Heaven we don’t have snakes up here.
I’ve seen only three or four in all my experience in the
Northland.”
She laughed softly in spite of the uneasy thrill the night
held for her.
“It is hard for me to imagine you being afraid,” she
said. “And yet if you were afraid I know it would be of
just some little thing like that. My father was one of the
bravest men in the world, and a hundred times I have seen
him show horror at sight of a spider. If you were afraid
of snakes, why did you go up the Gampoia, in Ceylon?”
“I didn’t know the snakes were there,” he chuckled.
“I hadn’t dreamed there were a half so many snakes in
the whole world as there were along that confounded river.
I slept sitting up, dressed in rubber wading boots that
came to my waist, and wore thick leather gloves. I got
out of the country at the earliest possible moment.”
When they entered the edge of the Miette clearing and
THE HUNTED WOMAN ' 59
eaw the glow of lights ahead of them, Aldous caught the
sudden upturn of his companion’s face, laughing at him in
the starlight.
“Kind, thoughtful John Aldous!” she whispered, as if
to herself. “How nice of you it was to talk of such
pleasant things while we were coming through that black,
dreadful swamp—with a Bill Quade waiting for us on the
side!”
A low ripple of laughter broke from her lips, and he
stopped dead in his tracks, forgetting to put the automatic
back in his pocket. At sight of it the amusement died in
her face. She caught his arm, and one of her hands seized
the cold steel of the pistol.
“Would he-dare 3’ she demanded.
“You can’t tell,” replied Aldous, putting the gun in his
pocket. “And that was a creepy sort of conversation to
load you down with, wasn’t it, Ladygray? I imagine
you’ll catch me in all sorts of blunders like that.” He
pointed ahead. “There’s Mrs. Otto now. She's looking
this way and wondering with all her big heart if you ought
not to be at home and in bed.”
The door of the Otto home was wide open, and sil-
houetted in the flood of light was the good-natured Scotch-
woman. Aldous gave the whistling signal which she and
her menfolk always recognized, and hurried on with Joanne.
Before they had quite reached the tent-house, Joanne
put a detaining hand on his arm.
“I don’t want you to go back to the cabin to-night,”
she said. “The face at the window—was terrible. I am
afraid. I don’t want you to be there alone.”
Her words sent a warm glow through him.
60 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Nothing will happen,” he assured her. “Quade will
not come back.”
“I don’t want you to return to the cabin,” she persisted.
“Is there no other place where you can stay?”
“I might go down and console Stevens, and borrow a
couple of his horse blankets for a bed if that will please
you.”
“It will,” she cried quickly. “If you don’t return to
the cabin you may go on to Tête Jaune with me to-morrow.
Is it a bargain?”
“It is!” he accepted eagerly. “I don’t like to be chased
out, but I’ll promise not to sleep in the cabin to-night.”
Mrs. Otto was advancing to meet them. At the door
he bade them good-night, and walked on in the direction
cf the lighted avenue of tents and shacks under the trees.
He caught a last look in Joanne's eyes of anxiety and fear.
Glancing back out of the darkness that swallowed him up,
he saw her pause for a moment in the lighted doorway, and
look in his direction. His heart beat faster. Joyously
he laughed under his breath. It was strangely new and
pleasing to have some one thinking of him in that way.
He had not intended to go openly into the lighted
avenue. From the moment he had plunged out into the
night after Quade, his fighting blood was roused. He had
subdued it while with Joanne, but his determination to
find Quade and have a settlement with him had grown no
less. He told himself that he was one of the few men
along the line whom it would be difficult for Quade to
harm in other than a physical way. He had no business
that could be destroyed by the other's underground
methods, and he had no job to lose. Until he had seen
THE HUNTED WOMAN 61
Joanne enter the scoundrel's red-and-white striped tent
he had never hated a man as he now hated Quade. He had
loathed him before, and had evaded him because the sight
of him was unpleasant; now he wanted to grip his fingers
around his thick red throat. He had meant to come up
behind Quade's tent, but changed his mind and walked
into the lighted trail between the two rows of tents and
shacks, his hands thrust carelessly into his trousers pockets.
The night carnival of the railroad builders was on. Coarse
laughter, snatches of song, the click of pool balls and the
chink of glasses mingled with the thrumming of three or
four musical instruments along the lighted way. The
phonograph in Quade's place was going incessantly. Half
a dozen times Aldous paused to greet men whom he knew.
He noted that there was nothing new or different in their
manner toward him. If they had heard of his trouble
with Quade, he was certain they would have spoken of it,
or at least would have betrayed some sign. For several
aminutes he stopped to talk with MacVeigh, a young
Scotch surveyor. MacVeigh hated Quade, but he made
no mention of him. Purposely he passed Quade's tent
and walked to the end of the street, nodding and looking
closely at those whom he knew. It was becoming more
and more evident to him that Quade and his pals were
keeping the affair of the afternoon as quiet as possible.
Stevens had heard of it. He wondered how.
Aldous retraced his steps. As though nothing had hap-
pened, he entered Quade’s place. There were a dozen men
inside, and among them he recognized three who had been
there that afternoon. He nodded to them. Slim Barker
was in Quade's place behind the counter. Barker was
62 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Quade’s right-hand man at Miette, and there was a glitter
in his rat-like eyes as Aldous leaned over the glass case at
one end of the counter and asked for cigars. He fumbled
a bit as he picked out half a dollar’s worth from the box.
His eyes met Slim's.
“Where is Quade?” he asked casually.
Barker shrugged his shoulders.
“Busy to-night,” he answered shortly. “Want to see
him?”
“No, not particularly. Only—I don’t want him to hold
a grudge.”
Barker replaced the box in the case and turned away.
After lighting a cigar Aldous went out. He was sure that
Quade had not returned from the river. Was he lying in
wait for him near the cabin? The thought sent a sudden
thrill through him. In the same breath it was gone.
With half a dozen men ready to do his work, Aldous knew
that Quade would not redden his own hands or place
himself in any conspicuous risk. During the next hour be
visited the places where Quade was most frequently seen.
He had made up his mind to walk over to the engineers’
camp, when a small figure darted after him out of the
gloom of the trees.
It was Stevens’ boy.
“Dad wants to see you down at the camp,” he whis-
pered excitedly. “He says right away—an’ for no one to
see you. He said not to let any one see me. I’ve been
waiting for you to come out in the dark.”
“Skip back and tell him I’ll come,” replied Aldous
quickly. “Be sure you mind what he says—and don’t lek
any one see you!” st º
THE HUNTED WOMAN 63
The boy disappeared like a rabbit. Aldous looked back,
and ahead, and then dived into the darkness after him.
A quarter of an hour later he came out on the river close
to Stevens’ camp. A little nearer he saw Stevens squatted
close to a smouldering fire about which he was drying
some clothes. The boy was huddled in a disconsolate
heap near him. Aldous called softly, and Stevens slowly
rose and stretched himself. The packer advanced to
where he had screened himself behind a clump of bush.
His first look at the other assured him that he was right
using caution. The moon had risen, and the light of it
:ll in the packer's face. It was a dead, stonelike gray.
is cheeks seemed thinner than when Aldous had seen
him a few hours before and there was despair in the droop
of his shoulders. His eyes were what startled Aldous.
They were like coals of fire, and shifted swiftly from point
to point in the bush. For a moment they stood silent.
“Sit down,” Stevens said then. “Get out of the moon-
light. I’ve got something to tell you.”
They crouched behind the bush.
“You know what happened,” Stevens said, in a low
voice. “I lost my outfit.”
“Yes, I saw what happened, Stevens.”
The packer hesitated for a moment. One of his big
hands reached out and gripped John Aldous by the arm.
“Let me ask you something before I go on,” he whis-
pered. “You won’t take offence—because it’s necessary.
She looked like an angel to me when I saw her up at the
train. But you know. Is she good, or You know
what we think of women who come in here alone. That’s
why I ask.”



64 THE HUNTED WOMAN
5
“She’s what you thought she was, Stevens,” replied
Aldous. “As pure and as sweet as she looks. The kind.
we like to fight for.” -
“I was sure of it, Aldous. That's why I sent the kid
for you. I saw her in your cabin—after the outfit went
to hell. When I come back to camp, Quade was here. I
was pretty well broken up. Didn’t talk to him much.
But he seen I had lost everything. Then he went on down
to your place. He told me that later. But I guessed it
soon as he come back. I never see him look like he did
then. I’ll cut it short. He's mad—loon mad—over that
girl. I played the sympathy act, thinkin’ of you—an
her. He hinted at some easy money. I let him under-
stand that at the present writin' I'd be willing to take
money most any way, and that f didn’t have any particular
likin’ for you. Then it come out. He made me a propo-
sition.” - -
Stevens lowered his voice, and stopped to peer again
about the bush. - - - -
“Go on,” urced Aldous. “We’re alone.” •
Stevens bent so near that his tobacco-laden breath
swept his companion's cheek. - -
“He said he'd replace lay lost outfit if I’d put you out
of the way some tille day after to-morrow!”
“Eill me?” - -
“Yes.” - - - , , ,
For a few moments there was a silence broken only by
their tense breathing. Aldous had found the packer's
hand. He was gripping it hard.
“Thank you, old man,” he said. “And he believes you
will do it?” -





THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I told him I would—day after to-morrow—an’ the
your body in the Athabasca.” - -
“Splendid, Stevens! You've got Sherlock Holmes beat
by a mile! And does he want you to do this pretty job
because I gave him a crack on the jaw?”
“Not a bit of it!” exclaimed Stevens quickly. “He
knows the girl is a stranger and alone. You’ve taken an
interest in her. With you out of the way, she won’t be
missed. Dammit, man, don’t you know his system? And,
if he ever wanted anything in his life he wants her. She’s
turned that poison-blood of his into fire. He raved about
her here. He'll go the limit. He'll do anything to get
her. He’s so crazy I believe he’d give every dollar he's got.
There's just one thing for you to do. Send the girl back
where she come from. Then you get out. As for myself—
I’m goin’ to emigrate. Ain't got a dollar now, so I might
as well hit for the prairies an’ get a job on a ranch. Next
winter I guess me ºn the kid will trap up on the Parsnip
River.” - -
66 You're wrong—clean wrong,” said Aldous quietly.
“When I saw your outfit going down among the rocks I
had already made up my mind to help you. What you’ve
told me to-night hasn’t made any difference. I would
have helped you anyway, Stevens. I’ve got more moncº
than I know what to do with right now. Roper has a
thirty-horse outfit for sale. Buy it to-morrow. I’ll pay
for it, and you needn’t consider yourself a dollar in debt.
Some day I’ll have you take me on a long trip, and that
will make up for it. As for the girl and myself—we're
going on to Tête Jaune to-morrow.”
Aldous could see the amazed packer staring at him in


THE HUNTED WOMAN
gloom. “You don’t think I’m sellin’ myself, do you,
Aldous?” he asked huskily. “That ain’t why you’re doin'
this—for me ºn the kid—is it?”
“I had made up my mind to do it before I saw you
to-night,” repeated Aldous. “I’ve got lots of money, and
I don’t use but a little of it. It sometimes accumulates
So fast that it bothers me. Besides, I’ve promised to
accept payment for the outfit in trips. These mountains
have got a hold on me, Stevens. I’m going to take a good
many trips before I die.”
“Not if you go on to Tête Jaune, you ain’t,” replied
Stevens, biting a huge quid from a black plug.
Aldous had risen to his feet. Stevens stood up beside
him.
“If you go on to Tête Jaune you’re a bigger fool than I
was in tryin’ to swim the outfit across the river to-day,”
he added. “Listen!” He leaned toward Aldous, his eyes
gleaming. “In the last six months there's been forty
dead men dragged out of the Frazer between Tête Jaune
an’ Fort George. You know that. The papers have
called 'em accidents—the “toll of railroad building.’
Mebby a part of it is. Mebby a half of them forty died
by accident. The other half didn’t. They were sent
down by Culver Rann and Bill Quade. Once you go
floatin’ down the Frazer there ain’t no questions asked.
Somebody sees you an’ pulls you out—mebby a Breed or
an Indian—an’ puts you under a little sand a bit later.
If it’s a white man he does likewise. There ain’t no time
to investigate floaters over-particular in the wilderness.
Besides, you git so beat up in the rocks you don’t look
like much of anything. I know, because I worked on the



THE HUNTED WOMAN 67
scows three months, an’ helped bury four of 'em. An’
there wasn’t anything, not even a scrap of paper, in the
pockets of two of 'em! Is that suspicious, or ain’t it? It
don’t pay to talk too much along the Frazer. Men keep
their mouths shut. But I’ll tell you this: Culver Rann
an’ Bill Quade know a lot.”
“And you think I’ll go in the Frazer?”
“Egzactly. Quade would rather have you in there
than in the Athabasca. And then $ 5.
“Well?”
Stevens spat into the bush, and shrugged his shoulders.
“This beautiful lady you’ve taken an interest in will
turn up missing, Aldous. She’ll disappear off the face of
the map—just like Stimson's wife did. You remember
Stimson?”
“He was found in the Frazer,’
the other's arm in the darkness.
“Egzactly. An' that pretty wife of his disappeared a
little later. Up there everybody’s too busy to ask where
other people go. Culver Rann an’ Bill Quade know what
happened to Stimson, an’ they know what happened to
Stimson’s wife. You don’t want to go to Tête Jaune.
You don’t want to let her go. I know what I’m talking
about. Because—”
There fell a moment’s silence. Aldous waited. Stevens
spat again, and finished in a whisper:
“Quade went to Tête Jaune to-night. He went on a
hand-car. He's got something he wants to tell Culver
Rann that he don’t dare telephone or telegraph. An” he
wants to get that something to him ahead of to-morrow's
train. Understand?”
9
said Aldous, gripping
CHAPTER VIII
º OHN ALDOUS confessed to himself that he did not
quite understand, in spite of the effort Stevens
had made to impress upon him, the importance of
not going to Tête Jaune. He was bewildered over a
number of things, and felt that he needed to be alone for
a time to clear his mind. He left Stevens, promising to
return later to share a couple of blankets and a part of
his tepee, for he was determined to keep his promise to
Joanne, and not return to his own cabin, even though
Quade had left Miette. He followed a moonlit trail along
the river to an abandoned surveyors’ camp, knowing that
he would meet no one, and that in this direction he would
have plenty of unbroken quiet in which to get some sort
of order out of the chaotic tangle of events through which
he had passed that day.
Aldous had employed a certain amount of caution, but
until he had talked with Stevens he had not believed that
Quade, in his twofold desire to avenge himself and possess
Joanne, would go to the extraordinary ends predicted by
the packer. His point of view was now entirely changed.
He believed Stevens. He knew the man was not excitable.
He was one of the coolest heads in the mountains. And
he had abundant nerve. Thought of Stimson and Stim-
son’s wife had sent the hot blood through Aldous like fire.
Was Stevens right in that detail? And was Quade actually

68
THE HUNTED WOMAN 69
planning the same end for him and Joanne? Why had
Quade stolen on ahead to Tête Jaune? Why had he not.
waited for to-morrow’s train?
He found himself walking swiftly along the road, where
he had intended to walk slowly—a hundred questions
pounding through his brain. Suddenly a thought came
to him that stopped him in the trail, his unseeing eyes
staring down into the dark chasm of the river. After all,
was it so strange that Quade would do these things? Into
his own life Joanne had come like a wonderful dream-
creature transformed into flesh and blood. He no longer
tried to evade the fact that he could not think without
thinking of Joanne. She had become a part of him. She
had made him forget everything but her, and in a few
hours had sent into the dust of ruin his cynicism and
aloneness of a lifetime. If Joanne had come to him like
this, making him forget his work, fºlling him more and
more with the thrilling desire to fight for her, was it so
very strange that a beast like Quade would fight—in
another way?
He went on down the trail, his hands clenched tightly.
After all, it was not fear of Quade or of what he might
attempt that filled him with uneasiness. It was Joanne
herself, her strange quest, its final outcome. With the
thought that she was seeking for the man who was her
husband, a leaden hand seemed gripping at his heart. He
tried to shake it off, but it was like a sickness. To believe
that she had been the wife of another man or that she
could ever belong to any other man than himself seemed
like shutting his eyes forever to the sun. And yet she had
told him. She had belonged to another man; she might
70 THE HUNTED WOMAN
belong to him even now. She had come to find if he was
alive—or dead.
And if alive? Aldous stopped again, and looked down
into the dark pit through which the river was rushing a
hundred feet below him. It tore in frothing maelstroms
through a thousand rocks, filling the night with a low
thunder. To John Aldous the sound of it might have
been a thousand miles away. He did uot hear. His eye
saw nothing in the blackness. For a few moments the
question he had asked himself obliterated everything. If
they found Joanne's husband alive at Tête Jaune—what
then? He turned back, retracing his steps over the trail,
a feeling of resentment—of hatred for the man he had
never seen—slowly taking the place of the oppressive thing
that had turned his heart sick within him. Then, in a
flash, came the memory of Joanne’s words—words in
which, white-faced and trembling, she had confessed that
her anxiety was not that she would find him dead, but
that she would find him alive. A joyous thrill shot through
him as he remembered that. Whoever this man was,
whatever he might have been to her once, or was to her
now, Joanne did not want to find him alive! He laughed
softly to himself as he quickened his pace. The tense
grip of his fingers loosened. The grim, almost ghastly
part of it did not occur to him—the fact that deep in his
soul he was wishing a man dead and in his grave.
He did not return at once to the scenes about Quade’s
place, but went to the station, three quarters of a mile
farther up the track. Here, in a casual way, he learned
from the little pink-faced Cockney Englishman who'
watched the office at night that Stevens had been correct
THE HUNTED WOMAN 71
in his information. Quade had gone to Tête Jaune.
Although it was eleven o’clock, Aldous proceeded in the
direction of the engineers’ camp, still another quarter of a
mile deeper in the bush. He was restless. He did not feel
that he could sleep that night. The engineers' camp he
expected to find in darkness, and he was surprised when
he saw a light burning brightly in Keller's cabin.
Keller was the assistant divisional engineer, and they
had become good friends. It was Keller who had set the
first surveyor's line at Tête Jaune, and it was he who had
reported it as the strategic point from which to pusil
forward the fight against mountain and wilderness, both
by river and rail. He was, in a way, accountable for the
existence of Tête Jaune just where it did exist, and he
knew more about it than any other man in the employ of
the Grand Trunk Pacific. For this reason Aldous was
glad that Keller had not gone to bed. He knocked at the
door and entered without waiting for an invitation.
The engineer stood in the middle of the fioor, his coat
off, his fat, stubby hands thrust into the pockets of his
baggy trousers, his red face and bald cranium shining in
the lamplight. A strange fury blazed in his eyes as he
greeted his visitor. He began pacing back and forth across
the room, puffing volumes of smoke from a huge bowled
German pipe as he motioned Aldous to a chair.
“What’s the matter, Peter?”
“Enough—an’ be damned!” growled Peter. “If it
wasn’t enough do you think I’d be out of bed at this hour
of the night?”
“I’m sure it’s enough,” agreed Aldous. “If it wasn’t
you’d be in your little trundle over there, sleeping like a
72 THE HUNTED WOMAN
baby. I don’t know of any one who can sleep quite as
sweetly as you, Peter. But what the devil is the trouble?”
“Something that you can’t make me feel funny over,
You haven’t heard—about the bear?”
“Not a word, Peter.”
Keller took his hands from his pockets and the big-
bowled pipe from his mouth.
“You know what I did with that bear,” he said. “More
than a year ago I made friends with her up there on the
bill instead of killing her. Last summer I got her so she’d
eat out of my hands. I fed her a barrel of Sugar between
July and November. We used to chum it an hour at a
time, and I’d pet her like a dog. Why, damn it, man,
I thought more of that bear than I did of any human in
these regions! And she got so fond of me she didn't
leave to den up until January. This spring she came
out with two cubs, an’ as soon as they could waddle she
brought 'em out there on the hillside an’ waited for me.
We were better chums than ever. I’ve got another half
barrel of sugar—lump sugar—on the way from Edmonton.
An' pow what do you think that damned C. N. R. gang
has done?”
“They haven’t shot her?”
“No, they haven’t shot her. I wish to God they had!
They’ve blown her up !”
The little engineer subsided into a chair.
“Do you hear?” he demanded. “They’ve blown her
up! Put a stick of dynamite under some sugar, attached
a battery wire to it, an’ when she was licking up the sugar
touched it off. An I can’t do anything, damn 'em!
Bears ain’t protected. The government of this province
THE HUNTED WOMAN 73
calls 'em ‘pests.” Murder ’em on sight, it says. An’
those fiends over there think it’s a good joke on me—an’
the bear!”
Keller was sweating. His fat hands were clenched, and
his round, plump body fairly shook with excitement and
anger.
“When I went over to-night they laughed at me—the
whole bunch,” he went on thickly. “I offered to lick
every man in the outfit from A to Z, an’ I ain’t had a fight
in twenty years. Instead of fighting like men, a dozen of
them grabbed hold of me, chucked me into a blanket, an’
bounced me for fifteen minutes straight! What do you
think of that, Aldous? Me—assistant divisional engineer
of the G. T. P.-bounced in a blanket !”
Peter Keller hopped from his chair and began pacmg
back and forth across the room again, sucking truculently
on his pipe.
“If they were on our road I’d—1’d chase every man of
them out of the country. But they’re not. They belong
to the C. N. R. They’re out of my reach.” He stopped,
suddenly, in front of Aldous. “What can I do?” he
demanded.
“Nothing,” said Aldous. “You’ve had something like
this coming to you, Peter. I’ve been expecting it. All
the camps for twenty miles up and down the line know
what you thought of that bear. You fired Tibbits
because, as you said, he was too thick with Quade. You
told him that right before Quade's face. Tibbits is now
foreman of that grading gang over there. Two and two
make four, you know. Tibbits—Quade—the blown-up
bear. Quade doesn’t miss an opportunity, no matter how
74 THE HUNTED WOMAN
small it is. Tibbits and Quade did this to get even with
you. You might report the blanket affair to the con-
tractors of the other road. I don’t believe they would
stand for it.”
Aldous had guessed correctly what the effect of asso-
ciating Quade's name with the affair would be. Keller
was one of Quade's deadliest enemies. He sat down close
to Aldous again. His eyes burned deep back. It was not
Keller's physique, but his brain, and the fearlessness of
his spirit, that made him dangerous.
“I guess you’re right, Aldous,” he said. “Some day—
I’ll even up on Quade.”
“And so shall I, Peter.”
The engineer stared into the other's eyes.
“You 35
Aldous nodded.
* Quade left for Tête Jaune to-night, on a hand-car. I
follow him to-morrow, on the train. I can’t tell you
what’s up, Peter, but I don’t think it will stop this side
of death for Quade and Culver Rann–or me. I mean
that quite literally. I don’t see how more than one side
can come out alive. I want to ask you a few questions
before I go on to Tête Jaune. You know every mountain
and trail about the place, don’t you?”
“I’ve tramped them all, afoot and horseback.”
“Then perhaps you can direct me to what I must find—
a man’s grave.”
Peter Keller paused in the act of relighting his pipe.
For a moment he stared in amazement.
“There are a great many graves up at Tête Jaune,” he
said, at last. “A great many graves—and many of them
THE HUNTEHD WOMAN 75
unmarked. If it’s a Quade grave you’re looking for,
Aldous, it will be unmarked.”
“I am quite sure that it is marked—or was at one time,”
said Aldous. “It’s the grave of a man who had quite an
unusual name, Peter, and you might remember it—
Mortimer FitzHugh.”
“FitzHugh—FitzHugh,” repeated Keller, puffing out
fresh volumes of smoke. “Mortimer FitzHugh > 3
“He died, I believe, before there was a Tête Jaune, or
at least before the steel reached there,” added Aldous.
“He was on a hunting trip, and I have reason to think
that his death was a violent one.”
Keller rose and fell into his old habit of pacing back and
forth across the room, a habit that had worn a path in the
bare pine boards of the floor.
“There’s graves an’ graves up there, but not so many
that were there before Tête Jaune came,” he began,
\between puffs. “Up on the side of White Knob Moun-
tain there’s the grave of a man who was torn to bits by a
grizzly. But his name was Humphrey. Old Yellowhead
John—Téte Jaune, they called him—died years before
that, and no one knows where his grave is. We had five
men die before the steel came, but there wasn’t a FitzHugh
among 'em. Crabby—old Crabby Tompkins, a trapper,
is buried in the sand on the Frazer. The last flood swept
his slab away. There’s two unmarked graves in Glacier
Canyon, but I guess they’re ten years old if a day. Burns
was shot. I knew him. Plenty died after the steel came,
but before that 9 3
Suddenly he stopped. He faced Aldous. His breath
came in quick jerks.
76 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“By Heaven, I do remember!” he cried. “There's a
mountain in the Saw Tooth Range, twelve miles from
Tête Jaune—a mountain with the prettiest basin you ever
saw at the foot of it, with a lake no bigger than this camp,
and an old cabin which Yellowhead himself must have
built fifty years ago. There’s a blind canyon runs out of
it, short an’ dark, on the right. We found a grave there.
I don’t remember the first name on the slab. Mebby it
was washed out. But, so 'elp me God, the last name was
FitzHugh 1”
With a sudden cry, Aldous jumped to his feet and caught
Keller’s arm.
“You’re sure of it, Peter?”
“Positivel”
It was impossible for Aldous to repress his excitement.
The engineer stared at him even harder than before.
“What can that grave have to do with Quade?” he
asked. “The man died before Quade was known in these
regions.”
“I can’t tell you now, Peter,” replied Aldous, pulling
the engineer to the table. “But I think you’ll know quite
soon. For the present, I want you to sketch out a map
that will take me to the grave. Will you?”
On the table were pencil and paper. Keller seated him-
self and drew them toward him.
“I’m damned if I can see what that grave can have to
do with Quade,” he said; “but I’ll tell you how to find
it!” -
For several minutes they bent low over the table, Peter
Keller describing the trail to the Saw Tooth Mountain as he
sketched it, step by step, on a sheet of office paper. When
THE HUNTED WOMAN 77
it was done, Aldous folded it carefully and placed it in his
wallet.
“I can’t go wrong, and—thank you, Keller!”
After Aldous had gone, Peter Keller sat for some time
in deep thought.
“Now I wonder what the devil there can be about a
grave to make him so happy,” he grumbled, listening to
the whistle that was growing fainter down the trail.
And Aldous, alone, with the moon straight above him
as he went back to the Miette Plain, felt, in truth, this
night had become brighter for him than any day he had
ever known. For he knew that Peter Keller was not a
man to make a statement of which he was not sure.
Mortimer FitzHugh was dead. His bones lay under the
slab up in that little blind canyon in the shadow of the
Saw Tooth Mountain. To-morrow he would tell Joanne,
And, blindly, he told himself that she would be glad.
Still whistling, he passed the Chinese laundry shack on
the creek, crossed the railroad tracks, and buried himself
in the bush beyond. A quarter of an hour later he stole
quietly into Stevens' camp and went to bed.
CHAPTER IX
&TNTEVENS, dreaming of twenty horses plunging to
*A death among the rocks in the river, slept uneasily.
—” He awoke before it was dawn, but when he dragged
himself from his tepee, moving quietly not to awaken his
boy, he found John Aldous on his knees before a small fire,
slicing thin rashers of bacon into a frying-pan. The
weight of his loss was in the tired packer's eyes and face
and the listless droop of his shoulders. John Aldous, with
three hours between the blankets to his credit, was as
cheery as the crackling fire itself. He had wanted to whistle
for the last half-hour. Seeing Stevens, he began now.
“I wasn’t going to rouse you until breakfast was ready,”
he interrupted himself to say. “I heard you groaning,
Stevens. I know you had a bad night. And the kid, too.
He couldn’t sleep. But I made up my mind you’d have
to get up early. I’ve got a lot of business on to-day, and
we’ll have to rouse Curly Roper out of bed to buy his pack
outfit. Find the coffee, will you? I couldn't.”
For a moment Stevens stood over him.
“See here, Aldous, you didn’t mean what you said last
night, did you? You didn’t mean—that?”
“Confound it, yes! Can’t you understand plain Eng-
lish, Stevens? Don’t you believe a man when he’s a
gentleman?' Buy that outfit! Why, I’d buy twenty out-
fits to-day, I'm—I’m feeling so fine, Stevens!”

78
THE HUNTED WOMAN 79
For the first time in forty-eight hours Stevens smiled.
“I was wondering if I hadn’t been dreaming,” he said.
“Once, a long time ago, I guess I felt just like you do
now.”
With which cryptic remark he went for the coffee.
Aldous looked up in time to see the boy stagger sleepily
out of the tepee. There was something pathetic about
the motherlessness of the picture, and he understood a
little of what Stevens had meant.
An hour later, with breakfast over, they started for
Curly's. Curly was pulling on his boots when they ar-
rived, while his wife was frying the inevitable bacon in the
kitchen.
“Ihearyou have somehorses for sale, Curly,” said Aldous.
“Hi 'ave.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-nine, ºr twenty-eight—mebby twenty-seven.”
“How much?”
Curly looked up from the task of pulling on his second
boot.
“H’are you buying 'orses or looking for hinformation?”
he asked.
“I’m buying, and I’m in a hurry. How much do you
want a head?”
“Sixty, ºr six
“I’ll give you sixty dollars apiece for twenty-eight head,
and that’s just ten dollars apiece more than they’re worth,”
broke in Aldous, pulling a check-book and a fountain pen
from his pocket. “Is it a go?”
A little stupefied by the suddenness of it all, Curly
opened his mouth and stared.
99
80 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Is it a go?” repeated Aldous. “Including blankets,
saddles, pack-saddles, ropes, and canvases?”
Curly nodded, looking from Aldous to Stevens to see
if he could detect anything that looked like a joke.
“Hit’s a go,” he said.
Aldous handed him a check for sixteen hundred and
eighty dollars.
“Make out the bill of sale to Stevens,” he said. “I’m
paying for them, but they’re Stevens’ horses. And, look
here, Curly, I’m buying them only with your agreement
that you’ll say nothing about who paid for them. Will
you agree to that?”
Curly was joyously looking at the check.
“Gyve me a Bible,” he demanded. “Hi’ll swear Stevens
p'id for them! I give you the word of a Hinglish gentle-
man!” -
Without another word Aldous opened the cabin door
and was gone, leaving Stevens quite as much amazed as
the little Englishman whom everybody called Curly, be-
cause he had no hair.
Aldous went at once to the station, and for the first
time inquired into the condition that was holding back
the Tête Jaune train. He found that a slide had given
way, burying a section of track under gravel and rock. A
hundred men were at work clearing it away, and it was
probable they would finish by noon. A gang boss, who
had come back with telegraphic reports, said that half a
dozen men had carried Quade's hand-car over the ob-
struction about midnight.
It was seven o’clock when Aldous left for the Miette
bottom. He believed that Joanne would be up. At this
THE HUNTED WOMAN 81
season of the year the first glow of day usually found the
Ottos at breakfast, and for half an hour the sun had been
shining on the top of Pyramid Mountain. He was eager
to tell her what had passed between him and Keller. He
laughed softly when he confessed to himself how madly
he wanted to see her.
He always liked to come up to the Otto home very
early of a morning, or in the dusk of evening. Very fre-
quently he was filled with a desire to stand outside the
red-and-white striped walls of the tent-house and listen
unseen. Inside there was always cheer: at night the
crackle of fire and the glow of light, the happy laughter of
the gentle-hearted Scotchwoman, and the affectionate
banter of her “big mountain man,” who looked more like
a brigand than the luckiest and most contented husband
in the mountains—the luckiest, quite surely, with the one
exception of his brother Clossen, who had, by some occult
strategy or other, induced a sweet-faced and aristocratic
little woman to look upon his own honest physiognomy
as the handsomest and finest in the world. This morning
Aldous followed a narrow path that brought him behind the
tent-house. He heard no voices. A few steps more and
he emerged upon a scene that stopped him and set his
heart thumping.
Less than a dozen paces away stood Mrs. Otto and
Joanne, their backs toward him. They were gazing
silently and anxiously in the direction of the thick, low
bush across the clearing, through which led the trail to his
cabin. He did not look toward the bush. His eyes were
upon Joanne. Her slender figure was full in the golden
radiance of the morning sun, and Aldous felt himself under
32 THE HUNTED WOMAN
the spell of a joyous wonder as he looked at her. For the
first time he saw her hair as he had pictured it—as he had
given it to that other Joanne in the book he had called
“Fair Play.” She had been brushing it in the sun when
he came, but now she stood poised in that tense and wait-
ing attitude—silent—gazing in the direction of the bush,
with that marvellous mantle sweeping about her in a
shimmering silken flood. He would not have moved, nor
would he have spoken, until Joanne herself broke the
spell. She turned, and saw him. With a little cry of
surprise she flung back her hair. He could not fail to
see the swift look of relief and gladness that had come
into her eyes. In another instant her face was flushing
crimson.
“I beg your pardon for coming up like an eavesdropper,”
Ye apologized. “I thought you would just about be at
breakfast, Mrs Otto.”
The Scotchwoman heaved a tremendous sigh of relief.
“Goodness gracious, but I’m glad to see you!” she
exclaimed thankfully. “Jack and Bruce have just gone
out to see if they could find your dead body!”
“We thought perhaps something might have happened,”
said Joanne, who had moved nearer the door. “You wiłł
excuse me, won’t you, while I finish my hair?”
Without waiting for him to answer, she ran into the
tent. No sooner had she disappeared than the good-
natured smile left Mrs. Otto's face. There was a note of
alarm in her low voice as she whispered:
“Jack and Bruce went to the barn last night, and she
slept with me. She tried to be quiet, but I know she
didn’t sleep much. And she cried. I couldn’t hear her,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 83
}
but the pillow was wet. Once my hand touched her
cheek, and it was wet. I didn’t ask any questions. This
morning, at breakfast, she told us everything that hap-
pened, all about Quade—and your trouble. She told us
about Quade looking in at the window, and she was so
nervous thinking something might have happened to you
last night that the poor dear couldn’t even drink her
coffee until Jack and Bruce went out to hunt for you.
But I don’t think that was why she cried!”
“I wish it had been,” said Aldous. “It makes me
happy to think she was worried about—me.”
“Good Lord!” gasped Mrs. Otto.
He looked for a moment into the slow-growing amaze-
ment and understanding in her kind eyes.
“You will keep my little secret, won’t you, Mrs. Otto?”
he asked. “Probably you’ll think it’s queer. I’ve only
known her a day. But I feel—like that. Somehow I feel
that in telling this to you I am confiding in a mother, or
a sister. I want you to understand why I'm going on to
Tête Jaune with her. That is why she was crying—
because of the dread of something up there. I’m going
with her. She shouldn’t go alone.”
Voices interrupted them, and they turned to find that
Jack and Bruce Otto had come out of the bush and were
quite near. Aldous was sorry that Joanne had spoken of
his trouble with Quade. He did not want to discuss the
situation, or waste time in listening to further advice.
He was anxious to be alone again with Joanne, and tell
her what he had learned from Peter Keller. For half an
hour he repressed his uneasiness. The brothers then went
on to their corral. A few minutes later Joanne was once
84 THE HUNTED WOMAN
more at his side, and they were walking slowly over the
trail that led to the cabin on the river.
He could see that the night had made a change in her.
There were circles under her eyes which were not there
yesterday. When she looked at him their velvety blue
depths betrayed something which he knew she was strug-
gling desperately to keep from him. It was not altogether
fear. It was more a betrayal of pain—a torment of the
soul and not of the body. He noticed that in spite of the
vivid colouring of her lips her face was strangely pale.
The beautiful flush that had come into it when she first
saw him was gone.
Then he began to tell her of his visit to Peter Keller.
His own heart was beating violently when he came to
speak of the grave and the slab over it that bore the
name of FitzHugh. He had expected that what he had
discovered from Keller would create some sort of a sensa-
tion. He had even come up to the final fact gradually, so
that it would not appear bald and shocking. Joanne’s
attitude stunned him. She looked straight ahead. When
she turned to him he did not see in her eyes what he had
expected to see. They were quiet, emotionless, except for
that shadow of inward torture which did not leave them.
“Then to-morrow we can go to the grave?” she asked
simply.
Her voice, too, was quiet and without emotion.
He nodded. “We can leave at sunrise,” he said. “I
have my own horses at Tête Jaune and there need be no
delay. We were to start into the North from there.”
“You mean on the adventure you were telling me
about?”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 85.
She had looked at him quickly.
*Yes. Old Donald, my partner, has been waiting for
me a week. That’s why I was so deuced anxious to rush
the book to an end. I’m behind Donald's schedule and
he's growing nervous. It’s rather an unusual ent rprise
that’s taking us north this time, and Donald can’t under-
stand why I should hang back to write the tail end of a
book. He has lived sixty years in the mouatains. His
full name is Donald MacDonald. Sometimes, back in my
own mind, I’ve called him. History. He seems like that—
as though he’d lived for ages in these omountains instead
of sixty years. If I could only write what he has lived—
even what one might imagine that he has lived! But I
cannot. I have tried three times, and have failed. I
think of him as The Last Spirit—a strange wandering
ghost of the mighty ranges. His kind passed away a
hundred years ago. You will understand—when you see
him.”
She put her hand on his arm and let it rest there lightly
as they walked. Into her eyes had returned some of the
old warm glow of yesterday.
“I want you to tell me about this adventure,” she
entreated softly. “I understand—about the other. You
have been good—oh! so good to me! And I should tell
you things; you are expecting me to explain. It is only
fair and honest that I should. I know what is in your
mind, and I only want you to wait—until to-morrow.
Will you? And I will tell you then, when we have found
the grave.”
Involuntarily his hand sought Joanne's. For a single
moment he felt the warm, sweet thrill of it in his own as he
86 THE HUNTED WOMAN
pressed it more closely to his arm. Then he freed it, look,
ing straight ahead. A soft flush grew in Joanne's cheeks.
“T)o you care a great deal for riches?” he asked. “Does
the golden pot at the end of the rainbow hold out a lure
for you?” He did not realize the strangeness of his ques-
tion until their eyes met. “Because if you don’t,” he added,
smiling, “this adventure of ours isn’t going to look very ex-
citing to you.”
She laughed softly.
“No, I don’t care for riches,” she replied. “I am quite
sure that just as great education proves to one how little
one knows, so great wealth brings one face to face with
the truth of how little one can enjoy. My father used to
say that the golden treasure at the end of the rainbow in
every human life was happiness, and that is something
which you cannot buy. So why crave riches, then? But
please don’t let my foolish ideas disappoint you. I’ll
promise to be properly excited.”
She saw his face suddenly aflame with enthusiasm.
“By George, but you’re a-a brick, Joannel” he ex-
claimed. “You are! And I-I ” He was fumbling in
his breast pocket. He brought out his wallet and extracted
from it the bit of paper Stevens had given him. “You
dropped that, and Stevens found it,” he explained, giving it
to her. “I thought those figures might represent your
fortune—or your income. Don’t mind telling you I went
over 'em carefully. There’s a mistake in the third column.
Five and four don’t make seven. They make nine. In
the final, when you come to the multiplication part of it,
that correction will make you just thirty-two thousand five
hundred dollars richer.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 87
“Thanks,” said Joanne, lowering her eyes, and begin-
ning to tear the paper into small pieces. “And will it
disappoint you, Mr. John Aldous, if I tell you that all
these figures stand for riches which some one else possesses?
And won’t you let me remind you that we’re getting a long
way from what I want to know—about your trip into the
North?’”
“That’s just it: we're hot on the trail,” chuckled Aldous,
deliberately placing her hand on his arm again. “You
don't care for riches. Neither do I. I’m delighted to
know we’re going tandem in that respect. I’ve never had
any fun with money. It’s the money that’s had fun with
me. I’ve no use for yachts and diamonds and I’d rather
travel afoot with a gun over my shoulder than in a private
car. Half the time I’m doing my own cooking, and I
haven’t worn a white shirt in a year. My publishers
persist in shoving more money my way than I know
what to do with.
“You see, I pay only ten cents a plug for my smoking
tobacco, and other things accordingly. Somebody has
said something about the good Lord sitting up in Heaven
and laughing at the jokes He plays on men. Well, I’m
sitting back and laughing now and then at the tussle
between men and money over all creation. There’s a
whole lot of humour in the way men and women fight and
die for money, if you only take time to stand out on the
side and look on. There's nothing big or dramatic about
it. I may be a heathen, but to my mind the funniest of
all things is to see the world wringing its neck for a dollar.
And Donald—old History—needs even less money than I.
So that puts the big element of humour in this expedition
88 THE HUNTED WOMAN
of ours. We don’t want money, particularly. Donald
wouldn’t wear more than four pairs of boots a year if he
was a billionaire. And ye 5 3
He turned to Joanne. The pressure of her hand was
warmer on his arm. Her beautiful eyes were glowing, and
her red lips parted as she waited breathlessly for him to
go On.
“And yet, we’re going to a place where you can scoop
gold up with a shovel,” he finished. “That’s the funny
part of it.”
“It isn’t funny—it’s tremendous!” gasped Joanne.
“Think of what a man like you could do with unlimited
wealth, the good you might achieve, the splendid endow-
ments you might make—”
“I have already made several endowments,” interrupted
Aldous. “I believe that I have made a great many peo-
ple happy, Ladygray—a great many. I am gifted to make
endowments, I think, above most people. Not one of the
endowments Ihave made has failed of complete success.”
“And may I ask what some of them were?”
“I can’t remember them all. There have been a great,
great many. Most conspicuous among them were three
endowments which I made to some very worthy people
at various times for seven salted mines. I suppose you
know what a salted mine is, Ladygray? At other times
I have endowed railroad stocks which were very much in
need of my helping mite, two copper companies, a concern
that was supposed to hoist up pure asbestos from the
stomach of Popocatapetl, and a steamship company that
never steamed. As I said before, they were all very suc-
cessful endowments.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 89
“And how many of the other kind have you made?”
she asked gently, looking down the trail. “Like—
Stevens', for instance?”
He turned to her sharply.
“What the deuce—”
“Did you succeed in getting the new outfit from Mr.
Curly?” she asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
She smiled at the amazement which had gathered in his
:ace. A glad, soft light shone in her eyes.
“I guess Mrs. Otto has been like a mother to that poor
little boy,” she explained. “When you and Mr. Stevens
went up to buy the outfit this morning Jimmy ran over
to tell her the news. We were all there—at breakfast.
He was so excited he could scarcely breathe. But it all
came out, and he ran back to camp before you came
because he thought you wouldn’t want me to know.
Wasn’t that funny? He told me so when I walked a little
way up the path with him.”
“The little reprobate!” chuckled Aldous. “He’s the
best publicity man I ever had, Ladygray. I did want you
to know about this, and I wanted it to come to you in just
this way, so that I wouldn’t be compelled to tell you
myself of the big and noble act I have done. It was my
hope and desire that you, through some one else, would
learn of it, and come to understand more fully what a
generous and splendid biped I am. I even plotted to give
this child of Stevens’ a silver dollar if he would get the
news to you in some one of his innocent ways. He's done
Lt. And he couldn’t have done it better—even for a
dollar. Ah, here we are at the cabin. Will you excuse
90 THE HUNTED WOMAN
me while I pick up a few things that I want to take on to
Tête Jaune with me?”
Between two trees close to the cabin he had built a seat,
and here he left Joanne. He was gone scarcely five
minutes when he reappeared with a small pack-sack over
his shoulders, locked the door, and rejoined her.
“You see it isn’t much of a task for me to move,” he
said, as they turned back in the direction of the Ottos’.
“I’ll wash the dishes when I come back next October.”
“Five months!” gasped Joanne, counting on her fingers,
“John Aldous, do you mean 5 3
“I do,” he nodded emphatically. “I frequently leave
dishes unwashed for quite a spell at a time. That’s the
one unpleasant thing about this sort of life—washing
dishes. It’s not so bad in the rainy season, but it’s fierce
during a dry spell. When it rains I put the dishes out on
a flat rock, dirty side up, and the good Lord does the
scrubbing.”
He looked at Joanne, face and eyes aglow with the
happiness that was sweeping in a mighty tumult within
him. Half an hour had worked a transformation in
Joanne. There was no longer a trace of anguish or of fear
in her eyes. Their purity and limpid beauty made him
think of the rock violets that grew high up on the moun-
tains. Her lips and cheeks were flushed, and the soft pres-
sure of her hand again resting on his arm filled him with
the exquisite thrill of possession and joy. He did not speak
of Tête Jaune again until they reached the Otto tent-house,
and then only to assure her that he would call for her half
an hour before the train was ready to leave.
As soon as possible after that he went to the telegraph
THE HUNTED WOMAN 91
office and sent a long message to MacDonald. Among
other things he told him to prepare their cabin for a lady
guest. He knew this would shock the old mountain
wanderer, but he also knew that Donald would follow his
instructions in spite of whatever alarm he might have.
There were other women at Tête Jaune, the wives of men
he knew, to whom he might have taken Joanne. Under
the conditions, however, he believed his own cabin would
be her best refuge, at least for a day or so. In that time
he could take some one into his confidence, probably
Blackton and his wife. In fact, as he thought the cir-
cumstances over, he saw the necessity of confiding in the
'Blacktons that very night.
He left the station, growing a bit nervous. Was it right
for him to take Joanne to his cabin at all? He had a
*remendous desire to do so, chiefly on account of Quade,
'The cabin was a quarter of a mile in the bush, and he was
positive if Joanne was there that Quade, and perhaps
Culver Rann, would come nosing about. This would give
him the opportunity of putting into execution a plan
which he had already arranged for himself and old Mac-
Donald. On the other hand, was this arrangement fair
to Joanne, even though it gave him the chance to square
up accounts with Quade?
He stopped abruptly, and faced the station. All at once
there swept upon him a realization of how blind he had
been, and what a fool he had almost made of himself.
Blackton was one of the contractors who were working
miracles in the mountains. He was a friend who would
fight for him if necessary. Mrs. Blackton, who preferred
to be on the firing line with her husband than in her
92 THE HUNTED WOMAN
luxurious city home, was the leader of all that was decent.
and womanly in Tête Jaune. Why not have these friends
meet them at the train and take Joanne direct to their
house? Such recognition and friendship would mean
everything to Joanne. To take her to his cabin would
IOlea,Il
Inwardly he swore at himself as he hurried back to the
station, and his face burned hotly as he thought of the
chance such a blunder on his part would have given Quade
and Culver Rann to circulate the stories with which they
largely played their scoundrelly game. He sent another
and longer telegram. This time it was to Blackton.
He ate dinner with Stevens, who had his new outfit
ready for the mountains. It was two o'clock before he
brought Joanne up to the station. She was dressed now
as he had first seen her when she entered Quade's place.
A veil covered her face. Through the gray film of it he
caught the soft warm glow of her eyes and the shimmer
of gold-brown tendrils of her hair. And he knew why she
wore that veil. It set his heart beating swiftly—the fact
that she was trying to hide from all eyes but his own a
beauty so pure and wonderful that it made her uncom-
fortable when under the staring gaze of the Horde.
The hand that rested on his arm he pressed closer to his
side as they walked up the station platform, and under
his breath he laughed softly and joyously as he felt the
thrill of it. He spoke no word. Not until they were in
their seat in the coach did Joanne look at him after that
pressure of her hand, and then she did not speak. But in
the veiled glow of her eyes there was something that told
him she understood—a light that was wonderfully gentle
THE HUNTED WOMAN 93
and sweet. And yet, without words, she asked him to
keep within his soul the things that were pounding madly
there for speech.
As the train rolled on and the babble of voices about
them joined the crunching rumble of the wheels, he wanted
to lean close to her and tell her how a few hours had
changed the world for him. And then, for a moment, her
eyes turned to him again, and he knew that it would be a
sacrilege to give voice to the things he wanted to say.
For many minutes he was silent, gazing with her upon
the wild panorama of mountain beauty as it drifted past
the car window. A loud voice two seats ahead of them
proclaimed that they were about to make Templeton’s
Curve. The man was talking to his companion.
“They shot up a hundred thousand pounds of black
powder an’ dynamite to make way for two hundred feet
of steel on that curve,” he explained in a voice heard all
over the car. “They say you could hear the explosion
fifty miles away. Jack Templeton was near-sighted, an’
he didn’t see a rock coming down on him that was half as
big as a house. I helped scrape up what was left of 'im
an’ we planted him at this end of the curve. It’s been
Templeton’s Curve ever since. You’ll see his grave—with
a slab over it!”
It was there almost as he spoke, marked by a white-
painted cross in a circle of whitewashed stones. John
Aldous felt a sudden shiver pass through his companion.
She turned from the window. Through her veil he saw
her lips tighten. Until he left the car half an hour later
the man in the second seat ahead talked of Templeton's
grave and a dozen other graves along the right of way.
94 THE HUNTED WOMAN
He was a rock-hog, and a specialist on the subject of
graves. Inwardly Aldous cursed him roundly. He cursed
him all the way to Tête Jaune, for to him he attributed
the change which had again come over Joanne.
This change she could only partly conceal from him
under her veil. She asked him many questions about
Tête Jaune and the Blacktons, and tried to take an interest
in the scenery they were passing. In spite of this he
could see that she was becoming more and more nervous
as they progressed toward the end of their journey. He
felt the slow dampening of his own joy, the deadening
clutch of yesterday at his heart. Twice she lifted her veil
for a moment and he saw she was pale and the tense
lines had gathered about her mouth again. There was
something almost haggard in her look the second
time.
In the early dusk of evening they arrived at Tête Jaune.
Aldous waited until the car had emptied itself before he
rose from his seat. Joanne's hand clutched at his arm
as they walked down the aisle. He felt the fierce pressure
of her fingers in his flesh. On the car platform they
paused for a moment, and he felt her throbbing beside
him. She had taken her hand from his arm, and he turned
suddenly. She had raised her veil. Her face was dead
white. And she was staring out over the sea of faces
under them in a strange questing way, and her breath
came from between her slightly parted lips as if she had
been running. Amazed for the moment, John Aldous did
not move. Somewhere in that crowd Joanne expected to
find a face she knew / The truth struck him dumb–made
him inert and lifeless. He, too, stared as if in a trance.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 95
And then, suddenly, every drop of blood in his body blazed
into fierce life.
In the glow of one of the station lamps stood a group of
men. The faces of all were turned toward them. One he
recognized—a bloated, leering face grinning devilishly at
them. It was Quade!
A low, frightened cry broke from Joanne's lips, and he
knew that she, too, had seen him. But it was not Quade
that she had looked for. It was not his face that she had
expected to see nor because of him that she had lifted her
veil for the mob!
He stepped down from the car and gave her his hand.
Her fingers clutched his convulsively. And they were cold
as the fingers of the dead.
CHAPTER X
MOMENT later some one came surging through
the crowd, and called Aldous by name. It was
Blackton. His thin, genial face with its little
spiked moustache rose above the sea of heads about him,
and as he came he grinned a welcome.
“A beastly mob!” he exclaimed, as he gripped his
friend’s hand. “I’m sorry I couldn't bring my wife
nearer than the back platform.”
Aldous turned to Joanne. He was still half in a daze.
His heart was choking him with its swift and excited
beating. Even as he introduced her to Blackton the voice
kept crying in his brain that she had expected to find some
one in this crowd whom she knew. For a space it was as
if the Joanne whom he had known had slipped away from
him. She had told him about the grave, but this oth "
she had kept from him. Something that was almost anger
surged up in him. His face bore marks of the strain as he
watched her greet Blackton. In an instant, it seemed to
him, she had regained a part of her composure. Blacktoll
saw nothing but the haggard lines about her eyes and the
deep pallor in her face, which he ascribed to fatigue.
“You’re tired, Miss Gray,” he said. “It’s a killing ride
up from Miette these days. If we can get through this
mob we’ll have supper within fifteen minutes!”
With a word to Aldous he began worming his long, lean
96
A slim, exquisitely formed woman in shimmering silk was standing beside
a huge brown bear. In another moment she bestrode the bear, and the big
beast lumbered up the street with its rider.

THE HUNTED WOMAN 97
body ahead of them. An instant Joanne's face was very
Close to Aldous', so close that he felt her breath, and a
tendril of her hair touched his lips. In that instant her
eyes looked into his steadily, and he felt rush over him a
sudden shame. If she was seeking and expecting, it was
to him more than ever that she was now looking for pro-
tection. The haunting trouble in her eyes, their entreaty,
their shining faith in him told him that, and he was glad
that she had not seen his sudden fear and suspicion. She
clung more closely to him as they followed Blackton. Her
little fingers held his arm as if she were afraid some force
might tear him from her. He saw that she was looking
quickly at the faces about them with that same questing
mystery in her search.
At the thin outer edge of the crowd Blackton dropped
back beside them. A few steps more and they came to
the end of the platform, where a buckboard was waiting
in the dim light of one of the station lamps. Blackton
introduced Joanne, and assisted her into the seat beside
his wife.
“We’ll leave you ladies to become acquainted while we
rustle the baggage,” he said. “Got the checks, Aldous?”
Joanne had given Aldous two checks on the train, and
he handed them to Blackton. Together they made their
way to the baggage-room.
“Thought Miss Gray would have some luggage, so I
had one of my men come with another team,” he explained.
‘We won’t have to wait. I’ll give him the checks.”
Before they returned to the buckboard, Aldous halted
his friend. J -
“I couldn’t say much in that telegram,” he said. “If
98 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Miss Gray wasn’t a bit tired and unstrung I’d let her
explain. I want you to tell Mrs. Blackton that she has
come to Tête Jaune on a rather unpleasant mission, old
man. Nothing less than to attend to the grave of a-a
near relative.”
“I regret that—I regret it very much,” replied Blackton,
flinging away the match he had lighted without touching
it to his cigar. “I guessed something was wrong. She's
welcome at our place, Aldous—for as long as she remains
in Tête Jaune. Perhaps I knew this relative. If I can
assist you—or her 25
“He died before the steel came,” said Aldous. “Fitz-
Hugh was his name. Old Donald and I are going to take
her to the grave. Miss Gray is an old friend of mine,” he
lied boldly. “We want to start at dawn. Will that be
too much trouble for you and your wife?”
“No trouble at all,” declared Blackton. “We’ve got a
Chinese cook who's more like an owl than a human. How
will a four o’clock breakfast suit you?”
“Splendidly!”
As they went on, the contractor said:
“I carried your word to MacDonald. Hunted him
down out in the bush. He is very anxious to see you.
He said he would not be at the depot, but that you must
not fail him. He's kept strangely under cover of late.
Curious old ghost, isn’t he?”
“The strangest man in the mountains,” said Aldous
“And, when you come to know him, the most lovable.
We're going North together.”
This time it was Blackton who stopped, with a hand on
his companion’s arm. A short distance from them they
THE HUNTED WOMAN 99
could see the buckboard in the light of the station
lamp. g
“Has old Donald written you lately?” he asked.
“No. He says he hasn’t written a letter in twenty
years.”
Blackton hesitated.
“Then you haven’t heard of his—accident?”
The strange look in the contractor's face as he lighted
a cigar made John Aldous catch him sharply by the arm.
“What do you mean?”
“He was shot. I happened to be in Dr. Brady’s office
when he dragged himself in, late at night. Doc got the
bullet out of his shoulder. It wasn’t a bad wound. The
old man swore it was an accident, and asked us to say
nothing about it. We haven’t. But I’ve been wondering.
Old Donald said he was careless with his own pistol. But
the fact is, Aldous—he was shot from behind l’’
“The deuce you say!”
“There was no perforation except from behind. In
some way the bullet had spent itself before it reached him.
Otherwise it would have killed him.”
For a moment Aldous stared in speechless amazement
into Blackton’s face.
“When did this happen?” he asked then.
“Three days ago. Since then I have not seen old
Donald until to-night. Almost by accident I met him out
there in the timber. 1 delivered the telegram you sent
him. After he had read it I showed him mine. He
scribbled something on a bit of paper, folded it, and pinned
it with a porcupine quill. I’ve been mighty curious, but I
haven’t pulled out that quill. Here it is.”
100 THE HUNTED WOMAN
From his pocket he produced the note and gave it to
Aldous.
“I’ll read it a little later,” said Aldous. “The ladies
may possibly become anxious about us.”
He dropped it in his pocket as he thanked Blackton for
the trouble he had taken in finding MacDonald. As he
climbed into the front seat of the buckboard his eyes met
Joanne's. He was glad that in a large measure she had
recovered her self-possession. She smiled at him as they
drove off, and there was something in the sweet tremble
of her lips that made him almost fancy she was asking
his forgiveness for having forgotten herself. Her voice
sounded more natural to him as she spoke to Mrs. Black-
ton. The latter, a plump little blue-eyed woman with
dimples and golden hair, was already making her feel at
home. She leaned over and placed a hand on her hus-
band’s shoulder.
“Let’s drive home by way of town, Paul,” she suggested.’
“It’s only a little farther, and I’m quite sure Miss Gray
will be interested in our Great White'Way of the moun-
tains. And I’m crazy to see that bear you were telling
me about,” she added.
Nothing could have suited Aldous more than this sug-
gestion. He was sure that Quade, following his own and
Culver Rann’s old methods, had already prepared stories
about Joanne, and he not only wanted Quade's friends—
but all of Tête Jaune as well—to see Joanne in the coms
pany of Mrs. Paul Blackton and her husband. And this
was a splendid opportunity, for the night carnival was
already beginning.
“The bear is worth seeing,” said Blackton, turning his
THE HUNTED WOMAN 10]
team in the direction of the blazing light of the half-mile
street that was the Broadway of Tête Jaune. “And the
woman who rides him is worth seeing, too,” he chuckled.
“He’s a big fellow—and she plays the Godiva act. Rides
him up and down the street with her hair down, collecting
dimes and quarters and half dollars as she goes.”
A minute later the length of the street swept out ahead
of them. It is probable that the world had never before
seen a street just like this Broadway in Tête Jaune—the
pleasure Mecca of five thousand workers along the line of
steel. There had been great “camps” in the building of
other railroads, but never a city in the wilderness like
this—a place that had sprung up like magic and which,
a few months later, was doomed to disappear as quickly.
For half a mile it blazed out ahead of them, two garishly
lighted rows of shacks, big tents, log buildings, and rough
board structures, with a rough, wide street between.
To-night Tête Jaune was like a blazing fire against the
darkness of the forest and mountain beyond. A hundred
sputtering “jacks” sent up columns of yellow flame in
front of places already filled with the riot and tumult of
the night. A thousand lamps and coloured lanterns
flashed like fireflies along the way, and under them the
crowd had gathered, and was flowing back and forth. It
was a weird and fantastic sight—this one strange and
almost uncanny street that was there largely for the play
and the excitement of men.
Aldous turned to Joanne. He knew what this town
meant. It was the first and the last of its kind, and its
history would never be written. The world outside the
mountains knew nothing of it. Like the men who made
102 THE HUNTED WOMAN
up its transient life it would soon be a forgotten thing of
the past. Even the mountains would forget it. But
more than once, as he had stood a part of it, his blood had
warmed at the thought of the things it held secret, the
things that would die with it, the big human drama it
stood for, its hidden tragedies, its savage romance, its
passing comedy. He found something of his own thought
in Joanne's eyes.
“There isn’t much to it,” he said, “but to-night, if you.
made the hunt, you could find men of eighteen or twenty
nationalities in that street.”
“And a little more besides,” laughed Blackton. “If
you could write the complete story of how Tête Jaune has
broken the law, Aldous, it would fill a volume as big as
Peggy's family Bible!”
“And after all, it’s funny,” said Peggy Blackton,
“There!” she cried suddenly. “Isn’t that funny?”
The glare and noisy life were on both sides of them now,
Half a dozen phonographs were going. From up the
street came the softer strains of a piano, and from in
between the shrieking notes of bagpipe. Peggy Blackton
was pointing to a brilliantly lighted, black-tarpaulined
shop. Huge white letters on its front announced that
Lady Barbers were within. They could see two of them
at work through the big window. And they were pretty.
The place was crowded with men. Men were waiting
outside.
“Paul says they charge a dollar for a haircut and fifty
cents for a shave,” explained Peggy Blackton. “And the
man over there across the street is going broke because he
can’t get business at fifteen cents a shave. Isn't it funny?”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 103
As they went on Aldous searched the street for Quade.
Several times he turned to the back seat, and always he
found Joanne's eyes questing in that strange way for the
some one whom she expected to see. Mrs. Blackton was
pointing out lighted places, and explaining things as they
passed, but he knew that in spite of her apparent attention
Joanne heard only a part of what she was saying. In that
crowd she hoped—or feared—to find a certain face. And
again Aldous told himself that it was not Quade's face.
Near the end of the street a crowd was gathering, and
here, for a moment, Blackton stopped his team within
fifty feet of the objects of attraction. A slim, exquisitely
formed woman in shimmering silk was standing beside a
huge brown bear. Her sleek black hair, shining as if it
had been oiled, fell in curls about her shoulders. Her
rouged lips were smiling. Even at that distance her black
eyes sparkled like diamonds. She had evidently just
finished taking up a collection, for she was fastening the
cord of a silken purse about her neck. In another moment
she bestrode the bear, the crowd fell apart, and as the
onlookers broke into a roar of applause the big beast lum-
bered slowly up the street with its rider.
“One of Culver Rann's friends,” said Blackton sotto voce,
as he drove on. “She takes in a hundred a night if she
makes a cent!”
Blackton's big log bungalow was close to the engineers’
camp half a mile distant from the one lighted street and
the hundreds of tents and shacks that made up the resi-
dential part of the town. Not until they were inside, and
Peggy Blackton had disappeared with Joanne for a few
moments, did Aldous take old Donald MacDonald’s note
104. THE HUNTED WOMAN
from his pocket. He pulled out the quill, unfolded the bit
of paper, and read the few crudely written words the
mountain man had sent him. Blackton turned in time
to catch the sudden amazement in his face. Crushing the
note in his hand, Aldous looked at the other, his mouth
tightening.
“You must help me make excuses, old man,” he said
quietly. “It will seem strange to them if I do not stay
for supper. But—it is impossible. I must see old Donald
as quickly as I can get to him.”
His manner more than his words kept Blackton from
urging him to remain. The contractor stared at him for
a moment, his own eyes growing harder and more direct.
“It’s about the shooting,” he said. “If you want me
to go with you, Aldous 55
“Thanks. That will be unnecessary.”
Peggy Blackton and Joanne were returning. Aldous
turned toward them as they entered the room. With the
note still in his hand he repeated to them what he had
told Blackton—that he had received word which made it
immediately urgent for him to go to MacDonald. He
shook hands with the Blacktons, promising to be on hand
for the four o’clock breakfast.
Joanne followed him to the door and out upon the
veranda. For a moment they were alone, and now her
eyes were wide and filled with fear as he clasped her hands
closely in his own.
“I saw him,” she whispered, her fingers tightening con-
vulsively. “I saw that man—Quade—at the station. He
followed us up the street. Twice I looked behind—and
saw him. I am afraid—afraid to let you go back there. I
THE HUNTED WOMAN 105.
believe he is somewhere out there now—waiting for
you!”
She was frightened, trembling; and her fear for him, the
fear in her shining eyes, in her throbbing breath, in the
clasp of her fingers, sent through John Aldous a joy that
almost made him free her hands and crush her in his arms
in the ecstasy of that wonderful moment. Then Peggy
Blackton and her husband appeared in the door. He
released her hands, and stepped out into the gloom. The
cheery good-nights of the Blacktons followed him. And
Joanne's good-night was in her eyes—following him until
he was gone, filled with their entreaty and their fear.
A hundred yards distant, where the trail split to lead
to the camp of the engineers, there was a lantern on a
pole. Here Aldous paused, out of sight of the Blackton
bungalow, and in the dim light read again MacDonald's
note.
In a cramped and almost illegible hand the old wanderer
of the mountains had written:
Don’t go to cabin. Culver Rann waiting to kill you. Don’t
show yorself in town. Cum to me as soon as you can on trail
striking north to Loon Lake. Watch yorself. Be ready with
yOT gun.
DoNALD MAcDonalD.
Aldous shoved the note in his pocket and slipped back
out of the lantern-glow into deep shadow. For several
minutes he stood silent and listening.
§
&g: *.
CHAPTER xI &
ńSJOHN ALDOUS'stood hidden in the darkness, lis-
A tening for the sound of a footstep, Joanne's words
4 º' still rang in his ears.” “I believe he is out there—
waiting for you,” she had said; and, chucklſhg softly in the
gloom, he told himself that nothing would give him more
satisfaction than an immediate and material proof of her
fear. In the present moment he felt a keen desire to con-
front Quade face to face out there in the lanterri-glow, and
settle with the mottled beast once for all, The fact that
Quade had seen Joanne as the guest of the Blackigns
hardened him in his determination. Quade £ould IlC)
longer be in possible error regarding her. He knew that
she had friends, and that she was not of the kind who could
be made or induced to play his game and Culver Rann's.
If he followed her after this:
Aldous gritted his teeth and stared up and down the
black trail. Five minutes passed and he heard nothing
that sounded like a footstep, and he saw no moving
shadow in the gloom. Slowly he continued along the
road until he came to where a narrow pack-trail swung
north and east through the thick spruce and balsam in the
direction of Loon Lake. Remembering MacDonald’s
warning, he kept his pistol in his hand. The moon was
just beginning to rise over the shoulder of a mountain,
and after a little it lighted up the more open spaces ahead
- *** TÜ6

THE HUNTED WOMAN 107
‘of him. Now and then he paused, and turned to listen.
As he progressed with slowness and caution, his mind
worked swiftly. He knew that Donald MacDonald was
the last man in the world to write such a message as he
had sent him through Blackton unless there had been a
tremendous reason for it. But why, he asked himself
again and again, should Culver Rann want to kill him?
Rann knew nothing of Joanne. He had not seen her.
And surely Quade had not had time to formulate a plot
with his partner before MacDonald wrote his warning.
Besides an attempt had been made to assassinate the old
mºpuntaineer! wMacDonald had not warned him against
Quade. He had, told him to guard himself against Rann.
And what reason could this Culver Rann have for doing
him injury? The more he thought of it the more puzzled
he became. And then, in a flash, the possible solution of
it all came to him.
Had Culver Rann discovered the secret mission on
which he and the old mountaineer were going into the
North? Had he learned of the gold—where it was to be
found? And was their assassination the first step in a
plot to secure possession of the treasure?
The blood in Aldous' veins ran faster. He gripped his
pistol harder. More closely he looked into the moonlit
gloom of the trail ahead of him. He believed that he had
guessed the meaning of MacDonald’s warning. It was the
gold! More than once thought of the yellow treasure far
up in the North had thrilled him, but never as it thrilled
him now. Was the old tragedy of it to be lived over again?
Was it again to play its part in a terrible drama of men's
lives, as it had played it more than forty years ago? The
I08 THE HUNTED WOMAN
gold! The gold that for nearly half a century had lain
with the bones of its dead, alone with its terrible secret,
alone until Donald MacDonald had found it again! He
had not told Joanne the story of it, the appalling and
almost unbelievable tragedy of it. He had meant to do
so. But they had talked of other things. He had meant
to tell her that it was not the gold itself that was luring
him far to the north—that it was not the gold alone that
was taking Donald MacDonald back to it.
And now, as he stood for a moment listening to the low
sweep of the wind in the spruce-tops, it seemed to him
that the night was filled with whispering voices of that
long-ago—and he shivered, and held his breath. A cloud
had drifted under the moon. For a few moments it was
pitch dark. The fingers of his hand dug into the rough
bark of a spruce. He did not move. It was then that he
heard something above the caressing rustle of the wind in
the spruce-tops.
It came to him faintly, from full half a mile deeper in
the black forest that reached down to the bank of the
Frazer. It was the night call of an owl—one of the big
gray owls that turned white as the snow in winter. Men-
tally he counted the notes in the call. One, two, three,
four—and a flood of relief swept over him. It was Mac-
Donald. They had used that signal in their hunting,
when they had wished to locate each other without fright-
ening game. Always there were three notes in the big
gray owl's quavering cry. The fourth was human. He
put his hands to his mouth and sent back an answer,
emphasizing the fourth note. The light breeze had died
down for a moment, and Aldous heard the old moun-
THE HUNTED WOMAN 109
taineer's reply as it floated faintly back to him through
the forest. Continuing to hold his pistol, he went on, this
time more swiftly.
MacDonald did not signal again. The moon was climb-
ing rapidly into the sky, and with each passing minute
the night was becoming lighter. He had gone half a mile
when he stopped again and signalled softly. MacDonald’s
voice answered, so near that for an instant the automatic
flashed in the moonlight. Aldous stepped out where the
trail had widened into a small open spot. Half a dozen
paces from him, in the bright flood of the moon, stood
Donald MacDonald.
The night, the moon-glow, the tense attitude of his
waiting added to the weirdness of the picture which the
old wanderer of the mountains made as Aldous faced him.
MacDonald was vall; some trick of the night made him
appear almost unhumanly tall as he stood in the centre of
that tiny moonlit amphitheatre. His head was bowed a
little, and his shoulders drooped a little, for he was old.
A thick, shaggy beard fell in a silvery sheen over his breast.
His hair, gray as the underwing of the owl whose note he
forged, straggled in uncut disarray from under the droop-
ing rim of a battered and weatherworn hat. His coat was
of buckskin, and it was short at the sleeves—four inches
too short; and the legs of his trousers were cut off between
the knees and the ankles, giving him a still greater appear-
ance of height.
In the crook of his arm MacDonald held a rifle, a
strange-looking, long-barrelled rifle of a type a quarter of a
century old. And Donald MacDonald, in the picture he
made, was like his gun, old and gray and ghostly, as if he
110 THE HUNTED WOMAN
had risen out of some graveyard of the past to warm
himself in the yellow splendour of the moon. But in the
grayness and gauntness of him there was something that
was mightier than the strength of youth. He was alert.
In the crook of his arm there was caution. His eyes were
as keen as the eyes of an animal. His shoulders spoke of
a strength but little impaired by the years. Ghostly gray
beard, ghostly gray hair, haunting eyes that gleamed, all
added to the strange and weird impressiveness of the man
as he stood before Aldous. And when he spoke, his voice
had in it the deep, low, cavernous note of a partridge's
drumming.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Aldous,” he said. “I’ve been
waiting ever since the train come in. I was afraid you'd
go to the cabin!”
Aldous stepped forth and gripped the old mountaineer's
outstretched hand. There was intense real. Donald’s
eyes.
“I got a little camp back here in the bush,” he went on,
nodding riverward. “It’s safer ºn the shack these days.
Yo’re sure—there ain’t no one following?”
“Quite certain,” assured Aldous. “Look here, Mac-
Donald—what in thunder has happened? Don’t continue
my suspense! Who shot you? Why did you warn me?”
Deep in his beard the old hunter laughed.
“Same fellow as would have shot you, I guess,” be
answered. “They made a bad job of it, Johnny, an awful
bad job, an’ mebby there'd been a better man layin’ for
you!”
He was pulling Aldous in the bush as he spoke. For
ten minutes he dived on ahead through a jungle in which
THE HUNTED WOMAN 111
there was no trail. Suddenly he turned, led the way
around the edge of a huge mass of rock, and paused a
moment later before a small Smouldering fire. Against the
face of a gigantic boulder was a balsam shelter. A few
cooking utensils were scattered about. It was evident
that MacDonald had been living here for several days.
“Looks as though I’d run away, don’t it, Johnny?” he
asked, laughing in his curious, chuckling way again. “An'
so I did, boy. From the mountain up there I’ve been
watching things through my telescope—been keepin’ quiet
since Doc pulled the bullet out. I’ve been layin’ for the
Breed. I wanted him to think I’d vamoosed. I’m goin'
to kill him!”
He had squatted down before the fire, his long rifle
across his knees, and spoke as quietly as though he was
talking of a partridge or a squirrel instead of a human
being. He wºrmed a hand into one of his pockets and
produced a mall dark object which he handed to Aldous
The other felt an uncanny chill as it touched his fingers.
It was a mis-shapened bullet.
“Doc gave me the lead,” continued MacDonald coolly,
beginning to slice a pipeful of tobacco from a tar-black
plug. “It come from Joe’s gun. I’ve hunted with him
enough to know his bullet. He fired through the window
of the cabin. If it hadn’t been for the broom handle—
just the end of it stickin' up”—he shrugged his gaunt
shoulders as he stuffed the tobacco into the bowl of his
pipe—“I’d been dead!” he finished tersely.
“You mean that Joe 29
“Has sold himself to Culver Rann!” exclaimed Mac-
T}onald. He sprang to his feet. For the first time he
II 2 THE HUNTED WOMAN
showed excitement. His eyes blazed with repressed rage.
A hand gripped the barrel of his rifle as if to crush it.
“He’s sold himself to Culver Rann!” he repeated. “He’s
sold him our secret. He's told him where the gold is,
Johnny! He's bargained to guide Rann an' his crowd to
it! An’ first—they’re goin’ to kill us jº
With a low whistle Aldous took off his hat. He ran a
hand through his blond-gray hair. Then he replaced his
hat and drew two cigars from his pocket. MacDonald
accepted one. Aldous’ eyes were glittering; his lips were
smiling.
“They are, are they, Donald? They’re going to kill us?”
“They’re goin’ to try,” amended the old hunter, with
another curious chuckle in his ghostly beard. “They’re
goin’ to try, Johnny. That’s why I told you not to go
to the cabin. I wasn’t expecting you for a week. To-
morrow I was goin’ to start on a hike for Miette. I been
watching through my telescope from the mountain up
there. I see Quade come in this morning on a hand-car.
Twice I see him and Rann together. Then I saw Blackton
hike out into the bush. I was worrying about you an’
wondered if he had any word. So I laid for him on the
trail—an I guess it was lucky. I ain’t been able to set
my eyes on Joe. I looked for hours through the tele-
scope—an’ I couldn’t find him. He’s gone, or Culver Rann
is keeping him out of sight.”
For several moments Aldous looked at his companion in
silence. Then he said:
“You’re sure of all this, are you, Donald? You have
good proof–that Joe has turned traitor?”
“I’ve been suspicious of him ever since we come down
THE HUNTED WOMAN 113
from the North,” spoke MacDonald slowly. “I watched
him—night an’ day. I was afraid he'd get a grubstake
an’ start back alone. Then I saw him with Culver Rann.
It was late. I heard 'im leave the shack, an’ I followed.
He went to Rann’s house—an’ Rann was expecting him.
Three times I followed him to Culver Rann’s house. I
knew what was happening then, an’ I planned to get him
back in the mountains on a hunt, an’ kill him. But I was
too late. The shot came through the window. Then he
disappeared. An’—Culver Rann is getting an outfit
together! Twenty head of horses, with grub for three
months!”
“The deuce! And our outfit? Is it ready?”
“To the last can o' beans!”
“And your plan, Donald?”
All at once the old mountaineer's eyes were aflame with
eagerness as he came nearer to Aldous.
“Get out of Tête Jaune to-night!” he cried in a low,
hissing voice that quivered with excitement. “Hit the
trail before dawn! Strike into the mountains with our
outfit—far enough back—and then wait!”
“Wait?”
“Yes—wait. If they follow us—fight !”
Slowly Aldous held out a hand. The old mountaineer's
met it. Steadily they looked into each other's eyes.
Then John Aldous spoke:
“If this had been two days ago I would have said yes.
But to-night—it is impossible.”
The fingers that had tightened about his own relaxed.
Slowly a droop came into MacDonald’s shoulders. Dis-
appointment, a look that was almost despair settled in his
114 THE HUNTED WOMAN
eyes. Seeing the change, Aldo's held the old hunter's
hand more firmly. * *
“That doesn’; mean we’re not going to fight,” he said
quickly. “Only we’ve got to plan differently. Sit down,
Donald. Something has been happening to me. And
I’m going to tell you about it.”
A little back from the fire they seated themselves, and
Aldous told Donald MacDonald about Joanne.
He began at the beginning, from the moment his eyes
first saw her as she entered Quade's place. He left nothing
out. He told how she had come into his life, and how he
intended to fight to keep her from going out of it. He told
of his fears, his hopes, the mystery of their coming to Tête
Jaune, and how Quade had preceded them to plot the
destruction of the woman he loved. He described her as
she had stood that morning, like a radiant goddess in the
sun; and when he came to that he leaned nearer, and said
softly:
“And when I saw her there, Donald, with her hair
streaming about her like that, I thought of the time you
told me of that other woman—the woman of years and
years ago—and how you, Donald, used to look upon her
in the sun, and rejoice in your possession. Her spirit has
been with you always. You have told me how for nearly
fifty years you have followed it over these mountains.
And this woman means as much to me. If she should
die to-night her spirit would live with me in that same
way. You understand, Donald. I can’t go into the
mountains to-night. God knows when I can go—now. But
you 99
MacDonald had risen. He turned his face to the black
THE HUNTED WOMAN 115
wall of the forest. Aldous thought he saw a sudden
quiver pass through the great, bent shoulders.
“And I,” said MacDonald slowly, “will have the horses
ready for you at dawn. We will fight this other fight—
later.”
CHAPTER XII
OR an hour after Donald MacDonald had pledged
himself to accompany Joanne and Aldous on their
pilgrimage to the grave in the Saw Tooth Range
the two men continued to discuss the unusual complicas
tions in which they had suddenly become involved, and at
the same time prepared themselves a Supper of bacon and
coffee over the fire. They agreed upon a plan of action
with one exception. Aldous was determined to return to
the town, arguing there was a good strategic reason for
showing himself openly and without fear. MacDonald
opposed this apprehensively.
“Better lay quiet until morning,” he expostulated.
“You’d better listen to me, an’ do that, Johnny. I’ve
got something in my shoulder that tells me you'd
better!”
In the face of the old hunter's misgiving, Aldous pre-
pared to leave. It was nearly ten o’clock when he set
back in the direction of Tête Jaune, Donald accompanying
him as far as the moonlit amphitheatre in the forest.
There they separated, and Aldous went on alone.
He believed that Joanne and the Blacktons would half
expect him to return to the bungalow after he had seen
MacDonald. He was sure that Blackton, at least, would
look for him until quite late. The temptation to take
advantage of their hospitality was great, especially as it
1$6
THE HUNTED WOMAN 117
would bring him in the company of Joanne again. On the
other hand, he was certain that this first night in Tête
Jaune held very large possibilities for him. The detective
instinct in him was roused, and his adventurous spirit was
alive for action. First of all, he wanted proof of what
MacDonald had told him. That an attempt had been
made to assassinate the old mountaineer he did not for an
instant doubt. But had Joe DeBar, the half-breed, actu-
ally betrayed them? Had he sold himself to Culver Rann,
and did Rann hold the key to the secret expedition they
had planned into the North? He did not, at first, care to
see Rann. He made up his mind that if he did meet him
he would stop and chat casually with him, as though he
had heard and seen nothing to rouse his suspicions. He
particularly wanted to find DeBar; and, next to DeBar,
Quade himself.
The night carnival was at its height when Aldous re-
entered the long, lighted street. From ten until eleven
was the liveliest hour of the night. Even the restaurants
and soup-kitchens were crowded then. He strolled slowly
down the street until he came to a little crowd gathered
about the bear equestrienne. The big canvas dance-hall
a few doors away had lured from her most of her admirers
by this time, and Aldous found no difficulty in reaching
the inner circle. He looked first for the half-breed. Fail-
ing to find him, he looked at the woman, who stood only
a few feet from him. Her glossy black curls were a bit
dishevelled, and the excitement of the night had added to
the vivid colouring of her rouged lips and cheeks. Her
body was sleek and sinuous in its silken vesture; arms and
shoulders were startlingly white; and when she turned, face
118 THE HUNTED WOMAN
ing Aldous, her black eyes flashed fires of deviltry and al.
lurement.
For a moment he stared into her face. If he had not
been looking closely he would not have caught the swift
change that shot into the siren-like play of her orbs. It
was almost instantaneous. Her slow-travelling glance
stopped as she saw him. He saw the quick intake of her
breath, a sudden compression of her lips, the startled
searching scrutiny of a pair of eyes from which, for a
moment, all the languor and coquetry of her trade were
gone. Then she passed him, Smiling again, nodding,
sweeping a hand and arm effectively through her handsome
curls as she flung a shapely limb over the broad back of
the bear. In a garish sort of way the woman was beauti-
ful, and this night, as on all others, her beauty had nearly
filled the silken coin-bag suspended from her neck. As
she rode down the street Aldous recalled Blackton’s words:
She was a friend of Culver Rann's. He wondered if this
fact accounted for the strangeness of the look she had
given him.
He passed on to the dance-hall. It was crowded,
mostly with men. But here and there, like so many faces
peering forth from living graves, he saw the Little Sisters
of Tête Jaune Cache. Outnumbered ten to one, their
voices rang out in shrill banter and delirious laughter
above the rumble of men. At the far end, a fiddle, a piano,
and a clarinet were squealing forth music. The place
smelled strongly of whisky. It always smelled of that, for
most of the men who sought amusement here got their
whisky in spite of the law. There were rock-hogs from up
the line, and rock-hogs from down the line, men of all
THE HUNTED WOMAN 119
nationalities and of almost all ages; teamsters, trail-cutters,
packers, and rough-shod navvies; men whose daily task
was to play with dynamite and giant powder; steel-men,
tie-men, and men who drilled into the hearts of mountains.
More than once John Aldous had looked upon this same
scene, and had listened to the trample and roar and wild
revelry of it, marvelling that to-morrow the men of this
saturnalia would again be the builders of an empire. The
thin, hollow-cheeked faces that passed and repassed him,
rouged and smiling, could not destroy in his mind the
strength of the picture. They were but moths, fluttering
about in their own doom, contending with each other to
see which should quickest achieve destruction.
For several minutes Aldous scanned the faces in the big
tent-hall, and nowhere did he see DeBar. He dropped
out, and continued leisurely along the lighted way until
he came to Lovak's huge black-and-white striped soup-
tent. At ten o’clock, and until twelve, this was as
crowded as the dance-hall. Aldous knew Lovak, the
Hungarian.
Through Lovak he had found the key that had unlocked
for him many curious and interesting things associated
with that powerful Left Arm of the Empire Builders—the
Slav. Except for a sprinkling of Germans, a few Italians,
and now and then a Greek or Swiss, only the Slavs filled
Lovak's place—Slavs from all the Russias and the nations
south: the quick and chattering Polak; the thick-set,
heavy-jowled Croatian; the silent and dangerous-eyed
Lithuanian. All came in for Lovak's wonderful soup,
which he sold in big yellow bowls at ten cents a bowl—soup
of barley, rice, and cabbage, of beef and mutton, of every-
120 THE HUNTED WOMAN
thing procurable out of which soup could be made, and,
whether of meat or vegetable, smelling to heaven of
garlic.
Fifty men were eating when Aldous went in, devouring
their soup with the utter abandon and joy of the Galician,
so that the noise they made was like the noise of fifty pigs
at fifty troughs. Now and then DeBar, the half-breed,
came here for soup, and Aldous searched quickly for him,
He was turning to go when his friend, Lovak, came to him.
No, Lovak had not seen DeBar. But he had news. That
day the authorities—the police—had confiscated twenty
dressed hogs, and in each porcine carcass they had found
four-quart bottles of whisky, artistically imbedded in the
leaf-lard fat. The day before those same authorities had
confiscated a barrel of “kerosene.” They were becoming
altogether too officious, Lovak thought.
Aldous went on. He looked in at a dozen restaurants,
and twice as many soft-drink emporiums, where phono-
graphs were worked until they were cracked and dizzy.
He stopped at a small tobacco shop, and entered to buy
himself some cigars. There was one other customer ahead
of him. He was lighting a cigar, and the light of a big
hanging lamp flashed on a diamond ring. Over his sput-
tering match his eyes met those of John Aldous. They
were dark eyes, neither brown nor black, but dark, with
the keenness and strange glitter of a serpent’s. He wore
a small, clipped moustache; his hands were white; he was a
man whom one might expect to possess the sang froid of a
devil in any emergency. For barely an instant he hesi-
tated in the operation of lighting his cigar as he saw
Aldous. Then he nodded.
THE HUNTED WOMAN I21
“Hello, John Aldous,” he said.
“Good evening, Culver Rann,” replied Aldous.
For a moment his nerves had tingled-–the next they
were like steel. Culver Rann’s teeth gleamed. Aldous
smiled back. They were cold, hard, rapierlike glances.
Each understood now that the other was a deadly enemy,
for Quade's enemies were also Culver Rann's. Aldous
moved carelessly to the glass case in which were the cigars.
With the barest touch of one of his slim white hands
Culver Rann stopped him.
“Have one of mine, Aldous,” he invited, opening a
silver case filled with cigars. “We’ve never had the
pleasure of Smoking together, you know.”
“Never,” said Aldous, accepting one of the cigars.
“Thanks.” -
As he lighted it, their eyes met again. Aldous turned
to the case.
“Half a dozen “Noblemen,” he said to the man behind
the counter; then, to Rann: “Will you have one on me?”
“With pleasure,” said Rann. He added, smiling
straight into the other's eyes, “What are you doing up
here, Aldous? After local colour?”
“Perhaps. The place interests me.”
“It’s a lively town.”
“Decidedly. And I understand that you’ve played an
important part in the making of it,” replied Aldous care-
lessly.
For a flash Rann's eyes darkened, and his mouth
hardened, then his white teeth gleamed again. He had
caught the insinuation, and he had scarcely been able to
ward off the shot.
122 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I’ve tried to do my small share,” he admitted. “If
you’re after local colour for your books, Aldous, I possibly
may be able to assist you—if you’re in town long.”
“Undoubtedly you could,” said Aldous. “I think you
could tell me a great deal that I would like to know, Rann.
But—will you?”
There was a direct challenge in his coldly smiling eyes.
“Yes, I think I shall be quite pleased to do so,” said
Rann. “Especially—if you are long in town.” There
was an odd emphasis on those last words.
He moved toward the door.
“And if you are here very long,” he added, his eyes
gleaming significantly, “it is possible you may have ex-
periences of your own which would make very interesting
reading if they ever got into print. Good-night, Aldous!”
For two or three minutes after Rann had gone Aldous
loitered in the tobacco shop. Then he went out. All at
once it struck him that he should have kept his eyes on
Quade’s partner. He should have followed him. With
the hope of seeing him again he walked up and down the
street. It was eleven o’clock when he went into Big
Ben's pool-room. Five minutes later he came out just as
a woman hurried past him, carrying with her a strong
scent of perfume. It was the Lady of the Bear. She was
in a street dress now, her glossy curls still falling loose
about her—probably homeward bound after her night's
harvest. It struck Aldous that the hour was early for her
retirement, and that she seemed somewhat in a hurry.
The woman was going in the direction of Rann’s big log
bungalow, which was built well out of town toward the
river. She had not seen him as he stood in the pool-room
THE HUNTED WOMAN 123
doorway, and before she had passed out of sight he was
following her. There were a dozen branch trails and
“streets” on the way to Rann's, and into the gloom of
some one of these the woman disappeared, so that Aldous
lost her entirely. He was not disappointed when he
found she had left the main trail.
Five minutes later he stood close to Rann’s house.
From the side on which he had approached it was dark.
No gleam of light showed through the windows. Slowly
he walked around the building, and stopped suddenly on
the opposite side. Here a closely drawn curtain was
illuminated by a glow from within. Cautiously Aldous
made his way along the log wall of the house until he came
to the window. At one side the curtain had caught
against some object, leaving perhaps a quarter of an inch
of space through which the light shone. Aldous brought
his eyes on a level with this space.
A half of the room came within his vision. Directly in
front of him, lighted by a curiously shaped iron lamp
suspended from the ceiling, was a dull red mahogany
desk-table. At one side of this, partly facing him, was
Culver Rann. Opposite him sat Quade.
Rann was speaking, while Quade, with his bullish
shoulders hunched forward and his fleshy red neck rolling
bver the collar of his coat, leaned across the table in a
tense and listening attitude. With his eyes glued to the
aperture, Aldous strained his ears to catch what Rann was
saying. He heard only the low and unintelligible mono-
tone of his voice. A mocking Smile was accompanying
Rann’s words. To-night, as at all times, this hawk who
preyed upon human lives was immaculate. In all ways
#24 THE HUNTED WOMAN
but one he was the antithesis of the beefy scoundrel who
sat opposite him. On the hand that toyed carelessly with
the fob of his watch flashed a diamond; another sparkled
in his cravat. His dark hair was sleek and well brushed;
his bristly little moustache was clipped in the latest fashion,
He was not large. His hands, as he made a gesture
toward Quade, were of womanish whiteness. Casually,
on the street or in a Pullman, Aldous would have taken
him for a gentleman. Now, as he stared through the
narrow slit between the bottom of the curtain and the sill,
he knew that he was looking upon one of the most dan-
gerous men in all the West. Quade was a villain. Culver
Rann, quiet and cool and suave, was a devil. Behind
his depravity worked the brain which Quade lacked, and
a nerve which, in spite of that almost effeminate immacu-
lateness, had been described to Aldous as colossal.
Suddenly Quade turned, and Aldous saw that he was
flushed and excited. He struck the desk a blow with his
fist. Culver Rann leaned back and smiled. And John
Aldous slipped away from the window.
His nerves were quivering; in the darkness he unbut-
toned the pocket that held his automatic. Through the
window he had seen an open door behind Rann, and his
blood thrilled with the idea that had come to him. He
was sure the two partners in crime were discussing himself
and MacDonald—and Joanne. To hear what they were
saying, to discover their plot, would be three quarters of
the fight won, if it came to a fight. The open door was
an inspiration.
Swiftly and silently he went to the rear of the house.
He tried the door and found it unlocked. Softly he
THE HUNTED WOMAN 125
opened it, swinging it inward an inch at a time, and
scarcely breathing as he entered. It was dark, and there
was a second closed door ahead of him. From beyond
that he heard voices. He closed the outer door so that he
would not be betrayed by a current of air or a sound from
out of the night. Then, even more cautiously and slowly,
he began to open the second door.
An inch at first, then two inches, three inches—a foot—
he worked the door inward. There was no light in this
second room, and he lay close to the floor, head and
shoulders thrust well in. Through the third and open
door he saw Quade and Culver Rann. Rann was laughing
softly as he lighted a fresh cigar. His voice was quiet and
good humoured, but filled with a banter which it was evi-
dent Quade was not appreciating.
“You amaze me,” Rann was saying. “You amaze me
utterly. You’ve gone mad—mad as a rock-rabbit, Quade
Do you mean to tell me you’re on the square when you
offer to turn over a half of your share in the gold if I help
you to get this woman?”
“I do,” replied Quade thickly. “I mean just that!
And we’ll put it down in black an’ white—here, now. You
fix the papers, same as any other deal, and I’ll sign!”
For a moment Culver Rann did not reply. He leaned
back in his chair, thrust the thumbs of his white hands in
his vest, and sent a cloud of smoke above his head. Then
he looked at Quade, a gleam of humour in his eyes.
“Nothing like a woman for turning a man’s head soft,”
he chuckled. “Nothing in the world like it, 'pon my
word, Quade. First it was DeBar. I don’t believe we’d
got him if he hadn’t seen Marie riding her bear. Marie
126 THE HUNTED WOMAN
and her curls and her silk tights, Quade—s’elp me, it
wouldn’t have surprised me so much if you’d fallen in love
with her 1 And over this other woman you’re as mad as
Joe is over Marie. At first sight he was ready to sell his
soul for her. So–I gave Marie to him. And now, for
some other woman, you’re just as anxious to surrender a
half of your share of what we’ve bought through Marie.
Good heaven, man, if you were in love with Marie—”
“Damn Marie!” growled Quade. “I know the time
when you were bugs over her yourself, Rann. It wasn’t
so long ago. If I’d looked at her then 99
“Of course, not then,” interrupted Rann Smilingly.
“That would have been impolite, Quade, and not at all
in agreement with the spirit of our brotherly partnership.
And, you must admit, Marie is a devilish good-looking
girl. I’ve surrendered her only for a brief spell to DeBar.
After he has taken us to the gold—why, the poor idiot
will probably have been sufficiently happy to 53
He paused, with a suggestive shrug of his shoulders.
“—go into cold storage,” finished Quade.
“Exactly.”
Again Quade leaned over the table, and for a moment
there was silence, a silence in which Aldous thought the
pounding of his heart must betray him. He lay motion-
less on the floor. The nails of his fingers dug into the
bare wood. Under the palm of his right hand lay his
automatic.
Then Quade spoke. There must have been more in his
face than was spoken in his words, for Culver Rann took
the cigar from between his lips, and a light that was deadly
serious slowly filled his eyes.
THE HUNTED WOMAN i27
“Rann, we'll talk business!” Quade's voice was harsh,
deep, and quivering. “I want this woman. I may be a
fool, but I’m going to have her. I might get her alone,
but we’ve always done things together—an’ so I made
you that proposition. It ain’t a hard job. It’s one of the
easiest jobs we ever had. Only that fool of a writer is in
the way—an’ he’s got to go anyway. We’ve got to get
rid of him on account of the gold, him an’ MacDonald.
We’ve got that planned. An’ I’ve showed you how we
can get the woman, an’ no one ever know. Are you in on
this with me?”
Culver Rann's reply was as quick and sharp as a pistol
shot.
“I am.”
For another moment there was silence. Then Quade
asked:
“Any need of writin’, Culver?”
*No. There can’t be a written agreement in this deal
because—it’s dangerous. There won’t be much said about
old MacDonald. But questions, a good many of them, will
be asked about this man Aldous. As for the woman 9 3
Rann shrugged his shoulders with a sinister smile. “She
will disappear like the others,” he finished. “No one will
ever get on to that. If she doesn’t make a pal like Marie—
after a time, why—”
Again Aldous saw that peculiar shrug of his shoulders,
Quade's head nodded on his thick neck.
“Of course, I agree to that,” he said. “After a time.
But most of 'em have come over, ain’t they, Culver? Eh?
Most of 'em have,” he chuckled coarsely. “When you
see her you won’t call me a fool for going dippy over her,
I28 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Culver. And she'll come round all right after she's gone
through what we’ve got planned for her. I’ll make a pal
of her!”
In that moment, as he listened to the gloating passion
and triumph in Quade's brutal voice, something broke in
the brain of John Aldous. It filled him with a fire that
in an instant had devoured every thought or plan he had
made, and in this madness he was consumed by a single
desire—the desire to kill. And yet, as this conflagration
surged through him, it did not blind or excite him. It
did not make him leap forth in animal rage. It was
something more terrible. He rose so quietly that the
others did not see or hear him in the dark outer room.
They did not hear the slight metallic click of the safety on
his pistol.
For the space of a breath he stood and looked at them.
He no longer sensed the words Quade was uttering. He
was going in coolly and calmly to kill them. There was
something disagreeable in the flashing thought that he
might kill them from where he stood. He would not fire
from the dark. He wanted to experience the exquisite
sensation of that one first moment when they would
writhe back from him, and see in him the presence of
death. He would give them that one moment of life—
just that one. Then he would kill.
With his pistol ready in his hand he stepped out into
the lighted room.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” he said.
CHAPTER XIII
Aldous announced himself there was no visible sign
of life on the part of either Quade or Culver Rann.
The latter sat stunned. Not the movement of a finger
broke the stonelike immobility of his attitude. His eyes
were like two dark coals gazing steadily as a serpent’s over
Quade's hunched shoulders and bowed head. Quade
seemed as if frozen on the point of speaking to Rann.
One hand was still poised a foot above the table. It was
he who broke the tense and lifeless tableau.
Slowly, almost as slowly as Aldous had opened the door,
Quade turned his head, and stared into the coldly smiling
face of the man whom he had plotted to kill, and saw the
gleaming pistol in his hand. A curious look overcame his
pouchy face, a look not altogether of terror—but of shock.
He knew Aldous had heard. He accepted in an instant,
and perceptibly, the significance of the pistol in his hand.
But Culver Rann sat like a rock. His face expressed
nothing. Not for the smallest part of a second had he
betrayed any emotion that might be throbbing within him.
In spite of himself Aldous admired the man’s unflinching
IleITVe.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” he repeated.
Then Rann leaned slowly forward over the table. One
hand rose to his moustache. It was his right hand. The
129
Fº a space of perhaps twenty seconds after Johr,
E HUNTED WOMAN
Mvisible. Quade pulled himself together and
56 the end of the table, his two empty hands in
f him. Aldous, still smiling, faced Rann's glittering
Aſ and covered him with his automatic. Culver Rann
&isted the end of his moustache, and smiled back.
“Well?” he said. “Is it checkmate?”
“It is,” replied Aldous. “I’ve promised you scoundrels
one minute of life. I guess that minute is about up.”
The last word was scarcely out of his mouth when the
room was in darkness—a darkness so complete and sudden
that for an instant his hand faltered, and in that instant
he heard the overturning of a chair and the falling of a
body. Twice his automatic sent a lightning-flash of fire
where Culver Rann had sat; twice it spat threadlike
ribbons of flame through the blackness where Quade had
stood. He knew what had happened, and also what to
expect if he lost out now. The curiously shaped iron
lamp had concealed an electric bulb, and Rann had turned
off the switch-key under the table. He had no further
time to think. An object came hurtling through the thick
gloom and fell with terrific force on his outstretched pistol
arm. His automatic flew from his hand and struck
against the wall. Unarmed, he sprang back toward the
open door—full into the arms of Quade!
Aldous knew that it was Quade and not Culver Rann,
and he struck out with all the force he could gather in a
short-arm blow. His fist landed against Quade's thick
neck. Again and again he struck, and Quade's grip
loosened. In another moment he would have reached the
door if Rann had not caught him from behind. Never had
Aldous felt the clutch of hands like those of the womanish






THE HUNTED WOMAN 13|
hands of Culver Rann. It was as if sinuous fingers of
steel were burying themselves in his flesh. Before they
found his throat he flung himself backward with all his
weight, and with a tremendous effort freed himself.
Both Quade and Culver Rann now stood between him
and the door. He could hear Quade's deep, panting
breath. Rann, as before, was silent as death. Then he
heard the door close. A key clicked in the lock. He was
trapped.
“Turn on the light, Billy,” he heard Rann say in a
quiet, unexcited voice. “We’ve got this house-breaker
cornered, and he's lost his gun. Turn on the light—and
I’ll make one shot do the business!”
Aldous heard Quade moving, but he was not coming
toward the table. Somewhere in the room was another
switch connected with the iron lamp, and Aldous felt a
curious chill shoot up his spine. Without seeing through
that pitch darkness of the room he sensed the fact that
Culver Rann was standing with his back against the
locked door, a revolver in his hand. And he knew that
Quade, feeling his way along the wall, held a revolver in
his hand. Men like these two did not go unarmed. The
instant the light was turned on they would do their work.
As he stood, silent as Culver Rann, he realized the tables
were turned. In that moment’s madness roused by
Quade’s gloating assurance of possessing Joanne he had
revealed himself like a fool, and now he was about to reap
the whirlwind of his folly. Deliberately he had given
himself up to his enemies. They, too, would be fools if
they allowed him to escape alive.
He heard Quade stop. His thick hand was fumbling
132 THE HUNTED WOMAN
along the wall. Aldous guessed that he was feeling for
the switch. He almost fancied he could see Rann's
revolver levelled at him through the darkness. In that
thrilling moment his mind worked with the swiftness of a
powder flash. One of his hands touched the edge of the
desk-table, and he knew that he was standing directly
opposite the curtained window, perhaps six feet from it.
If he flung himself through the window the curtain would
save him from being cut to pieces.
No sooner had the idea of escape come to him than he had
acted. A flood of light filled the room as his body crashed
through the glass. He heard a cry—a single shot—as he
struck the ground. He gathered himself up and ran
swiftly. Fifty yards away he stopped, and looked back.
Quade and Rann were in the window. Then they disap-
peared, and a moment later the room was again in gloom.
For a second time Aldous hurried in the direction of
MacDonald’s camp. He knew that, in spite of the pro-
tecting curtain, the glass had cut him. He felt the warm
blood dripping over his face; both hands were wet with it.
The arm on which he had received the blow from the
unseen object in the room gave him considerable pain,
and he had slightly sprained an ankle in his leap through
the window, so that he limped a little. But his mind was
clear—so clear that in the face of his physical discomfort
he caught himself laughing once or twice as he made his
way along the trail.
Aldous was not of an ordinary type. To a curious and
superlative degree he could appreciate a defeat as well as
a triumph. His adventures had been a part of a life in
which he had not always expected to win, and in to-night's
H
THE HUNTED WOMANI 133
game he admitted that he had been hopelessly and ridicu-
lously beaten. Tragedy, to him, was a first cousin of
comedy; to-night he had set out to kill, and, instead of
killing, he had run like a jack-rabbit for cover. Also, in
that same half-hour Rann and Quade had been sure of him,
and he had given them the surprise of their lives by his
catapultic disappearance through the window. There was
Something ludicrous about it all—something that, to him,
at least, had turned a possible tragedy into a very good
comedy-drama.
Nor was Aldous blind to the fact that he had made
an utter fool of himself, and that the consequences of his
indiscretion might prove extremely serious. Had he
listened to the conspirators without betraying himself he
would have possessed an important advantage over them.
The knowledge he had gained from overhearing their con-
versation would have made it comparatively easy for
MacDonald and him to strike them a perhaps fatal blow
through the half-breed DeBar. As the situation stood now,
he figured that Quade and Culver Rann held the advan-
tage. Whatever they had planned to do they would put
into quick execution. They would not lose a minute.
It was not for himself that Aldous feared. Neither did
he fear for Joanne. Every drop of red fighting blood in
him was ready for further action, and he was determined
that Quade should find no opportunity of accomplishing
any scheme he might have against Joanne's person. On
the other hand, unless they could head off DeBar, he
believed that Culver Rann's chances of reaching the gold
ahead of them would grow better with the passing of each
hour. To protect Joanne from Quade he must lose no
134 THE HUNTED WOMAN
time. MacDonald would be in the same predicament,
while Rann, assisted by as many rascals of his own-colour
as he chose to take with him, would be free to carry out
the other part of the conspirators’ plans.
The longer he thought of the mess he had stirred up
the more roundly Aldous cursed his imprudence. And
this mess, as he viewed it in these cooler moments, was
even less disturbing than the thought of what might have
happened had he succeeded in his intention of killing both
Quade and Rann. Twenty times as he made his way
through the darkness toward MacDonald’s camp he told
himself that he must have been mad. To have killed
Rann or Quade in self-defence, or in open fight, would
have been playing the game with a shadow of mountain
law behind it. But he had invaded Rann's home. Had
he killed them he would have had but little more excuse
than a house-breaker or a suspicious husband might have
had. Tête Jaune would not countenance cold-blooded
shooting, even of criminals. He should have taken old
Donald’s advice and waited until they were in the moun-
tains. An unpleasant chill ran through him as he thought
of the narrowness of his double escape.
To his surprise, John Aldous found MacDonald awake
when he arrived at the camp in the thickly timbered coulee,
He was preparing a midnight cup of coffee over a fire that
was burning cheerfully between two big rocks. Purposely
Aldous stepped out into the full illumination of it. The
old hunter looked up. For a moment he stared into the
blood-smeared face of his friend; then he sprang to his
feet, and caught him by the arm.
“Yes, I got it.” nodded Aldous cheerfully. “I went
THE HUNTED WOMAN 135
out for it, Mac, and I got it! Get out your emergency kit,
will you? I rather fancy I need a little patching up.”
MacDonald uttered not a word. From the balsam
lean-to he brought out a small rubber bag and a towel.
Into a canvas wash-basin he then turned a half pail of
cold water, and Aldous got on his knees beside this. Not
once did the old mountaineer speak while he was washing
the blood from Aldous’ face and hands. There was a
shallow two-inch cut in his forehead, two deeper ones in
his right cheek, and a gouge in his chin. There were a
dozen cuts on his hands, none of them serious. Before he
had finished MacDonald had used two thirds of a roll of
court-plaster.
Then he spoke.
“You can soak them off in the morning,” he said. “If
you don’t, the lady’ll think yo’re a red Indian on the
warpath. Now, yo' fool, what have yo' gone an’ done?”
Aldous told him what had happened, and before Mac-
Donald could utter an expression of his feelings he admitted
that he was an inexcusable idiot and that nothing Mac-
Donald might say could drive that fact deeper home.
“If I’d come out after hearing what they had to say,
we could have got DeBar at the end of a gun and settled
the whole business,” he finished. “As it is, we’re in a
mess.”
MacDonald stretched his gaunt gray frame before
the fire. He picked up his long rifle, and fingered the
lock.
“You figger they’ll get away with DeBar?”
“Yes, to-night.”
MacDonald threw open the breech of his single-loader
I36 THE HUNTED WOMAN
and drew out a cartridge as long as his finger. Replacing
it, he snapped the breech shut.
“Don’t know as I’m pertic’lar sad over what’s hap-
pened,” he said, with a curious look at Aldous. “We
might have got out of this without what you call strenu’us
trouble. Now—it’s fight ! It’s goin’ to be a matter of
guns an’ bullets, Johnny—back in the mountains. You
figger Rann an’ the snake of a half-breed’ll get the start
of us. Let 'em have a start! They’ve got two hundred
miles to go, an’ two hundred miles to come back. Only—
they won’t come back!”
Under his shaggy brows the old hunter's eyes gleamed
as he looked at Aldous.
“To-morrow we’ll go to the grave,” he added. “Yo’re
cur’ous to know what’s goin’ to happen when we find that
grave, Johnny. So am I. I hope—”
“What do you hope?”
MacDonald shook his great gray head in the dying
firelight.
“Let’s go to bed, Johnny,” he rumbled softly in his
beard. “It’s gettin’ late.”
*
|
h*
X.
CHAPTER XIV
\O SLEEP after the excitement through which he
had passed, and with to-morrow's uncertainties
ſº ahead of him, seemed to Aldous a physical im-
possibility. Yet he slept, and soundly. It was Mac-
Donald who roused him three hours later. They prepared
a quick breakfast over a small fire, and Aldous heated
water in which he soaked his face until the strips of court-
plaster peeled off. The scratches were lividly evident, but,
inasmuch as he had a choice of but two evils, he preferred
that Joanne should see these instead of the abominable
disfigurement of court-plaster strips.
Old Donald took one look at him through half-closed
eyes. f
“You look as though you’d come out of a tussle with a
grizzly,” he grinned. “Want some fresh court-plaster?”
“And look as though I’d come out of a circus—no!”
retorted Aldous. “I’m invited to breakfast at the Black-
tons’, Mac. How the devil am I going to get out of it?”
“Tell 'em you’re sick,” chuckled the old hunter, who
saw something funny in the appearance of Aldous' face.
“Good Lord, how I’d liked to have seen you come through
that window—in daylight!”
Aldous led off in the direction of the trail. MacDonald
followed close behind him. It was dark—that almost
ebon-black hour that precedes summer dawn in the
137

138 THE HUNTED WOMAN
northern mountains. The moon had long ago disap-
peared in the west. When a few minutes later they
paused in the little opening on the trail Aldous could just
make out the shadowy form of the old mountaineer.
“I lost my gun when I jumped through the window,
Mac,” he explained. “There’s another thirty-eight auto-
matic in my kit at the corral. Bring that, and the .303
with the gold-bead sight—and plenty of ammunition.
You’d better take that forty-four hip-cannon of yours
along, as well as your rifle. Wish I could civilize you,
Mac, so you’d carry one of the Savage automatics instead
of that old brain-storm of fifty years ago!”
MacDonald gave a grunt of disgust that was like the
whoof of a bear.
“It’s done business all that time,” he growled good
humouredly. “An’ it ain’t ever made me jump through
any window as I remember of, Johnny!”
“Enough,” said Aldous, and in the gloom he gripped
the other’s hand. “You’ll be there, Mac-in front of the
Blacktons'—just as it’s growing light?”
“That means in three quarters of an hour, Johnny.
I’ll be there. Three saddle-horses and a pack.”
Where the trail divided they separated. Aldous went
directly to the Blacktons'. As he had expected, the
bungalow was alight. In the kitchen he saw Tom, the
Oriental cook, busy preparing breakfast. Blackton him-
self, comfortably dressed in duck trousers and a smoking-
jacket, and puffing on a pipe, opened the front door for
him. The pipe almost fell from his mouth when he saw
his friend’s excoriated face.
“What in the name of Heaven!” he gasped.
§
THE HUNTED WOMAN , . 139
“An accident,” explained Aldous, with a suggestive
shrug of his shoulders. “Blackton, I want you to do me
another good turn. Tell the ladies anything you can
think of—something reasonable. The truth is, I went
through a window—a window with plenty of glass in it.
Now how the deuce can I explain going through a window
like a gentleman?”
With folded arms, Blackton inspected him thoughtfully
for a moment.
“You can’t,” he said. “But I don’t think you went
through a window. I believe you fell over a cliff and were
caught in an armful of wait-a-bit bushes. They’re devil-
ish those wait-a-bits!”
They shook hands.
“I’m ready to blow up with curiosity again,” said
Blackton. “But I'll play your game, Aldous.”
A few minutes later Joanne and Peggy Blackton joined
them. He saw again the quick flush of pleasure in
Joanne's lovely face when she entered the room. It
changed instantly when she saw the livid cuts in his skin.
'ne came to him quickly, and gave him her hand. Her
lips trembled, but she did not speak. Blackton accepted
this as the psychological moment.
“What do you think of a man who'll wander off a
trail, tumble over a ledge, and get mixed up in a
bunch of wait-a-bit like that 2" he demanded, laughing
as though he thought it a mighty good joke on Aldous.
“Wait-a-bit thorns are worse than razors, Miss Gray,” he
elucidated further. “They’re—they’re perfectly devilish,
you know!” As
“Indeed they are,” emphasized Peggy Blackton, whom
140 THE HUNTED WOMAN
her husband had given a quick look and a quicker nudge,
“They’re dreadful!”
Looking straight into Joanne's eyes, Aldous guessed
that she did not believe, an scarcely heard, the Blacktons.
“I had a presentiment something was going to happen,”
she said, smiling at him. “I’m glad it was no worse than
that.”
She withdrew her hand, and turned to Peggy Blackton.
To John's delight she had arranged her wonderful shining
hair in a braid that rippled in a thick, sinuous rope of
brown and gold below her hips. Peggy Blackton had in
some way found a riding outfit for her slender figure, a
typical mountain outfit, with short divided skirt, loose
blouse, and leggings. She had never looked more beautiful
to him. Her night’s rest had restored the colour to her
soft cheeks and curved lips; and in her eyes, when she
looked at him again, there was a strange, glowing light
that thrilled him. During the next half-hour he almost
forgot his telltale disfigurements. At breakfast Paul and
Peggy Blackton were beautifully oblivious of them.
Once or twice he saw in Joanne's clear eyes a look which
made him suspect that she had guessed very near to the
truth. - }
MacDonald was prompt to the minute. Gray day, with
its bars of golden tint, was just creeping over the shoulders
of the eastern mountains when he rode up to the Black-
tons’. The old hunter was standing close to the horse
which Joanne was to ride when Aldous brought her out.
Joanne gave him her hand, and for a moment MacDonald
bowed his shaggy head over it. Pive minutes later they
were trailing up the rough wagon-road, MacDonald in the
;
!
THE HUNTED WOMAN 141
Head, and Joanne and Aldous behind, with the single pack-
horse between.
For several miles this wagon-trail reached back through
the thick timber that filled the bottom between the two
ranges of mountains. They had travelled but a short
distance when Joanne drew her horse close in beside Aldous.
“I want to know what happened last night,” she said.
“Will you tell me?”
Aldous met her eyes frankly. He had made up his
mind that she would believe only the truth, and he had
decided to tell her at least a part of that. He would lay
his whole misadventure to the gold. Leaning over the
pommel of his saddle he recounted the occurrences of the
night before, beginning with his search for Quade and the
half-breed, and his experience with the woman who rode
the bear. He left out nothing—except all mention of
herself. He described the events lightly, not omitting
those parts which appealed to him as being very near to
comedy. A.
In spite of his effort to rob the affair of its serious aspect
his recital had a decided effect upon Joanne. For some
time after he had finished one of her small gloved hands
clutched tightly at the pommel of her saddle; her breath
came more quickly; the colour had ebbed from her cheeks,
and she looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes from
meeting his. He began to believe that in some way she
was convinced he had not told her the whole truth, and
was possibly displeased, when she again turned her face
to him. It was tense and white. In it was the fear
which, for a few minutes, she had tried to keep from him.
“They would have killed you?” she breathed.
I42 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Perhaps they would only have given me a good scare,”
said Aldous. “But I didn’t have time to wait and find
out. I was very anxious to see MacDonald again. So I
went through the window!”
“No, they would have killed you,” said Joanne. “Per-
haps I did wrong, Mr. Aldous, but I confided—a little—in
Peggy Blackton last night. She seemed like a sister. I
love her. And I wanted to confide in some one—a
woman, like her. It wasn’t much, but I told her what
happened at Miette: about you, and Quade, and how I
saw him at the station, and again—later, following us.
And then—she told me! Perhaps she didn’t know how
it was frightening me, but she told me all about these
men—Quade and Culver Rann. And now I’m more afraid
of Culver Rann than Quade, and l’ve never seen him.
They can’t hurt me. But I’m afraid for you!”
At her words a joy that was like the heat of a fire leaped
into his brain.
“For me?” he said. “Afraid—for me?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be, if I know that you are in
danger?” she asked quietly. “And now, since last night,
and the discovery of your secret by these men, I am terri-
fied. Quade has followed you here. Mrs. Blackton told
me that Culver Rann was many times more dangerous
than Quade. Only a little while ago you told me you
did not care for riches. Then why do you go for this gold?
Why do you run the risk? Why—”
He waited. The colour was flooding back into her face
in an excited, feverish flush. Her blue eyes were dark as
thunder-clouds in their earnestness.
“Don’t you understand?” she went on. “It was
THE HUNTED WOMAN 143
because of me that you incurred this deadly enmity of
Quade’s. If anything happens to you, I shall.hold myself
responsible!”
“No, you will not be responsible,” replied Aldous,
steadying the tremble in his voice. “Besides, nothing is
going to happen. But you don’t know how happy you
have made me by taking this sort of an interest in me.
It—it feels good,” he laughed.
For a few paces he dropped behind her, where the over-
head spruce boughs left but the space for a single rider
between. Then, again, he drew up close beside her.
“I was going to tell you about this gold,” he said. “It
isn’t the gold we’re going after.”
He leaned over until his hand rested on her saddle-bow.
“Look ahead,” he went on, a curious softness in his
voice. “Look at MacDonald!”
The first shattered rays of the sun were breaking over
the mountains and reflecting their glow in the valley.
Donald MacDonald had lifted his face to the sunrise; out
from under his battered hat the morning breeze sweeping
through the valley of the Frazer tossed his shaggy hair;
his great owl-gray beard swept his breast; his broad, gaunt
shoulders were hunched a little forward as he looked into
the east. Again Aldous looked into Joanne's eyes.
“It’s not the gold, but MacDonald, that’s taking me
north, Ladygray. And it’s not the gold that is taking
MacDonald. It is strange, almost unbelievedly strange—
what I am going to tell you. To-day we are seeking a
grave—for you. And up there, two hundred miles in the
north, another grave is calling MacDonald. I am going
with him. It just happens that the gold is there. You
144 THE HUNTED WOMAN
wouldn’t guess that for more than forty years that blessed
old wanderer ahead of us has loved a dead woman, would
you? You wouldn’t think that for nearly half a century,
year in and year out, winter and summer alike, he has
tramped the northern mountains—a lost spirit with but
one desire in life—to find at last her resting-place? And
yet it is so, Ladygray. I guess I am the only living
creature to whom he has opened his heart in many a long
year. A hundred times beside our campfire I have
listened to him, until at last his story seems almost to be
a part of my own. He may be a little mad, but it is a
beautiful madness.”
He paused.
“Yes,” whispered Joanne. “Go on—John Aldous.”
“It’s—hard to tell,” he continued. “I can’t put the
feeling of it in words, the spirit of it, the wonder of it.
I’ve tried to write it, and I couldn’t. Her name was Jane.
He has never spoken of her by any other name than that,
and I’ve never asked for the rest of it. They were kids
when their two families started West over the big prairies
in Conestoga wagons. They grew up sweethearts. Both
of her parents, and his mother, died before they were
married. Then, a little later, his father died, and they
were alone. I can imagine what their love must have
been. I have seen it still living in his eyes, and I have
seen it in his strange hour-long dreams after he has talked
of her. They were always together. He has told me
how they roamed the mountains hand in hand in their
hunts; how she was comrade and chum when he went
prospecting. He has opened his lonely old heart to me—
a great deal. He's told me how they used to be alone for
THE HUNTEE) WOMAN 145
months at a time in the mountains, the things they used
to do, and how she would sing for him beside their camp-
fire at night. “She had a voice sweet as an angel,” I re-
member he told me once. Then, more than forty years
ago, came the gold-rush away up in the Stikine River
country. They went. They joined a little party of
twelve—ten men and two women. This party wandered
far out of the beaten paths of the other gold-seekers. And
at last they found gold.”
Ahead of them Donald MacDonald had turned in his
saddle and was looking back. For a moment Aldous
ceased speaking.
“Please—go on!” said Joanne.
“They found gold,” repeated Aldous. “They found so
much of it, Ladygray, that some of them went mad—mad
as beasts. It was placer gold—loose gold, and MacDonald
says that one day he and Jane filled their pockets with
nuggets. Then something happened. A great storm
came; a storm that filled the mountains with snow through
which no living creature as heavy as a man or a horse
could make its way. It came a month earlier than they
had expected, and from the beginning they were doomed.
Their supplies were almost gone.
“I can’t tell you the horrors of the weeks and months
that followed, as old Donald has told them to me, Joanne.
You must imagine. Only, when you are deep in the
mountains, and the Snow comes, you are like a rat in a
trap. So they were caught—eleven men and three women.
They who could make their beds in sheets of yellow gold,
but who had no food. The horses were lost in the storm.
Two of their frozen carcasses were found and used for food.
}46 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Two of the men set out on snowshoes, leaving their gold
behind, and probably died.
“Then the first terrible thing happened. Two men
quarrelled over a can of beans, and one was killed. He
was the husband of one of the women. The next terrible
thing happened to her—and there was a fight. On one
side there were young Donald and the husband of the
other woman; on the other side—the beasts. The husband
was killed, and Donald and Jane sought refuge in the log
cabin they had built. That night they fled, taking what
little food they possessed, and what blankets they could
carry. They knew they were facing death. But they
went together, hand in hand.
“At last Donald found a great cave in the side of a
mountain. I have a picture of that cave in my brain—
a deep, warm cave, with a floor of soft white sand, a cave
into which the two exhausted fugitives stumbled, still
hand in hand, and which was home. But they found it a
little too late. Three days later Jane died. And there is
another picture in my brain—a picture of young Donald
sitting there in the cave, clasping in his arms the cold form
of the one creature in the world that he loved; moaning
and sobbing over her, calling upon her to come back to
life, to open her eyes, to speak to him—until at last his
brain cracked and he went mad. That is what happened.
He went mad.”
Joanne's breath was coming brokenly through her lips.
Unconsciously she had clasped her fingers about the hand
Aldous rested on her pommel.
“How long he remained in the cave with his dead,
MacDonald has never been able to say,” he resumed.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 147
“He doesn’t know whether he buried his wife or left her
lying on the sand floor of the cave. He doesn’t know how
he got out of the mountains. But he did, and his mind
came back. And since then, Joanne—for a matter of
forty years—his life has been spent in trying to find that
cave. All those years his search was unavailing. He
could find no trace of the little hidden valley in which the
treasure-seekers found their bonanza of gold. No word
of it ever came out of the mountains; no other prospector
ever stumbled upon it. Year after year Donald went into
the North; year after year he came out as the winter set
in, but he never gave up hope.
“Then he began spending winter as well as summer in
that forgotten world—forgotten because the early gold-
rush was over, and the old Telegraph trail was travelled
more by wolves than men. And always, Donald has told
me, his beloved Jane’s spirit was with him in his wander-
ings over the mountains, her hand leading him, her voice
whispering to him in the loneliness of the long nights.
Think of it, Joannel Forty years of that! Forty years
of a strange, beautiful madness, forty years of undying
love, of faith, of seeking and never finding! And this
spring old Donald came almost to the end of his quest.
He knows, now; he knows where that little treasure valley
is hidden in the mountains, he knows where to find the
cave!”
“He found her—he found her?” she cried. “After all
those years—he found her?”
“Almost,” said Aldous softly. “But the great finale in
the tragedy of Donald MacDonald’s life is yet to come,
Ladygray. It will come when once more he stands in the
148 THE HUNTED WOMAN
soft white sand of that cavern floor, and sometimes I
tremble when I think that when that moment comes I will
be at his side. To me it will be terrible. To him it will
be—what? That hour has not quite arrived. It hap-
pened this way: Old Donald was coming down from the
North on the early slush snows this spring when he came
to a shack in which a man was almost dead of the smallpox.
It was DeBar, the half-breed.
“Fearlessly MacDonald nursed him. He says it was
God who sent him to that shack. For DeBar, in his
feverish ravings, revealed the fact that he had stumbled
upon that little Valley of Gold for which MacDonald had
searched through forty years. Old Donald knew it was
the same valley, for the half-breed raved of dead men, of
rotting buckskin sacks of yellow nuggets, of crumbling
log shacks, and of other things the memories of which
stabbed like knives into Donald’s heart. How he fought
to save that man! And, at last, he succeeded.
“They continued south, planning to outfit and go back
for the gold. They would have gone back at once, but
they had no food and no horses. Foot by foot, in the
weeks that followed, DeBar described the way to the
hidden valley, until at last MacDonald knew that he could
go to it as straight as an eagle to its nest. When they
reached Tête Jaune he came to me. And I promised to go
with him, Ladygray—back to the Valley of Gold. He
calls it that; but I–I think of it as The Valley of Silent
Men. It is not the gold, but the cavern with the soft
white floor that is calling us.”
In her saddle Joanne had straightened. Her head was
thrown back, her lips were parted, and her eyes shone as
THE HUNTED WOMAN 149
/
the eyes of a Joan of Arc must have shone when she stood
that day before the Hosts.
“And this man, the half-breed, has sold himself—for a
woman?” she said, looking straight ahead at the bent
shoulders of old MacDonald.
“Yes, for a woman. Do you ask me why I go now?
Why I shall fight, if fighting there must be?”
She turned to him. Her face was a blaze of glory.
“No, no, no!” she cried. “Oh, John Aldous! if I were
only a man, that I might go with you and stand with you
two in that Holy Sepulchre—the Cavern If I were a
man, I’d go—and, yes, I would fight!”
And Donald MacDonald, looking back, saw the two
clasping hands across the trail. A moment later he turned
his horse from the broad road into a narrow trail that led
over the range. \
CHAPTER XV
TMROM the hour in which she had listened to the
H story of old MacDonald a change seemed to have
* * * * come over Joanne. It was as if she had risen out
of herself, out of whatever fear or grief she might have
possessed in her own heart. John Aldous knew that there
was some deep significance in her visit to the grave under
the Saw Tooth Mountain, and that from the beginning
she had been fighting under a tremendous mental and
physical strain. He had expected this day would be a
terrible day for her; he had seen her efforts to strengthen
herself for the approaching crisis that morning. He be-
lieved that as they drew nearer to their journey’s end her
suspense and uneasiness, the fear which she was trying to
keep from him, would, in spite of her, become more and
more evident. For these reasons the change which he saw
in her was not only delightfully unexpected but deeply
puzzling. She seemed to be under the influence of some
new and absorbing excitement. Her cheeks were flushed.
There was a different poise to her head; in her voice, too,
there was a note which he had not noticed before.
It struck him, all at once, that this was a new Joanne—
a Joanne who, at least for a brief spell, had broken the
bondage of oppression and fear that had fettered her. In
the narrow trail up the mountain he rode behind her, and
in this he found a pleasure even greater than when he

150
THE HUNTED WOMAN 151
rode at her side. Only when her face was turned from him
did he dare surrender himself at all to the emotions which
had transformed his soul. From behind he could look at
her, and worship without fear of discovery. Every move-
ment of her slender, graceful body gave him a new and
exquisite thrill; every dancing light and every darkening
shadow in her shimmering hair added to the joy that
no fear or apprehension could overwhelm within him
now. Only in those wonderful moments, when her
presence was so near, and yet her eyes did not see him,
could he submerge himself completely in the thought
of what she had become to him and of what she meant
to him.
During the first hour of their climb over the break that
led into the valley beyond they had but little opportunity
for conversation. The trail was an abandoned Indian
path, narrow, and in places extremely steep. Twice Aldous
helped Joanne from her horse that she might travel afoot
over places which he considered dangerous. When he
assisted her in the saddle again, after a stiff ascent of a
hundred yards, she was panting from her exertion, and he
felt the sweet thrill of her breath in his face. For a space
his happiness obliterated all thoughts of other things. It
was MacDonald who brought them back.
They had reached the summit of the break, and through
his long brass telescope the old mountaineer was scanning
the valley out of which they had come. Under them lay
Tête Jaune, gleaming in the morning sun, and it dawned
suddenly upon Aldous that this was the spot from which
MacDonald had spied upon his enemies. He looked at
Joanne. She was breathing quickly as she looked upon
152 THE HUNTED WOMAN
the wonder of the scene below them. Suddenly she tunned,
and encountered his eyes.
“They might—follow?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No danger of that,” he assured her.
MacDonald had dismounted, and now he lay crouched
behind a rock, with his telescope resting over the top of it.
He had leaned his long rifle against the boulder; his huge
forty-four, a relic of the old Indian days, hung at his hip.
Joanne saw these Omens of preparedness, and her "eyes
shifted again to Aldous. His .303 swung from his saddle.
t his waist was the heavy automatic. She smiled. In
her eyes was understanding, and something like a challenge.
She did not question him again, but under her gaze Aldous
flushed.
A moment later MacDonald closed his telescope and
without a word mounted his horse. Where the descent
into the second valley began he paused again. To the
north through the haze of the morning sun gleamed the
snow-capped peaks of the Saw Tooth Range. Apparently
not more than an hour's ride distant rose a huge red
sandstone giant which seemed to shut in the end of the
valley. MacDonald stretched forth a long arm in its
direction.
“What we’re seekin’ is behind that mountain,” he said.
“It’s ten miles from here.” He turned to the girl. “Are
you gettin’ lame, Mis’ Joanne?”
Aldous saw.her lips tighten.
“No. Let us go on, please.”
She was staring fixedly at the sombre red mass of the
mountain. Her eyes did not take in the magnificent
THE HUNTED WOMAN 153
*
sweep of the valley below. They saw nothing of the snow-
capped peaks beyond. There was something wild and
unnatural in their steady gaze. Aldous dropped behind
her as they began the gradual descent from the crest of the
break and his own heart began to beat more apprehen-
sively; the old question flashed back upon him, and he
felt again the oppression that once before had held him in
its grip. His eyes did not leave Joanne. And always she
was staring at the mountain behind which lay the thing
they were seeking! It was not Joanne herself that set his
blood throbbing. Her face had not paled. Its colour
was like the hectic flush of a fever. Her eyes alone be-
trayed her; their strange intensity—the almost painful
steadiness with which they hung to the distant mountain,
and a dread of what was to come seized upon him. Again
he found himself asking himself questions which he could
not answer. Why had Joanne not confided more fully in
him? What was the deeper significance of this visit to the
grave, and of her mission in the mountains?
Down the narrow Indian trail they passed into the thick
spruce timber. Half an hour later they came out into
the grassy creek bottom of the valley. During that time
Joanne did not look behind her, and John Aldous did not
speak. MacDonald turned north, and the sandstone
mountain was straight ahead of them. It was not like
the other mountains. There was something sinister and
sullen about it. It was ugly and broken. No vegetation
grew upon it, and through the haze of sunlight its barren
sides and battlemented crags gleamed a dark and humid
red after the morning mists, as if freshly stained with
blood. Aldous guessed its effect upon Joanne, and he
154 THE HUNTED WOMAN
determined to put an end to it. Again he rode up close
beside her.
“I want you to get better acquainted with old Donald,”
he said. “We’re sort of leaving him out in the cold,
Ladygray. Do you mind if I tell him to come back and
ride with you for a while?”
“I’ve been wanting to talk with him,” she replied. “If
you don’t mind—”
“I don’t,” he broke in quickly. “You’ll love old
Donald, Ladygray. And, if you can, I’d like to have you
tell him all that you know about—Jane. Let him know
that I told you.”
She nodded. Her lips trembled in a smile.
“I will,” she said.
A moment later Aldous was telling MacDonald that
Joanne wanted him. The old mountaineer stared. He
drew his pipe from his mouth, beat out its half-burned
contents, and thrust it into its accustomed pocket.
“She wants to see me?” he asked. “God bless her
soul—what for?”
“Because she thinks you’re lonesome up here alone,
Mac. And look here”—Aldous leaned over to Mac-
Donald—“her nerves are ready to snap. I know it.
There’s a mighty good reason why I can’t relieve the strain
she is under. But you can. She's thinking every minute
of that mountain up there and the grave behind it. You
go back, and talk. Tell her about the first time you ever
came up through these valleys—you and Jane. Will you,
Mac” Will you tell her that?”
MacDonald did not reply, but he dropped behind.
Aldous took up the lead. A few minutes later he looked
THE HUNTED WOMAN 155
back, and laughed softly under his breath. Joanne and
the old hunter were riding side by side in the creek bottom,
and Joanne was talking. He looked at his watch. He
did not look at it again until the first gaunt, red shoulder
of the sandstone mountain began to loom over them.
An hour had passed since he left Joanne. Ahead of him,
perhaps a mile distant, was the cragged spur beyond
which—according to the sketch Keller had drawn for
him at the engineers’ camp—was the rough canyon leading
back to the basin on the far side of the mountain. He had
almost reached this when MacDonald rode up.
“You go back, Johnny,” he said, a singular softness in
his hollow voice. “We’re a most there.”
He cast his eyes over the western peaks, where dark
clouds were shouldering their way up in the face of the sun,
and added:
“There’s rain in that. I’ll trot on ahead with Pinto
and have a tent ready when you come. I reckon it can’t
be more'n a mile up the canyon.”
“And the grave, MacP’’
“Is right close to where I’ll pitch the tent,” said Mac-
, Donald, swinging suddenly behind the pack-horse Pinto,
and urging him into a trot. “Don’t waste any time,
Johnny.”
Aldous rode back to Joanne.
“It looks like rain,” he explained. “These Pacific
showers come up quickly this side of the Divide, and they
drench you in a jiffy. Donald is going on ahead to put
up a tent.”
By the time they reached the mouth of the canyon
MacDonald was out of sight. A little creek that was a
156 THE HUNTED WOMAN
swollen torrent in spring time trickled out of the gorge.
Its channel was choked with a chaotic confusion of sand-
stone rock and broken slate, and up through this Aldous
carefully picked his way, followed closely by Joanne. The
sky continued to darken above them, until at last the Sun
died out, and a thick and almost palpable gloom began to
envelop them. Low thunder rolled through the mountains
in sullen, rumbling echoes. He looked back at Joanne,
and was amazed to see her eyes shining, and a Smile on
her lips as she nodded at him.
“It makes me think of Henrik Hudson and his ten-pin
players,” she called softly. “And ahead of us—is Rip
Van Winkle!”
The first big drops were beginning to fall when they
came to an open place. The gorge swung to the right; on
their left the rocks gave place to a rolling meadow of
buffalo grass, and Aldous knew they had reached the
basin. A hundred yards up the slope was a fringe of
timber, and as he looked he saw smoke rising out of this.
The sound of MacDonald's axe came to them. He turned
to Joanne, and he saw that she understood. They were
at their journey’s end. Perhaps her fingers gripped her
rein a little more tightly. Perhaps it was imagination that
made him think there was a slight tremble in her voice
when she said:
“This—is the place?”
“Yes. It should be just above the timber. I believe
I can see the upper break of the little box canyon Keller
told me about.”
She rode without speaking until they entered the timber.
They were just in time. As he lifted her down from her
THE HUNTED WOMAN 157
horse the clouds opened, and the rain fell in a deluge. Her
hair was wet when he got her in the tent. MacDonald
had spread out a number of blankets, but he had disap-
peared. Joanne sank down upon them with a little shiver.
She looked up at Aldous. It was almost dark in the tent,
and her eyes were glowing strangely. Over them the
thunder crashed deafeningly. For a few minutes it was a
continual roar, shaking the mountains with mighty rever-
berations that were like the explosions of giant guns.
Aldous stood holding the untied flap against the beat of
the rain. Twice he saw Joanne's lips form words. At
last he heard her say:
“Where is Donald?”
He tied the flap, and dropped down on the edge of the
blankets before he answered her.
“Probably out in the open watching the lightning, and
letting the rain drench him,” he said. “I’ve never known
old Donald to come in out of a rain, unless it was cold.
He, was tying up the horses when I ran in here with
you.”
He believed she was shivering, yet he knew she was not
cold. In the half gloom of the tent he wanted to reach
over and take her hand.
- For a few minutes longer there was no break in the
steady downpour and the crashing of the thunder. Then,
as suddenly as the storm had broken, it began to subside.
Aldous rose and flung back the tent-flap.
“It is almost over,” he said. “You had better remain
in the tent a little longer, Ladygray. I will go out
and see if MacDonald has succeeded in drowning him-
self.”
158 | THE HUNTED WOMAN
Joanne did not answer, and Aldous stepped outside.
He knew where to find the old hunter. He had gone up
to the end of the timber, and probably this minute was in
the little box canyon searching for the grave. It was a
matter of less than a hundred yards to the upper fringe of
timber, and when Aldous came out of this he stood on the
summit of the grassy divide that separated the tiny lake
Keller had described from the canyon. It was less than a
rifle shot distant, and on the farther side of it MacDonald
was already returning. Aldous hurried down to meet him.
He did not speak when they met, but his companion
answered the question in his eyes, while the water dripped
in streams from his drenched hair and beard.
“It’s there,” he said, pointing back. “Just behind that
big black rock. There’s a slab over it, an’ you’ve got the
name right. It’s Mortimer FitzHugh.” .
Above them the clouds were splitting asunder. A shaft
of sunlight broke through, and as they stood looking over
the little lake the shaft broadened, and the sun swept in
golden triumph over the mountains. MacDonald beat
his limp hat against his knee, and with his other hand
drained the water from his beard.
“What you goin’ to do?” he asked.
Aldous turned toward the timber. Joanne herself
answered the question. She was coming up the slope.
. In a few moments she stood beside them. First she looked
down upon the lake. Then her eyes turned to Aldous.
There was no need for speech. He held out his hand, and
without hesitation she gave him her own. MacDonald
understood. He walked down ahead of them toward the
black rock. When he came to the rock he paused. Aldous
THE HUNTED WOMAN " I59
and Joanne passed him. Then they, too, stopped, and
Aldous freed the girl’s hand.
With an unexpectedness that was startling they had
come upon the grave. Yet not a sound escaped Joanne's
lips. Aldous could not see that she was breathing. Less
than ten paces from them was the mound, protected by its
cairn of stones; and over the stones rose a weather-stained
slab in the form of a cross. One glance at the gravel
and Aldous riveted his eyes upon Joanne. For a full
minute she stood as motionless as though the last breath
had left her body. Then, slowly, she advanced. He could
not see her face. He followed, quietly, step by step as
she moved. For another minute she leaned over the slab,
making out the fine-seared letters of the name. Her body
was bent forward; her two hands were clenched tightly at
her side. Even more slowly than she had advanced she
turned toward Aldous and MacDonald. Her face was
dead white. She lifted her hands to her breast, and
clenched them there.
“It is his name,” she said, and there was something
repressed and terrible in her low voice. “It is his
name!”
She was looking straight into the eyes of John Aldous,
and he saw that she was fighting to say something which
she had not spoken. Suddenly she came to him, and her
two hands caught his arm.
“It is terrible—what I am going to ask of you,” she
struggled, “You will think I am a ghoul. But I must
have proof! I must—I must!”
She was staring wildly at him, and all at once there
leapt fiercely through him a dawning of the truth. The
160 . THE HUNTED WOMAN
name was there, seared by hot iron in that slab of wood.
The name! But under the cairn of stones
Behind them MacDonald had heard. He towered
beside them now. His great mountain-twisted hands drew
Joanne a step back, and strange gentleness was in his
voice as he said: - *
“You an’ Johnny go back an’ build a fire, Mis’ Joanne.
I'll find the proof!”
“Come,” said Aldous, and he held out his hand again.
MacDonald hurried on ahead of them. When they
reached the camp he was gone, so that Joanne did not see
the pick and shovel which he carried back. She went
into the tent and Aldous began building a fire where Mac-
Donald’s had been drowned out. There was little reason
for a fire; but he built it, and for fifteen minutes added
pitch-heavy fagots of storm-killed jack-pine and spruce to
it, until the flames leapt a dozen feet into the air. Half a
dozen times he was impelled to return to the grave and
assist MacDonald in his gruesome task. But he knew
that MacDonald had meant that he should stay with
Joanne. If he returned, she might follow.
He was surprised at the quickness with which Mac-
Donald performed his work. Not more than half an hour
had passed when a low whistle drew his eyes to a clump of
dwarf-spruce back in the timber. The mountaineer was
standing there, holding something in his hand. With a
backward glance to see that Joanne had not come from
the tent, Aldous hastened to him. What he could see of
MacDonald’s face was the lifeless colour of gray ash. His
eyes stared as if he had suffered a strange and unexpected
shock. He went to speak, but no words came through his
THE HUNTED WOMAN 161
beard. In his hand he held his faded red neck-handker-
chief. He gave it to Aldous. .
“It wasn’t deep,” he said. “It was shallow, turribly
shallow, Johnny—just under the stone!”.
His voice was husky and unnatural.
There was something heavy in the handkerchief, and a
shudder passed through Aldous as he placed it on the palm
of his hand and unveiled its contents. He could not
repress an exclamation when he saw what MacDonald had
brought. In his hand, with a single thickness of the wet
handkerchief between the objects and his flesh, lay a watch
and a ring. The watch was of gold. It was tarnished,
but he could see there were initials, which he could not
make out, engraved on the back of the case. The ring,
too, was of gold. It was one of the most gruesome orna-
ments Aldous had ever seen. It was in the form of a coiled
and writhing serpent, wide enough to cover half of one's
middle finger between the "joints. Again the eyes of the
two men met, and again Aldous observed that strange,
stunned look in the old hunter's face. He turned and
walked back toward the tent, MacDonald following him
slowly, still staring, his long gaunt arms and hands hangin
limply at his side. * t
Joanne heard them, and came out of the tent. A chok-
ing cry fell from her lips when she saw MacDonald. For
a moment one of her hands clutched at the wet canvas
of the tent, and then she swayed forward, knowing what
John Aldous had in his hand. He stood voiceless while
she looked. In that tense half-minute when she stared
at the objects he held it seemed to him that her heart-
strings must snap under the strain. Then she drew baek
162 THE HUNTED WOMAN
from them, her eyes filled with horror, her hands raised as
if to shut out the sight of them, and a panting, sobbing cry
broke from between her pallid lips.
“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “Take them away—
take them away!”
She staggered back to the tent, and stood there with her
hands covering her face. Aldous turned to the old hunter
and gave him the things he held.
A moment later he stood alone where the three had been,
staring now as Joanne had stared, his heart beating wildly.
For Joanne, in entering the tent, had uncovered her
face; it was not grief that he saw there, but the soul of a
woman new-born. And as his own soul responded in a
wild rejoicing, MacDonald, going over the summit and
down into the hollow, mumbled in his beard:
“God ha’ mercy on me! I’m doin’ it for her an’ Johnny,
an’ because she’s like my Jane!”
CHAPTER XVI
ºLUNGED from one extreme of mental strain to
” another excitement that was as acute in its opposite
º effect, John Aldous stood and stared at the tent-flap
that had dropped behind Joanne. Only a flash he had
caught of her face; but in that flash he had seen the living,
quivering joyousness of freedom blazing where a moment
before there had been only horror and fear. As if ashamed
of her own betrayal, Joanne had darted into the tent. She
had answered his question a thousand times more effec-
tively than if she had remained to tell him with her lips
that MacDonald’s proofs were sufficient—that the grave
in the little box canyon had not disappointed her. She
had recognized the ring and the watch; from them she had
shrank in horror, as if fearing that the golden serpent
might suddenly leap into life and strike.
In spite of the mightiest efforts she might have made
for self-control Aldous had seen in her tense and tortured
face a look that was more than either dread or shock—it
was abhorrence, hatred. And his last glimpse of her face
had revealed those things gone, and in their place the
strange joy she had run into the tent to hide. That she
should rejoice over the dead, or that the grim relics from
the grave should bring that new dawn into her face and
eyes, did not strike him as shocking. In Joanne his sun
had already begun to rise and set. He had come to under-
2

164 THE HUNTED WOMAN
stand that for her the grave must hold its dead; that the
fact of death, death under the slab that bore Mortimer
FitzHugh’s name, meant life for her, just as it meant life
and all things for him. He had prayed for it, even while
he dreaded that it might not be. In him all things were
now submerged in the wild thought that Joanne was free,
and the grave had been the key to her freedom.
A calmness began to possess him that was in singular
contrast to the perturbed condition of his mind a few
minutes before. From this hour Joanne was his to fight
for, to win if he could; and, knowing this, his soul rose in
triumph above his first physical exultation, and he fought
back the almost irresistible impulse to follow her into the
tent and tell her what this day had meant for him. Fol-
lowing this came swiftly a realization of what it had meant
for her—the suspense, the terrific strain, the final shock
and gruesome horror of it. He was sure, without seeing
that she was huddled down on the blankets in the tent,
She had passed through an ordeal under which a strong
man might have broken, and the picture he had of her
struggle in there alone turned him from the tent filled with
a determination to make her believe that the events of the
morning, both with him and MacDonald, were easily for-
gotten.
He began to whistle as he threw back the wet canvas
from over the camp outfit that had been taken from Pinto's
back. In one of the two cow-hide panniers he saw that
thoughtful old Donald had packed materials for their
dinner, as well as utensils necessary for its preparation.
That dinner they would have in the valley, well beyond
the red mountain. He began to repack, whistling cheerily.
Q
THE HUNTED WOMAN 165
He was still whistling when MacDonald returned. He
broke off sharply when he saw the other's face.
“What’s the matter, MacP’’ he asked. “You sick?”
“It weren’t pleasant, Johnny.”
Aldous nodded toward the tent.
“It was—beastly,” he whispered. “But we can’t let
her feel that way about it, Mac. Cheer up—and let’s get
out of this place. We’ll have dinner somewhere over in
the valley.”
They continued packing until only the tent remained
to be placed on Pinto's back. Aldous resumed his loud
whistling as he tightened up the saddle-girths, and killed
time in half a dozen other ways. A quarter of an hour
passed. Still Joanne did not appear. Aldous scratched
his head dubiously, and looked at the tent.
“I don’t want to disturb her, Mac,” he said in a low
voice. “Let’s keep up the bluff of being busy. We can
put out the fire.”
Ten minutes later, sweating and considerably smoke-
grimed, Aldous again looked toward the tent.
“We might cut down a few trees,” suggested MacDon-
ald.
“Or play leap-frog,” added Aldous.
“The trees 'd sound more natcherel,” said MacDonald.
“We could tell her 95
A stick snapped behind them. Both turned at the
same instant. Joanne stood facing them not ten feet
away.
“Great Scott!” gasped Aldous. “Joanne, I thought
you were in the tent!”
The beautiful calmness in Joanne's face amazed him.
166 THE HUNTED WOMAN
He stared at her as he spoke, forgetting altogether the
manner in which he had intended to greet her when she
came from the tent.
“I went out the back way—lifted the canvas and
crawled under just like a boy,” she explained. “And I’ve
walked until my feet are wet.”
“And the fire is out!”
“I don’t mind wet feet,” she hurried to assure him.
Old Donald was already at work pulling the tent-pegs.
Joanne came close to Aldous, and he saw again that deep
and wonderful light in her eyes. This time he knew that
she meant he should see it, and words which he had de-
termined not to speak fell softly from his lips.
“You are no longer afraid, Ladygray? That which
you dreaded 95
“Is dead,” she said. “And you, John Aldous? Without
knowing, seeing me only as you have seen me, do you
think that I am terrible?”
“No, I could not think that.”
Her hand touched his arm.
“Will you go out there with me, in the sunlight, where
we can look down upon the little lake?” she asked. “Unti,
to-day I had made up my mind that no one but myself
would ever know the truth. But you have been good to
me, and I must tell you—about myself—about him.”
He found no answer. He left no word with MacDonald.
Until they stood on the grassy knoll, with the lakelet shim-
mering in the sunlight below them, Joanne herself did not
speak again. Then, with a little gesture, she said:
“Perhaps you think what is down there is dreadful to
me. It isn’t. I shall always remember that little lake,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 167
almost as Donald remembers the cavern—not because it
watches over something I love, but because it guards a
thing that in life would have destroyed me! I know how
you must feel, John Aldous—that deep down in your heart
you must wonder at a woman who can rejoice in the death
of another human creature. Yet death, and death alone,
has been the key from bondage of millions of souls that
have lived before mine; and there are men—men, too—
whose lives have been warped and destroyed because
death did not come to save them. One was my father.
If death had come for him, if it had taken my mother, that
down there would never have happened—for me!”
She spoke the terrible words so quietly, so calmly, that
it was impossible for him entirely to conceal their effect
upon him. There was a bit of pathos in her smile.
“My mother drove my father mad,” she went on, with
a simple directness that was the most wonderful thing he
had ever heard come from human lips. “The world did
not know that he was mad. It called him eccentric. But
he was mad—in just one way. I was nine years old when
it happened, and i can remember our home most vividly.
It was a beautiful home. And my father! Need I tell
you that i worshipped him—that to me he was king of all
men? And as deeply as I loved him, so, in another way,
he worshipped my mother. She was beautiful. In a
curious sort of way I used to wonder, as a child, how it
was possible for a woman to be so beautiful. It was a
'dark beauty—a recurrence of French strain in her English
blood.
“One day I overheard my father tell her that, if she died,
he would kill himself. He was not of the passionate,
168 THE HUNTED WOMAN
over-sentimental kind; he was a philosopher, a scientist,
calm and self-contained—and I remembered those words
later, when I had outgrown childhood, as one of a hundred
proofs of how devoutly he had loved her. It was more
than love, I believe. It was adoration. I was nine, I say,
when things happened. Another man, a divorce, and on
the day of the divorce this woman, my mother, married
her lover. Somewhere in my father's brain a single thread
Snapped, and from that day he was mad—mad on but one
subject; and so deep and intense was his madness that it
became a part of me as the years passed, and to-day I, too,
am possessed of that madness. And it is the one greatest
thing in the world that I am proud of, John Aldous!”
Not once had her voice betrayed excitement or emotion.
Not once had it risen above its normal tone; and in her
eyes, as they turned from the lake to him, there was the
tranquillity of a child.
“And that madness,” she resumed, “was the madness
of a man whose brain and soul were overwrought in one
colossal hatred—a hatred of divorce and the laws that
made it possible. It was born in him in a day, and it
lived until his death. It turned him from the paths of men,
and we became wanderers upon the face of the earth.
Two years after the ruin of our home my mother and the
man she had married died in a ship that was lost at sea,
This had no effect upon my father. Possibly you will not
understand what grew up between us in the years and
years that followed. To the end he was a scientist, a
man seeking after the unknown, and my education came
to be a composite of teachings gathered in all parts of the
world. We were never apart. We were more than father
THE HUNTED WOMAN 169
and daughter; we were friends, comrades—he was my
world, and I was his.
“I recall, as I became older, how his hatred of that thing
that had broken our home developed more and more
strongly in me. His mind was titanic. A thousand times
I pleaded with him to employ it in the great fight I wanted
him to make—a fight against the crime divorce. I know,
now, why he did not. He was thinking of me. Only one
thing he asked of me. It was more than a request. It
was a command. And this command, and my promise,
was that so long as I lived—no matter what might happen
in my life—I would sacrifice myself body and soul sooner
than allow that black monster of divorce to fasten its
clutches on me. It is futile for me to tell you these
things, John Aldous. It is impossible—you cannot under-
stand!”
“I can,” he replied, scarcely above a whisper. “Joanne,
I begin—to understand!”
And still without emotion, her voice as calm as the un-
ruffled lake at their feet, she continued:
“It grew in me. It is a part of me now. I hate divorce
as I hate the worst sin that bars one from Heaven. It is
the one thing I hate. And it is because of this hatred that
I suffered myself to remain the wife of the man whose
name is over that grave down there—Mortimer FitzHugh.
It came about strangely—what I am going to tell you
now, You will wonder. You will think I was insane.
But remember, John Aldous—the world had come to hold
but one friend and comrade for me, and he was my father.
It was after Mindano. He caught the fever, and he was
dying.”
ET0 THE HUNTED WOMAN
For the first time her breath choked her. It was only
for an instant. She recovered herself, and went on:
“Out of the world my father had left he had kept one
friend—Richard FitzHugh; and this man, with his son,
was with us during those terrible days of fever. I met
Mortimer as I had met a thousand other men. His father,
I thought, was the soul of honour, and I accepted the son
as such. We were much together during those two weeks
of my despair, and he seemed to be attentive and kind.
Then came the end. My father was dying. And I–I
was ready to die. In his last moments his one thought
was of me. He knew I was alone, and the fear of it
terrified him. I believe he did not realize then what he
was asking of me. He pleaded with me to marry the son
of his old friend before he died. And I-John Aldous, I
could not fight his last wish as he lay dying before my
eyes. We were married there at his bedside. He joined
our hands. And the words he whispered to me last of all
were: “Remember–Joanne—thy promise and thine hon-
Our ! ?”
For a moment Joanne stood facing the little lake, and
when she spoke again there was a note of thankfulness, of
subdued joy and triumph, in her voice.
“Before that day had ended I had displeased Mortimer
FitzHugh,” she said, and Aldous saw the fingers of her
hands close tightly. “I told him that until a month had .
passed I would not live with him as a wife lives with her
husband. And he was displeased. And my father was
not yet buried! I was shocked. My soul revolted.
“We went to London and I was made welcome in the
older FitzHugh's wifeless home, and the papers told of our
THE HUNTED WOMAN 171
wedding. And two days later there came from Devon-
shire a woman—a sweet-faced little woman with sick,
haunted eyes; in her arms she brought a baby; and that
baby was Mortimer FitzHugh’s 1
“We confronted him—the mother, the baby, and I; and
then I knew that he was a fiend. And the father was a
fiend. They offered to buy the woman off, to support
her and the child. They told me that many English
gentlemen had made mistakes like this, and that it was
nothing—that it was quite common. Mortimer FitzHugh
had never touched me with his lips, and now, when he
came to touch me with his hands, I struck him. It was
a serpent’s house, and I left it.
“My father had left me a comfortable fortune, and I
went into a house of my own. Day after day they came to
me, and I knew that they feared I was going to secure a
divorce. During the six months that followed I learned
other things about the man who was legally my husband.
He was everything that was vile. Brazenly he went into
public places with women of dishonour, and I hid my face
in shame.
“His father died, and for a time Mortimer FitzHugh
became one of the talked-about spendthrifts of London.
Swiftly he gambled and dissipated himself into compara-
tive poverty. And now, learning that I would not get a
divorce, he began to regard me as a slave in chains. Y
remember, one time, that he succeeded in laying his hands
on me, and they were like the touch of things that were
slimy and poisonous. He laughed at my revulsion. He
demanded money of me, and to keep him away from me
I gave it to him. Again and again he came for money;
172 THE HUNTED WOMAN
I suffered as I cannot tell you, but never once in my
misery did I weaken in my promise to my father and to
myself. But—at last—I ran away.
“I went to Egypt, and then to India. A year later I
learned that Mortimer FitzHugh had gone to America,
and I reºrned to London. For two years I heard nothing
of him; but day and night I lived in fear and dread. And
then came the news that he had died, as you read in the
newspaper clipping. I was free! For a year I believed
that; and then, like a shock that had come to destroy me,
I was told that he was not dead but that he was alive, and
in a place called Tête Jaune Cache, in British Columbia.
I could not live in the terrible suspense that followed. I
determined to find out for myself if he was alive or dead.
And so I came, John Aldous. And he is dead. He is
down there—dead. And I am glad that he is dead!”
“And if he was not dead,” said Aldous quietly, “I would
kill him!”
He could find nothing more to say than that. He dared
trust himself no further, and in silence he held out his
hands, and for a moment Joanne gave him her own.
Then she withdrew them, and with a little gesture, and the
smile which he loved to see trembling about her mouth,
she said:
“Donald will think this is scandalous. We must go
back and apologize!”
She led him down the slope, and her face was filled with
the pink flush of a wild rose when she ran up to Donald,
and asked him to help her into her saddle. John Aldous
rode like one in a dream as they went back into the valley,
for with each minute that passed Joanne seemed more and
THE HUNTED WOMAN 173
more to him like a beautiful bird that had escaped from
its prison-cage, and in him mind and soul were absorbed
in the wonder of it and in his own rejoicing. She was free,
and in her freedom she was happy! w
Free! It was that thought that pounded steadily in
his brain. He forgot Quade, and Culver Rann, and the
gold; he forgot his own danger, his own work, almost his
own existence. Of a sudden the world had become in-
finitesimally small for him, and all he could see was the
soft shimmer of Joanne's hair in the sun, the wonder of
her face, the marvellous blue of her eyes—and all he could
hear was the sweet thrill of her voice when she spoke to
him or old Donald, and when, now and then, soft laughter
trembled on her lips in the sheer joy of the life that had
‘lawned anew for her this day.
They stopped for dinner, and then went on over the
range and down into the valley where lay Tête Jaune.
And all this time he fought to keep from flaming in his
own face the desire that was like a hot fire within him—the
desire to go to Joanne and tell her that he loved her as he
had never dreamed it possible for love to exist in the whole
wide world. He knew that to surrender to that desire in
this hour would be something like sacrilege. He did not
guess that Joannesaw his struggle, that even old MacDonald
mumbled low words in his beard. When they came at last
to Blackton’s bungalow he thought that he had kept this
thing from her, and he did not see—and would not have
understood if he had seen—the wonderful and mysterious
glow in Joanne's eyes when she kissed Peggy Blackton.
Blackton had come in from the work-end, dust-covered
and jubilant.
174 "THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I’m glad you folks have returned,” he cried, beaming
with enthusiasm as he gripped Aldous by the hand. “The
last rock is packed, and to-night we’re going to shake the
earth. We’re going to blow up Coyote Number Twenty-
seven, and you won't forget the sight as long as you
live!” -
Not until Joanne had disappeared into the house with
Peggy Blackton did Aldous feel that he had descended
firmly upon his feet once more into a matter-of-fact world.
MacDonald was waiting with the horses, and Blackton
was pointing over toward the steel workers, and was saying
something about ten thousand pounds of black powder
and dynamite and a mountain that had stood a million
years and was going to be blown up that night.
“It’s the best bit of work I’ve ever done, Aldous—that
and Coyote Number Twenty-eight. Peggy was going to
touch the electric button to Twenty-seven to-night, but
we’ve decided to let Miss Gray do that, and Peggy’ll fire
Twenty-eight to-morrow night. Twenty-eight is almost
ready. If you say so, the bunch of us will go over and
see it in the morning. Mebby Miss Gray would like to
see for herself that a coyote isn't only an animal with a
bushy tail, but a cavern dug into rock an’ filled with
enough explosives to play high jinks with all the navies in
the world if they happened to be on hand at the time.
What do you say?”
“Fine!” said Aldous.
“And Peggy wants me to say that it's a matter of only
common, every-day decency on your part to make your-
self our guest while here,” added the contractor, stuffing
his pipe. “We’ve got plenty of room, enough to eat, and
THE HUNTED WOMAN 175
a comfortable bed for you. You’re going to be polite
enough to accept, aren't you?”
“With all my heart,” exclaimed Aldous, his blood
tingling at the thought of being near Joanne. “I’ve got
some business with MacDonald and as soon as that’s over
I’ll domicile myself here. It’s bully of you, Blackton!
You know > 3
“Why, dammit, of course I know!” chuckled Blackton,
lighting his pipe. “Can’t I see, Aldous? D'ye think I’m
blind? I was just as gone over Peggy before Imarried her.
Fact is, I haven’t got over it yet—and never will. I come
up from the work four times a day regular to see her, and if I
don’t come I have to send up word I’m safe. Peggy saw
it first. She said it was a shame to put you off in that
cabin with Miss Gray away up here. I don’t want to
stick my nose in your business, old man, but—by George!
—I congratulate you! I’ve only seen one lovelier woman
in my life, and that’s Peggy.”
He thrust out a hand and pumped his friend’s limp arm,
and Aldous felt himself growing suddenly warm under the
other's chuckling gaze.
“For goodness sake don’t say anything, or act anything,
old man,” he pleaded. “I’m-just—hoping.”
Blackton nodded with prodigious understanding in his
eyes. z
“Come along when you get through with MacDonald,”
he said. “I’m going in and clean up for to-night’s fire-
works.”
A question was in Aldous’ mind, but he did not put it
in words. He wanted to know about Quade and Culver
Rann.
176 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Blackton is such a ridiculously forgetful fellow at
times that I don’t want to rouse his alarm,” he said to
1MacDonald as they were riding toward the corral a few
minutes later. “He might let something out to Joanne
and his wife, and I’ve got reasons—mighty good reasons,
Mac-for keeping this affair as quiet as possible. We’ll
have to discover what Rann and Quade are doing our-
selves.”
MacDonald edged his horse in nearer to Aldous.
“See here, Johnny, boy—tell me what's in your mind?”
Aldous looked into the grizzled face, and there was some-
thing in the glow of the old mountaineer's eyes that made
him think of a father.
“You know, Mac.”
Old Donald nodded.
“Yes, I guess I do, Johnny,” he said in a low voice.
“You think of Mis’ Joanne as I used to—to-think of her.
I guess I know. But—what you goin’ to do?”
Aldous shook his head, and for the first time that after-
noon a look of uneasiness and gloom overspread his
face.
“I don’t know, Mac. I’m not ashamed to tell you. I
love her. If she were to pass out of my life to-morrow
I would ask for something that belonged to her, and the
spirit of her would live in it for me until I died. That’s
how I care, Mac. But I’ve known her such a short time.
I can’t tell her yet. It wouldn’t be the square thing.
And yet she won’t remain in Tête Jaume very long. Her
mission is accomplished. And if—if she goes I can’t very
well follow her, can I, Mac’”
For a space old Donald was silent. Then he said,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 177
“You’re thinkin’ of me, Johnny, an’ what we was planning
On?”
“Partly.” *
“Then don’t any more. I’ll stick to you, an’ we’ll
stick to her. Only—”
“What?”
“If you could get Peggy Blackton to help you 99
“You mean ” began Aldous eagerly.
“That if Peggy Blackton got her to stay for a week—
‘mebby ten days—visitin’ her, you know, it wouldn’t be so
bad if you told her then, would it, Johnny?”
“By George, it wouldn't!”
“And I think 3 2
“Yes 93
“Bein’ an old man, an’ seein’ mebby what you don’t
39
see—
“Yes 99
“That she’d take you, Johnny.”
In his breast John’s heart seemed suddenly to give a
jump that choked him. And while he stared ahead old
Donald went on.
“I’ve seen it afore, in a pair of eyes just like her eyes,
Johnny—so soft an’ deeplike, like the sky up there when
the sun's in it. I seen it when we was ridin’ behind an’
she looked ahead at you, Johnny. I did. An’ I’ve seen
it afore. An’ I think 9 3
Aldous waited, his heart-strings ready to snap.
“An’ I think—she likes you a great deal, Johnny.”
Aldous reached over and gripped MacDonald’s hand.
“The good Lord bless you, Donald! We’ll stick! As
for Quade and Culver Rann 55
178 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I’ve been thinkin’ of them,” interrupted MacDonald.
“You haven’t got time to waste on them, Johnny. Leave
'em to me. If it’s only a week you’ve got to be close an’
near by Mis’ Joanne. I’ll find out what Quade an’ Rann
are doing, and what they’re goin’ to do. I’ve got a scheme,
Will you leave 'em to me?”
Aldous nodded, and in the same breath informed Mac,
Donald of Peggy Blackton’s invitation. The old hunter
chuckled exultantly. He stopped his horse, and Aldous
halted.
“It’s workin’ out fine, Johnny!” he exclaimed. “There
ain’t no need of you goin’ any further. We understand
each other, and there ain’t nothin’ for you to do at the
corral. Jump off your horse and go back. If I want you
I’ll come to the Blacktons’’r send word, and if you want
me I’ll be at the corral or the camp in the coulee. Jump
off, Johnny!”
Without further urging Aldous dismounted. They
shook hands again, and MacDonald drove on ahead of
him the saddled horses and the pack. And as Aldous
turned back toward the bungalow old Donald was mum-
bling low in his beard again, “God ha’ mercy on me, but
I’m doin’ it for her an’ Johnny—for her an’ Johnny!”
CHAPTER XVII
ºr ALF an hour later Blackton had shown Aldous to
i his room and bath. It was four o’clock when he
- * * rejoined the contractor in the lower room, freshly
bathed and shaven and in a change of clothes. He had
not seen Joanne, but half a dozen times he had heard her
and Peggy Blackton laughing and talking in Mrs. Black-
ton's big room at the head of the stairs, and he heard them
now as they sat down to smoke their cigars. Blackton
was filled with enthusiasm over the accomplishment of
his latest work, and Aldous tried hard not to betray the
fact that the minutes were passing with gruelling slowness
while he waited for Joanne. He wanted to see her. His
heart was beating like an excited boy’s. He could hear
her footsteps over his head, and he distinguished her soft
laughter, and her sweet voice when she spoke. There
was something tantalizing in her nearness and the fact
that she did not once show herself at the top of the stair.
Blackton was still talking about “coyotes” and dynamite
when, an hour later, Aldous looked up, and his heart gave
a big, glad jump.
Peggy Blackton, a plump little golden-haired vision of
happiness, was already half a dozen steps down the stairs.
At the top Joanne, for an instant, had paused. Through
that space, before the contractor had turned, her eyes met
those of John Aldous. She was smiling. Her eyes were
179

180 THE HUNTED WOMAN
shining at him. Never had he seen her look at him in
that way, he thought, and never had she seemed such a
perfect vision of loveliness. She was dressed in a soft,
clinging something with a flutter of white lace at her throat,
and as she came down he saw that she had arranged her
hair in a marvellous way. Soft little curls half hid them-
selves in the shimmer of rich coils she had wreathed upon
her head, and adorable little tendrils caressed the lovely
flush in her cheeks, and clung to the snow-whiteness of her
neck.
For a moment, as Peggy Blackton went to her husband,
he stood very close to Joanne, and into his eyes she was
smiling, half laughing, her beautiful mouth aquiver, her
eyes glowing, the last trace of their old suspense and fear
vanished in a new and wondrous beauty. He would not
have said she was twenty-eight now. He would have
sworn she was twenty.
“Joanne,” he whispered, “you are wonderful. Your
hair is glorious!”
“Always—my hair,” she replied, so low that he alone
heard. “Can you never see beyond my hair, John Al-
dous?”
“I stop there,” he said. “And I marvel. It is glori-
ous!”
“Again!” And up from her white throat there rose a
richer, sweeter colour. “If you say that again now, John
Aldous, I shall never make curls for you again as long as
I live!”
“For me—”
His heart seemed near bursting with joy. But she had
left him, and was laughing with Peggy Blackton, who was
3.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 181
showing her husband where he had missed a stubbly patch
of beard on his cheek. He caught her eyes, turned
swiftly to him, and they were laughing at him, and there
came a sudden pretty upturn to her chin as he continued
to stare, and he saw again the colour deepening in her face.
When Peggy Blackton led her husband to the stair, and
drove him up to shave off the stubbly patch, Joanne
found the opportunity to whisper to him:
“You are rude, John Aldous! You must not stare at
me like that!”
And as she spoke the rebellious colour was still in her
face, in spite of the tantalizing curve of her red lips and
the sparkle in her eyes. \ }
“I can’t help it,” he pleaded. “You are—glorious!”
During the next hour, and while they were at supper,
he could see that she was purposely avoiding his eyes, and
that she spoke oftener to Paul Blackton than she did to
him, apparently taking the keenest interest in his friend’s
enthusiastic descriptions of the mighty work along the
line of steel. And as pretty Peggy Blackton never seemed
quite so happy as when listening to her husband, he was
forced to content himself by looking at Joanne most of
the time, without once receiving her smile.
The sun was just falling behind the western mountains
when Peggy and Joanne, hurried most incontinently by
Blackton, who had looked at his watch 'eft the table to
prepare themselves for the big event of the evening.
“I want to get you there before dusk,” he explained.
“So please hurry!”
They were back in five minutes. Joanne had slipped
on a long gray coat, and with a veil that trailed a yard down
182 THE HUNTED WOMAN
her back she had covered her head. Not a curl or a tress
of her hair had she left out of its filmy prison, and there
was a mischievous gleam of triumph in her eyes when she
looked at Aldous.
A moment later, when they went ahead of Blackton and
his wife to where the buckboard was waiting for them, he
said:
“You put on that veil to punish me, Ladygray?”
“It is a pretty veil,” said she.
“But your hair is prettier,” said he.
“And you embarrassed me very much by staring as you
did, John Aldous!”
“Forgive me. It is—I mean you are—so beautiful.”
“And you are sometimes—most displeasing,” said she,
“Your ingenuousness, John Aldous, is shocking!”
“Forgive me,” he said again.
“And you have known me but two days,” she added.
“Two days—is a long time,” he argued. “One can be
born, and live, and die in two days. Besides, our trails
have crossed for years.”
“But—it displeases me.”
“What I have said?”
“Yes.”
“And the way I have looked at you?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was low and quiet now, her eyes were serious,
and she was not smiling.
“I know—I know,” he groaned, and there was a deep
thrill in his voice. “It’s been only two days after all,
Ladygray. It seems like—like a lifetime. I don’t want
you to think badly of me. God knows I don't!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 188
“No, no. I don’t,” she said quickly and gently. “You
are the finest gentleman I ever knew, John Aldous. Only
—it embarrasses me.”
“I will cut out my tongue and put out my eyes
“Nothing so terrible,” she laughed softly. “Will you
help me into the wagon? They are coming.”
She gave him her hand, warm and soft; and Blackton
forced him into the seat between her and Peggy, and
Joanne's hand rested in his arm all the way to the mountain.
that was to be blown up, and he told himself that he was
a fool if he were not supremely happy. The wagon
stopped, and he helped her out again, her warm little hand
again close in his own, and when she looked at him he was
the cool, smiling John Aldous of old, so cool, and strong,
and unemotional that he saw surprise in her eyes first, and
then that gentle, gathering glow that came when she was
proud of him, and pleased with him. And as Blackton
pointed out the mountain she unknotted the veil under her
chin and let it drop back over her shoulders, so that the
last light of the day fell richly in the trembling curls and
thick coils of her hair.
“And that is my reward,” said John Aldous, but he
whispered it to himself.
They had stopped close to a huge flat rock, and on this
rock men were at work fitting wires to a little boxlike
thing that had a white button-lever. Paul Blackton
pointed to this, and his face was flushed with excitement.
“That's the little thing that’s going to blow it up, Miss
Gray—the touch of your finger on that little white button.
Do you see that black base of the mountain yonder?—
right there where you can see men moving about? It's
95
184 THE HUNTED WOMAN
half a mile from here, and the “coyote' is there, dug into
the wall of it.” -
The tremble of enthusiasm was in his voice as he went
on, pointing with his long arm: “Think of it! We’re
spending a hundred thousand dollars going through that
rock that people who travel on the Grand Trunk Pacific
in the future will be saved seven minutes in their journey
from coast to coast! We're spending a hundred thousand
there, and millions along the line, that we may have the
smoothest roadbed in the world when we’re done, and the
quickest route from sea to sea. It looks like waste, but
it isn’t. It’s science! It's the fight of competition!
It's the determination behind the forces—the determi-
nation to make this road the greatest road in the world!
Listen!”
The gloom was thickening swiftly. The black mountain
was fading slowly away, and up out of that gloom came
now ghostly and far-reaching voices of men booming
faintly through giant megaphones.
“Clear away ! Clear away ! Clear away !” they said,
and the valley and the mountain-sides caught up the
echoes, until it seemed that a hundred voices were crying
out the warning. Then fell a strange and weird silence,
and the echoes faded away like the voices of dying men,
and all was still save the far-away barking of a coyote
that answered the mysterious challenges of the night.
Joanne was close to the rock. Quietly the men who had
been working on the battery drew back.
“It is ready!” said one.
“Wait!” said Blackton, as his wife went to speak.
“Listen!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 185
For five minutes there was silence. Then out of the
might a single megaphone cried the word:
“Fire /?” • *
“All is clear,” said the engineer, with a deep breath.
“All you have to do, Miss Gray, is to move that little lever
from the side on which it now rests to the opposite side.
Are you ready?”
In the darkness Joanne's left hand had sought John's.
It clung to his tightly. He could feel a little shiver run
through her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then—if you please—press the button!”
Slowly Joanne's right hand crept out, while the fingers
of her left clung tighter to Aldous. She touched the
button—thrust it over. A little cry that fell from be-
*ween her tense lips told them she had done the work, and
a silence like that of death fell on those who waited.
A half a minute—perhaps three quarters—and a shiver
ran under their feet, but there was no sound; and then a
black pall, darker than the night, seemed to rise up out of
the mountain, and with that, a second later, came the
explosion. There was a rumbling and a jarring, as if the
earth were convulsed under foot; volumes of dense black
smoke shot upward, and in another instant these rolling,
twisting volumes of black became lurid, and an explosion
like that of a thousand great guns rent the air. As fast
as the eye could follow sheets of flame shot up out of the
sea of smoke, climbing higher and higher, in lightning
flashes, until the lurid tongues licked the air a quarter of
a mile above the startled wilderness. Explosion followed
explosion, some of them coming in hollow, reverberating
186 THE HUNTED WOMAN
booms, others sounding as if in mid-air. Unseen by the
watchers, the heavens were filled with hurtling rocks; solid
masses of granite ten feet square were thrown a hundred
feet away; rocks weighing a ton were hurled still farther,
as if they were no more than stones flung by the hands of a
giant; chunks that would have crashed from the roof to the
basement of a skyscraper dropped a third of a mile away.
For three minutes the frightful convulsions continued, and
the tongues of flame leaped into the night. Then the
lurid lights died out, shorter and shorter grew the sullen
flashes, and then again fell—silence!
During those appalling moments, unconscious of the
act, Joanne had shrank close to Aldous, so that he felt
the soft crush of her hair and the Swift movement of her
bosom. Blackton’s voice brought them back to life.
He laughed, and it was the laugh of a man who had
looked upon work well done.
“It has done the trick,” he said. “To-morrow we
will come and see. And I have changed my plans about
Coyote Number Twenty-eight. Hutchins, the super-
intendent, is passing through in the afternoon, and I want
him to see it.” He spoke now to a man who had come up
out of the darkness. “Gregg, have Twenty-eight ready
at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon—four o’clock—sharp!”
Then he said:
“Dust and a bad smell will soon be settling about us.
Come, let’s go home!”
And as they went back to the buckboard wagon through
the gloom John Aldous still held Joanne's hand in his
own, and she made no effort to take it from him.
CHAPTER XVIII
P | \HE next morning, when Aldous joined the engineer
in the dining-room below, he was disappointed
to find the breakfast table prepared for two instead
of four. It was evident that Peggy Blackton and Joanne
were not going to interrupt their beauty nap on their
account.
Blackton saw his friend’s inquiring look, and chuckled.
“Guess we’ll have to get along without ’em this morning.
old man. Lord bless me, did you hear them last night
—after you went to bed?”
“No.” &
“You were too far away,” chuckled Blackton again,
“I was in the room across the hall from them. You see,
old man, Peggy sometimes gets fairly starved for the right
sort of company up here, and last night they didn't go
to bed until after twelve o’clock. I looked at my watch.
Mebby they were in bed, but I could hear 'em buzzing
like two bees, and every little while they’d giggle, and then
go on buzzing again. By George, there wasn’t a break in
it! When one let up the other'd begin, and sometimes
I guess they were both going at once. Consequently,
they’re sleeping now.”
When breakfast was finished Blackton looked at his
watch.
“Seven o’clock,” he said. “We’ll leave word for the
187
f88 THE HUNTED WOMAN
girls to be ready at nine. What are you going to do mean:
time, Aldous?” *
“Hunt up MacDonald, probably.”
“And I’ll run down and take a look at the work.”
As they left the house the engineer nodded down the
road. MacDonald was coming.
“He has saved you the trouble,” he said. “Remember,
Aldous—nine o'clock sharp!”
A moment later Aldous was advancing to meet the old
mountaineer.
“They’ve gone, Johnny,” was Donald’s first greeting.
“Gone?”
“Yes. The whole bunch—Quade, Culver Rann, DeBar,
and the woman who rode the bear. They’ve gone, hide
and hair, and nobody seems to know where.”
Aldous was staring.
“Also,” resumed old Donald slowly, “Culver Rann's
outfit is gone—twenty horses, including six saddles. An’
likewise others have gone, but I can’t find out who.”
“Gone!” repeated Aldous again.
MacDonald nodded.
“And that means 99
“That Culver Rann ain’t lost any time in gettin’ under
way for the gold,” said Donald. “DeBar is with him,
an’ probably the woman. Likewise three cut-throats to
fill the other saddles. They’ve gone prepared to fight.”
“And Quade?”
Old Donald hunched his shoulders, and suddenly John's
face grew dark and hard.
“I understand,” he spoke, half under his breath.
“Quade has disappeared—but he isn't with Culver Rann.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 189
He wants us to believe he has gone. He wants to throw
us off our guard. But he's watching, and waiting—some-
where—like a hawk, to swoop down on Joanne! He-”
“That’s it!” broke in MacDonald hoarsely. “That’s
it, Johnny! It’s his old trick—his old trick with women.
There’s a hunderd men who’ve got to do his bidding—do
it ºr get out of the mountains—an’ we’ve got to watch
Joanne. We have, Johnny! If she should disappear—”
Aldous waited.
“You’d never find her again, so 'elp me God, you
wouldn’t, Johnny!” he finished.
“We’ll watch her,” said Aldous quietly. “I’ll be with
her to-day, Mac, and to-night I’ll come down to the camp
in the coulee to compare notes with you. They can't very
well steal her out of Blackton’s house while I’m gone.”
For an hour after MacDonald left him he walked about
in the neighbourhood of the Blackton bungalow smoking
his pipe. Not until he saw the contractor drive up in the
buckboard did he return. Joanne and Peggy were more
than prompt. They were waiting. If such a thing were
possible Joanne was more radiantly lovely than the night
before. To Aldous she became more beautiful every time
he looked at her. But this morning he did not speak
what was in his heart when, for a moment, he held her
hand, and looked into her eyes. Instead, he said:
“Good morning, Ladygray. Have you used 93.
“I have,” she smiled. “Only it’s Potterdam's Tar
Soap, and not the other. And you—have not shaved,
John Aldous!”
“Great Scott, so I haven’t!” he exclaimed, rubbing his
chin. “But I did yesterday afternoon, Ladygray!”
190 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“And you will again this afternoon, if you please,” she
commanded. “I don’t like bristles.”
“But in the wilderness 35
“One can shave as well as another can make curls,” she
reminded him, and there came an adorable little dimple
at the corner of her mouth as she looked toward Paul
Blackton.
Aldous was glad that Paul and Peggy Blackton did most
of the talking that morning. They spent half an hour
where the explosion of the night before had blown out the
side of the mountain, and then drove on to Coyote Number
Twenty-eight. It was in the face of a sandstone cliff,
and all they could see of it when they got out of the wagon
was a dark hole in the wall of rock. Not a soul was about,
and Blackton rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
“Everything is completed,” he said. “Gregg put in the
last packing this morning, and all we are waiting for now
is four o’clock this afternoon.”
The hole in the mountain was perhaps four feet square.
Ten feet in front of it the engineer paused, and pointed to
the ground. Up out of the earth came two wires, which
led away from the mouth of the cavern.
“Those wires go down to the explosives,” he explained.
“They’re battery wires half a mile long. But we don’t
attach the battery until the final moment, as you saw last
night. There might be an accident.”
He bent his tall body and entered the mouth of the
cavern, leading his wife by the hand. Observing that
Joanne had seen this attention on the contractor's part,
Aldous held out his own hand, and Joanne accepted it.
For perhaps twenty feet they followed the Blacktons with
THE HUNTED WOMAN 191
lowered heads. They seemed to have entered a black,
cold pit, sloping slightly downward, and only faintly could
they see Blackton when he straightened.
His voice came strange and sepulchral:
“You can stand up now. We’re in the chamber.
Don’t move or you might stumble over something. There
ought to be a lantern here.” *
He struck a match, and as he moved slowly toward a
wall of blackness, searching for the lartern, he called back
encouragingly through the gloom:
“You folks are now standing right over ten tons of
dynamite, and there’s another five tons of black pow-
der 55
A little shriek from Peggy Blackton stopped him, and
his match went out.
“What in heaven’s name is the matter?” he asked
anxiously. “Peg 35
“Why in heaven’s name do you light a match then,
with us standing over all those tons of dynamite?” de-
manded Peggy. “Paul Blackton, you’re—”
The engineer’s laughter was like a giant's roar in the
cavern, and Joanne gave a gasp, while Peggy shiveringly
caught Aldous by the arm.
“There—I’ve got the lantern!” exclaimed Blackton.
“There isn’t any danger, not a bit. Wait a minute and
I’ll tell you all about it.” He lighted the lantern, and in
the glow of it Joanne's and Peggy's faces were white and
startled. “Why, bless my soul, I didn’t mean to frighten
you!” he cried. “I was just telling you facts. See, we’re
standing on a solid floor—four feet of packed rock and
cement. The dynamite and black powder are under
I92 THE HUNTED WOMAN
that. We're in a chamber—a cave—an artificial cavern.
It’s forty feet deep, twenty wide, and about severs
high.” g
He held the lantern even with his shoulders and walked
deeper into the cavern as he spoke. The others followed.
They passed a keg on which was a half-burned candle.
Close to the keg was an empty box. Beyond these things
the cavern was empty.
“I thought it was full of powder and dynamite,” apolo-
gized Peggy.
“You see, it’s like this,” Blackton began. “We put the
powder and dynamite down there, and pack it over solid
with rock and cement. If we didn’t leave this big air-
chamber above it there would be only one explosion, and
probably two thirds of the explosive would not fire, and
would be lost. This chamber corrects that. You heard
a dozen explosions last night, and you’ll hear a dozen this
afternoon, and the biggest explosion of all is usually the
fourth or fifth. A “coyote” isn’t like an ordinary blast
or shot. It’s a mighty expensive thing, and you see it
means a lot of work. Now, if some one were to touch off
those explosives at this minute— What’s the matter,
Peggy? Are you cold? You're shivering!”
“Ye-e-e-e-s!” chattered Peggy.
Aldous felt Joanne tugging at his hand.
“Let’s take Mrs. Blackton out,” she whispered. “I’m-
I’m-afraid she’ll take cold!”
In spite of himself Aldous could not restrain his laughter
until they had got through the tunnel. Out in the sun-
light he looked at Joanne, still holding her hand. She
withdrew it, looking at him accusingly.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 193
“Lord bless me!” exclaimed Blackton, who seemed to
understand at last. “There’s no danger—not a bit!”
“But I’d rather look at it from outside, Paul, dear,”
said Mrs. Blackton.
“But—Peggy—if it went off now you’d be in just as
bad shape out here!”
“I don’t think we’d be quite so messy, really I don’t,
dear,” she persisted.
“Lord bless me!” he gasped.
“And they’d probably be able to find something of us,”
she added.
“Not a button, Peggy!”
“Then I’m going to move, if you please!” And suiting
her action to the word Peggy led the way to the buckboard.
There she paused and took one of her husband’s big hands
fondly in both her own. “It’s perfectly wonderful,
Paul—and I’m proud of you!” she said. “But, honestly,
dear, I can enjoy it so much better at four o’clock this
afternoon.”
Smiling, Blackton lifted her into the buckboard.
“That’s why I wish Paul had been a preacher or some-
thing like that,” she confided to Joanne as they drove
homeward. “I’m growing old just thinking of him
working over that horrid dynamite and powder all the
time. Every little while some one is blown into nothing.”
“I believe,” said Joanne, “that I’d like to do something
like that if I were a man. I’d want to be a man, not that
preachers aren’t men, Peggy, dear—but I’d want to do
things, like blowing up mountains for instance, or finding
buried cities, or”—she whispered, very, very softly under
ber breath—“writing books, John Aldous!”
194 THE HUNTED WOMAN
*
Only Aldous heard those last words, and Joanne gave a
sharp little cry; and when Peggy asked her what the
matter was Joanne did not tell her that John Aldous had
almost broken her hand on the opposite side—for Joanne
was riding between the two.
“It’s lame for life,” she said to him half an hour later,
when he was bidding her good-bye, preparatory to accom-
panying Blackton down to the working steel. “And I
deserve it for trying to be kind to you. I think some
writers of books are—are perfectly intolerable!”
“Won’t you take a little walk with me right after din-
ner?” he was asking for the twentieth time.
“I doubt it very, very much.”
“Please, Ladygray!”
“I may possibly think about it.”
With that she left him, and she did not look back as she
and Peggy Blackton went into the house. But as they
drove away they saw two faces at the window that over-
looked the town ward road, and two hands were waving
good-bye. Both could not be Peggy Blackton's hands.
“Joanne and I are going for a walk this afternoon,
Blackton,” said Aldous, “and I just want to tell you not
to worry if we’re not back by four o’clock. Don’t wait
for us. We may be watching the blow-up from the top
of some mountain.”
Blackton chuckled. -
“Don’t blame you,” he said. “From an observer's
point of view, John, it looks to me as though you were
going to have something more than hope to live on pretty
soon!” •
“I—I hope so.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 195
“And when I was going with Peggy I wouldn’t have
traded a quiet little walk with her—like this you’re sug-
gesting—for a front seat look at a blow-up of the whole
Rocky Mountain system!”
“And you won’t forget to tell Mrs. Blackton that we
may not return by four o’clock?”
“I will not. And”—Blackton puffed hard at his pipe—
“and, John—the Tête Jaune preacher is our nearest
neighbour,” he finished.
From then until dinner time John Aldous lived in an
atmosphere that was not quite real, but a little like a
dream. His hopes and his happiness were at their highest.
He knew that Joanne would go walking with him that
afternoon, and in spite of his most serious efforts to argue
to the contrary he could not keep down the feeling that
the event would mean a great deal for him. Almost
feverishly he interested himself in Paul Blackton’s work.
When they returned to the bungalow, a little before noon,
he went to his room, shaved himself, and in other ways
prepared for dinner.
Joanne and the Blacktons were waiting when he came
down. y
His first look at Joanne assured him. She was dressed
in a soft gray walking-suit. Never had the preparation
of a dinner seemed so slow to him, and a dozen times he
found himself inwardly swearing at Tom, the Chinese
cook. It was one o’clock before they sat down at the table
and it was two o'clock when they arose. It was a quarter
after two when Joanne and he left the bungalow.
“Shall we wander up on the mountain?” he asked.
“It would be fine to look down upon the explosion.”
196 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I have noticed that in some things you are very ob-
servant,” said Joanne, ignoring his question. “In the
matter of curls, for instance, you are unapproachable;
in others you are—quite-blind, John Aldous!”
“What do you mean?” he asked, bewildered.
“I lost my Scarf this morning, and you did not notice
it. It is quite an unusual scarf. I bought it in Cairo,
and I don’t want to have it blown up.”
“You mean 55
“Yes. I must have dropped it in the cavern. I had
it when we entered.”
“Then we’ll return for it,” he volunteered. “We’ll
still have plenty of time to climb up the mountain before
the explosion.” * sº
Twenty minutes later they came to the dark mouth of
the tunnel. There was no one in sight, and for a moment
Aldous searched for matches in his pocket.
“Wait here,” he said. “I won’t be gone two minutes.”
He entered, and when he came to the chamber he struck
a match. The lantern was on the empty box. He lighted
it, and began looking for the scarf. Suddenly he heard a
sound. He turned, and saw Joanne standing in the glow
of the lantern.
“Can you find it?” she asked.
“I haven’t-yet.” e
They bent over the rock floor, and in a moment Joanne
gave a little exclamation of pleasure as she caught up
the Scarf. In that same moment, as they straightened
and faced each other, John Aldous felt his heart cease
beating, and Joanne's face had gone as white as death.
The rock-walled chamber was atremble; they heard a
THE HUNTED WOMAN 197
Sullen, distant roaring, and as Aldous caught Joanne's
hand and sprang toward the tunnel the roar grew into a
deafening crash, and a gale of wind rushed into their
faces, blowing out the lantern, and leaving them in dark-
ness. The mountain seemed crumbling about them, and
above the sound of it rang out a wild, despairing cry from
Joanne's lips. For there was no longer the brightness
of sunshine at the end of the tunnel, but darkness—utter
darkness; and through that tunnel there came a deluge of
dust and rock that flung them back into the blackness of
the pit, and separated them.
“John—John Aldous!”
“I am here, Joanne! I will light the lantern!”
His groping hands found the lantern. He relighted it,
and Joanne crept to his side, her face as white as the face
of the dead. He held the lantern above him, and together
they stared at where the tunnel had been. A mass of
rock met their eyes. The tunnel was choked. And then,
slowly, each turned to the other; and each knew that the
other understood—for it was Death that whispered about
them now in the restless air of the rock-walled tomb, a
terrible death, and their lips spoke no words as their eyes
met in that fearful and silent understanding.
CHAPTER XIX
“The tunnel is closed!” she whispered.
Her voice was strange. It was not Joanne's
voice. It was unreal, terrible, and her eyes were terrible
as they looked steadily into his. Aldous could not answer;
something had thickened in his throat, and his blood ran
cold as he stared into Joanne's dead-white face and saw
the understanding in her eyes. For a space he could not
move, and then, as suddenly as it had fallen upon him,
the effect of the shock passed away
He smiled, and put out a hand to her.
“A slide of rock has fallen over the mouth of the tunnel,”
he said, forcing himself to speak as if it meant little of
nothing. “Hold the lantern, Joanne, while I get busy.”
“A slide of rock,” she repeated after him dumbly.
She took the lantern, her eyes still looking at him in that
stricken way, and with his naked hands John Aldous set
to work. Five minutes and he knew that it was madness
to continue. Hands alone could not clear the tunnel.
And yet he worked, tearing into the rock and shale like aſ
animal; rolling back small boulders, straining at large
ones until the tendons of his arms seemed ready to snap
and his veins to burst. For a few minutes after that he
went mad. His muscles cracked, he panted as he fought
with the rock until his hands were torn and bleeding, and
J”. white lips spoke first.
198
THE HUNTED WOMAN 199
over and over again there ran through his head Blackton's
last words—Four o’clock this afternoon 1—Four o’clock this
afternoon /
Then he came to what he knew he would reach very
Soon, a solid wall! Rock and shale and earth were packed
as if by battering rams. For a few moments he fought
to control himself before facing Joanne. Over him swept
the grim realization that his last fight must be for her. He
steadied himself, and wiped the dust and grime from his
face with his handkerchief. For the last time he swallowed
hard. His soul rose within him almost joyously now in
the face of this last great fight, and he turned—John
Aldous, the super-man. There was no trace of fear in his
face as he went to her. He was even smiling in that
ghostly glow of the lantern.
“It is hard work, Joanne.”
She did not seem to hear what he had said. She was
looking at his hands. She held the lantern nearer.
“Your hands are bleeding, John!”
It was the first time she had spoken his name like that,
and he was thrilled by the calmness of her voice, the un-
trembling gentleness of her hand as it touched his hand.
From his bruised and bleeding flesh she raised her eyes
to him, and they were no longer the dumb, horrified eyes
he had gazed into fifteen minutes before. In the wonder
of it he stood silent, and the moment was weighted with an
appalling silence. f
It came to them both in that instant—the tick-tick-tick
of the watch in his pocket!
Without taking her eyes from his face she asked:
“What time is it. John?”
200 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Joanne—”
“I am not afraid,” she whispered. “I was afraid this
afternoon, but I am not afraid now. What time is it,
John?”
“My God—they’ll dig us out!” he cried wildly.
“Joanne, you don’t think they won’t dig us out, do you?
Why, that’s impossible! The slide has covered the wires.
They’ve got to dig us out! There is no danger—none at
all. Only it’s chilly, and uncomfortable, and I’m afraid
you’ll take cold!”
“What time is it?” she repeated softly.
For a moment he looked steadily at her, and his heart
leaped when he saw that she must believe him, for though
her face was as white as an ivory cross she was smiling at
him—yes! she was smiling at him in that gray and ghastly
death-gloom of the cavern!
He brought out his watch, and in the lantern-glow they
looked at it.
“A quarter after three,” he said. “By four o’clock
they will be at work—Blackton and twenty men. They
will have us out in time for supper.”
“A quarter after three,” repeated Joanne, and the words
came steadily from her lips. “That means 33
He waited.
“We have forty-five minutes in which to live l’” she said.
Before he could speak she had thrust the lantern into
his hand, and had seized his other hand in both her own.
“If there are only forty-five minutes let us not lie to one
another,” she said, and her voice was very close. “I know
why you are doing it, John Aldous. It is for me. You
have done a great deal for me in these two days in which
“The tunnel is closed,” she whispered. . . . “That means we have just
forty-five minutes to live. . . . Let us not lie to one another.”

THE HUNTED WOMAN 20]
one ‘can be born, and live, and die.” But in these last
minutes I do not want you to act what I know cannot be
the truth. You know—and I know. The wires are laid to
the battery rock." There is no hope. At four o’clock—we
both know what will happen. And I-am not afraid.”
She heard him choking for speech. In a moment he
said:
“There are other lanterns—Joanne. I saw them when
I was looking for the scarf. I will light them.”
• He found two lanterns hanging against the rock wall.
He lighted them, and the half-burned candle.
“It is pleasanter,” she said.
She stood in the glow of them when he turned to her,
tall, and straight, and as beautiful as an angel. Her lips
were pale; the last drop of blood had ebbed from her face;
but there was something glorious in the poise of her head,
and in the wistful gentleness of her mouth and the light
in her eyes. And then, slowly, as he stood looking with a
face torn in its agony for her, she held out her arms.
“John—John Aldous 55
“Joanne! Oh, my God!—Joanne!”
She swayed as he sprang to her, but she was smiling—
smiling in that new and wonderful way as her arms
reached out to him, and the words he heard her say came
low and sobbing:
“John—John, if you want to, now—you can tell me
that my hair is beautiful!”
And then she was in his arms, her warm, sweet body
crushed close to him, her face lifted to him, her soft hands
stroking his face, and over and over again she was speaking
his name while from out of his soul there rushed forth the
202 THE HUNTED WOMAN
mighty flood of his great love; and he held her there, for-
getful of time now, forgetful of death itself; and he kissed
her tender lips, her hair, her eyes—conscious only that in
the hour of death he had found life, that her hands were
stroking his face, and caressing his hair, and that over and
over again she was whispering sobbingly his name, and
that she loved him. The pressure of her hands against
his breast at last made him free her. And now, truly, she
was glorious. For the triumph of love had overridden the
despair of death, and her face was flooded with its colour
and in her eyes was its glory.
And then, as they stood there, a step between them,
there came—almost like the benediction of a cathedral
bell—the soft, low tinkling chime of the half-hour bell in
Aldous’ watch!
It struck him like a blow. Every muscle in him became
like rigid iron, and his torn hands clenched tightly at
his sides.
“Joanne—Joanne, it is impossible!” he cried huskily,
and he had her close in his arms again, even as her face,
was whitening in the lantern-glow. “I have lived for
you, I have waited for you—all these years you have been
coming, coming, coming to me—and now that you are
mine—mine—it is impossible! It cannot happen 9 3
He freed her again, and caught up a lantern. Foot by
foot he examined the packed tunnel. It was solid—not
a crevice or a break through which might have travelled
the sound of his voice or the explosion of a gun. He did
not shout. He knew that it would be hopeless, and that
his voice would be terrifying in that sepulchral tomb. Was
it possible that there might be some other opening—a
THE HUNTED WOMAN 203
*º-
possible exit—in that mountain wall? With the lantern
in his hand he searched. There was no break. He came
back to Joanne. She was standing where he had left
her. And suddenly, as he looked at her, all fear went out
of him, and he put down the lantern and went to her.
“Joanne,” he whispered, holding her two hands against
his breast, “you are not afraid?”
“No, I am not afraid.”
“And you know 99
“Yes, I know,” and she leaned forward so that her head
lay partly against their clasped hands and partly upon his
breast.
“And you love me, Joanne?”
“As I never dreamed that I should love a man, John
Aldous,” she whispered.
“And yet it has been but two days—”
“And I have lived an eternity,” he heard her lips speak
softly.
“You would be my wife?” :
“Yes.”
“To-morrow?” . *
“If you wanted me then, John.”
“I thank God,” he breathed in her hair. “And you
would come to me without reservation, Joanne, trusting
me, believing in me—you would come to me body, and
heart, and soul?”
“In all those ways—yes.”
“I thank God,” he breathed again.
He raised her face. He looked deep into her eyes, and
the glory of her love grew in them, and her lips trembled
as she lifted them ever so little for him to kiss.
204 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Oh, I was happy—so happy,” she whispered, putting
her hands to his face. “John, I knew that you loved me,
and oh! I was fighting so hard to keep myself from
letting you know how happy it made me. And here, I
was afraid you wouldn’t tell me—before it happened.
And John—John 95
She leaned back from him, and her white hands moved
like swift shadows in her hair, and then, suddenly, it
billowed about her—her glorious hair—covering her from
crown to hip; and with her hands she swept and piled the
lustrous masses of it over him until his face, and head, and
shoulders were buried in the flaming sheen and sweet per-
fume of it.
He strained her closer. Through the warm richness of
her tresses his lips pressed her lips, and they ceased to
breathe. And up to their ears, pounding through that
enveloping shroud of her hair came the tick-tick-tick of the
watch in his pocket.
“Joanne,” he whispered.
“Yes, John.”
“You are not afraid of—death?’”
“No, not when you are holding me like this, John.”
He still clasped her hands, and a sweet smile crept over
her lips.
“Even now you are splendid,” she said. “Oh, I would
have you that way, my John!”
Again they stood up in the unsteady glow of the lanterns.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He drew out his watch, and as they both looked his
blood ran cold.
“Twelve minutes,” she murmured, and there was not a
THE HUNTED WOMAN 205
quiver in her voice. “Let us sit down, John—you on this
box, and I on the floor, at your feet—like this.”
He seated himself on the box, and Joanne nestled herself
at his knees, her hands clasped in his.
“I think, John,” she said softly, “that very, very often
we would have visited like this—you and I–in the eve-
ning.”
A lump choked him, and he could not answer.
“I would very often have come and perched myself at
your feet like this.”
“Yes, yes, my beloved.”
“And you would always have told me how beautiful
my hair was—always. You would not have forgotten
that, John—or have grown tired?”
“No, no—never!”
His arms were about her. He was drawing her closer,
“And we would have had beautiful times together,
John—writing, and going adventuring, and—and 9 3.
He felt her trembling, throbbing, and her arms tightened
about him.
And now, again up through the Smother of her hair,
came the tick-tick-tick of his watch.
He felt her fumbling at his watch pocket, and in a
moment she was holding the timepiece between them, so
that the light of the lantern fell on the face of it.
“It is three minutes of four, John.”
The watch slipped from her fingers, and now she drew
herself up so that her arms were about his neck, and their
faces touched. *
“Dear John, you love me?”
“So much that even now, in the face of death, I am
206 THE HUNTED WOMAN
happy,” he whispered. “Joanne, sweetheart, we are not
going to be separated. We are going—together. Through
all eternity it must be like this—you and I, together.
Little girl, wind your hair about me—tight!”
“There—and there—and there, John! I have tied you
to me, and you are buried in it! Kiss me, John 55
And then the wild and terrible fear of a great loneliness
swept through him. For Joanne's voice had died away
in a whispering breath, and the lips he kissed did not kiss
him back, and her body lay heavy, heavy, heavy in his
arms. Yet in his loneliness he thanked God for bringing
her oblivion in these last moments, and with his face
crushed to hers he waited. For he knew that it was no
longer a matter of minutes, but of seconds, and in those
seconds he prayed, until up through the warm Smother of
her hair—with the clearness of a tolling bell—came the
sound of the little gong in his watch striking the Hour of
Four!
In space other worlds might have crumbled into ruin;
on earth the stories of empires might have been written
and the lives of men grown old in those first century-long
seconds in which John Aldous held his breath and waited
after the chiming of the hour-bell in the watch on the
cavern floor. How long he waited he did not know; how
closely he was crushing Joanne to his breast he did not
realize. Seconds, minutes, and other minutes—and his
brain ran red in dumb, silent madness. And the watch!
It ticked, ticked, ticked 1 It was like a hammer.
He had heard the sound of it first coming up through
her hair. But it was not in her hair now. It was over him,
about him—it was no longer a ticking, but a throb, a steady,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 207
jarring, beating throb. It grew louder, and the air stirred
with it. He lifted his head. With the eyes of a madman
he stared—and listened. His arms relaxed from about
Joanne, and she slipped crumpled and lifeless to the floor.
He stared—and that steady beat-beat-beat—a hundred
times louder than the ticking of a watch—pounded in his
brain. Washe mad? He staggered to the choked mouth of
the tunnel, and then there fell shout upon shout, and shriek
upon shriek from his lips, and twice, like a madman now,
he ran back to Joanne and caught her up in his arms, calling
and sobbing her name, and then shouting—and calling
her name again. She moved; her eyes opened, and like
one gazing upon the spirit of the dead she looked into the
face of John Aldous, a madman’s face in the lantern-glow.
“John—John 35
She put up her hands, and with a cry he ran with her in
his arms to the choked tunnel.
“Listen! Listen!” he cried wildly. “Dear God in
Heaven, Joanne—can you not hear them? It’s Blackton—
Blackton and his men! Hear—hear the rock-hammers
smashing! Joanne—Joanne—we are saved!”
She did not sense him. She swayed, half on her feet,
half in his arms, as consciousness and reason returned to
her. Dazedly her hands went to his face in their old,
sweet way. Aldous saw her struggling to understand—to
comprehend; and he kissed her soft upturned lips, fighting
back the excitement that made him want to raise his voice
again in wild and joyous shouting.
“It is Blackton!” he said over and over again. “It is
Blackton and his men! Listen!—you can hear their picks
and the pounding of their rock-hammers!”
CHAPTER XX
to come, that Blackton and his men were working
to save them. And now, as she listened with him,
her breath began to come in sobbing excitement between
her lips—for there was no mistaking that sound, that
steady beat-beat-beat that came from beyond the cavern
wall and seemed to set strange tremors stirring in the air
about their ears. For a few moments they stood stunned
and silent, as if not yet quite fully comprehending that
they had come from out of the pit of death, and that men
were fighting for their rescue. They asked themselves no
questions—why the “coyote” had not been fired? how
those outside knew they were in the cavern. And, as they
listened, there came to them a voice. It was faint, so
faint that it seemed to whisper to them through miles and
miles of space—yet they knew that it was a voice!
“Some one is shouting,” spoke Aldous tensely. “Joanne,
my darling, stand around the face of the wall so flying
rock will not strike you and I will answer with my pistol!”
When he had placed her in safety from split lead and
rock chips, he drew his automatic and fired it close up
against the choked tunnel. He fired five times, steadily,
counting three between each shot, and then he placed his
ear to the mass of stone and earth and listened. Joanne
slipped to him like a shadow. Her hand sought his, and
A LAST Joanne realized that the explosion was not
208
THE HUNTED WOMAN 209
they held their breaths. They no longer heard sounds—
nothing but the crumbling and falling of dust and pebbles
where the bullets had struck, and their own heart-beats.
The picks and rock-hammers had ceased.
Tighter and tighter grew the clasp of Joanne's fingers,
and a terrible thought flashed into John’s brain. Perhaps
a rock from the slide had cut a wire, and they had found
the wire—had repaired it! Was that thought in Joanne's
mind, too? Her finger-nails pricked his flesh. He looked
at her. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were tense and
gray. And then her eyes shot open—wide and staring.
They heard, faintly though it came to them—once, twice,
three times, four, five—the firing of a gun!
John Aldous straightened, and a great breath fell from
his lips.
“Five times!” he said. “It is an answer. There is no
longer doubt.”
He was holding out his arms to her, and she came into
them with a choking cry; and now she sobbed like a little
child with her head against his breast, and for many
minutes he held her close, kissing her wet face, and her
damp hair, and her quivering lips, while the beat of the
picks and the crash of the rock-hammers came steadily
nearer. ,
Where those picks and rock-hammers fell a score of men
were working like fiends: Blackton, his arms stripped to
the shoulders; Gregg, sweating and urging the men; and
among them—lifting and tearing at the rock like a mad-
man—old Donald MacDonald, his shirt open, his great
hands bleeding, his hair and beard tossing about him in
the wind. Behind them, her hands clasped to her breast—

210 THE HUNTED WOMAN
crying out to them to hurry, hurry—stood Peggy Black-
ton. The strength of five men was in every pair of arms.
Huge boulders were rolled back. Men pawed earth and
shale with their naked hands. Rock-hammers fell with
blows that would have cracked the heart of a granite
obelisk. Half an hour—three quarters—and Blackton
came back to where Peggy was standing, his face black
and grimed, his arms red-seared where the edges of the
rocks had caught them, his eyes shining.
“We’re almost there, Peggy,” he panted. “Another
five minutes and 9 3
A shout interrupted him. A cloud of dust rolled out of
the mouth of the tunnel, and into that dust rushed half a
dozen men led by old Donald. Before the dust had settled
they began to reappear, and with a shrill scream Peggy
Blackton darted forward and flung her arms about the
gold-shrouded figure of Joanne, swaying and laughing and
sobbing in the sunshine. And old Donald, clasping his
great arms about Aldous, cried brokenly:
“Oh, Johnny, Johnny—something told me to foller ye
—an’ I was just in time—just in time to see you go into
| >>
the coyote
“God bless you, Macl” said Aldous, and then Paul
Elackton was wringing his hands; and one after another
the others shook his hand, but Peggy Blackton was crying
like a baby as she hugged Joanne in her arms.
“MacDonald came just in time,” explained Blackton
a moment later; and he tried to speak steadily, and tried
to Smile. “Ten minutes more, and—” l
He was white.
“Now that it has turned out like this I thank Gód that

!
THE HUNTED WOMAN 21]
it happened, Paul,” said Aldous, for the engineer's ears
alone. “We thought we were facing death, and so—I told
her. And in there, on our knees, we pledged ourselves
man and wife. I want the minister—as quick as you can
get him, Blackton. Don’t say anything to Joanne, but
bring him to the house right away, will you?”
“Within half an hour,” replied Blackton. “There
comes Tony with the buckboard. We’ll hustle up to the
house and I’ll have the preacher there in a jiffy.”
As they went to the wagon, Aldous looked about for
MacDonald. He had disappeared. Requesting Gregg
to hunt him up and send him to the bungalow, he climbed
into the back seat, with Joanne between him and Peggy.
Her little hand lay in his. Her fingers clung to him. But
her hair hid her face, and on the other side of her Peggy
Blackton was laughing and talking and crying by turns.
As they entered the bungalow, Aldous whispered to
Joanne:
“Will you please go right to your room, dear? I want
to say something to you—alone.”
When she went up the stair, Peggy caught a signal from
her husband. Aldous remained with them. In two
minutes he told the bewildered and finally delighted Peggy
what was going to happen, and as Blackton hustled out
for the minister’s house he followed Joanne. She had
fastened her door behind her. He knocked. Slowly she
opened it.
“John 92
“I have told them, dear,” he whispered happily.
“They understand. And, Joanne, Paul Blackton will be
back in ten minutes—with the minister. Are you glad?”
212 THE HUNTED WOMAN
She had opened the door wide, and he was holding out
his arms to her again. For a moment she did not move,
but stood there trembling a little, and deeper and sweeter
grew the colour in her face, and tenderer the lookin her eyes.
“I must brush my hair,” she answered, as though she
could think of no other words. “I–I must dress.”
Laughing joyously, he went to her and gathered the
soft masses of her hair in his hands, and piled it up in a
glorious disarray about her face and head, holding it there,
and still laughing into her eyes.
“Joanne, you are mine!”
“Unless I have been dreaming—I am, John Aldous!”
“Forever and forever.”
“Yes, forever—and ever.”
“And because I want the whole world to know, we are
going to be married by a minister.”
She was silent.
“And as my wife to be,” he went on, his voice trembling
with his happiness, “you must obey me!”
“I think that I shall, John.”
“Then you will not brush your hair, and you will not
change your dress, and you will not wash the dust from
your face and that sweet little beauty-spot from the tip
of your nose,” he commanded, and now he drew her head
close to him, so that he whispered, half in her hair: “Joanne,
my darling, I want you wholly as you came to me there,
when we thought we were going to die. It was there you
promised to become my wife, and I want you as you were
then—when the minister comes.”
“John, I think I hear some one coming up the front
steps!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 213
They listened. The door opened. They heard voices—
Blackton's voice, Peggy's voice, and another voice—a
man's voice.
Blackton’s voice came up to them very distinctly.
“Mighty lucky, Peggy,” he said. “Caught Mr. Wol-
Haver just as he was passing the house. Where’s 32
“Sh-h-hh!” came Peggy Blackton’s sibilant whisper.
Joanne's hands had crept to John’s face.
“I think,” she said, “that it is the minister, John.”
Her warm lips were near, and he kissed them.
“Come, Joanne. We will go down.”
Hand in hand they went down the stair; and when the
minister saw Joanne, covered in the tangle and glory of
her hair; and when he saw John Aldous, with half-naked
arms and &lackened face; and when, with these things, he
saw the wonderful joy shining in their eyes, he stood like
one struck dumb at sight of a miracle descending out of the
skies. For never had Joanne looked more beautiful than
in this hour, and never had man looked more like entering
into paradise than John Aldous.
Short and to the point was the little mountain minister's
service, and when he had done he shook hands with them,
and again he stared at them as they went back up the
stair, still hand in hand. At her door they stopped.
There were no words to speak now, as her heart lay against
his heart, and her lips against his lips. And then, after
those moments, she drew a little back, and there came
suddenly that sweet, quivering, joyous play of her lips
as she said:
“And now, my husband, may I dress my hair?”
“My hair,” he corrected, and let her go from his arms.
214 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Her door closed behind her. A little dizzily he turned
to his room. His hand was on the knob when he heard
her speak his name. She had reopened her door, and stood
with something in her hand, which she was holding toward
him. He went back, and she gave him a photograph.
“John, you will destroy this,” she whispered. “It is
his photograph—Mortimer FitzHugh's. I brought it to
show to people, that it might help me in my search. Please
—destroy it!”
He returned to his room and placed the photograph on
his table. It was wrapped in thin paper, and suddenly
there came upon him a most compelling desire to see what
Mortimer FitzHugh had looked like in life. Joanne would
not care. Perhaps it would be best for him to know.
He tore off the paper. And as he looked at the picture
the hot blood in his veins ran cold. He stared—stared
as if some wild and maddening joke was being played upon
his faculties. A cry rose to his lips and broke in a gasping
breath, and about him the floor, the world itself, seemed
filipping away from under his feet. §
For the picture he held in his hand was the picture of
Culver Rann!
CHAPTER XXI
staring at the photograph which he held in his
hand. It was the picture of Culver Rann–not
once did he question that fact, and not once did the thought
flash upon him that this might be only an unusual and
startling resemblance. It was assuredly Culver Rann!
The picture dropped from his hand to the table, and
he went toward the door. His first impulse was to
go to Joanne. But when he reached the door he locked
it, and dropped into a chair, facing the mirror in his
dresser.
The reflection of his own face was a shock to him. If he
was pale, the dust and grime of his fight in the cavern
concealed his pallor. But the face that stared at him from
out of the glass was haggard, wildly and almost grotesquely
haggard, and he turned from it with a grim laugh, and
set his jaws hard. He returned to the table, and bit by
bit tore the photograph into thin shreds, and then piled
the shreds on his ash-tray and burned them. He opened
a window to let out the smoke and smell of charring paper,
and the fresh, cool air of early evening struck his face.
He could look off through the fading sunshine of the
valley and see the mountain where Coyote Number
Twenty-eight was to have done its work, and as he
looked he gripped the window-sill so fiercely that the nails
215
Fº a minute, perhaps longer, John Aldous stood
2H6 THE HUNTED WOMAN
of his fingers were bent and broken against the wood.
And in his brain the same words kept repeating themselves
over and over again. Mortimer FitzHugh was not dead.
He was alive. He was Culver Rann. And Joanne—
Joanne was not his wife; she was still the wife of Mortimer
FitzHugh—of Culver Rann!
He turned again to the mirror, and there was another
look in his face. It was grim, terribly grim—and smiling,
There was no excitement, nothing of the passion and half-
madness with which he had faced Quade and Rann the
night before. He laughed softly, and his nails dug as
harshly into the palms of his hands as they had dug into
the sills of the window.
“You poor, drivelling, cowardly fool!” he said to his
reflection. “And you dare to say—you dare to think
that she is not your wife?”
As if in reply to his words there came a knock at the
door, and from the hall Blackton called:
“Here’s MacDonald, Aldous. He wants to see
you.”
Aldous opened the door and the old hunter entered.
“If I ain’t interruptin' you, Johnn 33
“You’re the one man in the world I want to see, Mac.
No, I’ll take that back; there’s one other I want to see
worse than you—Culver Rann.”
The strange look in his face made old Donald stare.
“Sit down,” he said, drawing two chairs close to the
table. “There’s something to talk about. It was a
terribly close shave, wasn’t it?”
“An awful close shave, Johnny. As close a shave as
ever was.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 217
Still, as if not quite understanding what he saw, old
10onald was staring into John’s face.
“I’m glad it happened,” said Aldous, and his voice
became softer. “She loves me, Mac. It all came out
when we were in there, and thought we were going to die.
Not ten minutes ago the minister was here, and he made
us man and wife.”
Words of gladness that sprang to the old man’s lips were
stopped by that strange, cold, tense look in the face of
John Aldous.
“And in the last five minutes,” continued Aldous, as
quietly as before, “I have learned that Mortimer FitzHugh,
her husband, is not dead. Is it very remarkable that you
do not find me happy, MacP If you had come a few
minutes ago 9 3
“Oh, my God! Johnny! Johnny!”
MacDonald had pitched forward over the table, and
now he bowed his great shaggy head in his hands, and his
gaunt shoulders shook as his voice came brokenly through
his beard.
“I did it, Johnny; I did it for you an’ her! When I
knew what it would mean for her—I couldn’t, Johnny, I
couldn’t tell her the truth, 'cause I knew she loved you,
an’ you loved her, an’ it would break her heart. I thought
it would be best, an’ you’d go away together, an” nobody
would ever know, an’ you’d be happy. I didn’t lie. I
didn’t say anything. But Johnny—Johnny, there weren't
no bones in the gravel ”
“My God!” breathed Aldous.
“There were just some clothes,” went on MacDonald
huskily, “an’ the watch an’ the ring were on top. Johnny,
3.
218 THE HUNTED WOMAN
there weren't nobody ever buried there, an’ I’m to blame—
I’m to blame.”
“And you did that for us,” cried Aldous, and suddenly
he reached over and gripped old Donald’s hands. “It
wasn’t a mistake, Mac. I thank God you kept silent.
If you had told her that the grave was empty, that it was
a fraud, I don’t know what would have happened. And
now—she is mine ! If she had seen Culver Rann, if she
had discovered that this scoundrel, this blackmailer and
murderer, was Mortimer FitzHugh, her husban 5 5
“Johnny! John Aldous!”
Donald MacDonald’s voice came now like the deep
growling roar of a she-bear, and as he cried the other's
name he sprang to his feet, and his eyes gleamed in their
deep sockets like raging fires.
“Johnny!”
Aldous rose, and he was smiling. He nodded.
“That’s it,” he said. “Mortimer FitzHugh is Culver
Rann l’”
“An’—an’ you know this?”
“Absolutely. Joanne gave me Mortimer FitzHugh’s
photograph to destroy. I am Sorry that I burned it
before you saw it. But there is no doubt. Mortimer
FitzHugh and Culver Rann are the same man.” *
Slowly the old mountaineer turned to the door. Aldous
was ahead of him, and stood with his hand on the
knob.
“I don’t want you to go yet, Mac.”
“I—I’ll see you a little later,” said Donald clumsily.
“Donald!”
“Johnny!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 219
For a full half minute they looked steadily into each
other’s eyes.
“Only a week, Johnny,” pleaded Donald. “I’ll be
back in a week.”
“You mean that you will kill him?”
“He’ll never come back. I swear it, Johnny!”
As gently as he might have led Joanne, Aldous drew
the mountaineer back to the chair.
“That would be cold-blooded murder,” he said, “and
I would be the murderer. I can’t send you out to do my
killing, Mac, as I might send out a hired assassin. Don’t
you see that I can’t? Good heaven, some day—very
soon—I will tell you how this hound, Mortimer FitzHugh,
poisoned Joanne's life, and did his worst to destroy her.
It’s to me he's got to answer, Donald. And to me he shall
answer. I am going to kill him. But it will not be
murder. Since you have come into this room I have
made my final plan, and I shall follow it to the end coolly
and deliberately. It will be a great game, Mac-and it
will be a fair game; and I shall play it happily, because
Joanne will not know, and I will be strengthened by her |
love.
“Quade wants my life, and tried to hire Stevens, up at
Miette, to kill me. Culver Rann wants my life; a little
later it will come to be the greatest desire of his existence
to have me dead and out of the way. I shall give him the
chance to do the killing, Mac. I shall give him a splendid
chance, and he will not fail to accept his opportunity.
Perhaps he will have an advantage, but I am as absolutely
certain of killing him as I am that the sun is going down
behind the mountains out there. If others should step
220 THE HUNTED WOMAN
in, if I should have more than Culver Rann on my hands—
why, then you may deal yourself a hand if you like,
Donald. It may be a bigger game than One against
One.”
“It will,” rumbled MacDonald. “I learned other
things early this afternoon, Johnny. Quade did not stay
behind. He went with Rann. DeBar and the woman
are with them, and two other men. They went over the
Lone Cache Pass, and this minute are hurrying straight
for the headwaters of the Parsnip. There are five of
'em—five men.”
“And we are two,” smiled Aldous. “So there is ar:
advantage on their side, isn’t there, MacP And it makes
the game most eminently fair, doesn’t it?”
“Johnny, we’re good for the five!” cried old Donald in
a low, eager voice. “If we start now 33
“Can you have everything ready by morning?”
“The outfit’s waiting. It’s ready now, Johnny.”
“Then we’ll leave at dawn. I’ll come to you to-night
in the coulee, and we'll make our final plans. My brain
is a little muddled now, and I’ve got to clear it, and make
myself presentable before supper. We must not let
Joanne know. She must suspect nothing—absolutely
nothing.”
“Nothing,” repeated MacDonald as he went to the
door.
There he paused and, hesitating for a moment, leaned
close to Aldous, and said in a low voice:
“Johnny, I’ve been wondering why the grave were
empty. I’ve been wondering why there weren’t some-
body's bones there just tº give it the look it should 'a' had.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 221
an’ why the clothes were laid out so nicely with the watch
an’ the ring on top!”
With that he was gone, and Aldous closed and relocked
the door.
He was amazed at his own composure as he washed
himself and proceeded to dress for supper. What had
happened had stunned him at first, had even terrified him
for a few appalling moments. Now he was superbly self-
possessed. He asked himself questions and answered
them with a promptness which left no room for doubt in
his mind as to what his actions should be. One fact he
accepted as absolute: Joanne belonged to him. She was
his wife. He regarded her as that, even though Mortimer
FitzHugh was alive. In the eyes of both God and man
FitzHugh no longer had a claim upon her. This man,
who was known as Culver Rann, was worse than Quade,
a scoundrel of the first water, a procurer, a blackmailer,
even a murderer—though he had thus far succeeded in
evading the rather loose and poorly working tentacles of
mountain law.
Not for an instant did he think of Joanne as Culver
Rann’s wife. She was his wife. It was merely a tech-
nicality of the law—a technicality that Joanne might
break with her little finger—that had risen now between
them and happiness. And it was this that he knew was
the mountain in his path, for he was certain that Joanne
would not break that last link of bondage. She would
know, with Mortimer FitzHugh alive, that the pledge
between them in the “coyote,” and the marriage ceremony
in the room below, meant nothing. Legally, she was no
more to him now than she was yesterday, or the day before.
222 THE HUNTED WOMAN
And she would leave him, even if it destroyed her, heart
and soul. He was sure of that. For years she had
suffered her heart to be ground out of her because of the
“bit of madness” that was in her, because of that earlier
tragedy in her life—and her promise, her pledge to her
father, her God, and herself. Without arguing a possible
change in her because of her love for him, John Aldous
accepted these things. He believed that if he told Joanne
the truth he would lose her.
His determination not to tell her, to keep from her the
secret of the grave and the fact that Mortimer FitzHugh
was alive, grew stronger in him with each breath that he
drew. He believed that it was the right thing to do, that
it was the honourable and the only thing to do. Now that
the first shock was over, he did not feel that he had lost
Joanne, or that there was a very great danger of losing
her. For a moment it occurred to him that he might
turn the law upon Culver Rann, and in the same breath
he laughed at this absurdity. The law could not help
him. He alone could work out his own and Joanne's
salvation. And what was to happen must happen very
soon—up in the mountains. When it was all over, and
he returned, he would tell Joanne.
His heart beat more quickly as he finished dressing. In
a few minutes more he would be with Joanne, and in
spite of what had happened, and what might happen, he
was happy. Yesterday he had dreamed. To-day was
reality—and it was a glorious reality. Joanne belonged
to him. She loved him. She was his wife, and when he
went to her it was with the feeling that only a serpent lay
in the path of their paradise—a serpent which he would
THE HUNTED WOMAN 223
crush with as little compunction as that serpent would
have destroyed her. Utterly and remorselessly his mind
was made up.
The Blacktons’ supper hour was five-thirty, and he was
a quarter of an hour late when he tapped at Joanne's
door. He felt the warmth of a strange and delightful
embarrassment flushing his face as the door opened, and
she stood before him. In her face, too, was a telltale
riot of colour which the deep tan partly concealed in his
OWIO.
“I—I am a little late, am I not, Joanne?” he asked.
“You are, sir. If you have taken all this time dressing
you are worse than a woman. I have been waiting fifteen
minutes!”
“Old Donald came to see me,” he apologized.
“Joanne—”
“You mustn't, John!” she expostulated in a whisper.
“My face is afire now! You mustn't kiss me again—
until after supper 99
“Only once,” he pleaded.
“If you will promise—just once—”
A moment later she gasped:
“Five times! John Aldous, I will never believe you
again as long as I live!”
They went down to the Blacktons, and Peggy and Paul,
who were busy over some growing geraniums in the dining-
room window, faced about with a forced and incongruous
appearance of total oblivion to everything that had hap-
pened. It lasted less than ten seconds. Joanne's lips
quivered. Aldous saw the two little dimples at the corners
of her mouth fighting to keep thernselves out of sight—
224 THE HUNTED WOMAN
and then he looked at Peggy. Blackton could stand it
no longer, and grinned broadly.
“For goodness sake go to it, Peggy!” he laughed. “If
you don’t you’ll explode!”
The next moment Peggy and Joanne were in each other's
arms, and the two men were shaking hands.
“We know just how you feel,” Blackton tried to ex-
plain. “We felt just like you do, only we had to face
twenty people instead of two. And you’re not hungry.
I’ll wager that. I’ll bet you don’t feel like swallowing a
mouthful. It had that peculiar effect on us, didn’t it,
Peggy?”
“And I-I almost choked myself,” gurgled Peggy as
they took their places at the table. “There really did
seem to be something thick in my throat, Joanne, dear.
I coughed and coughed and coughed before all those people
until I wanted to die right there! And I’m wondering--"
“If I’m going to choke, too?” Smiled Joanne. “Indeed
not, Peggy. I’m as hungry as a bear!”
And now she did look glorious and self-possessed to
Aldous as she sat opposite him at that small round table,
which was just fitted for four. He told her so when the
meal was finished, and they were following the Blacktons
into the front room. Blackton had evidently been care-
fully drilled along the line of a certain scheme which Peggy
had formed, for in spite of a negative nod from her, which
signified that he was to wait a while, he pulled out his
watch, and said:
“It isn't at all surprising if you people have forgotten
that to-morrow is Sunday. Peggy and I always do some
Saturday-night shopping, and if you don’t mind, we'll
THE HUNTED WOMAN 225
leave you to care for the house while we go to town. We
worº gone more than an hour.”
º:
A ºf minutes later, when the door had closed behind
them,
dous led Joanne to a divan, and sat down beside
her. -
“I couldn’t have arranged it better myself, dear,” he
exclaimed. “I have been wondering how I could have you
alone for a few minutes, and tell you what is on my mind
before I see MacDonald again to-night. I'm afraid you
will be displeased with me, Joanne. I hardly know how to
begin. But—I’ve got to.” -
A moment’s uneasiness came into her eyes as she saw
how seriously he was speaking.
“You don’t mean, John—there's more about Quade—
and Culver Rann?”
“No, no—nothing like that,” he laughed, as though
amused at the absurdity of her question. “Old Donald
tells me they have skipped the country, Joanne. It’s not
that. It’s you I'm thinking of, and what you may think
of me a minute from now. Joanne, I’ve given my word
to old Donald. He has lived in my promise. I’ve got
to keep that promise—I must go into the North with
him.”
She had drawn one of his hands into her lap and was
fondling it with her own soft palm and fingers.
“Of course, you must, John. I love old Donald.”
“And I must go—soon,” he added. -
“It is only fair to him that you should,” she agreed.
“He-he is determined we shall go in the morning,” he
finished, keeping his eyes from her.
For a moment Joanne did not answer. Her fingers

226 THE HUNTED WOMAN
interweaved with his, her warm little palm stroked the
rough back of his hand. Then she said, very softly:
“And why do you think that will displease me, John,
dear? I will be ready!”
“You!”
Her eyes were on him, full, and dark, and glowing, and
in them were both love and laughter.
“You dear silly John!” she laughed. “Why don’t
you come right out and tell me to stay at home, instead
of-of–tbeating 'round the bush’—as Peggy Blackton
says? Only you don’t know what a terrible little person
you’ve got, John. You really don’t. So you needn’t say
any more. We’ll start in the morning—and I am going
with you!”
In a flash John Aldous saw his whole scheme shaking
on its foundation.
“It’s impossible—utterly impossible!” he gasped.
“And why utterly?” she asked, bending her head so
that her soft hair touched his face and lips. “John, have
you already forgotten what we said in that terrible cavern
—what we told ourselves we would have done if we had
lived? We were going adventuring, weren’t we? And
we are not dead—but alive. And this will be a glorious
trip! Why, John, don’t you see, don’t you understand?
It will be our honeymoon trip!”
“It will be a long, rough journey,” he argued. “It
will be hard—hard for a woman.”
With a little laugh, Joanne sprang up and stood before
him in a glow of light, tall, and slim, and splendid, and
there was a sparkle of beautiful defiance and a little of
triumph in her eyes as she looked down on him.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 227
“And it will be dangereus, too? You are going to tell
me that?”
“Yes, it will be dangerous.”
She came to him and rumpled up his hair, and turned
his face up so that she could look into his eyes.
“Is it worse than fever, and famine, and deep swamps,
and crawling jungles?” she asked. “Are we going to en-
counter worse things than beasts, and poisonous serpents,
and murderous savages—even hunger and thirst, John?
For many years we dared those together—my father and
I. Are these great, big, beautiful mountains more treach-
erous than those Ceylon jungles from which you ran away
—even you, John? Are they more terrible to live in than
the Great African Desert? Are your bears worse than
tigers, your wolves more terrible than lions? And if,
through years and years, I faced those things with my
father, do you suppose that I want to be left behind now,
and by my husband?”
So sweet and wonderful was the sound of that name as
it came softly from her lips, that in his joy he forgot the
part he was playing, and drew her close down in his arms,
and in that moment all that remained of the scheme he
had built for keeping her behind crumbled in ruin about
him.
Yet in a last effort he persisted.
“Old Donald wants to travel fast—very fast, Joanne.
I owe a great deal to him. Even you I owe to him—for
he saved us from the “coyote.’”
“I am going, John.”
“If we went alone we would be able to return very soon.”
“I am going.”
228 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“And some of the mountains—it is impossible for a
woman to climb them!”
“Then I will let you carry me up them, John. You are
so strong—”
He groaned hopelessly.
“Joanne, won’t you stay with the Blacktons, to please
me?”
“No. I don’t care to please you.”
Her fingers were stroking his cheek.
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Father taught me to shoot, and as we get better ac-
quainted on our honeymoon trip I’ll tell you about some of
my hunting adventures. I don’t like to shoot wild things,
because I love them too well. But I can shoot. And I
want a gun!”
“Great Scott!”
“Not a toy—but a real gun,” she continued. “A gun
like yours. And then, if by any chance we should have
trouble—with Culver Rann 99
She felt him start, and her hands pressed harder against
his face.
“Now I know,” she whispered. “I guessed it all along.
You told me that Culver Rann and the others were after
the gold. They’ve gone—and their going isn’t quite
‘skipping the country’ as you meant me to understand it,
John Aldous! So please let’s not argue any more. If we
do we may quarrel, and that would be terrible. I’m going,
And I will be ready in the morning. And I want a gun.
And I want you to be nice to me, and I want it to be our
honeymoon—even if it is going to be exciting!”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 229
And with that she put her lips to his, and his last argu-
ment was gone.
Two hours later, when he went to the coulee, he was
like one who had come out of a strange and disturbing
and altogether glorious dream. He had told Joanne and
She Blacktons that it was necessary for him to be with
MacDonald that night. Joanne's good-night kiss was
still warm on his lips, the loving touch of her hands still
trembled on his face, and the sweet perfume of her hair
was in his nostrils. He was drunk with the immeasurable
'happiness that had come to him, every fibre in him was
aquiver with it—and yet, possessed of his great joy, he
was conscious of a fear; a fear that was aew and growing,
and which made him glad when he came at last to the
little fire in the coulee.
He did not tell MacDonald the cause of this fear at first.
He told the story of Mortimer FitzHugh and Joanne, leav-
ing no part of it unbared, until he could see Donald Mac-
Donald's great gaunt hands clenching in the firelight, and
his cavernous eyes flaming darkly through the gloom.
Then he told what had happened when the Blacktons
went to town, and when he had finished, and rose despair-
ingly beside the fire, Donald rose, too, and his voice boomed
in a sort of ecstasy.
“My Jane would ha’ done likewise,” he cried in triumph.
“She would that, Johnny—she would!”
“But this is different!” groaned Aldous. “What am I
going to do, Mac” What can I do? Don’t you see how
impossible it is! Mac, Mac—she isn’t my wife—not
entirely, not absolutely, not in the last and vital sense of
being a wife by law! If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t
230 THE HUNTED WOMAN
consider herself my wife; she would leave me. For that
reason I can’t take her. I can’t. Think what it would
mean!”
Old Donald had come close to his side, and at the look
in the gray old mountaineer's face John Aldous paused.
Slowly Donald laid his hands on his shoulders.
“Johnny,” he said gently, “Johnny, be you sure of
yourself? Be you a man, Johnny?”
“Good heaven, Donald. You mean 9
Their eyes met steadily.
“If you are, Johnny,” went on MacDonald in a low
voice, “I’d take her with me. An’ if you ain’t, I’d leave
these mount’ins to-night an’ never look in her sweet face
again as long as I lived.”
“You’d take her along?” demanded Aldous eagerly.
“I would. I’ve been thinkin’ it over to-night. An'
something seemed to tell me we mustn't dare leave her
here alone. There’s just two things to do, Johnny.
You’ve got to stay with her an’ let me go on alone or—
you’ve got to take her.”
Slowly Aldous shook his head. He looked at his watch.
It was a little after ten.
“If I could make myself believe that she would not be
safe here—I would take her,” he said. “But I can’t.
quite make up my mind to that, Mac. She will be in
good hands with the Blacktons. I will warn Paul. Joanne
is determined to go, and I know she will think it pretty
indecent to be told emphatically that she can’t go. But
I’ve got to do it. I can’t see—”
A break in the stillness of the night stopped him with
the suddenness of a bullet in his brain. It was a scream—
9
THE HUNTED WOMAN 23]
a woman’s scream, and there followed it shriek after
shriek, until the black forest trembled with the fear and
agony of the cries, and John Aldous stood as if suddenly
stripped of the power to move or act. Donald MacDonald
roused him to life. With a roar in his beard, he sprang
forth into the darkness. And Aldous followed, a hot
sweat of fear in his blood where a moment before had been
only a chill of wonder and horror. For in Donald’s savage
beastlike cry he had caught Joanne's name, and an
answering cry broke from his own lips as he followed the
great gaunt form that was tearing with the madness of a
wounded bear ahead of him through the night.
CHAPTER XXII
r0T until they had rushed up out of the coulee and
had reached the pathlike trail did the scream-
º “ ing cease. For barely an instant MacDonald
paused, and then ran on with a speed that taxed Aldous
to keep up. When they came to the little open amphi-
theatre in the forest MacDonald halted again. Their
hearts were thumping like hammers, and the old mountain-
eer's voice came husky and choking when he spoke.
“It wasn’t far—from here!” he panted.
Scarcely had he uttered the words when he sped on
again. Three minutes later they came to where the trail
crossed the edge of a small rock-cluttered meadow, and
with a sudden spurt Aldous darted ahead of MacDonald
into this opening, where he saw two figures in the moon-
light. Half a dozen feet from them he stopped with a cry
of horror. They were Paul and Peggy Blackton! Peggy
was dishevelled and sobbing, and was frantically clutching
at her husband. It was Paul Blackton who dragged the
cry from his lips. The contractor was swaying. He was
hatless; his face was covered with blood, and his eyes
were only half open, as if he were fighting to pull him-
self back into consciousness after a terrible blow. Peggy's
hair was down, her dress was torn at the throat, and
she was panting so that for a moment she could not .
speak.

232
THE HUNTED WOMAN 233
“They’ve got—Joanne!” she cried then. “They went—
there!”
She pointed, and Aldous ran where she pointed—into
the timber on the far side of the little meadow. Mac-
Donald caught his arm as they ran.
“You go straight in,” he commanded. “I’ll swing—to
right—toward river 33
For two minutes after that Aldous tore straight ahead.
Then for barely a moment he stopped. He had not paused
to question Peggy Blackton. His own fears told him who
Joanne’s abductors were. They were men working under
instructions from Quade. And they could not be far
away, for scarcely ten minutes had passed since the first
scream. He listened, and held his breath so that the
terrific beating of his heart would not drown the sound of
crackling brush. All at once the blood in him was frozen
by a fierce yell. It was MacDonald, a couple of hundred
yards to his right, and after that yell came the bellowing
shout of his name.
“Johnny! Johnny! Oh, Johnny!”
He dashed in MacDonald’s direction, and a few moments
later heard the crashing of bodies in the undergrowth.
Fifty seconds more and he was in the arena. MacDonald
was fighting three men in a space over which the spruce-
tops grew thinly. The moon shone upon them as they
swayed in a struggling mass, and as Aldous sprang to the
combat one of the three reeled backward and fell as if
struck by a battering-ram. In that same moment Miac-
Donald went down, and Aldous struck a terrific blow with
the butt of his heavy Savage. He missed, and the mo-
mentum of his blow carried him over MacDonald. He
234 THE HUNTED WOMAN
tripped and fell. By the time he had regained his feet
the two men had disappeared into the thick shadows of
the spruce forest. Aldous whirled toward the third man,
whom he had seen fall. He, too, had disappeared. A little
lamely old Donald brought himself to his feet. He was
Smiling.
“Now, what do ’ee think, Johnny?” y
“Where is she? Where is Joanne?” demanded Aldous.
“Twenty feet behind you, Johnny, gagged an’ trussed
up nice as a whistle! If they hadn’t stopped to do that
work you wouldn’t ha’ seen her ag’in, Johnny—s’elp me,
God, you wouldn't! They was hikin’ for the river. Once
they had reached the Frazer, and a boat 2 3
He broke off to lead Aldous to a clump of dwarf spruce.
Behind this, white and still in the moonlight, but with
eyes wide open and filled with horror, lay Joanne. Hands
and feet were bound, and a big handkerchief was tied over
her mouth. Twenty seconds later Aldous held her shiver-
ing and sobbing and laughing hysterically by turns in his
orms, while MacDonald’s voice brought Paul and Peggy
Blackton to them. Blackton had recovered from the
blow that had dazed him. Over Joanne's head he stared
at Aldous. And MacDonald was staring at Blackton.
His eyes were burning a little darkly.
“It’s all come out right,” he said, “but it ain’t a special
nice time o’ night to be taking a' evening walk in this
locality with a couple o' ladies!”
Blackton was still staring at Aldous, with Peggy clutch-
ing his arm as if afraid of losing him.
It was Peggy who answered MacDonald.
“And it was a nice time of night for you to send a
THE HUNTED WOMAN 235
message asking us to bring Joanne down the trail!” she
cried, her voice trembling.
“We began Aldous, when he saw a sudden warning
movement on MacDonald’s part, and stopped. “Let us
take the ladies home,” he said.
With Joanne clinging to him, he led the way. Behind
them all MacDonald growled loudly:
“There’s got tº be something done with these damned
beasts of furriners. It’s gettin’so no woman ain’t safe at
night!”
Twenty minutes later they reached the bungalow.
Leaving Joanne and Peggy inside, now as busily excited
as two phoebe birds, and after Joanne had insisted upon
Aldous sleeping at the Blacktons’ that night, the two men
accompanied MacDonald a few steps on his way back to
Camp.
As soon as they were out of earshot Blackton began
cursing softly under his breath.
“So you didn’t send that damned note?” he asked.
“You haven’t said so, but I’ve guessed you didn’t send
it!”
“No, we didn’t send a note.”
“And you had a reason—you and MacDonald—for not
wanting the girls to know the truth?”
“A mighty good reason,” said Aldous. “I’ve got to
thank MacDonald for closing my mouth at the right
moment. I was about to give it away. And now, Black-
ton, I’ve got to confide in you. But before I do that I
want your word that you will repeat nothing of what I
say to another person—even your wife.”
Blackton nodded.
236 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Go on,” he said. “I’ve suspected a thing or two,
Aldous. I’ll give you my word. Go on.”
As briefly as possible, and without going deeply into
detail, Aldous told of Quade and his plot to secure posses-
sion of Joanne.
“And this is his work,” he finished. “I’ve told you
this, Paul, so that you won’t worry about Peggy. You
can see from to-night’s events that they were not after
her, but wanted Joanne. Joanne must not learn the truth.
And your wife must not know. I am going to settle with
Quade. Just how and where and when I’m going to settle
with him I don’t care to say now. But he's going to
answer to me. And he's going to answer soon.”
Blackton whistled softly.
“A boy brought the note,” he said. “He stood in the
dark when he handed it to me. And I didn’t recognize
any one of the three men who jumped out on us. I didn’t
have much of a chance to fight, but if there's any one on
the face of the earth who has got it over Peggy when it
comes to screaming, I’d like to know her name! Joanne
didn’t have time to make a sound. But they didn’t touch
Peggy until she began screaming, and then one of the men
began choking her. They had about laid me out with a
club, so I was helpless. Good Go 2 3
He shuddered.
“They were river men,” said MacDonald. “Probably
some of Tomman’s scow-men. They were making for the
river.”
A few minutes later, when Aldous was saying good-night
to MacDonald, the old hunter said again, in a whisper:
“Now what do ’ee think, Johnny?”
ſ
{
|
THE HUNTED WOMAN 237
W
“That you’re right, Mac,” replied Aldous in a low
voice. “There is no longer a choice. Joanne must go
with us. You will come early?”
“At dawn, Johnny.”
He returned to the bungalow with Blackton, and until
midnight the lights there burned brightly while the two
men answered a thousand questions about the night’s
adventure, and Aldous told of his and Joanne's plans for
the honeymoon trip into the North that was to begin the
next day.
It was half-past twelve when he locked the door of his
room and sat down to think.
CHAPTER XXIII
HERE was no doubt in the mind of John Aldous
| now. The attempt upon Joanne left him but one
course to pursue: he must take her with him, in
spite of the monumental objections which he had seen a
few hours before. He realized what a fight this would
mean for him, and with what cleverness and resource he
must play his part. Joanne had not given herself to him
as she had once given herself to Mortimer FitzHugh. In
the “coyote,” when they had faced death, she had told
him that were there to be a to-morrow in life for them she
would have given herself to him utterly and without
reservation. And that to-morrow had dawned. It was
present. She was his wife. And she had come to him as
she had promised. In her eyes he had seen love and trust
and faith—and a glorious happiness. She had made no
effort to hide that happiness from him. Consciousness of
it filled him with his own great happiness, and yet it made
him realize even more deeply how hard his fight was to
be. She was his wife. In a hundred little ways she had
shown him that she was proud of her wifehood. And again
he told himself that she had come to him as she had prom-
ised, that she had given into his keeping all that she had
to give. And yet—she was not his wife /
He groaned aloud, and his fingers dug into the flesh of
his knees as he thought of that. Could he keep that
238
THE HUNTED WOMAN 239
terrible truth from her? If she went with him into the
North, would she not guess? And, even though he kept
the truth from her until Mortimer FitzHugh was dead,
would he be playing fair with her? Again he went over
all that he had gone over before. He knew that Joanne
would leave him to-morrow, and probably forever, if he
told her that FitzHugh was alive. The law could not help
him, for only death—and never divorce—would free her.
Within himself he decided for the last time. He was about
to do the one thing left for him to do. And it was the
honourable thing, for it meant freedom for her and happiness
for them both. To him, Donald MacDonald had become
a man who lived very close to the heart and the right of
things, and Donald had said that he should take her.
This was the greatest proof that he was right.
But could he keep Joanne from guessing? Could he
keep her from discovering the truth until it was time
for her to know that truth? In this necessity of keeping
her from suspecting that something was wrong he saw
his greatest fight. Compared with it, the final settlement
with Quade and Mortimer FitzHugh sank into a second
importance. He knew what would happen then. But
Joanne—Joanne on the trail, as his wife—
He began pacing back and forth in his room, clouding
himself in the smoke of his pipe. Frequently Joanne's
mind had filled him with an exquisite delight by its quick-
ness and at times almost magic perceptiveness, and he re-
alized that in these things, and the fineness of her woman’s
intuition, now lay his greatest menace. He was sure
that she understood the meaning of the assault upon
her that night, though she had apparently believed what
240 THE HUNTED WOMAN
he and Blackton had told them—that it had been the
attack of irresponsible and drunken hoodlums. Yet he
was certain that she had already guessed that Quade had
been responsible.
He went to bed, dreading what questions and new de-
velopments the morning might bring forth. And when
the morning came, he was both amazed and delighted. The
near tragedy of the previous night might never have hap-
pened in so far as he could judge from Joanne's appearance.
When she came out of her room to meet him, in the glow of
a hall lamp, her eyes were like stars, and the colour in her
cheeks was like that of a rose fresh from its slumber in dew.
“I’m so happy, and what happened last night seems so
like a bad dream,” she whispered, as he held her close to
him for a few moments before descending the stairs. “I
shall worry about Peggy, John. I shall. I don’t under-
stand how her husband dares to bring her among savages
like these. You wouldn’t leave me among them, would
you?” And as she asked the question, and his lips pressed
hers, John Aldous still believed that in her heart she knew
the truth of that night attack.
If she did know, she kept her secret from him all that
day. They left Tête Jaune before sunrise with an outfit
which MacDonald had cut down to six horses. Its small-
ness roused Joanne's first question, for Aldous had de-
scribed to her an outfit of twenty horses. He explained
that a large outfit made travel much more difficult and
slow, but he did not tell her that with six horses instead
of twenty they could travel less conspicuously, more easily
conceal themselves from enemies, and, if necessary, make
quick flight or swift pursuit.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 24:
|
They stopped to camp for the night in a little basin
that drew from Joanne an exclamation of joy and wonder.
They had reached the upper timber-line, and on three
sides the basin was shut in by treeless and brush-naked
walls of the mountains. In the centre of the dip was a
lake fed by a tiny stream that fell in a series of ribbonlike
cataracts a sheer thousand feet from the snow-peaks that
towered above them. Small, parklike clumps of spruce
dotted the miniature valley; over it hung a sky as blue as
sapphire and under their feet was a carpet of soft grass
sprayed with little blue forget-me-nots and wild asters.
“I have never seen anything a half so beautiful as this!”
cried Joanne, as Aldous helped her from her horse.
As her feet touched the ground she gave a little cry and
hung limply in his arms.
“I’m lame—lame for life!” she laughed in mock humour.
‘John, I can’t stand. I really can't!”
Old Donald was chuckling in his beard as he came up.
“You ain’t nearly so lame as you’ll be to-morrow,” he
comforted her. “An' you won't be nearly so lame to-
morrow as you’ll be next day. Then you’ll begin to get
used to it, Mis’ Joanne.”
“Mrs. Aldous, Donald,” she corrected sweetly. “Or—
just Joanne.”
At that Aldous found himself holding her so closely that
she gave a little gasp.
“Please don’t,” she expostulated. “Your arms are ter-
ribly strong, John!”
MacDonald had turned away, still chuckling, and began
to unpack. Joanne looked behind her, then quickly held
up her softly pouted lips. Aldous kissed her, and would
242 THE HUNTED WOMAN
have kissed her again but she slipped suddenly from his
arms and going to Pinto began to untie a dishpan that
was fastened to the top of his pack.
“Get to work, John Aldous!” she commanded.
MacDonald had camped before in the basin, and there
were tepee poles ready cut, as light and dry as match-
wood. Joanne watched them as they put up the tent, and
when it was done, and she looked inside, she cried de-
lightedly:
“It’s the snuggest little home I ever had, John!”
After that she busied herself in a way that was a con-
stantly growing pleasure to him. She took possession
at once of pots and pans and kettles. She lost no time in
impressing upon both Aldous and MacDonald the fact
that while she was their docile follower on the trail she
was to be at the head of affairs in camp. While they were
straightening out the outfit, hobbling the horses, and
building a fire, she rummaged through the panniers and
took stock of their provisions. She bossed old Donald
in a manner that made him fairly glow with pleasure.
She bared her white arms to the elbows and made biscuits
for the “reflector” instead of bannock, while Aldous brought
water from the lake, and MacDonald cut wood. Her
cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were laughing, joyous,
happy. MacDonald seemed years younger. He obeyed
her like a boy, and once Aldous caught him looking at
her in a way that set him thinking again of those days
of years and years ago, and of other camps, and of another
woman—like Joanne.
MacDonald had thought of this first camp—and there
were porterhouse steaks for supper, which he had brought
|
THE HUNTED WOMAN 243
g
packed in a kettle of ice. When they sat down to the
meal, Joanne was facing a distant snow-capped ridge that
cut the skyline, and the last of the sun, reflected from the
face of the mountain on the east, had set brown-and-gold
fires aglow in her hair. They were partly through when
her eyes rested on the distant snow-ridge. Aldous saw
her looking steadily. Suddenly she pointed beyond him.
“I see something moving over the snow on that moun-
tain!” she cried a little excitedly. “It is hurrying toward
the sui, amit—just under the skyline! What is it?”
Aldous and MacDonald looked toward the ridge.
Fully a mile away, almost even with the skyline now, a
small dark object was moving over the white surface of
the snow.
“It ain’t a goat,” said MacDonald, “because a goat is
white, and we couldn’t see it on the snow. It ain’t a
sheep, 'cause it’s too dark, an’ movin’ too slow. It must
be a bear, but why in the name o' sin a bear would be
that high, I don’t know!”
He jumped up and ran for his telescope.
“A grizzly,” whispered Joanne tensely. “Would it
be a grizzly, John?”
“Possibly,” he answered. “Indeed, it’s very likely.
This is a grizzly country. If we hurry you can get a look
at him through the telescope.”
MacDonald was already studying the object through
his long glass when they joined him.
“It’s a bear,” he said.
“Please—please let me look at him,” begged Joanne.
The dark object was now almost on the skyline. Half
a minute more and it would pass over and out of sight.
244 THE HUNTED WOMAN
MacDonald still held his eye to the telescope, as though he
had not heard Joanne. Not until the moving object
had crossed the skyline, and had disappeared, did he reply
to her.
“The light's bad, an’ you couldn’t have made him out
very well,” he said. “We’ll show you plenty o’ grizzlies,
an’so near you won’t want a telescope. Eh, Johnny?”
As he looked at Aldous there was a strange look in his
eyes, and during the remainder of the supper he was rests
less, and ate hurriedly. When he had finished he rose and
picked up his long rifle.
“There's sheep somewhere near this basin, Johnny,” he
explained. “An' I reckon Joanne’ll scold us if we don’t
keep her in fresh meat. I’m goin’ to bring in some mut-
ton if there’s any to be got, an’ I probably won’t be back
until after dark.”
Aldous knew that he had more to say, and he went with
him a few steps beyond the camp.
And MacDonald continued in a low, troubled voice:
“Be careful, Johnny. Watch yo’rself. I’m going to
take a look over into the next valley, an’ I won’t be back
until late. It wasn’t a goat, an’ it wasn’t a sheep, an’ it
wasn’t a bear. It was two-legged! It was a man,
Johnny, an’ he was there to watch this trail, or my name
ain’t Donald MacDonald. Mebby he came ahead of us
last night, an’ mebby he was here before that happened.
Anyway, be on your guard while I look over into the next
range.”
With that he struck off in the direction of the snow-ridge,
and for a few moments Aldous stood looking after the
tall picturesque figure until it disappeared behind a clump
THE HUNTED WOMAN 245
of spruce. Swiftly he was telling himself that it was not
the hunting season, and that it was not a prospector whom
they had seen on the snow-ridge. As a matter of caution,
there could be but one conclusion to draw. The man had
been stationed there either by Quade or FitzHugh, or
both, and had unwittingly revealed himself.
He turned toward Joanne, who had already begun to
gather up the supper things. He could hear her singing
happily, and as he looked she pressed a finger to her lips
and threw a kiss to him. His heart Smote him even as he
smiled and waved a hand in response. Then he went to
her. How slim and wonderful she looked in that glow of
the setting sun, he thought. How white and soft were
her hands, how tender and fragile her lovely neck! And
how helpless—how utterly helpless she would be if any- . *
thing happened to him and MacDonald: With an effort
he flung the thought from him. On his knees he wiped
the dishes and pots and pans for Joanne. When this
was done, he seized an axe and showed her how to gather
a bed. This was a new and delightful experience for
Joanne.
“You always want to cut balsam boughs when you can
get them,” he explained, pausing before two small trees.
“Now, this is a cedar, and this is a balsam. Notice how
prickly and needlelike on all sides these cedar branches
are. And now look at the balsam. The needles lay flat
and soft. Balsam makes the best bed you can get in the
North, except moss, and you’ve got to dry the moss.”
For fifteen minutes he clipped off the soft ends of the
balsam limbs and Joanne gathered them in her arms and
carried them into the tepee. Then he went in with her,
246 THE HUNTED WOMAN
and showed her how to make the bed. He made it a
narrow bed, and a deep bed, and he knew that Joanne was
watching him, and he was glad the tan hid the uncom-
fortable glow in his face when he had finished tucking in
the end of the last blanket.
“You will be as cozy as can be in that,” he said.
“And you, John?” she asked, her face flushing rosily.
‘I haven’t seen another tent for you and Donald.”
“We don’t sleep in a tent during the summer,” he said.
“Just our blankets—out in the open.”
“But—if it should rain?”
“We get under a balsam or a spruce or a thick cedar.”
A little later they stood beside the fire. It was grow-
ing dusk. The distant snow-ridge was swiftly fading into
a pale and ghostly sheet in the gray gloom of the night.
Up that ridge Aldous knew that MacDonald was toiling.
Joanne put her hands to his shoulders.
, “Are you sorry—so very, very sorry that you let me
come, John?”
“I didn’t let you come,” he laughed softly, drawing her
to him. “You came!”
“And are you sorry?”
“No.”
It was deliciously sweet to have her tilt up her head and
put her soft lips to his, and it was still sweeter when her
tender hands stroked his cheeks, and eyes and lips smiled
their love and gladness. He stood stroking her hair,
with her face laying warm and close against him, and over
her head he stared into the thickening darkness of the
spruce and cedar copses. Joanne herself had piled wood
on the fire, and in its glow they were dangerously illum.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 24'ſ
inated. With one of her hands she was still caressing his
cheek.
“When will Donald return?” she asked.
“Probably not until late,” he replied, wondering what
it was that had set a stone rolling down the side of the
mountain nearest to them. “He hunted until dark, and
may wait for the moon to come up before he returns.”
“John 35
“Yes, dear ” And mentally he measured the dis-
tance to the nearest clump of timber between them and the
mountain.
“Let’s build a big fire, and sit down on the pannier
canvases.”
His eyes were still on the timber, and he was wondering
what a man with a rifle, or even a pistol, might do at that
space. He made a good target, and MacDonald was prob-
ably several miles away.
“I’ve been thinking’ about the fire,” he said. “We
must put it out, Joanne. There are reasons why we should
not let it burn. For one thing, the smoke will drive any
game away that we may hope to see in the morning.”
Her hands lay still against his cheek.
“I—understand, John,” she replied quickly, and there
was the smallest bit of a shudder in her voice. “I had for-
gotten. We must put it out!”
Five minutes later only a few glowing embers remained
where the fire had been, He had spread out the pannier
canvases, and now he sealed himself with his back to a
tree. Joanne Snuggled close to him.
“It is much nicer in the dark,” she whispered, and her
arms reached up about him, and her lips pressed warm
248 THE HUNTED WOMAN
and soft against his hand. “Are you just a little ashamed
of me, John?”
“Ashamed? Good heaven 39
“Because,” she interrupted him, “we have known each
other such a very short time, and I have allowed myself
to become so very, very well acquainted with you. It has
all been so delightfully sudden, and strange, and I am—
just as happy as I can be. You don’t think it is irnmodest
for me to say these things to my husband, John—even if I
have only known him three days?”
He answered by crushing her so closely in his arms that
for a few moments afterward she lay helplessly on his
breast, gasping for breath. His brain was afire with the
joyous madness of possession. Never had woman come
to man more sweetly than Joanne had come to him, and
as he felt her throbbing and trembling against him he was
ready to rise up and shout forth a challenge to a hundred
Quades and Culver Ranns hiding in the darkness of the
mountains. For a long time he held her nestled close in
his arms, and at intervals there were silences between
them, in which they listened to the glad tumult of their
own hearts, and the strange silence that came to them
from out of the still night.
It was their first hour alone—of utter oblivion to all
else but themselves; to Joanne the first sacrament hour of
her wifehood, to him the first hour of perfect possession
and understanding. In that hour their souls became one,
and when at last they rose to their feet, and the moon
came up over a crag of the mountain and flooded them in
its golden light, there was in Joanne's face a tenderness
and a gentle glory that made John Aldous think of an
THE HUNTED WOMAN 249
angel. He led her to the tepee, and lighted a candle
for her, and at the last, with the sweet demand of a child
in the manner of her doing it, she pursed up her lips to be
kissed good-night.
And when he had tied the tent-flap behind her, he took
his rifle and sat down with it across his knees in the
deep black shadow of a spruce, and waited and listened
for the coming of Donald MacDonald.
CHAPTER XXIV
OR an hour after Joanne had gone into her tent
F Aldous sat silent and watchful. From where he
had concealed himself he could see over a part of
the moonlit basin, and guard the open space between the
camp and the clump of timber that lay in the direction
of the nearest mountain. After Joanne had blown out her
candle the silence of the night seemed to grow deeper about
him. The hobbled horses had wandered several hundred
yards away, and only now and then could he hear the thud
of a hoof, or the clank of a steel shoe on rock. He believed
that it was impossible for any one to approach without
ears and eyes giving him warning, and he felt a distinct
shock when Donald MacDonald suddenly appeared in the
Imoonlight not twenty paces from him. With an ejac-
ulation of amazement he jumped to his feet and went to
him.
“How the deuce did you get here?” he demanded.
“Were you asleep, Johnny?”
“I was awake—and watching!”
The old hunter chuckled.
“It was so still when I come to those trees back there
that I thought mebby something had 'appened,” he said.
“So, I sneaked up, Johnny.”
“Did you see anything over the range?” asked Aldous
anxiously.
250
THE HUNTED WOMAN 251
“I found footprints in the snow, an’ when I got to the
top I smelled smoke, but couldn’t see a fire. It was dark
then.” MacDonald nodded toward the tepee. “Is she
asleep, Johnny?”
“I think so. She must be very tired.”
They drew back into the shadow of the spruce. It was
a simultaneous movement of caution, and both, without
speaking their thoughts, realized the significance of it.
Until now they had had no opportunity of being alone
since last night.
MacDonald spoke in a low, muffled voice:
“Quade an’ Culver Rann are goin’ the limit, Johnny,”
he said. “They left men on the job at Tête Jaune, and
they’ve got others watching us. Consequently, I’ve hit
on a scheme—a sort of simple and onreasonable scheme, .
mebby, but an awful good scheme at times.”
“What is it?”
“Whenever you see anything that ain’t a bear, or a goat,
or a sheep, don’t wait to change the time o’ day—but
shoot!” said MacDonald.
Aldous smiled grimly.
“If I had any ideas of chivalry, or what I call fair play,
they were taken out of me last night, Mac,” he said.
“I’m ready to shoot on sight!”
MacDonald grunted his satisfaction.
“They can’t beat us if we do that, Johnny. They ain’t
even ordinary cut-throats—they’re sneaks in the bargain;
an’ if they could walk in our camp, smilin’ an’ friendly, and
brain us when our backs was turned, they’d do it. We
don't know who's with them, and if a stranger heaves in
sight meet him with a chunk o’ lead. They’re the only
252 THE HUNTED WOMAN
ones in these mountains, an’ we won’t make any mistake
See that bunch of spruce over there?”
The old hunter pointed to a clump fifty yards beyond
the tepee toward the little lake. Aldous nodded.
“I’ll take my blankets over there,” continued Mac-
Donald. “You roll yourself up here, and the tepee'll be
between us. You see the system, Johnny? If they make
wis a visit during the night we’ve got 'em between us, and
there’ll be some real burying to do in the morning!”
Back under the low-hanging boughs of the dwarf spruce
Aldous spread out his blanket a few minutes later. He
had made up his mind not to sleep, and for hours he lay
watchful and waiting, smoking occasionally, with his face
~lose to the ground so that the odour of tobacco would
cling to the earth. The moon rose until it was straight
overhead, flooding the valley in a golden splendour that
he wished Joanne might bave seen. Then it began sinking
into the west; slowly at first, and then more swiftly, its
radiance diminished. He looked at his watch before the
yellow orb effaced itself behind the towering peak of a
distant mountain. It was a quarter of two. *
With deepening darkness, his eyes grew heavier. He
closed them for a few moments at a time; and each time
the interval was longer, and it took greater effort to force
himself into wakefulness. Finally he slept. But he was
still subconsciously on guard, and an hour later that con-
sciousness was beating and pounding within him, urging
him to awake. He sat up with a start and gripped his
rifle. An owl was hooting—softly, very softly. There
were four notes. He answered, and a little later Mac-
Donald came like a shadow out of the gloom. Aldous ad-
THE HUNTED WOMAN 253
vanced to meet him, and he noticed that over the eastern
mountains there was a break of gray.
“It’s after three, Johnny,” MacDonald greeted him.
“Build a fire and get breakfast. Tell Joanne I’m out after
another sheep. Until it’s good an’ light I’m going to
watch from that clump of timber up there. In half an
hour it’ll be dawn.”
He moved toward the timber, and Aldous set about
building a fire. He was careful not to awaken Joanne.
The fire was crackling cheerily when he went to the lake
for water. Returning he saw the faint glow of candle-
light in Joanne's tepee. Five minutes later she appeared,
and all thought of danger, and the discomfort of his sleep-
less night, passed from him at sight of her. Her eyes
were still a little misty with sleep when he took her in his
arms and kissed her, but she was deliciously alive, and
glad, and happy. In one hand she had brought a brush
and in the other a comb.
“You slept like a log,” he cried happily. “It can’t be
that you had very bad dreams, little wife?”
“I had a beautiful dream, John,” she laughed softly,
and the colour flooded up into her face.
She unplaited the thick silken strands of her braid and
began brushing her hair in the firelight, while Aldous sliced
the bacon. Some of the slices were thick, and some were
thin, for he could not keep his eyes from her as she stood
there like a goddess, buried almost to her knees in that
wondrous mantle. He found himself whistling with a
very light heart as she braided her hair, and afterward
plunged her face in a bath of cold water he had brought
from the lake. From that bath she emerged like a glowing
254 THE HUNTED WOMAN
Naiad. Her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks were pink and
her lips full and red. Damp little tendrils of hair clung
adorably about her face and neck. For another full
minute Aldous paused in his labours, and he wondered if
MacDonald was watching them from the clump of timber.
The bacon was sputtering when Joanne ran to it and
rescued it from burning.
Dawn followed quickly after that first break of day in
the east, but not until one could see a full rifle-shot away
did MacDonald return to the camp. Breakfast was wait-
ing, and as soon as he had finished the old hunter went
after the horses. It was five o’clock, and bars of the sun
were shooting over the tops of the mountains when once
more they were in the saddle and on their way.
Most of this day Aldous headed the outfit up the valley.
On the pretext of searching for game MacDonald rode
so far in advance that only twice during the forenoon was
he in sight. When they stopped to camp for the night his
horse was almost exhausted, and MacDonald himself
showed signs of tremendous physical effort. Aldous
could not question him before Joanne. He waited. And
MacDonald was strangely silent.
The proof of MacDonald’s prediction concerning Joanne
was in evidence this second night. Every bone in her
body ached, and she was so tired that she made no objec-
tion to going to her bed as soon as it was dark.
“It always happens like this,” consoled old Donald,
as she bade him good-night. “To-morrow you’ll begin
gettin' broke in, an’ the next day you won’t have any
lameness at all.” -
She limped to the tepee with John's arm snugly about
THE HUNTED WOMAN 255
her slim waist. MacDonald waited patiently until he re-
turned. He motioned Aldous to seat himself close at his
side. Both men lighted their pipes before the mountain-
eer spoke. ,
“We can’t both sleep at once to-night, Johnny,” he said.
“We’ve got to take turns keeping watch.”
“You’ve discovered something to-day?”
“No. It’s what I haven’t discovered that counts.
There weren’t no tracks in this valley, Johnny, from moun-
t’in to mount’in. They haven’t travelled through this
range, an’ that leaves just two things for us to figger on.
They’re behind us—or DeBar is hitting another trail into
the north. There isn’t no danger ahead right now, be-
cause we’re gettin’ into the biggest ranges between here
an’ the Yukon. If Quade and Rann are in the next valley
they can’t get over the mount’ins to get at us. Quade,
with all his flesh, couldn’t climb over that range to the
west of us inside o’ three days, if he could get over it at all.
They’re hikin’ straight for the gold over another trail, or
they’re behind us, an’ mebby both.”
“How—both?” asked Aldous.
“Two parties,” explained MacDonald, puffing hard at
his pipe. “If there's an outfit behind us they were hid in
the timber on the other side of the snow-ridge, and they’re
pretty close this minute. Culver Rann–or FitzHugh, as
you call him—is hustling straight on with DeBar. Mebby
Quade is with him, an’ mebby he ain’t. Anyway, there's
a big chance of a bunch behind us with special instructions
from Quade to cut our throats and keep Joanne.”
That day Aldous had been turning a question over in
his own mind. He asked it now.
256 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“Mac, are you sure you can go to the valley of gold
without DeBar?”
For a long half minute MacDonald looked at him, and
then his voice rumbled in a low, exultant laugh in his
beard.
“Johnny,” he said, with a strange quiver in his voice,
“I can go to it now straighter an’ quicker than DeBar! I
know why I never found it. DeBar helped me that much.
The trail is mapped right out in my brain now, Johnny.
Five years ago I was within ten miles of the cavern—an’
didn’t know it!”
“And we can get there ahead of them?”
“We could—if it wasn’t for Joanne. We’re makin’
twenty miles a day. We could make thirty.” *
“If we could beat them to it!” exclaimed Aldous,
clenching his hands. “If we only could, Donald—the rest
would be easy!”
MacDonald laid a heavy hand on his knee.
“You remember what you told me, Johnny, that you’d
play the game fair, and give 'em a first chance? You ain’t
figgerin’ on that now, be you?”
“No. I’m with you now, Donald. It’s—”
“Shoot on sight!”
“Yes.”
Aldous rose from his seat as he spoke.
“You turn in, Mac,” he said. “You’re about bushed
after the work you’ve done to-day. I’ll keep first watch.
I'll conceal myself fifty or sixty yards from camp, and
if we have visitors before midnight the fun will all be
mine.”
He knew that MacDonald was asleep within fifteen
THE HUNTED WOMAN 257
minutes after he had stationed himself at his post. In
spite of the fact that he had had almost no sleep the pre-
ceding night, he was more than usually wakeful. He was
filled with a curious feeling that events were impending.
Yet the hours passed, the moon flooded the valley again,
the horses grazed without alarm, and nothing happened.
He had planned not to awaken old Donald at midnight,
but MacDonald roused himself, and came to take his
place a little before twelve. From that hour until four
Aldous slept like the dead. He was tremendously re-
freshed when he arose, to find that the candle was alight
in Joanne's tepee, and that MacDonald had built a fire.
He waited for Joanne, and went with her to the tiny creek
near the camp, where both bathed their faces in the snow-
cold water from the mountain tops. Joanne had slept
soundly for eight hours, and she was as fresh and as happy
as a bird. Her lameness was almost gone, and she was
eager for the day's journey.
As they filed again up the valley that morning, with the
early Sun transfiguring the great Snow-topped ranges
about them into a paradise of colour and warmth, Aldous
found himself mentally wondering if it were really possible
that a serious danger menaced them. He did not tel;
MacDonald what was in his mind. He did not confess
that he was about ready to believe that the man on the
snow-ridge had been a hunter or a prospector returning
to his camp in the other valley, and that the attack in Tête
Jaune was the one and only effort Quade would make to
secure possession of Joanne. While a few hours before
he had almost expected an immediate attack, he was now
becoming more and more convinced that Quade, to a large
258 THE HUNTED WOMAN
extent, had dropped out of the situation. He might be
with Mortimer FitzHugh, and probably was—a dangerous
and formidable enemy to be accounted for when the
final settlement came.
But as an immediate menace to Joanne, Aldous was
beginning to fear him less as the hours passed. Joanne,
and the day itself, were sufficient to disarm him of his
former apprehension. In places they could see for miles
ahead and behind them. And Joanne, each time that he
looked at her, was a greater joy to him. Constantly she
was pointing out the wonders of the mountains to him and
MacDonald. Each new rise or fall in the valley held fresh
and delightful surprises for her; in the craggy peaks she
pointed out castlements, and towers, and battlemented
strongholds of ancient princes and kings. Her mind
was a wild and beautiful riot of imagination, of wonder,
and of happiness, and in spite of the grimness of the mis-
sion they were on even MacDonald found himself rejoic
ing in her spirit, and he laughed and talked with them.
as they rode into the North.
They were entering now into a hunter’s paradise. For
the first time Joanne saw white, moving dots far up on
a mountain-side, which MacDonald told her were goats.
In the afternoon they saw mountain sheep feeding on a
slide half a mile away, and for ten breathless minutes
Joanne watched them through the telescope. Twice cari-
bou sped over the opens ahead of them. But it was not
until the sun was settling toward the west again that
Joanne saw what she had been vainly searching the sides
of the mountains to find. MacDonald had stopped sud-
denly in the trail, motioning them to advance. When
THE musted WOMAN 259
they rode up to him he poin ‘ed to a green slope two hun-
dred yards ahead
“There's yo’r grizzly, Joanne,” he said.
A huge, tawny beast was ambling slowly along the crest
of the slope, and at sight of him Joanne gave a little cry
of excitement.
“He’s hunting for gophers,” explained MacDonald.
“That’s why he don’t seem in a hurry. He don’t see
us because a b'ar's eyes are nearsighted, but he could smell
us half a mile away if the wind was right.”
He was unslinging his long rifle as he spoke. Joanne
was near enough to catch his arm.
“Don’t shoot—please don’t shoot!” she begged. “I’ve
seen lions, and I’ve seen tigers—and they’re treacherous
and I don’t like them. But there’s something about bears
that I love, like dogs. And the lion isn’t a king among
beasts compared with him. Please don’t shoot!”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to,” chuckled old Donald. “I’m just
getting ready to give 'im the proper sort of a handshake if
he should happen to come this way, Joanne. You know a
grizzly ain’t pertic’lar afraid of anything on earth as
I know of, an’ they’re worse ºn a dynamite explosion when
they come head-on. There—he's goin’ over the slope!”
“Got our wind,” said Aldous.
They went on, a colour in Joanne’s face like the vivid
sunset. They camped two hours before dusk, and Mac-
Donald figured they had made better than twenty miles
that day. The same precautions were observed in guard-
ing the camp as the night before, and the long hours of
wigil were equally uneventful. The next day added still
more te Aldous’ peace of mind regarding possible attack
360 THE HUNTED WOMAN
from Quade, and on the night of this day, their fourth
in the mountains, he spoke his mind to MacDonald.
For a few moments afterward the old hunter smoked
quietly at his pipe. Then he said:
“I don’t know but you’re right, Johnny. If they were
behind us they’d most likely have tried something be-
fore this. But it ain’t in the law of the mount’ins to be
careless. We’ve got to watch.”
“I agree with you there, Mac,” replied Aldous. “We
cannot afford to lose our caution for a minute. But
I’m feeling a deuced sight better over the situation just
the same. If we can only get there ahead of them!”
“If Quade is in the bunch we’ve got a chance of beating
them,” said MacDonald thoughtfully. “He’s heavy,
Johnny—that sort of heaviness that don’t stand up well in
the mount’ins; whisky-flesh, I call it. Culver Rann don’t
weigh much more'n half as much, but he's like iron. Quade
may be a drag. An’ Joanne, Lord bless her!—she’s facing
the music like an’’ero, Johnny!”
“And the journey is almost half over.”
“This is the fourth day. I figger we can make it in ten
at most, mebby nine,” said old Donald. “You see we’re
in that part of the Rockies where there’s real mount’ins,
an’ the ranges ain’t broke up much. We’ve got fairly good
travel to the end.”
On this night Aldous slept from eight until twelve. The
next, their fifth, his watch was from midnight until morn-
ing. As the sixth and the seventh days and nights passed
uneventfully the belief that there were no enemies be-
hind them became a certainty. Yet neither Aldous nor
MacDonald relaxed their vigilance.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 26i
The eighth day dawned, and now a new excitement took
possession of Donald MacDonald. Joanne and Aldous
saw his efforts to suppress it, but it did not escape their
eyes. They were nearing the tragic scenes of long ago, and
old Donald was about to reap the reward of a search that
had gone faithfully and untiringly through the winters and
summers of forty years. He spoke seldom that day.
There were strange lights in his eyes. And once his voice
was husky and strained when he said to Aldous:
“I guess we'll make it to-morrow, Johnny—jus’ about
as the Sun's going down.”
They camped early, and Aldous rolled himself in his
blanket when Joanne extinguished the candle in her
tent. He found that he could not sleep, and he relieved
MacDonald at eleven o’clock.
“Get all the rest you can, Mac,” he urged. “There
may be doings to-morrow—at about sundown.”
There was but little moonlight now, but the stars
were clear. He lighted his pipe, and with his rifle in the
crook of his arm he walked slowly up and down over a
hundred-yard stretch of the narrow plain in which they
had camped. That night they had built their fire be-
side a fallen log, which was now a glowing mass without
flame. Finally he sat down with his back to a rock
fifty paces from Joanne's tepee. It was a splendid night.
The air was cool and sweet. He leaned back until his
head rested against the rock, and there fell upon him the
fatal temptation to close his eyes and snatch a few min-
utes of the slumber which had not come to him during
the early hours of the night. He was in a doze, oblivious
to movement and the softer sounds of the night, when a
262 THE HUNTED WOMAN
cry pierced the struggling consciousness of his brain like
the sting of a dart. In an instant he was on his feet.
In the red glow of the log stood Joanne in her long white
night robe. She seemed to be swaying when he first saw
her. Her hands were clutched at her bosom, and she was
staring—staring out into the night beyond the burning
log, and in her face was a look of terror. He sprang toward
her, and out of the gloom beyond her rushed Donald Mac-
Donald. With a cry she turned to Aldous and flung her-
self shivering and half-sobbing into his arms. Gray-
faced, his eyes burning like the smouldering coals in the
fire, Donald MacDonald stood a step behind them, his
long rifle in his hands.
“What is it?” cried Aldous. “What has frightened
you, Joanne?”
She was shuddering against his breast.
“It-it must have been a dream,” she said. “It—it
frightened me. But it was so terrible, and I'm—I’m
sorry, John. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“What was it, dear?” insisted Aldous.
MacDonald had drawn very close.
Joanne raised her head.
“Please let me go hack to bed, John. It was only a
dream, and I’ll tell it to you in the morning, when there's
sunshine—and day.”
Something in MacDonald’s tense, listening attitude
caught Aldous’ eyes.
“What was the dream?” he urged.
She looked from him to old Donald, and shivered.
“The flap of my tepee was open,” she said slowly. “I
thought I was awake. I thought I could see the glow of
THE HUNTED WOMAN 263
the fire. But it was a dream—a dream, only it was hor-
rible! For as I looked I saw a face out there in the light, a
white, searching face—and it was his face!”
“Whose face?”
“Mortimer FitzHugh's,” she shuddered.
Tenderly Aldous led her back to the tent.
“Yes, it was surely an unpleasant dream, dear,” he
comforted her. “Try and sleep again. You must get
all the rest you can.”
He closed the flap after her, and turned back toward
MacDonald. The old hunter had disappeared. It was
ten minutes before he came in from out of the darkness.
He went straight to Aldous.
“Johnny, you was asleep!”
“I’m afraid I was, Mac-just for a minute.”
MacDonald’s fingers gripped his arm.
“Jus’ for a minute, Johnny—an’ in that minute you lost
the chance of your life!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean”—and old Donald’s voice was filled with a
low, choking tremble that Aldous had never heard in it
before—“I mean that it weren’t no dream, Johnny!
Mortimer FitzHugh was in this camp to-night!”
4.
CHAPTER XXV
ONALD MACDONALD'S startling assertion that
§ Mortimer FitzHugh had been in the camp, and
- that Joanne's dream was not a dream, but reality,
brought a gasp of astonishment and disbelief from Aldous.
Before he had recovered sufficiently from his amazement
to speak, MacDonald was answering the question in his
mind.
“I woke quicker'n you, Johnny,” he said. “She was
just coming out of the tepee, an' I heard something running
off through the brush. I thought mebby it was a wol-
verine, or a bear, an’I didn’t move until she cried out yout
name an’ you jumped up. If she had seen a bear in the
fire-glow she wouldn’t have thought it was Mortimer
FitzHugh, would she? It’s possible, but it ain’t likely,
though I do say it’s mighty queer why he should be in this
camp alone. It’s up to us to watch pretty close until
daylight.”
“He wouldn’t be here alone,” asserted Aldous. “Let’s
get out of the light, Mac. If you're right, the whole gang
isn’t far away!”
“They ain’t in rifle-shot,” said MacDonald. “I heard
him running a hundred yards out there. That’s the queer
thing about it! Why didn’t they jump on us when they
had the chance?”
“We’ll hope that it was a dream,” replied Aldous. “If

264
THE HUNTED WOMAN 265
Joanne was dreaming of FitzHugh, and while still half
asleep saw something in camp, she might easily imagine
the rest. But we’ll keep watch. Shall I move out
there?”
MacDonald nodded, and the two men separated. For
two hours they patrolled the darkness, waiting and
listening. With dawn Aldous returned to camp to arouse
Joanne and begin breakfast. He was anxious to see what
effect the incident of the night had on her. Her appear-
ance reassured him. When he referred to the dream, and
the manner in which she had come out into the night, a
lovely confusion sent the blushes into her face. He kissed
her until they grew deeper, and she hid her face on his
neck.
And then she whispered something, with her face still
against his shoulder, that drove the hot blood into his own
cheeks.
“You are my husband, John, and I don’t suppose I
should be ashamed to let you see me in my bare feet. But,
John—you have made me feel that way, and I am—your
wife!”
He held her head close against him so that she could
not see his face.
“I wanted to show you—that I loved you—that much,”
he said, scarcely knowing what words he was speaking.
“Joanne, my darling 93.
A soft hand closed his lips.
“I know, John,” she interrupted him softly. “And I
love you so for it, and I’m so proud of you—oh, so proud,
John!”
He was glad that MacDonald came crashing through the
266 THE HUNTED WOMAN
bush then. Joanne slipped from his arms and ran into the
tepee. #
In MacDonald's face was a grim and sullen look.
“You missed your chance, all right, Johnny,” he
growled. “I found where a horse was tied out there. The
tracks lead to a big slide of rock that opens a break in the
west range. Whoever it was has beat it back into the
other valley. I can’t understand, s’elp me God, I can’t,
Johnny! Why should FitzHugh come over into this valley
alone? And he rode over! I’d say the devil couldn’t do
that!”
He said nothing more, but went out to lead in the
hobbled horses, leaving Aldous in half-stunned wonder-
ment to finish the preparation of breakfast. Joanne reap-
peared a little later, and helped him. It was six o'clock
before breakfast was over and they were ready to begin
their day's journey. . As they were throwing the hitch over
the last pack, MacDonald said in a low voice to Aldous:
“Everything may happen to-day, Johnny. I figger
we’ll reach the end by sundown. An’ what don’t happen
there may happen along the trail. Keep a rifle-shot
behind with Joanne. If there’s onexpected shooting,
we want what you might call a reserve force in the rear.
I figger I can see danger, if there is any, an’I can do it best
alone.”
Aldous knew that in these last hours Donald MacDon-
ald’s judgment must be final, and he made no objection to
an arrangement which seemed to place the old hunter
under a more hazardous risk than his own. And he
realized fully that these were the last hours. For the
first time he had seen MacDonald fill his pockets with the
THE HUNTED WOMAN 267
finger-long cartridges for his rifle, and he had noted how
carefully he had looked at the breech of that rifle. With-
out questioning, he had followed the mountaineer's ex-
ample. There were fifty spare cartridges in his own
pockets. His .303 was freshly cleaned and oiled. He
had tested the mechanism of his automatic. MacDonakd
had watched him, and both understood what such prep-
arations meant as they set out on this last day's journey
into the North. They had not kept from Joanne the
fact that they would reach the end before night, and as
they rode the prescribed distance behind the old hunter
Aldous wondered how much she guessed, and what she
knew. They had given her to understand that they
were beating out the rival party, but he believed that in
spite of all their efforts there was in Joanne's mind a com-
prehension which she did not reveal in voice or look.
To-day she was no different than yesterday, or the day
before, except that her cheeks were not so deeply flushed,
and there was an uneasy questing in her eyes.( He be-
lieved that she sensed the nearness of tragedy, that she
was conscious of what they were now trying to hide from
her, and that she did not speak because she knew that he
and MacDonald did not want her to know. His heart
throbbed with pride. Her courage inspired him. And
he noticed that she rode closer to him—always at his side
through that day.
Early in the afternoon MacDonald stopped on the
crest of a swell in the valley and waited for them. When
they came up he was facing the north. He did not look
at them. For a few moments he did not speak. His hat
was pulled low, and his beard was twitching.
268 THE HUNTED WOMAN
They looked ahead. At their feet the valley broadened
until it was a mile in width. Half a mile away a band of
caribou were running for the cover of a parklike clump of
timber. MacDonald did not seem to notice them. He
was still looking steadily, and he was gazing at a mountain.
It was a tremendous mountain, a terrible-looking, ugly
mountain, perhaps three miles away. Aldous had never
seen another like it. Its two huge shoulders were of
almost ebon blackness, and glistened in the sunlight as
if smeared with oil. Between those two shoulders rose a
cathedral-like spire of rock and snow that seemed to tip
the white fleece of the clouds.
MacDonald did not turn when he spoke. His voice
was deep and vibrant with an intense emotion. Yet he
was not excited.
“I’ve been hunting for that mount'in for forty years,
Johnny!” - -
“Macl”
Aldous leaned over and laid a hand on the old moun-
taineer’s shoulder. Still MacDonald did not look at him.
“Forty years,” he repeated, as if speaking to himself.
‘‘I see how I missed it now, just as DeBar said. I hunted
from the west, an’ on that side the mount’in ain’t black.
We must have crossed this valley an’ come in from the
east forty years ago, Johnny 95 -
He turned now, and what Joanne and Aldous saw in
his face was not grief; it was not the sorrow of one drawing
near to his beloved dead, but a joy that had transfigured
him. The fire and strength of the youth in which he had
first looked upon this valley with Jane at his side burned
again in the sunken eyes of Donald MacDonald. After
THE HUNTED WOMAN 269
forty years he had come into his own. Somewhere very
near was the cavern with the soft white floor of sand, and
for a moment Aldous fancied that he could hear the beat-
ing of MacDonald’s heart, while from Joanne's tender
bosom there rose a deep, sobbing breath of understanding.
And MacDonald, facing the mountain again, pointed
with a long, gaunt arm, and said:
“We’re almost there, Johnny. God ha’ mercy on them
if they’ve beat us out!”
CHAPTER XXVI
HEY rode on into the Valley of Gold. Again
MacDonald took the lead, and he rode straight
into the face of the black mountain. Aldous no
longer made an effort to keep Joanne in ignorance of what
might be ahead of them. He put a sixth cartridge into
the chamber of his rifle, and carried the weapon across the
pommel of his saddle. He explained to her now why
they were riding behind—that if their enemies were laying
in wait for them, MacDonald, alone, could make a swift
retreat. Joanne asked no questions. Her lips were set
tight. She was pale.
At the end of three quarters of an hour it seemed to
them that MacDonald was riding directly into the face of a
wall of rock. Then he swung sharply to the left, and dis.
appeared. When they came to the point where he had
turned they found that he had entered a concealed break
in the mountain—a chasm with walls that rose almost per-
pendicular for a thousand feet above their heads. A dark
and solemn gloom pervaded this chasm, and Aldous
drew nearer to MacDonald, his rifle held in readiness,
and his bridle-rein fastened to his saddle-horn. The
chasm was short. Sunlight burst upon them suddenly,
and a few minutes later MacDonald waited for them
again.
Even Aldous could not restrain an exclamation of sur-
Z

£70
THE HUNTED WOMAN 271
prise when he rode up with Joanne. Under them was an-
other valley, a wide-sweeping valley between two rugged
ranges that ran to the southwest. Up out of it there came
to their ears a steady, rumbling roar; the air was filled
with that roar; the earth seemed to tremble with it under
their feet—and yet it was not loud. It came sullenly, as
if from a great distance.
And then they saw that MacDonald was not looking
out over the sweep of the valley, but down. Half a mile
under them there was a dip—a valley within a valley—
and through it ran the silver sheen of a stream. Mac-
Donald spoke no word now. He dismounted and levelled
his long telescope at the little valley. Aldous helped
Joanne from her horse, and they waited. A great breath
came at last from the old hunter. Slowly he turned. He
did not give the telescope to Aldous, but to Joanne. She
looked. For a full minute she seemed scarcely to breathe.
Her hands trembled when she turned to give the glass to
Aldous.
“I see—log cabins!” she whispered.
MacDonald placed a detaining hand on her arm.
“Look ag’in–Joanne,” he said in a low voice that had
in it a curious quiver.
Again she raised the telescope to her eyes.
“You see the little cabin—nearest the river?” whispered
Donald.
“Yes, I see it.”
“That was our cabin—Jane’s an’ mine—forty years
ago,” he said, and now his voice was husky.
Joanne's breath broke sobbingly as she gave Aldous the
glass. Something seemed to choke him as he looked
272 THE HUNTED WOMAN
down upon the scene of the grim tragedy in which Donald
MacDonald and Jane had played their fatal part. He
saw the cabins as they had stood for nearly half a century.
There were four. Three of them were small, and the
fourth was large. They might have been built yester-
day, for all that he could see of ruin or decay. The doors
.nd windows of the larger cabin and two of the smaller
viles were closed. The roofs were unbroken. The walls
appeared solid. Twice he looked at the fourth cabin,
with its wide-open door and window, and twice he looked
at the cabin nearest the stream, where had lived Donald
MacDonald and Jane.
Donald had moved, and Joanne was watching him
tensely, when he took the glass from his eyes. Mutely
the old mountaineer held out a hand, and Aldous gave him
the telescope. Crouching behind a rock he slowly swept
the valley. For half an hour he looked through the glass,
and in that time scarce a word was spoken. During the
last five minutes of that half-hour both Joanne and Aldous
knew that MacDonald was looking at the little cabin
nearest the stream, and with hands clasped tightly they
waited in silence.
At last old Donald rose, and his face and voice were
filled with a wonderful calm.
“There ain’t been no change,” he said softly. “I can
see the log in front o' the door that I used to cut kindling
on. It was too tough for them to split an’ burn after we
left. An I can see the tub I made out o’ spruce for Jane.
It’s leaning next the door, where I put it the day before
we went away. Forty years ain’t very long, Johnny! It
1 22
ain’t very long!
THE HUNTED WOMAN 273
Joanne had turned from them, and Aldous knew that
she was crying.
“An’ we’ve beat 'em to it, Johnny—we’ve beat 'em to
it!” exulted MacDonald. “There ain’t a sign of life in
the valley, and we sure could make it out from here if
there was!”
He climbed into his saddle, and started down the slope
of the mountain. Aldous went to Joanne. She was sob-
bing. Her eyes were blinded by tears.
“It’s terrible, terrible,” she whispered brokenly. “And
it—it's beautiful, John. I feel as though I’d like to give
my life—to bring Jane back!”
“You must not betray tears or grief to Donald,” said
Aldous, drawing her close in his arms for a moment.
“Joanne—sweetheart—it is a wonderful thing that is
happening with him! I dreaded this day—I have dreaded
it for a long time. I thought that it would be terrible to
witness the grief of a man with a heart like Donald’s.
But he is not filled with grief, Joanne. It is joy, a great
happiness that perhaps neither you nor I can understand
—that has come to him now. Don’t you understand? He
has found her. He has found their old home. To-day is
the culmination of forty years of hope, and faith, and
prayer. And it does not bring him sorrow, but gladness.
We must rejoice with him. We must be happy with him.
I love you, Joanne. I love you above all else on earth or
in heaven. Without you I would not want to live. And
yet, Joanne, I believe that I am no happier to-day than is
|Donald MacDonald!”
With a sudden cry Joanne flung her arms about his neck.
“John, is it that ?” she cried, and joy shone through her
274 THE HUNTED WOMAN
tears. “Yes, yes, I understand now! His heart is not
breaking. It is life returning into a heart that was empty.
I understand—oh, I understand now! And we must
be happy with him. We must be happy when we find the
cavern—and Jane!”
“And when we go down there to the little cabin that was
, their home.”
“Yes—yes!”
They followed behind MacDonald. After a little a
spur of the mountain-side shut out the little valley from
them, and when they rounded this they found themselves
very near to the cabins. They rode down a beautiful slope
into the basin, and when he reached the log buildings old
Donald stopped and dismounted. Again Aldous helped
Joanne from her horse. Ahead of them MacDonald went
to the cabin nearest the stream. At the door he paused
and waited for them.
“Forty years!” he said, facing them. “An’ there ain’t
been so very much change as I can see!”
Years had dropped from his shoulders in these last few
minutes, and even Aldous could not keep quite out of
his face his amazement and wonder. Very gently Donald
put his hand to the latch, as though fearing to awaken
some one within; and very gently he pressed down on it,
and put a bit of his strength against the door. It moved
inward, and when it had opened sufficiently he leaned
forward so that his head and a half of his shoulders were
inside; and he looked—a long time he looked, without a
movement of his body or a breath that they could see.
And then he turned to them again, and his eyes were
shining as they had never seen them shine before.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 275
“I’ll open the window,” he said. “It’s dark—dark
inside.”
He went to the window, which was closed with a sapling
barricade that had swung on hinges; and when he swung
it back the rusted hinges gave way, and the thing crashed
down at his feet. And how through the open window the
sun poured in a warm radiance, and Donald entered the
cabin, with Joanne and Aldous close behind him.
There was not much in the cabin, but what it held was
earth, and heaven, and all else to Donald MacDonald. A
strange, glad cry surged from his chest as he looked about
him, and now Joanne saw and understood what John
Aldous had told her—for Donald MacDonald, after forty
years, had come back to his home!
“Oh, my Gawd, Johnny, they didn’t touch anything!
They didn’t touch anything!” he breathed in ecstasy. “I
thought after we ran away they’d come in 53
He broke off, and his hat dropped from his hand, and
he stood and stared; and what he was looking at, the sun
fell upon in a great golden splash, and Joanne's hand
gripped John’s, and held to it tightly. Against the wall,
hanging as they had hung for forty years, were a woman’s
garments: a hood, a shawl, a dress, and an apron that was
half in tatters; and on the floor under these things were
a pair of shoes. And as Donald MacDonald went to
them, his arms reaching out, his lips moving, forgetful of
all things but that he had come home, and Jane was here,
Joanne drew Aldous softly to the door, and they went out
into the day.
Joanne did not speak, and Aldous did not urge her. He
saw her white throat throbbing as if there were a little
{
{*
276 THE HUNTED WOMAN
heart beating there, and her eyes were big and dark and
velvety, like the eyes of a fawn that had been frightened.
There was a thickness in his own throat, and he found that
it was difficult for him to see far out over the plain. They
waited near the horses. Fifty yards from them ran the
stream; a clear, beautiful stream which flowed in the
direction from which the mysterious rumble of thunder
seemed to come. This, Aldous knew, was the stream of
gold. In the sand he saw wreckage which he knew were the
ancient rockers; a shovel, thrust shaft-deep, still remained
where it had last been planted.
Perhaps for ten minutes Donald MacDonald remained
in the cabin. Then he came out. Very carefully he
closed the door. His shoulders were thrown back. His
head was held high. He looked like a monarch.
And his voice was calm.
“Everything is there, Johnny—everything but the
gold,” he said. “They took that.”
Now he spoke to Joanne.
“You better not go with us into the other cabins,” he
Said.
“Why?” she asked softly.
“Because—there’s death in them all.”
“I am going,” she said.
From the window of the largest cabin MacDonald pulled
the sapling shutter, and, like the other, it fell at his feet.
Then they opened the door, and entered; and here the
sunlight revealed the cabin's ghastly tragedy. The first
thing that they saw, because it was most terrible, was a
rough table, half over which lay the shrunken thing that
had once been a man. A part of its clothes still remained,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 277
but the head had broken from its column, and the white
and fleshless skull lay facing them. Out of tattered and
dust-crumbling sleeves reached the naked bones of hands
and arms. And on the floor lay another of these things,
in a crumpled and huddled heap, only the back of the
skull showing, like the polished pate of a bald man. These
things they saw first, and then two others: on the table
were a heap of age-blackened and dusty sacks, and out of
the back of the crumbling thing that guarded them stuck
the long buckhorn hilt of a knife.
“They must ha” died fighting,” said MacDonald. “An’
there, Johnny, is their gold!”
White as death Joanne stood in the door and watched
them. MacDonald and Aldous went to the sacks. They
were of buckskin. The years had not aged them. When
Aldous took one in his hands he found that it was heavier
than lead. With his knife MacDonald cut a slit in one
of them, and the sun that came through the window
flashed in a little golden stream that ran from the bag.
“We’ll take them out and put 'em in a pannier,” said
MacDonald. “The others won’t be far behind us,
Johnny.”
Between them they carried out the seven sacks of gold.
It was a load for their arms. They put it in one of the
panniers, and then MacDonald nodded toward the cabin
next the one that had been his own.
“I wouldn’t go in there, Joanne,” he said.
“I’m going,” she whispered again.
“It was their cabin—the man an his wife,” persisted
old Donald. “An’ the men was beasts, Joannel I don’t
know what happened in there—but I guess.”
278 THE HUNTED WOMAN
“I’m going,” she said again.
MacDonald pulled down the barricade from the window
—a window that also faced the south and west, and this
time he had to thrust against the door with his shoulder.
They entered, and now a cry came from Joanne's lips—a
cry that had in it horror, disbelief, a woman’s wrath.
Against the wall was a pile of something, and on that pile
was the searching first light of day that had fallen upon
it for nearly half a century. The pile was a man crumpled
down; across it, her skeleton arms thrown about it pro-
tectingly, was a woman. This time Aldous did not go
forward. MacDonald was alone, and Aldous took Joanne
from the cabin, and held her while she swayed in his arms.
Donald came out a little later, and there was a curious
look of exultation and triumph in his face.
“She killed herself,” he said. “That was her husband.
I know him. I gave him the rock-nails he put in the soles
of his boots—and the nails are still there.”
He went alone into the remaining two cabins, while
Aldous stood with Joanne. He did not stay long. From
the fourth cabin he brought an armful of the little brown
sacks. He returned, and brought a second armful.
“There’s three more in that last cabin,” he explained.
“Two men, an’ a woman. She must ha’ been the wife of
the man they killed. They were the last to live, an’ they
starved to death. An’ now, Johnn 93.
He paused, and he drew in a great breath.
He was looking to the west, where the sun was begin-
ning to sink behind the mountains.
“An’ now, Johnny, if you’re ready, an’ if Joanne is
ready, we'll go,” he said.
CHAPTER XXVII
S THEY went up out of the basin inte the broad
meadows of the larger valley, MacDonald rode be-
tween Aldous and Joanne, and the pack-horses,
led by Pinto, trailed behind.
Again old Donald said, as he searched the valley:
“We’ve beat 'em, Johnny. Quade an’ Rann are coming
up on the other side of the range, and I figger they’re
just about a day behind—mebby only hours, or an hour.
You can’t tell. There’s more gold back there. We got
about a hunderd pounds in them fifteen sacks, an’ there
was twice that much. It’s hid somewhere. Calkins
used to keep his’n under the floor. So did Watts. We’ll
find it later. An’ the river, an’ the dry gulches on both
sides of the valley—they’re full of it! It's all gold, Johnny
—gold everywhere!”
He pointed ahead to where the valley rose in a green
slope between two mountains half a mile away.
“That’s the break,” he said. “It don’t seem very far
now, do it, Joanne?” His silence seemed to have dropped
from him like a mantle, and there was joy in what he
was telling. “But it was a distance that night—a turrible
distance,” he continued, before she could answer. “That
was forty-one years ago, coming November. An’ it was
cold, an’ the snow was deep. It was bitter cold—so cold
it caught my Jane's lungs, an’ that was what made her
279
280 THE HUNTED WOMAN
go a hittle later. The slope up there don’t look steep now,
but it was steep then—with two feet of Snow to drag our-
selves through. I don’t think the cavern is more’n five
or six miles away, Johnny, mebby less, an’ it took us twenty
hours to reach it. It snowed so heavy that night, an’
the wind blowed so, that our trail was filled up or they
might ha' followed.”
Many times Aldous had been on the point of asking
old Donald a question. For the first time he asked
it now, even as his eyes swept slowly and searchingly
over the valley for signs of Mortimer FitzHugh and
Quade.
“I’ve often wondered why you ran away with Jane,”
he said. “I know what threatened her—a thing worse
than death. But why did you run? Why didn’t you
stay and fight?”
A low growl rumbled in MacDonald’s beard.
, “Johnny, Johnny, if I only ha’ could!” he groaned,
“There was five of them left when I ran into the cabin
an’ barricaded myself there with Jane. I stuck my gun
out of the window an’ they was afraid to rush the cabin.
They was afraid, Johnny, all that afternoon—an’ I didn't
have a cartridge left to fire / That’s why we went just as
soon as we could crawl out in the dark. I knew they’d
come that night. I might ha’ killed one or two hand to
hand, for I was big an’ strong in them days, Johnny, but I
knew I couldn’t beat 'em all. So we went.”
“After all, death isn’t so very terrible,” said Joanne
softly, and she was riding so close that for a moment she
laid one of her warm hands on Donald MacDonald's.
“No, it’s sometimes—wunnerful—an’ beautiful,” re-
THE HUNTED WOMAN 281
plied Donald, a little brokenly, and with that he rode ahead,
and Joanne and Aldous waited until the pack-horses had
passed them. .º.
“He’s going to see that all is clear at the summit,”
explained Aldous.
They seemed to be riding now right into the face of that
mysterious rumble and roar of the mountains. It was an
hour before they all stood together at the top of the break,
and here MacDonald swung sharply to the right, and came
soon to the rock-strewn bed of a dried-up stream that in
ages past had been a wide and rushing torrent. Steadily,
as they progressed down this, the rumble and roar grew
nearer. It seemed that it was almost under their feet,
when again MacDonald turned, and a quarter of an hour
later they found themselves at the edge of a small plain;
and now all about them were cold and towering moun-
tains that shut out the sun, and a hundred yards to their
right was a great dark cleft in the floor of the plain, and
up out of this came the rumble and roar that was like the
sullen anger of monster beasts imprisoned deep down in
the bowels of the earth.
MacDonald got off his horse, and Aldous and Joanne
rode up to him. In the old man’s face was a look of joy
and triumph.
“It weren’t so far as I thought it was, Johnny!” he
cried. “Oh, it must ha’ been a turrible night—a turrible
night when Jane an' I come this way! It took us twenty
hours, Johnny!”
“We are near the cavern?” breathed Joanne.
“It ain’t more'n half a mile farther on, I guess. But
we’ll camp here. We're pretty well hid. They can’t
282 THE HUNTED WOMAN
find us. An’ from that summit up there we can keep
watch in both valleys.”
Knowing the thoughts that were in MacDonald’s mind,
and how full his heart was with a great desire, Aldous
went to him when they had dismounted.
“You go on alone if there is time to-night, Mac,” he
said, knowing that the other would understand him. “I
will make camp.”
“There ain’t no one in the valley,” mused the old man,
a little doubtfully at first. “It would be safe—quite safe,
Johnny.”
“Yes, it will be safe.”
“And I will stand guard while John is working,” said
Joanne, who had come to them. “No one can approach
us without being seen.”
For another moment MacDonald hesitated. Then he
said:
“Do you see that break over there across the plain?
It’s the open to a gorge. Johnny, it do seem onreason-
able—it do seem as though I must ha’ been dreamin’—
when I think that it took us twenty hours! But the snow
was to my waist in this plain, an’ it was slow work—
turrible slow work! I think the cavern—ain't only a little
way up that gorge.”
“You can make it before the sun is quite gone.”
“An I could hear you shout, or your gun. I could ride
back in five minutes—an’ I wouldn’t be gone an hour.”
“There is no danger,” urged Aldous.
A deep breath came from old Donald’s breast.
“I guess—I’ll go, Johnny, if you an’ Joanne don’t
mind.”
THE HUNTED WOMAN 283
He looked about him, and then he pointed toward the
face of a great rock.
“Put the tepee up near that,” he said. “Pile the sad-
dles, an’ the blankets, an’ the panniers around it, so it’ll
look like a real camp, Johnny. But it won’t be a real
camp. It’ll be a dummy. See them thick spruce an’
cedar over there? Build Joanne a shelter of boughs in
there, an’ take in some grub, an’ blankets, an’ the gold.
See the point, Johnny? If anything should happen 35
“They’d tackle the bogus camp!” cried Aldous with
elation. “It’s a splendid idea!”
He set at once about unpacking the horses, and Joanne
followed close at his side to help him. MacDonald
mounted his horse and rode at a trot in the direction of
the break in the mountain.
The sun had disappeared, but its reflection was still on
the peaks; and after he had stripped and hobbled the
horses Aldous took advantage of the last of day to scru-
tinize the plain and the mountain slopes through the tele-
scope. After that he found enough dry poles with which
to set up the tepee, and about this he scattered the saddles
and panniers, as MacDonald had suggested. Then he
cleared a space in the thick spruce, and brought to it what
was required for their hidden camp.
It was almost dark when he completed the spruce and
cedar lean-to for Joanne. He knew that to-night they
must build no fire, not even for tea; and when they had
laid out the materials for their cold supper, which con-
sisted of beans, canned beef and tongue, peach marmalade,
bread bannock, and pickles and cheese, he went with
Joanne for water to a small creek they had crossed a
284 THE HUNTED WOMAN
hundred yards away. In both his hands, ready for in-
stant action, he carried his rifle. Joanne carried the pail.
Her eyes were big and bright and searching, in that thick-
growing dusk of night. , She walked very close to Aldous,
and she said:
“John, I know how careful you and Donald have been
in this journey into the North. I know what you have
feared. Culver Rann and Quade are after the gold,
and they are near. But why does Donald talk as though
we are surely going to be attacked by them, or are surely
going to attack them? I don’t understand it, John. If
you don’t care for the gold so much, as you told me once,
and if we find Jane to-morrow, or to-night, why do we
remain to have trouble with Quade and Culver Rann?
Tell me, John.”
He could not see her face fully in the gloom, and he was
glad that she could not see his.
“If we can get away without fighting, we will, Joanne,”
he lied. And he knew that she would have known that
he was lying if it had not been for the darkness.
“You won’t fight—over the gold?” she asked, pressing
his arm. “Will you promise me that, John?”
“Yes, I promise that. I swear it!” he cried, and so
forcefully that she gave a glad little laugh.
“Then if they don’t find us to-morrow, we’ll go back
home?” She trembled, and he knew that her heart was
filled with a sudden lightness. “And I don’t believe they
will find us. They won’t come beyond that terrible
place—and the gold! Why should they, John? Why
should they follow us—if we leave them everything?
Oh-h-h-h!” She shuddered, and whispered: “I wish we
THE HUNTED WOMAN 285
had not brought the gold, John. I wish we had left it
behind!”
“What we have is worth thirty or forty thousand dol-
lars,” he said reassuringly, as he filled his pail with water
and they began to return. “We can do a great deal of
good with that. Endowments, for instance,” he laughed.
As he spoke, they both stopped, and listened. Plainly
they heard the approaching thud of hoofs. MacDonald
had been gone nearer two hours than one, and believing
that it was him, Aldous gave the owl signal. The signal
floated back to them softly. Five minutes later Mac-
Donald rode up and dismounted. Until he had taken the
saddle off, and had hobbled his horse, he did not speak.
Neither Joanne nor Aldous asked the question that was in
their hearts. But even in the darkness they felt something.
It was as if not only the torrent rushing through the chasm,
but MacDonald's heart as well, was charging the air with
a strange and subdued excitement. And when Mac-
Donald spoke, that which they had felt was in his voice.
“You ain’t seen or heard anything, Johnny?”
“Nothing. And you—Donald?”
In the darkness, Joanne went to the old man, and her
hand found one of his, and clasped it tightly; and she found
that Donald MacDonald’s big hand was trembling in a
strange and curious way, and she could feel him quivering.
“You found Jane?” she whispered.
“Yes, I found her, little Joanne.”
She did not let go of his hand until they entered the
open space which Aldous had made in the spruce. Then
she remembered what Aldous had said to her earlier in
the day, and cheerfully she lighted the two candles they
286 THE HUNTED WOMAN
had set out, and forced Aldous down first upon the ground,
and then MacDonald, and began to help them to beans and
meat and bannock, while all the time her heart was crying
out to know about the cavern—and Jane. The candle-
glow told her a great deal, for in it Donald MacDonald's
face was very calm, and filled with a great peace, despite
the trembling she had felt. Her woman’s sympathy told
her that his heart was too full on this night for speech, and
when he ate but little she did not urge him to eat more; and
when he rose and went silently and alone out into the
darkness she held Aldous back; and when, still a little
later, she went into her nest for the night, she whispered
softly to him:
“I know that he found Jane as he wanted to find her,
and he is happy. I think he has gone out there alone—
to cry.” And for a time after that, as he sat in the gloom,
John Aldous knew that Joanne was sobbing like a little
child in the spruce and cedar shelter he had built for her.
CHAPTER XXVIII
not know it. The old mountaineer watched until a
little after twelve in the deep shadow of a rock between
the two camps.
“I can’t sleep,” he protested, when Aldous urged him
to take his rest. “I might take a little stroll up the plain,
Johnny—but I can’t sleep.”
The plain lay in a brilliant starlight at this hour; they
could see the gleam of the snow-peaks—the light was al-
most like the glow of the moon.
“There’ll be plenty of sleep after to-morrow,” added
MacDonald, and there was a finality in his voice and words
which set the other's blood stirring.
“You think they will show up to-morrow?”
“Yes. This is the same valley the cabins are in,
Johnny. That big mountain runs out an’splits it, an’ it
curves like a horseshoe. From that mount'in we can see
them, no matter which way they come. They’ll go straight
to the cabins. There’s a deep little run under the slope.
You didn’t see it when we came out, but it’ll take us within
a hunderdyards of 'em. An at a hunderdyards 93
He shrugged his shoulders suggestively in the starlight,
and there was a smile on his face.
“It seems almost like murder,” shuddered Aldous.
“But it ain’t,” replied MacDonald quickly. “It’s
287
I MACDONALD slept at all that night Aldous did
288 . THE HUNTED WOMAN
self-defence! If we don’t do it, Johnny—if we don’t
draw on them first, what happened there forty years ago
is goin’ to happen again—with Joanne!”
“A hundred yards,” breathed Aldous, his jaws setting
hard. “And there are five!”
“They’ll go into the cabins,” said MacDonald. “At
some time there will be two or three outside, an' we'll
take them first. At the sound of the shots the others will
run out, and it will be easy. Yo’ can’t very well miss a
man at a hunderd yards, Johnny?”
“No, I won’t miss.”
MacDonald rose.
“I’m goin’ to take a little stroll, Johnny.”
For two hours after that Aldous was alone. He knew
why old Donald could not sleep, and where he had gone,
and he pictured him sitting before the little old cabin in
the starlit valley communing with the spirit of Jane. And
during those two hours he steeled himself for the last time
to the thing that was going to happen when the day
‘Ca.IOle.
It was nearly three o’clock when MacDonald returned.
It was four o’clock before he roused Joanne; and it was
five o’clock when they had eaten their breakfast, and Mac-
Donald prepared to leave for the mountain with his
telescope. Aldous had observed Joanne talking to him
for several minutes alone, and he had also observed
that her eyes were very bright, and that there was an
unusual eagerness in her manner of listening to what the
old man was saying. The significance of this did not occur
to him when she urged him to accompany MacDonald.
“Two pairs of eyes are better than one, John,” she said,
THE HUNTED WOMAN 289
“and I cannot possibly be in danger here. I can see
you all the time, and you can see me—if I don’t run away,
or hide.” And she laughed a little breathlessly. “There
is no danger, is there, Donald?”
The old hunter shook his head.
“There’s no danger, but—you might be lonesome,” he
said.
Joanne put her pretty mouth close to Aldous' ear.
“I want to be alone for a little while, dear,” she whis-
pered, and there was that mystery in her voice which
kept him from questioning her, and made him go with
MacDonald.
In three quarters of an hour they had reached the spur
of the mountain from which MacDonald had said they
could see up the valley, and also the break through which
they had come the preceding afternoon. The morning
mists still hung low, but as these melted away under the
sun mile after mile of a marvellous panorama spread out
swiftly under them, and as the distance of their vision
grew, the deeper became the disappointment in Mac-
Donald’s face. For half an hour after the mists had
gone he neither spoke nor lowered the telescope from his
eyes. A mile away Aldous saw three caribou crossing
the valley. A little later, on a green slope, he discerned
a moving hulk that he knew was a bear. He did not speak
until old Donald lowered the glass.
“I can see for eight miles up the valley, an’ there ain’t
a soul in sight,” said MacDonald in answer to his question.
“I figgered they’d be along about now, Johnny.”
A dozen times Aldous had looked back at the camp,
Twice he had seen Joanne. He looked now through the
290 THE HUNTED WOMAN
telescope. She was nowhere in sight. A bit nervously
he returned the telescope to MacDonald.
“And I can’t see Joanne,” he said.
MacDonald looked. For five minutes he levelled the
glass steadily at the camp. Then he shifted it slowly
westward, and a low exclamation broke from his lips as
he lowered the glass, and looked at Aldous.
“Johnny, she’s just goin’ into the gorge! She was just
disappearin’ when I caught her!”
“Going into–the gorge!” gasped Aldous, jumping to
his feet. “Mac 35
MacDonald rose and stood at his side. There was
something reassuring in the rumbling laugh that came
from deep in his chest.
“She’s beat us!” he chuckled. “Bless her, she’s beat
us! I didn’t guess why she was askin’ me all them ques-
tions. An’ I told her, Johnny—told her just where the
cavern was up there in the gorge, an how you wouldn’t
hardly miss it if you tried. An’ she asked me how long
it would take to walk there, an’ I told her half an hour.
An' she’s going to the cavern, Johnny!”
He was telescoping his long glass as he spoke, and while
Aldous was still staring toward the gorge in wonderment
and a little fear, he added:
“We’d better follow. Quade an’ Rann can’t get here
inside o’ two or three hours, an’ we’ll be back before then.”
Again he rumbled with that curious chuckling laugh.
“She beat us, Johnny, she beat us fair! An’ she's got
spirrit, a wunnerful spirrit, to go up there alone!”
Aldous wanted to run, but he held himself down to
MacDonald's stride. His heart trembled apprehensively
THE HUNTED WOMAN 291
as they hurriedly descended the mountain and cut across
the plain. He could not quite bring himself to Mac-
Donald’s point of assurance regarding Quade and Mor-
timer FitzHugh. The old mountaineer was positive that
the other party was behind them. Aldous asked himself
if it were not possible that Quade and FitzHugh were
ahead of them, and already waiting and watching for their
opportunity. He had suggested that they might have
swung farther to the west, with the plan of descending upon
the valley from the north, and MacDonald had pointed
out how unlikely this was. In spite of this, Aldous was
not in a comfortable frame of mind as they hurried after
Joanne. She had half an hour's start of them when they
reached the mouth of the gorge, and not until they had
travelled another half-hour up the rough bed of the break
between the two mountains,and MacDonald pointed ahead,
and said: “There’s the cavern!” did he breathe easier.
They could see the mouth of the cavern when they were
yet a couple of hundred yards from it. It was a wide,
low cleft in the north face of the chasm wall, and in front
of it, spreading out like the flow of a stream, was a great
spatter of white sand, like a huge rug that had been spread
out in a space cleared of its chaotic litter of rock and
broken slate. At first glance Aldous guessed that the
cavern had once been the exit of a subterranean stream.
The sand deadened the sound of their footsteps as they
approached. At the mouth of the cave they paused. It
was perhaps forty or fifty feet deep, and as high as a nine-
foot room. Inside it was quite light. Halfway to the
back of it, upon her knees, and with her face turned from
them, was Joanne.
292 THE HUNTED WOMAN
They were very close to her before she heard them.
With a startled cry she sprang to her feet, and Aldous
and MacDonald saw what she had been doing. Over a
long mound in the white sand still rose the sapling stake
which Donald had planted there forty years before; and
about this, and scattered over the grave, were dozens of
wild asters and purple hyacinths which Joanne had brought
from the plain. Aldous did not speak, but he took her
hand, and looked down with her on the grave. And then
something caught his eyes among the flowers, and Joanne
drew him a step nearer, her eyes shining like velvet stars,
while his heart beat faster when he saw what the object
was. It was a book, open in the middle, and it lay face
downward on the grave. It was old, and looked as though
it might have fallen into dust at the touch of his finger,
Joanne’s voice was low and filled with a whispering awe.
“It was her Bible, John l’’
He turned a little, and noticed that Donald had gone
to the mouth of the cavern, and was looking toward the
mountain.
“It was her Bible,” he heard Joanne repeating; and
then MacDonald turned toward them, and he saw in his
face a look that seemed strange and out of place in this
home of his dead. He went to him, and Joanne followed.
MacDonald had turned again—was listening—and
holding his breath. Then he said, still with his face
toward the mountain and the valley:
“I may be mistaken, Johnny, but I think I heard—a
rifle-shot!”
For a full minute they listened.
“It seemed off there,” said MacDonald, pointing to
\
f
THE HUNTED WOMAN 293
the south. “I guess we’d better get back to camp,
Johnny.”
He started ahead of them, and Aldous followed as
swiftly as he could with Joanne. She was panting with ex-
citement, but she asked no questions. MacDonald began
to spring more quickly from rock to rock; over the level
spaces he began to run. He reached the edge of the plain
four or five hundred yards in advance of them, and was
scanning the valley through his telescope when they came
up.
“They’re not on this side,” he said. “They’re comin'
up the other leg of the valley, Johnny. We’ve got to get
to the mount’in before we can see them.”
He closed the glass with a snap and swung it over his
shoulder. Then he pointed toward the camp.
“Take Joanne down there,” he commanded. “Watch
the break we came through, an’ wait for me. I’m goin’
up on the mount’in an’ take a look!”
The last words came back over his shoulder as he started
on a trot down the slope. Only once before had Aldous
seen MacDonald employ greater haste, and that was on the
night of the attack on Joanne. He was convinced there
was no doubt in Donald’s mind about the rifle-shot, and
that the shot could mean but one thing—the nearness
of Mortimer FitzHugh and Quade. Why they should
reveal their presence in that way he did not ask himself as
he hurried down into the plain with Joanne. By the time
they reached the camp old Donald had covered two
thirds of the distance to the mountain. Aldous looked at
his watch and a curious thrill shot through him. Only a
little more than an hour had passed since they had left
294 THE HUNTED WOMAN
the mountain to follow Joanne, and in that time it would
have been impossible for their enemies to have covered
more than a third of the eight-mile stretch of valley which
they had found empty of human life under the searching
scrutiny of the telescope! He was right—and MacDonald
was wrong! The sound of the shot, if there had been a
shot, must have come from some other direction!
He wanted to shout his warning to MacDonald, but
already too great a distance separated them. Besides, if he
was right, MacDonald would run into no danger in thai
direction. Their menace was to the north—beyond the
chasm out of which came the rumble and roar of the
stream. When Donald had disappeared up the slope he
looked more closely at the rugged walls of rock that shut
them in on that side. He could see no break in them.
His eyes followed the dark streak in the floor of the plain,
which was the chasm. It was two hundred yards below
where they were standing; and a hundred yards beyond
the tepee he saw where it came out of a great rent in the
mountain. He looked at Joanne. She had been watch-
ing him, and was breathing quickly.
“While Donald is taking his look from the mountain,
I’m going to investigate the chasm,” he said.
She followed him, a few steps behind. The roar grew
in their ears as they advanced. After a little solid rock
replaced the earth under their feet, and twenty paces
from the precipice Aldous took Joanne by the hand.
They went to the edge and looked over. Fifty-feet below
them the stream was caught in the narrow space between
the two chasm walls, and above the rush and roar of it
Aldous heard the startled cry that came from Joanne.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 295
She clutched his hand fiercely. Fascinated she gazed
down. The water, speeding like a millrace, was a lather
of foam; and up through this foam there shot the crests
of great rocks, as though huge monsters of some kind were
at play, whipping the torrent into greater fury, and bel-
lowing forth thunderous voices. Downstream Aldous
could see that the tumult grew less; from the rent in the
mountain came the deeper, more distant-rolling thunder
that they had heard on the other side of the range. And
then, as he looked, a sharper cry broke from Joanne, and
she dragged him back from the ledge, and pointed toward
the tepee.
Out from among the rocks had appeared a human figure.
It was a woman. Her hair was streaming wildly about
her, and in the sun it was black as a crow’s wing. She
rushed to the tepee, opened the flap, and looked in. Then
she turned, and a cry that was almost a scream rang from
her lips. In another moment she had seen Aldous and
Joanne, and was running toward them. They advanced
to meet her. Suddenly Aldous stopped, and with a sharp
warning to Joanne he threw his rifle half to his shoulder,
and faced the rocks from which the speeding figure had
come. In that same instant they both recognized her.
It was Marie, the woman who had ridden the bear at
Tête Jaune, and with whom Mortimer FitzHugh had
bought Joe DeBar!
She staggered up to them, panting, exhausted, her breath
coming in gulping sobs. For a moment she could not
speak. Her dress was torn; her waist was ripped so that
it exposed her throat and shoulder; and the front of the
waist and her face were stained with blood. Her black
296 THE HUNTED WOMAN
eyes shone like a madwoman's. Fiercely she fought to
get her breath, and all the time she clung to Joanne, and
looked at Aldous. She pointed toward the rocks—the
chaotic upheaval that lay between the tepee and the chasm
—and words broke gaspingly from her lips.
“They’re coming!—coming!” she cried. “They killed
Joe –murdered him—and they’re coming—to kill you!”
She clutched a hand to her breast, and then pointed with
it to the mountain where MacDonald had gone. “They
saw him go—and they sent two men to kill him; and the
rest are coming through the rocks!” She turned sobbingly
to Joanne. “They killed Joe,” she moaned. “They killed
Joe, and they’re coming—for you !”
The emphasis on that final word struck like a blow in
the ears of John Aldous.
“Run for the spruce!” he commanded. “Joanne,
runſ."
Marie had crumpled down in a moaning heap at Joanne's
feet, and sat swaying with her face in her hands.
“They killed him—they murdered my Joe!” she was
sobbing. “And it was my fault—my fault! I trapped
him! I sold him! And, oh, my God, I loved him—I
loved him!”
“Run, Joanne!” commanded Aldous a second time.
“Run for the spruce!”
Instead of obeying him, Joanne knelt down beside
Marie.
He went to speak again, but there came an interruption
—a thing that was like the cold touch of lead in his own
heart. From up on the mountain where the old moun-
taineer had walked into the face of death there came the
THE HUNTED WOMAN 297
sharp, splitting report of a rifle; and in that same instant
it was followed by another and still a third—quick, sting-
ing, whiplike reports—and he knew that not one of them
had come from the gun of Donald MacDonald!
And then he saw that the rocks behind the tepee had
become suddenly alive with men!
CHAPTER XXIX
HEER amazement made Aldous hold his fire in
that first moment. Marie had said that two men
were after MacDonald. He had heard three
shots nearly a mile away, and she was still sobbing that,
DeBar was dead. That accounted for three. He had
expected to see only Quade, and FitzHugh, and one other
behind the tepee. And there were six! He counted them
as they came swiftly out from the shelter of the rocks to the
level of the plain. He was about to fire when he thought
of Joanne and Marie. They were still behind him, crouch-
ing upon the ground. To fire from where he stood would
draw a fusillade of bullets in their direction, and with
another warning cry to Joanne, he sped twenty paces to
one side so that they would not be within range. Not
until then did the attacking party see him.
At a hundred and fifty yards he had no time to pick out
Quade or Mortimer FitzHugh. He fired first at a group of
three, and one of the three crumpled down as though his
skull had been crushed from above. A rifle spat back
at him and the bullet sang like a ripping cloth close over
his head. He dropped to his knees before he fired again,
and a bullet clove the air where he had stood. The crack
of rifles did not hurry him. He knew that he had six
cartridges, and only six, and he aimed deliberately. At
his second shot the man he had fired at ran forward three
fºgg
THE HUNTED WOMAN 299
or four steps, and then pitched flat on his face. For a
flash Aldous thought that it was Mortimer FitzHugh.
Then, along his gun barrel, he saw FitzHugh—and pulled
the trigger. It was a miss.
Two men had dropped upon their knees and were aiming
more carefully. He swung his sight to the foremost, and
drove a bullet straight through his chest. The next
moment something seemed to have fallen upon him with
crushing weight. A red sea rose before his eyes. In it
he was submerged; the roar of it filled his ears; it blinded
him; and in the suffocating embrace of it he tried to cry
out. He fought himself out of it, his eyes cleared, and he
could see again. His rifle was no longer in his hands, and
he was standing. Twenty feet away men were rushing
upon him. His brain recovered itself with the swiftness
of lightning. A bullet had stunned him, but he was not
badly hurt. He jerked out his automatic, but before he
could raise it, or even fire from his hip, the first of his as-
sailants was upon him with a force that drove it from his
hand. They went down together, and as they struggled
on the bare rock Aldous caught for a fraction of a second
a scene that burned itself like fire in his brain. He saw
Mortimer FitzHugh with a revolver in his hand. He
had stopped; he was staring like one looking upon the
ghost of the dead, and as he stared there rose above
the rumbling roar of the chasm a wild and terrible shriek
from Joanne.
Aldous saw no more then. He was not fighting for his
life, but for her, and he fought with the mad ferocity of a
tiger. As he struck, and choked, and beat the head of his
assailant on the rock, he heard shriek after shriek come
300 THE HUNTED WOMAN
from Joanne's lips; and then for a flash he saw them again,
and Joaline was struggling in the arms of Quade!
He struggled to his knees, and the man he was fighting
struggled to his knees; and then they came to their feet,
locked in a death-grip on the edge of the chasm. From
Quade's clutch he saw Joanne staring at Mortimer Fitz-
Hugh; then her eyes shot to him, and with another shriek
she fought to free herself.
For thirty seconds of that terrible drama Mortimer
FitzHugh stood as if hewn out of rock. Then he sprang
toward the fighters.
In the arms of John Aldous was the strength of ten men.
He twisted the head of his antagonist under his arm;
he braced his feet—in another moment he would have
flung him bodily into the roaring maelstrom below. Even
as his muscles gathered themselves for the final effbrt
he knew that all was lost. Mortimer FitzHugh's face
leered over his shoulder, his demoniac intention was in his
eyes before he acted. With a cry of hatred and of triumph
he shoved them both over the edge, and as Aldous plunged
to the depths below, still holding to his enemy, he heard a
last piercing scream from Joanne.
As the rock slid away from under his feet his first
thought was that the end had come, and that no living
creature could live in the roaring maelstrom of rock and
flood into which he was plunging. But quicker than he
dashed through space his mind worked. Instinctively,
without time for reasoning, he gripped at the fact that his
one chance lay in the close embrace of his enemy. He
hung to him. It seemed to him that they turned over and
over a hundred times in that distance of fifty feet. Then
THE HUNTED WOMAN 301
a mass of twisting foam broke under him, and up out of it
shot the head of one of the roaring monsters of rock that
he and Joanne had looked upon. They struck it fairly,
and Aldous was uppermost. He felt the terrific impact
of the other's body. The foam boiled upward again, and
they slipped off into the flood.
Still Aldous held to his enemy. He could feel that he
was limp now; he no longer felt the touch of the hands
that had choked him, or the embrace of the arms that had
struggled with him. He believed that his antagonist was
dead. The fifty-foot fall, with the rock splitting his back,
had killed him. For a moment Aldous still clung to him
as they sank together under the surface, torn and twisted
by the whirling eddies and whirlpools. It seemed to him
that they would never cease going down, that they were
sinking a vast distance.
Dully he felt the beat of rocks. Then it flashed upon
him that the dead man was sinking like a weighted thing.
He freed himself. Fiercely he struggled to bring himself
to the surface. It seemed an eternity before he rose to the
top. He opened his mouth and drew a great gulp of air
into his lungs. The next instant a great rock reared like
a living thing in his face; he plunged against it, was beaten
over it, and again he was going down—down—in that
deadly clutch of maelstrom and undertow. Again he
fought, and again he came to the surface. He saw a black,
slippery wall gliding past him with the speed of an express
train. And now it seemed as though a thousand clubs
were beating him. Ahead of him were rocks—nothing
but rocks.
He shot through them like a piece of driftwood. The
302 THE HUNTED WOMAN
roaring in his ears grew less, and he felt the touch of some-
thing under his feet. Sunlight burst upon him. He
caught at a rock, and hung to it. His eyes cleared a little.
He was within ten feet of a shore covered with sand and
gravel. The water was smooth and running with a
musical ripple. Waist-deep he waded through it to the
shore, and fell down upon his knees, with his face buried in
his arms. He had been ten minutes in the death-grip of
the chasm. It was another ten minutes before he stag-
gered to his feet and looked about him.
His face was beaten until he was almost blind. His
shirt had been torn from his shoulders and his flesh was
bleeding. He advanced a few steps. He raised one arm
and then the other. He limped. One arm hurt him
when he moved it, but the bone was sound. He was
terribly mauled, but he knew that no bones were broken,
and a gasp of thankfulness fell from his lips. All this
time his mind had been suffering even more than his body.
Not for an instant, even as he fought for life between the
chasm walls, and as he lay half unconscious on the rock,
had he forgotten Joanne. His one thought was of her
now. He had no weapon, but as he stumbled in the di-
rection of the camp in the little plain he picked up a club
that lay in his path.
That MacDonald was dead, Aldous was certain. There
would be four against him—Quade and Mortimer FitzHugh
and the two men who had gone to the mountain. His
brain cleared swiftly as a part of his strength returned,
and it occurred to him that if he lost no time he might
come upon Joanne and her captors before the two men
came from killing old Donald. He tried to run. Not
THE HUNTEE) WOMAN 303
until then did he fully realize the condition he was in.
Twice in the first hundred yards his legs doubled under
him and he fell down among the rocks. He grew steadily
ctronger, though each time he tried to run or spring a
distance of a few feet his legs doubled under him like
that. It took him twenty minutes to get back to the
edge of the plain, and when he got there it was empty.
There was no sign of Quade or FitzHugh, or of Joanne
and Marie; and there was no one coming from the direction
of the mountain.
He tried to run again, and he found that over the level
floor of the valley he could make faster time than among
the rocks. He went to where he had dropped his rifle,
It was gone. He searched for his automatic. That, too,
was gone. There was one weapon left—a long skinning-
knife in one of the panniers near the tepee. As he went
for this, he passed two of the men whom he had shot.
Quade and FitzHugh had taken their weapons, and had
turned them over to see if they were alive or dead. They
were dead. He secured the knife, and behind the tepee
he passed the third body, its face as still and white as the
others. He shuddered as he recognized it. It was Slim
Barker. His rifle was gone.
More swiftly now he made his way into the break out of
which his assailants had come a short time before. The
thought came to him again that he had been right, and
that Donald MacDonald, in spite of all his years in the
mountains, had been fatally wrong. Their enemies had
come down from the north, and this break led to their
hiding-place. Through it Joanne must have been taken
by her captors. As he made his way over the rocks, gain-
304 THE HUNTED WOMAN
ing a little more of his strength with each step, his mind
tried to picture the situation that had now arisen between
Quade and Mortimer FitzHugh. How would Quade, who
was mad for possession of Joanne, accept FitzHugh’s claim
of ownership? Would he believe his partner? Would
he even believe Joanne if, to save herself from him, she
told him FitzHugh was her husband? Even if he believed
them, would he give her up 2 Would Quade allow Mortimer
FitzHugh to stand between him and the object for which
he was willing to sacrifice everything?
As Aldous asked himself these questions his blood ran
hot and cold by turns. And the answer to them drew a
deep breath of fear and of anguish from him as he tried
again to run among the rocks. There could be but one
answer: Quade would fight. He would fight like a mad-
man, and if this fight had happened and FitzHugh had
been killed Joanne had already gone utterly and helplessly
into his power. He believed that FitzHugh had not
revealed to Quade his relationship to Joanne while they
were on the plain, and the thought still more terrible came
to him that he might not reveal it at all, that he might
repudiate Joanne even as she begged upon her knees for
him to save her. What a revenge it would be to see her
helpless and broken in the arms of Quade! And then,
both being beasts -
He could think no fartner. The sweat broke out on his
face as he hobbled faster over a level space. The sound
of the water between the chasm walls was now a thunder
in his ears. He could not have heard a rifle-shot or
a scream a hundred yards away. The trail he was follow-
ing had continually grown narrower. It seemed to end a
TIHE HUNTED WOMAN 305
ſittle ahead of him, and the fear that he had come the
wrong way after all filled him with dread. He came to the
face of the mountain wall, and then, to his left, he saw a
crack that was no wider than a man’s body. In it there
was sand, and the sand was beaten by footprints! He
wormed his way through, and a moment later stood at
the edge of the chasm. Fifty feet above him a natural
bridge of rock spanned the huge cleft through which the
stream was rushing. He crossed this, exposing himself
openly to a shot if it was guarded. But it was not guarded.
This fact convinced him that MacDonald had been killed,
and that his enemies believed he was dead. If MacDonald
had escaped, and they had feared a possible pursuit, some
one would have watched the bridge.
The trail was easy to follow now. Sand and grassy
earth had replaced rock and shale; he could make out the
imprints of feet—many of them—and they led in the di-
rection of a piece of timber that apparently edged a valley
running to the east and west. The rumble of the torrent
in the chasm grew fainter as he advanced. A couple of
hundred yards farther on the trail swung to the left again;
it took him around the end of a huge rock, and as he ap-
peared from behind this, his knife clutched in his hand, he
dropped suddenly flat on his face, and his heart rose like a
lump in his throat. Scarcely fifty yards above him was
the camp of his enemies! There were two tepees and piles
of saddles and panniers and blankets about them, but not
a soul that he could see. And then, suddenly, there rose
a voice bellowing with rage, and he recognized it as Quade's.
It came from beyond the tepee, and he rose quickly from
where he had thrown himself and ran forward, with the
306 THE HUNTED WOMAN
tepee between him and those on the other side. Close to
the canvas he dropped on his knees and crawled out behind
a pile of saddles and panniers. From here he could see.
So near that he could almost have touched them were
Joanne and Marie, seated on the ground, with their backs
toward him. Their hands were tied behind them. Their
feet were bound with pannier ropes. A dozen paces be.
yond them were Quade and Mortimer FitzHugh.
The two men were facing each other, a yard apart,
Mortimer FitzHugh’s face was white, a deadly white, and
he was smiling. His right hand rested carelessly in his
hunting-coat pocket. There was a sneering challenge on
his lips; in his eyes was a look that Aldous knew meant
death if Quade moved. And Quade was like a great red
beast ready to spring. His eyes seemed bulging out on his
cheeks; his great hands were knotted; his shoulders were
hunched forward, and his mottled face was ablaze with
passion. In that moment’s dramatic tableau Aldous
glanced about swiftly. The men from the mountain had
not returned. He was alone with Quade and Mortimer
FitzHugh. A
Then FitzHugh spoke, very quietly, a little laughingly;
but his voice trembled, and Aldous knew what the hand
was doing in the hunting-coat pocket.
“You’re excited, Billy,” he said. “I’m not a liar, as
you’ve very impolitely told me. And I’m not playing
you dirt, and I haven’t fallen in love with the lady myself,
as you seem to think. But she belongs to me, body and
soul. If you don’t believe me—why, ask the lady herself,
Billy!”
As he spoke, he turned his sneering eyes for the fraction
THE HUNTED WOMAN 307
of a second toward Joanne. The movement was fatal.
Quade was upon him. The hand in the coat pocket flung
itself upward, there followed a muffled report, but the
bullet flew wide. In all his life Aldous had never heard a
Sound like the roar that came from Quade's throat then.
He saw Mortimer FitzHugh's hand appear with a pistol
in it, and then the pistol was gone. He did not see where
it went to. He gripped his knife and waited, his heart
beating with what seemed like smothered explosions as he
watched for the opportunity which he knew would soon
come. He expected to see FitzHugh go down under
Quade's huge bulk. Instead of that, a small, iron fist
shot upward and Quade's head went back as if broken
trom his neck.
FitzHugh sprang a step backward, and in the movement
his heel caught the edge of a pack-saddle. He stumbled,
almost fell, and before he could recover himself Quade was
at him again. This time there was something in the red
brute's hand. It rose and fell once—and Mortimer Fitz-
Hugh reeled backward with a moaning cry, swayed for
a second or two on his feet, and fell to the ground. Quade
turned. In his hand was a bloody knife. Madness
and passion and the triumphant joy of a demon were in his
face as he glared at his helpless prey. As Aldous crouched
lower his shoulder touched one of the saddles. It slipped
from the pile, one of the panniers followed it, and Quade
saw him. There was no longer reason for concealment,
and as Quade stood paralyzed for a moment Aldous
sprang forth into the space between him and Joanne.
He heard the cry that broke strangely from her lips but
he did not turn his head. He advanced upon Quade,
308 THE HUNTED WOMAN
his head lowered, the long skinning-knife gleaming in his
hand.
John Aldous knew that words would avail nothing in
these last few minutes between him and Quade. The
latter had already hunched himself forward, the red knife
in his hand poised at his waistline. He was terrible. His
huge bulk, his red face and bull neck, his eyes popping from
behind their fleshy lids, and the dripping blade in the
shapeless hulk of his hand gave him the appearance as he
stood there of some monstrous gargoyle instead of a
thing of flesh and blood. And Aldous was terrible to
look at, but in a way that wrung a moaning cry from
Joanne. His face was livid from the beat of the rocks;
it was crusted with blood; his eyes were partly closed, and
what remained of his shirt was drenched with blood that
still ran from the deep cuts in his arms and shoulders.
But it was he who advanced, and Quade who stood and
waited. - ¥
Aldous knew little or nothing of knife-fighting; and he
realized, also, that there was a strange weakness in his
arms and body caused by his battle with the maelstroms
in the chasm. But he had wrestled a great deal with the
Indians of the north, who fought as their half-wolf sledge-
dogs fought, and he employed their methods now. Slowly
and deliberately he began to circle around Quade, so thai.
Quade became the pivot of that circle, and as he circled
he drew nearer and nearer to his enemy, but never in a
frontal advance. He edged inward, with his knife-arm
on the outside. His deadly deliberateness and the
steady glare of his eyes discomfited Quade, who suddenly
took a step backward. - . -
THE HUNTED WOMAN 309
It was always when the Indian made this step that his
opponent darted in; and Aldous, with this in mind, sprang
to the attack. Their knives clashed in midair. As they
met, hilt to hilt, Aldous threw his whole weight against
Quade, darted sidewise, and with a terrific lunge brought
the blade of his knife down between Quade's shoulders. A
straight blade would have gone from back to chest through
muscle and sinew, but the knife which Aldous held scarcely
pierced the other's clothes.
Not until then did he fully realize the tremendous odds
against him. The curved blade of his skinning-knife
would not penetrate! His one hope was to cut with it.
He flung out his arm before Quade had fully recovered,
and blind luck carried the keen edge of the knife across
his enemy's pouchy cheek. The blood came in a spurt,
and with a terrible cry Quade leaped back toward the
pile of saddles and panniers. Before Aldous could follow
his advantage the other had dropped his knife and had
snatched up a four-foot length of a tepee pole. For a
moment he hesitated while the blood ran in a hot flood
down his thick neck. Then with a bellow of rage he
rushed upon Aldous.
It was no time for knife-work now. As the avalanche
of brute strength descended upon him Aldous gathered
himself for the shock. He had already measured his own
weakness. Those ten minutes among the rocks of the
chasm had broken and beaten him until his strength was
gone. He was panting from his first onset with Quade,
but his brain was working. And he knew that Quade was
no longer a reasoning thing. He had ceased to think.
He was blind with the passion of the brute, and his one
310 THE HUNTED WOMAN
thought was to crush his enemy down under the weight of
the club in his huge hands. Aldous waited. He heard
Joanne's terrified scream when Quade was almost upon
him—when less than five feet separated them. The club
was descending when he flung himself forward, straight
for the other’s feet. The club crashed over him, and with
what strength he had he gripped Quade at the knees,
With a tremendous thud Quade came to earth. The club
broke from the grip of his hands. For a moment he was
stunned, and in that moment Aldous was at his throat.
He would have sold the best of his life for the skinning-
knife. But he had lost it in gripping Quade. And now he
choked—with every ounce of strength in him he choked
at the thick red neck of his enemy. Quade's hands
reached for his own throat. They found it. And both
choked, lying there gasping and covered with blood, while
Joanne struggled vainly to free herself, and scream after
scream rang from her lips. And John Aldous knew that at
last the end had come. For there was no longer strength
in his arms, and there was something that was like a
strange cramp in his fingers, while the clutch at his own
throat was turning the world black. His grip relaxed,
His hands fell limp. The last that he realized was that
Quade was over him, and that he must be dying.
Then it was, as he lay within a final second or two of
death, no longer conscious of physical attack or of Joanne's
terrible cries, that a strange and unforeseen thing occurred.
Beyond the tepee a man had risen from the earth. He
staggered toward them, and it was from Marie that the
wildest and strangest cry of all came now. For the man
was Joe DeBar! In his hand he held a knife. Swaying
THE HUNTED WOMAN 311
and stumbling he came to the fighters—from behind.
Quade did not see him, and over Quade's huge back he
poised himself. The knife rose; for the fraction of a second
it trembled in midair. Then it descended, and eight
inches of steel went to the heart of Quade.
And as DeBar turned and staggered toward Joanne and
1Marie, John Aldous was sinking deeper and deeper into a
black and abysmal night.
CHAPTER XXX
*IN THAT chaotic night in which he was drifting, lighi
à as a feather floating on the wind, John Aldous experi,
* - enced neither pain nor very much of the sense of life,
And yet, without seeing or feeling, he seemed to be living,
All was dead in him but that last consciousness, which is
almost the spirit; he might have been dreaming, and min-
utes, hours, or even years might have passed in that dream.
For a long time he seemed to be sinking through the black,
ness; and then something stopped him, without jar or
shock, and he was rising. He could hear nothing. There
was a vast silence about him, a silence as deep and as
unbroken as the abysmal pit in which he seemed to be
softly floating.
After a time Aldous felt himself swaying and rocking,
as though tossed gently on the billows of a sea. This
was the first thought that took shape in his struggling
brain—he was at sea; he was on a ship in the heart of a
black night, and he was alone. He tried to call out, but
his tongue seemed gone. It seemed a very long time
before day broke, and then it was a strange day. Little
needles of light pricked his eyes; silver strings shot like
flashes of weblike lightning through the darkness, and
after that he saw for an instant a strange glare. It was
gone in one big, powderlike flash, and he was in night
again. These days and nights seemed to follow one an-
al Q

THE HUNTED WOMAN 3.13
other swiftly now, and the nights grew less dark, and the
days brighter. He was conscious of sounds and buffet-
ings, and it was very hot.
Out of this heat there came a cool, soft breeze that was
continually caressing his face, and eyes, and head. It
was like the touch of a spirit hand. It became more and
more real to him. It caressed him into a dark and com-
fortable oblivion. Out of this oblivion a still brighter
day roused him. His brain seemed clear. He opened his
eyes. A white cloud was hovering over them; it fell softly;
it was cool and gentle. Then it rose again, and it was
not a cloud, but a hand! The hand moved away, and he
was looking into a pair of wide-open, staring, prayerfu,
eyes, and a little cry came to him, and a voice.
“John—John—”
He was drifting again, but now he knew that he was
alive. He heard movement. He heard voices. They
were growing nearer and more distinct. He tried to cry
out Joanne's name, and it came in a whispering breath
between his lips. But Joanne heard; and he heard her
calling to him; he felt her hands; she was imploring him to
open his eyes, to speak to her. It seemed many minutes
before he could do this, but at last he succeeded. And
this time his vision was not so blurred. He could see
plainly. Joanne was there, hovering over him, and just
beyond her was the great bearded face of Donald Mae-
Donald. And then, before words had formed on his lips
he did a wonderful thing. He smiled.
“O my God, I thank Thee!” he heard Joanne cry out,
and then she was on her knees, and her face was against
his, and she was sobbing.
314 THE HUNTED WOMAN
He knew that it was MacDonald who drew her away.
The great head bent over him.
“Take this, will 'ee, Johnny boy?”
Aldous stared.
“Mac, you’re—alive,” he breathed.
“Alive as ever was, Johnny. Take this.”
He swallowed. And then Joanne hovered over him
again, and he put up his hands to her face, and her glorious
eyes were swimming seas as she kissed him and choked
back the sobs in her throat. He buried his fingers in her
hair. He held her head close to him, and for many
minutes no one spoke, while MacDonald stood and looked
down on them. In those minutes everything returned
to him. The fight was over. MacDonald had come in
time to save him from Quade. But—and now his eyes
stared upward through the sheen of Joanne's hair—he was
in a cabin! He recognized it. It was Donald Mac-
Donald’s old home. When Joanne raised her head he
looked about him without speaking. He was in the wide
bunk built against the wall. Sunlight was filtering through
a white curtain at the window, and in the open door he
saw the anxious face of Marie.
He tried to lift himself, and was amazed to find that he
could not. Very gently Joanne urged him back on his
pillow. Her face was a glory of life and of joy. He
obeyed her as he would have obeyed the hand of the
Madonna. She saw all his questioning.
“You must be quiet, John,” she said, and never had he
heard in her voice the sweetness of love that was in it now.
“We will tell you everything—Donald and I. But you
must be quiet. You were terribly beaten among the rocks.
THE HUNTED WOMAN 315
We brought you here at noon, and the sun is setting—and
until now you have not opened your eyes. Everything is
well. But you must be quiet. You were terribly bruised
by the rocks, dear.”
It was sweet to lie under the caresses of her hand. He
drew her face down to him.
“Joanne, my darling, you understand now—why I
wanted to come alone into the North?’”
Her lips pressed warm and soft against his.
“I know,” she whispered, and he could feel her arms
trembling, and her breath coming quickly. Gently she
drew away from him. “I am going to make you some
broth,” she said then.
He watched her as she went out of the cabin, one white
hand lifted to her throat.
Old Donald MacDonald seated himself on the edge of
the bunk. He looked down at Aldous, chuckling in his
beard; and Aldous, with his bruised and swollen face and
half-open eyes, grinned like a happy fiend.
“It was a wunerful, wunerful fight, Johnny!” said old
Donald.
“It was, Mac. And you came in fine on the home
stretch!”
“What d'ye mean—home stretch?” queried Donald,
leaning over.
“You saved me from Quade.”
Donald fairly groaned.
“I didn’t, Johnny—I didn't! DeBar killed 'im. It
was all over when I come. On’y—Johnny—I had a most
cur’ous word with Culver Rann afore he died!”
In his eagerness Aldous was again trying to sit up when
316 THE HUNTED WOMAN
}
Joanne appeared in the doorway. With a little cry she
darted to him, forced him gently back, and brushed old
Donald off the edge of the bunk.
“Go out and watch the broth, Donald,” she commanded
firmly. Then she said to Aldous, stroking back his hair,
“I forbade you to talk. John, dear, aren’t you going to
mind me?”
“Did Quade get me with the knife?” he asked.
“No, no.”
“Am I shot?”
“No, dear.”
“Any bones broken?”
“Donald says not.”
“Then please give me my pipe, Joanne—and let me get
up. Why do you want me to lie here when I’m strong
like an ox, as Donald says?”
Joanne laughed happily.
“You are getting better every minute,” she cried joy-
ously. “But you were terribly beaten by the rocks, John.
If you will wait until you have the broth I will let you sit
55
up.
A few minutes later, when he had swallowed his broth,
Joanne kept her promise. Only then did he realize
that there was not a bone or a muscle in his body that did
not have its own particular ache. He grimaced when
Joanne and Donald bolstered him up with blankets at
his back. But he was happy. Twilight was coming
swiftly, and as Joanne gave the final pats and turns to the
blankets and pillows, MacDonald was lighting half a
dozen candles placed around the room.
“Any watch to-night, Donald?” asked Aldous.
*
THE HUNTED WOMAN 31?
“No, Johnny, there ain’t no watch to-night?” replied
the old mountaineer.
He came and seated himself on a bench with Joanne.
For half an hour after that Aldous listened to a recital
of the strange things that had happened—how poor marks-
manship had saved MacDonald on the mountainside,
and how at last the duel had ended with the old hun-
ter killing those who had come to slay him. When they
came to speak of DeBar, Joanne leaned nearer to Al-
dous.
“It is wonderful what love will sometimes do,” she
spoke softly. “In the last few hours Marie has bared her
soul to me, John. What she has been she has not tried
to hide from me, nor even from the man she loves. She
was one of Mortimer FitzHugh's tools. DeBar saw her
and loved her, and she sold herself to him in exchange for
the secret of the gold. When they came into the North
the wonderful thing happened. She loved DeBar—not
in the way of her kind, but as a woman in whom had been
born a new heart and a new soul and a new joy. She
defied FitzHugh; she told DeBar how she had tricked
him.
“This morning FitzHugh attempted his old familiarity
with her, and DeBar struck him down. The act gave
them excuse for what they had planned to do. Before her
eyes Marie thought they had killed the man she loved.
She flung herself on his breast, and she said she could not
feel his heart beat, and his blood flowed warm against
her hands and face. Both she and DeBar had determined
to warn us if they could. Only a few minutes before
DeBar was stabbed he had let off his rifle—an accident, he
~ 818 THE HUNTED WOMAN
*—s
said. But it was not an accident. It was the shot Don-
ald heard in the cavern. It saved us, John! And Marie,
waiting her opportunity, fled to us in the plain. DeBar
was not killed. He says my screams brought him back”
to life. He came out—and killed Quade with a knife.
Then he fell at our feet. A few minutes later Donald
came. DeBar is in another cabin. He is not fatally
hurt, and Marie is happy.”
She was stroking his hand when she finished. The
curious rumbling came softly in MacDonald’s beard and
his eyes were bright with a whimsical humour.
“I pretty near bored a hole through poor Joe when I
come up,” he chuckled. “But you bet I hugged him when
I found what he’d done, Johnny! Joe says their camp was
just over the range from us that night FitzHugh looked us
up, an’ Joanne thought she’d been dreamin’. He didn't
have any help, but his intention was to finish us alone—
murder us asleep—when Joanne cried out. Joe says it
was just a devil’s freak that took 'im to the top of the
mountain alone that night. He saw our fire an’ came down
to investigate.”
A low voice was calling outside the door. It was Marie.
As Joanne went to her a quick gleam came into old
Donald’s eyes. He looked behind him cautiously to see
that she had disappeared, then he bent over Aldous, and
whispered hoarsely:
“Johnny, I had a most cur’ous word with Rann—or
FitzHugh—afore he died! He wasn’t dead when I went to
him. But he knew he was dyin’; an’ Johnny, he was
smilin’ an’ cool to the end. I wanted to ask’im a question,
Johnny. I was dead cur’ous to know why the grave were
THE HUNTED WOMAN 319
empty / But he asked for Joanne, an’ I couldn’t break
in on his last breath. I brought her. The first thing he
asked her was how people had took it when they found out
he’d poisoned his father! When Joanne told him no one
had ever thought he'd killed his father, FitzHugh sat
leanin’ against the saddles for a minit so white an’ still I
thought he 'ad died with his eyes open. Then it came
out, Johnny. He was smilin’ as he told it. He killed
his father with poison to get his money. Later he came to
America. He didn’t have time to tell us how he come to
think they’d discovered his crime. He was dyin’ as he
talked. It came out sort o' slobberingly, Johnny. He
thought they’d found 'im out. He changed his name, an’
sent out the report that Mortimer FitzHugh had died in
the mount’ins. But Johnny, he died afore I could ask
him about the grave!”
There was a final note of disappointment in old Don-
ald’s voice that was almost pathetic.
“It was such a cur’ous grave,” he said. “An’ the clothes
were laid out so prim an’ nice.”
Aldous laid his hand on MacDonald's.
“It’s easy, Mac,” he said, and he wanted to laugh at
the disappointment that was still in the other's face.
“Don’t you see? He never expected any one to dig into
the grave. And he put the clothes and the watch and the
ring in there to get rid of them. They might have revealed
his identity. Why, Donald 93.
Joanne was coming to them again. She laid a cool
hand on his forehead and held up a warning finger to Mac-
Donald.
“Hush!” she said gently. “Your head is very hot,
320 | THE HUNTED WOMAN
dear, and there must be no more talking. You must lie
down and sleep. Tell John good-night, Donald!”
Like a boy MacDonald did as she told him, and dis-
appeared through the cabin door. Joanne levelled the
pillows and lowered John’s head.
“I can’t sleep, Joanne,” he protested.
“I will sit here close at your side and stroke your face
and hair,” she said gently.
“And you will talk to me?”
“No, I must not talk. But, John—”
“Yes, dear.”
“If you will promise to be very, very quiet, and let me
fle very quie 5 5.
“Yes.”
“I will make you a pillow of my hair.”
“I—will be quiet,” he whispered.
She unbound her hair, and leaned over so that it fell in a
flood on his pillow. With a sigh of contentment he buried
his face in the rich, sweet masses of it. Gently, like the
cooling breeze that had come to him in his hours of dark-
ness, her hand caressed him. He closed his eyes; he drank
in the intoxicating perfume of her tresses; and after a
little he slept.
For many hours Joanne sat at his bedside, sleepless,
and rejoicing.
When Aldous awoke it was dawn in the cabin. Joanne
was gone. For a few minutes he continued to lie with his
face toward the window. He knew that he had slept a
long time, and that the day was breaking. Slowly he
raised himself. The terrible ache in his body was gone;
he was still lame, but no longer helpless. He drew himself
THE HUNTED WOMAN 321
cautiously to the edge of the bunk and sat there for a
time, testing himself before he got up. He was delighted
at the result of the experiments. He rose to his feet.
His clothes were hanging against the wall, and he dressed
himself. Then he opened the door and walked out into
the morning, limping a little as he went. MacDonald was
up. Joanne's tepee was close to the cabin. The two men
greeted each other quietly, and they talked in low voices,
but Joanne heard them, and a few moments later she ran
out with her hair streaming about her and went straight
into the arms of John Aldous.
This was the beginning of the three wonderful days that
yet remained for Joanne and John Aldous in Donald
MacDonald’s little valley of gold and sunshine and blue
skies. They were strange and beautiful days, filled with
a great peace and a great happiness, and in them won-
derful changes were at work. On the second day Joanne
and Marie rode alone to the cavern where Jane lay, and
when they returned in the golden sun of the afternoon they
were leading their horses, and walking hand in hand.
And when they came down to where DeBar and Aldous
and Donald MacDonald were testing the richness of the
black sand along the stream there was a light in Marie's
eyes and a radiance in Joanne's face which told again that
world-old story of a Mary Magdalene and the dawn of
another Day. And now, Aldous thought, Marie had
become beautiful; and Joanne laughed softly and happily
that night, and confided many things into the ears of
Aldous, while Marie and DeBar talked for a long time
alone out under the stars, and came back at last hand in
hand, like two children. Before they went to bed Marie
322 THE HUNTED WOMAN
whispered something to Joanne, and a little later Joanne
whispered it to Aldous.
“They want to know if they can be married with us,
John,” she said. “That is, if you haven’t grown tired of
trying to marry me, dear,” she added with a happy laugh. '
“Have you?”
His answer satisfied her. And when she told a
small part of it to Marie, the other woman's dark eyes
grew as soft as the night, and she whispered the words
to Joe.
The third and last day was the most beautiful of all.
Joe's knife wound was not bad. He had suffered most
from a blow on the head. Both he and Aldous were in
condition to travel, and plans were made to begin the home-
ward journey on the fourth morning. MacDonald had
unearthed another dozen sacks of the hidden gold, and he
explained to Aldous what must be done to secure legal
possession of the little valley. His manner of doing this
was unnatural and strained. His words came haltingly.
There was unhappiness in his eyes. It was in his voice,
It was in the odd droop of his shoulders. And finally, when
they were alone, he said to Aldous, with almost a sob in
his voice:
“Johnny—Johnny, if on’y the gold were not here
He turned his eyes to the mountain, and Aldous took
one of his big gnarled hands in both his own.
“Say it, Mac,” he said gently. “I guess I know what
it is.”
“It ain’t fair to you, Johnny,” said old Donald, still
with his eyes on the mountains. “It ain't fair to you.
But when you take out the claims down there it’ll start a
| >>
THE HUNTED WOMAN 323
rush. You know what it means, Johnny. There'll be a
thousand men up here; an’ mebby you can’t understand
—but there's the cavern an’ Jane an’ the little cabin here;
an’ it seems like desecratin’ her.”
t
His voice choked, and as Aldous gripped the big hand
harder in his own he laughed.
“It would, Mac,” he said. “I’ve been watching you
while we made the plans. These cabins and the gold have
been here for more than forty years without discovery,
Donald—and they won’t be discovered again so long as
Joe DeBar and John Aldous and Donald MacDonald
have a word to say about it. We’ll take out no claims,
Mac. The valley isn’t ours. It’s Jane's valley and
yours!”
Joanne, coming up just then, wondered what the two
men had been saying that they stood as they did, with
hands clasped. Aldous told her. And then old Donald
confessed to them what was in his mind, and what he had
kept from them. At last he had found his home, and he
was not going to leave it again. He was going to stay
with Jane. He was going to bring her from the cavern
and bury her near the cabin, and he pointed out the spot,
covered with wild hyacinths and asters, where she used
to sit on the edge of the stream and watch him while he
worked for gold. And they could return each year and
dig for gold, and he would dig for gold while they were
away, and they could have it all. All that he wanted
was enough to eat, and Jane, and the little valley. And
Joanne turned from him as he talked, her face streaming
with tears, and in John's throat was a great lump, and he
looked away from MacDonald to the mountains.
324 THE HUNTED WOMAN
So it came to pass that on the fourth morning, when
they went into the south, they stopped on the last knoll
that shut out the little valley from the larger valley, and
looked back. And Donald MacDonald stood alone in
front of the cabin waving them good-bye.
THE END
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