WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
beside the table and buried her head in her arms. As Howland saw the convulsive trembling of her shoulders, his soul was flooded with a strange joy--not at this sight of her grief, but at the knowledge that she was sorry for what she had done. Softly he approached. The girl's fur cap had fallen off. Her long, shining braid was half undone and its silken strands fell over her shoulder and glistened in the lamp-glow on the table. His hand hesitated, and then fell gently on the bowed head.
"Sometimes the friend who lies is the only friend who's true," he said. "I believe that it was necessary for you to--lie."
Just once his hand stroked her soft hair, then, catching himself, he went to the opposite side of the narrow table and sat down. When the girl raised her head there was a bright flush in her cheeks. He could see the damp stain of tears on her face, but there was no sign of them now in the eyes that seemed seeking in his own the truth of his words, spoken a few moments before.
"You believe that?" she questioned eagerly. "You believe that it was necessary for me to--lie?" She leaned a little toward him, her fingers twining themselves about one another nervously, as she waited for him to answer.
"Yes," said Howland. He spoke the one word with a finality that sent a gladness into the soft brown eyes across from him. "I believe that you had to lie to me."
His low voice was vibrant with unbounded faith. Other words were on his lips, but he forced them back. A part of what he might have said--a part of the strange, joyous tumult in his heart--betrayed itself in his face, and before that betrayal the girl drew back slowly, the color fading from her cheeks.
"And I believe you will not lie to me again," he said.
She rose to her feet and flung back her hair, looking down on him in the manner of one who had never before met this kind of man, and knew not what to make of him.
"No, I will not lie to you again," she replied, more firmly. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes."
"Then go back into the South. I have come to tell you that again to-night--to make you believe me. You should have turned back at Le Pas. If you don't go--to-morrow--"
Her voice seemed to choke her, and she stood without finishing, leaving him to understand what she had meant to say. In an instant Howland was at her side. Once more his old, resolute fighting blood was up. Firmly he took her hands again, his eyes compelling her to look up at him.
"If I don't go to-morrow--they will kill me," he completed, repeating the words of her note to him. "Now, if you are going to be honest with me, tell me this--who is going to kill me, and why?"
He felt a convulsive shudder pass through her as she answered,
"I said that I would not lie to you again. If I can not tell you the truth I will tell you nothing. It is impossible for me to say why your life is in danger."
"But you know?"
"Yes."
He seated her again in the chair beside the table and sat down opposite her.
"Will you tell me who you are?"
She hesitated, twisting her fingers nervously in a silken strand of her hair. "Will you?" he persisted.
"If I tell you who I am," she said at last, "you will know who is threatening your life."
He stated at her in astonishment.
"The devil, you say!" The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. For a second time the girl rose from her chair.
"You will go?" she entreated. "You will go to-morrow?"
Her hand was on the latch of the door.
"You will go?"
He had risen, and was lighting a cigar over the chimney of the lamp. Laughing, he came toward her.
"Yes, surely I am going--to see you safely home." Suddenly he turned back to the lounge and belted on his revolver and holster. When he returned she barred his way defiantly, her back against the door.
"You can not go!"
"Why?"
"Because--" He caught the frightened flutter of her voice again. "Because they will kill you!"
The low laugh that he breathed in her hair was more of joy than fear.
"I am glad that you care," he whispered to her softly.
"You must go!" she still persisted.
"With you, yes," he answered.
"No, no--to-morrow. You must go back to Le Pas--back into the South. Will you promise me that?"
"Perhaps," he said. "I will tell you soon." She surrendered to the determination in his voice and allowed him to pass out into the night with her. Swiftly she led him along a path that ran into the deep gloom of the balsam and spruce. He could hear the throbbing of her heart and her quick, excited breathing as she stopped, one of her hands clasping him nervously by the arm.
"It is not very far--from here," she whispered "You must not go with me. If they saw me with you--at this hour--" He felt her shuddering against him.
"Only a little farther," he begged.
She surrendered again, hesitatingly, and they went on, more slowly than before, until they came to where a few faint lights in the camp were visible ahead of them.
"Now--now you must go!"
Howland turned as if to obey. In an instant the girl was at his side.
"You have not promised," she entreated. "Will you go--to-morrow?"
In the luster of the eyes that were turned up to him in the gloom Howland saw again the strange, sweet power that had taken possession of his soul. It did not occur to him in these moments that he had known this girl for only a few hours, that until to-night he had heard no word pass from her lips. He was conscious only that in the space of those few hours something had come into his life which he had never known before; and a deep longing to tell her this, to take her sweet face between his hands, as they stood in the gloom of the forest, and to confess to her that she had become more to him than a passing vision in a strange wilderness filled him. That night he had forgotten half of the strenuous lesson he had striven years to master; success, ambition, the mere joy of achievement, were for the first time sunk under a greater thing for him--the pulsating, human presence of this girl; and as he looked down into her face, pleading with him still in its white, silent terror, he forgot, too, what this woman was or might have been, knowing only that to him she had opened a new and glorious world filled with a promise that stirred his blood like sharp wine. He crushed her hands once more to his breast as he had done on the Great North Trail, holding her so close that he could feel the throbbing of her bosom against him. He spoke no word--and still her eyes pleaded with him to go. Suddenly he freed one of his hands and brushed back the thick hair from her brow and turned her face gently, until what dim light came down from the stars above glowed in the beauty of her eyes. In his own face she saw that which he had not dared to speak, and from her lips there came a soft little sobbing cry.
"No, I have not promised--and I will not promise," he said, holding her face so that she could not look away from him. "Forgive me for--for--doing this--" And before she could move he caught her for a moment close in his arms, holding her so that he felt the quick beating of her heart against his own, the sweep of her hair and breath in his face. "This is why I will not go back," he cried softly. "It is because I love you--love you--"
He caught himself, choking back the words, and as she drew away from him her eyes shone with a glory that made him half reach out his arms to her.
"You will forgive me!" he begged. "I do not mean to do wrong. Only, you must know why I shall not go back into the South."
From her distance she saw his arms stretched like shadows toward her. Her voice was low, so low that he could hardly hear the words she spoke, but its sweetness thrilled him.
"If you love me you will do this thing for me. You will go to-morrow."