the sudden apparition of this pitiful outcast, worn by exposure and untold suffering—coming as he did into the midst of the little band of refugees struggling with their own misfortunes, and the confidence of the trapper in those he was leading to safety, had brought a sudden joy to the old man's heart. he vowed inwardly now that his son should wander no longer—he would save him with the rest.
it had not been the first time the trapper had acknowledged the hide-out as his son. a week after bailey was shot he had told holcomb and freme—with them he knew his son's secret was safe; they, too, had helped the outcast more than once.
years ago this strange old man had come out of the forest into the valley below big shanty, settled there and, after some years, married. no one knew where he came from, neither did they know he had been married before. as to his son's name, "bob dinsmore," it could hardly be called assumed, for he had never been known by any other. when a boy of sixteen he had, like his father, appeared in the valley, hailing, like so many others in that remote region, from nowhere in particular. he gave out that he had worked for a man on black river—that was sufficient. the two built a cabin and the old man and the boy became boon companions. there was nothing strange in this. when bob dinsmore became twenty-two years of age he married—later he killed bailey. that was the whole story.
after that the old man had become a hermit from choice, helping his son when he could—often at the risk of his own life. finally this became impossible and he was obliged for a time to let him save himself.
during this enforced exile he had developed both the shyness and the daring of an animal. with him it had become an instinct, when he moved far, or in a dangerous locality, to travel by night—like the panther, whose tracks though rarely seen by others, he often found in his wanderings. when he was forced to take to the woods by day, he either proceeded cautiously or slept. both his hearing and his eyesight having become acute, he saw and heard with the alertness of a fox, and lived as free—a cruel freedom that became a mockery. he had no clothes save the makeshifts he stood in. when it rained he remained soaking wet, like the ground and the trees about him; he became one of them, drying when they did; drenched, frozen or warmed at the will of the weather. he no longer spoke; he became silent like the things about him—when his own voice escaped him it startled him.
yet even in his isolation he made friends: the cave that sheltered him; the tree whose rotten core always burned for him under his flint and steel; some pure, unfailing spring,—all these had for him a certain dumb comradeship.
and now to be fed and warmed at the same time! to be eating no longer alone, crouched in the dark like a hungry lynx, often in the drenching rain, or hidden under the cold roof of some rock; but among human beings whom he did not fear, men and women who spoke to him kindly and gave him the best they had in their own misfortune. to meet again billy and freme; to feel the friendly pressure of the old dog's head upon his thin knees; to be within sight once more of a snug, dry lean-to ready to rest his tired body. these were mercies he had never thought to see again. yet, thankful as he was for them, they were secondary to his silent joy at seeing his father.
occasionally the old man spoke to him in a low tone, as he piled the freshly cut night wood beside the fire. in reply the outcast either nodded or shook his head. when he had finished eating—and he ate ravenously—he rose, went over to thayor, and laying his hand timidly on his arm, motioned him aside.
"i've got something to say to ye, mr. thayor," he whispered. "that's what i come for; i'd like to talk to ye now."
thayor nodded and, turning to the others, said:
"mr. dinsmore and i have a little matter to talk over."
at last the two had met face to face—this man who, try as he would to banish him from his mind, always rose before him: in the dead of night; before his fire in his own room at home, his wife out at some social function or asleep on the floor below him; in his walks through the woods when he would stop and listen, hoping he might again see the same, worn, shambling figure he had watched from across the brook the day he shot the buck. why, he could not tell. perhaps it was because of their mutual loneliness. perhaps it was because of a woman. whatever the cause there was something which seemed to link them together.
with a quick gesture he turned to holcomb. "will you keep up the fire,
billy? i want all of you to get some sleep."
"what does it mean, sam?" asked alice nervously.
"news, i hope," replied thayor. "go to sleep, dear; you need it."
the hide-out stood gazing nervously at the ground. "do you feel better?" she asked, approaching him. "you are to sleep next to your father, i believe."
"yes, marm," he stammered awkwardly; "i'm warm. thank ye for the supper—i ain't hongry no more."
she nodded good night and went back to her blanket next to margaret. bending over the girl she lifted the mass of fair hair and kissed her on the forehead. then she drew her own blanket about her.
thayor and the hide-out seated themselves on a log lying on the other side of the fire, out of hearing.
"mr. thayor," began dinsmore, after a moment's silence, "they've treated ye like a dog."
thayor met the owl-like eyes grimly, a bitter smile playing about his unshaven chin, but he did not confirm the statement.
"but there's one that'll never trouble ye no more," exclaimed
dinsmore, looking queerly at the man beside him.
"who?" asked thayor.
"bergstein, damn him!" returned dinsmore slowly; "i seen him."
"but he left the camp days ago—the morning i discharged him."
"he's started on consid'ble of a trip now," replied the hide-out. "i see what was left of him."
"dead!" exclaimed thayor.
"burned blacker 'n a singed hog. they ain't much left of him, and what they is ain't pleasant to look at. he ain't got but one arm left and that's clutchin' a holt of a empty ker'sene can."
thayor gave a short gasp.
"and it was that cheat, bergstein!" he cried in amazement.
"more devil than cheat," replied dinsmore—"and three-quarters snake. the gang he trained agin ye done what he told 'em to—they burned ye out with him a-leadin' 'em. i watched him and know—see him with the can 'fore the fire began. it's as plain as day, mr. thayor. father's right—yer life ain't safe till ye git to the cars."
thayor's grizzled, unshaven jaw closed hard. he sat staring into the fire, every muscle in his haggard face tense.
"there's men me and you know in these woods now," continued dinsmore, "who ain't no more to blame in this ornery business 'n i be."
again thayor looked up in surprise.
"i had hoped as much," he said slowly, shaking his head. "there was not one of them, however, that came forward to help us—i am excepting, you understand, your father, freme, and holcomb. i owe them a debt of gratitude which i can never repay. why have you come, dinsmore?" he added, turning abruptly, with something of the briskness of his old business-like manner.
"because ye've been good to me," replied the hide-out; "that's why i come; i wanted to do ye a good turn—i ain't got nothin' else to give ye."
"good to you—i don't understand."
"i come to thank ye, mr. thayor. i see ye once the day ye got the buck. father told me your name after ye'd gone. he and me eat up what ye left, and i got the money ye left fer me—myra hathaway's takin' care of it—she's got my leetle gal. yes—i seen ye more 'n once. you ain't never seen me—folks don't see me as a rule; but i've seen you many a time when ye've stepped by me and i've been layin' hid out; times when i'd starved if it hadn't been for him"—and he nodded across the fire to blakeman.
"i caught a partridge once he'd winged," he went on, "and give it to him, seein' he was a city man and wouldn't know me. he see i was poor—thought i had run away from some gov'ment place and i let it go at that. he used to give me what was left from the kitchen; he'd come out and leave it hid for me 'long 'bout dark—your hired man asleep over thar, i'm talkin' 'bout. he said you wouldn't mind—not if you knowed how bad off i was for a snack to eat. i might hev stole it from ye more'n once, but i ain't never stole nothin'—i ain't a thief, mr. thayor."
"why didn't you come to me?" asked thayor, after a moment's pause.
he was strangely moved at the man's story. "i would have helped you,
dinsmore. i have told holcomb repeatedly i wanted to help you."
"so billy told me, and so did my father—but i 'most give up bein' helped."
"how long have you been in this misery of yours?"
"a long time," he replied nervously; "a long time. thar's been days and nights when i wished i was dead."
"after you killed bailey?" asked thayor quietly, meeting the eyes of the outcast. the figure beside him began to tremble, clenching his bony hands in an effort to steady them; then he looked up.
"you know?" he faltered huskily. "you know?" he repeated.
thayor nodded.
"you know what i done! god knows i had a right to! they say i ain't fit to live among men."
again thayor stared into the fire.
"how they've hounded me," dinsmore went on, clearing his thin voice as best he could—a voice unaccustomed to conversation. "the winter's the worst; you ain't never been hounded in winter. you ain't never knowed what it is to go hongry and alone. it'll give ye a new idee consarnin' folks. i used to think i knew the woods, but i tell ye i know 'em now. i've got friends in 'em now," he went on, as if confiding a secret; "sometimes a fox will leave me what he ain't ate—i've known a wolverine git a dum sight more human than them that's been huntin' me. him and me shared the same cave—he got to know me—he was a great fisher. i got him out of a trap twice—he see i warn't goin' to hurt him."
thayor sat looking steadily into the hollow, tired eyes like a man in a dream, forgetting even to question him further. moreover, he knew he was telling the truth, and that dinsmore's frankness was proof enough that he had much to say to him of importance. somehow he felt that in his disconnected narrative he would slowly lead to it. his character in this respect was much like his father's.
"winter's the worst," repeated dinsmore, the effort of speaking already perceptible in his drawn features—"nights when yer heart seems froze and ye wait for mornin' and the sun to thaw in; the sun's most as good as food when yer that way. i tried, twice, to git across the line into canady, but i come back. i hadn't no friends thar, and somehow these here woods i knowed seemed kinder. besides, i always had the chance of seein' father and sometimes billy and freme; and sometimes—my little gal." he paused, trying to proceed more directly with the drift of what he wished to say. for some moments his mind seemed vacant. at length he resumed:
"i knowed ye couldn't git clear of them fellers by way of morrison's. i was layin' hid when i see the fire start; i see some fellers from whar i was run across the road; thar was more of 'em sneakin' off back to the camp. they was someways off from me, but i could see 'em plain. i'd hev got to ye then but i dassent run no risk; thar's a reward out on me dead or alive. bimeby i see ye all cross the brook and i knowed ye was safe and that father'd do the best he knowed how fer ye. when it come night i begun to travel, hopin' to strike yer tracks, but the fire cut me off and i had to lay hid till the wind shifted. soon's i see it was safe to travel i come along huntin' for ye and father. 't warn't till i come through the swamp at bear pond that i struck yer tracks—seen 'em plain then and the way ye was a-goin'. long 'bout four o'clock to-day i heared some fellers' voices ahead of me down in a holler. then i see smoke and knowed they was camped close by. bimeby i crawled out from whar i was hid and clum a tree. i see 'em plain then—six of 'em; they was eatin' dinner—all of 'em lumber jacks from the lower shanty; one was a frenchy from his talk. thar warn't none of 'em i knowed in perticlar 'cept eph edmunds, and he was layin' drunk 'longside the fire. i heared one of 'em say thar warn't no use follerin' ye further; that ye'd most likely got to the cars. then another feller says, says he, "i tell ye we've got to find him; 't won't do to let him git away—there'll be hell to pay."
thayor shook his head gloomily.
"what have i done, dinsmore, that i should be hunted even like you?" he sighed. for some moments the hide-out did not speak. finally he continued:
"i had a reason for what i done," and a strange glitter came into his eyes. "see here, mr. thayor, you're human and maybe you'll understand; i'm goin' to tell ye the truth. i give bailey all the chance in the world; i even come to him like a friend and says to him what's mine ain't yours; i ain't never troubled ye nor your woman—we was happy—me and my wife, 'fore he begun to put notions in her head. 't warn't long 'fore she begun to think thar warn't nobody like bailey. he kep' store then close by whar we lived, and he give her most anythin' she wanted. she called it 'credit'.
"one day bailey went off to montreal, where bergstein had a place fixed up for her. i'd been off trappin' up big shanty, and when i come back home next night she was gone. she didn't come back for most a week, and when she come i see she was drunk. bailey come back the next day. i sot waitin' for him on the store porch. when he see me he come up to me uglier'n sin. 'who in hell invited you? he says. he weighed twice as much as me, and i see he was fightin' mad. he leapt like a cat to one side of me and 'fore i knowed it he had me down. them what was in the store come out, but thar warn't one of 'em that darst lay hands on bailey. we wrastled some in the road—the dust blinded me. then he begun to kick me in the mouth and back; i couldn't see for the blood. when i woke up i was to home and i seen she was gone. bimeby i crawled out of bed into the kitchen and i see ed sumner settin' 'longside the stove. 'bob,' says he, 'he used ye awful, no use talkin'—he liked to killed ye; i hauled him clear o' ye and carried ye back home. ye'd better git back into bed,' says he. 'doc' rand'll be here 'fore long; i'll be back in an hour,' says he. 'fore i knowed it he was gone. that was 'bout three o'clock; the sun was shinin' warm in the kitchen and i sot thar thinkin' and gittin' steadier and madder. bimeby i filled the magazine of my winchester and started to find bailey. thar was more'n a dozen on the store porch when i come up. when they seen me they slunk back in the store and shut the door. i stood thar waitin' in the road; then i see bailey come out. 'hain't you got your satisfy?' he says, 'you—' and i see him jerk out a revolver. he was jest steppin' off the porch when my first ball hit him. he give a scream, tumbled in the road and started to git up on his hands and knees; the second ball broke his neck. then i walked into the store. 'i'm through,' i says, 'but the first man that lays hands on me i'll kill same's i killed him.' thar warn't none of 'em that spoke or moved. what i needed i took and paid for; a box of ca'tridges, matches and a can of beef. i had a dollar bill and i laid it on the counter and walked out the store and started into the woods. that's the hull of it, mr. thayor. 'sposin it had been your wife, or your leetle gal. you'd hev done the same's i done, wouldn't ye?"
thayor breathed heavily.
"wouldn't ye?" insisted dinsmore. "he ruined her, body and soul—he stole her, i tell ye; he warn't satisfied with that—he got her to drinkin'. wouldn't ye a-killed him, mr. thayor?"
thayor's eyes sought the shadows between the pines; for an instant he did not reply. suddenly sperry's face loomed before him and as instantly vanished, only to appear again as certain excuses hitherto explainable became for the first time obscure and suggestive. then the words of alice's song rang in his ears and a thrill of joy quivered through him.
again the hide-out repeated the question.
"wouldn't ye, mr. thayor?"
thayor turned his head and faced the hide-out.
"yes," he said slowly, between his clenched teeth; "i would have killed him too, mr. dinsmore."
"and yet they say i ain't fit to live 'mong men," murmured the thin voice, grown fainter from speaking. "god knows they've made me suffer for what i done."
"where is she?" asked thayor, a certain tenderness creeping into his voice.
there was no reply.
"have you no news of your wife?"
"i dunno; i ain't never laid eyes on her since," he answered wearily. "i can't even ask no one; father said he heard she was in montreal, where bergstein had some hold on her. i'd have took her back if i'd been free. 't won't never be no use now—i won't never be free, mr. thayor."
again silence fell upon the group; each one was occupied with his own thoughts. the old man had slouched closer and had settled himself beside his son, his hand on the outcast's knee. thayor's voice broke the silence.
"where are these men you ran across, dinsmore?" he asked abruptly, a ring of determination in his voice.
"'bout eight mile from here, i figger it—in a holler southeast of alder swamp," answered the hide-out, returning to a sense of his surroundings.
"and you say they were camped?"
"yes, i see them cut some timber for a lean-to. like as not they cal'lated to make it a kind of headquarters for a day or so, strikin' off by twos to find ye. that's what i come to tell ye; i didn't want ye to be took. i knowed i'd find ye if i kep' on—i'm more used than most of 'em to travellin' in the dark."
"could you find them again, dinsmore?"
"yes, but i'd hev to be twice as keerful. it'd be all up with me if they was to see me."
"i will take care of that," replied thayor briskly.
"what do ye mean?" stammered dinsmore.
"i mean that you shall take me to them to-morrow."
"but i ain't goin' to let ye risk yer life if i—"
"i mean what i say, dinsmore. i start at daylight."
