“For God’s sake give me suthin’ to eat.”

THE GIRL FROM TIM’S PLACE

THE GIRL FROM
TIM’S PLACE

BY

CHARLES CLARK MUNN

Author of “Pocket Island,” “Uncle Terry,” “The
Hermit,” “Rockhaven.”

ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK T. MERRILL

New York

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Published, March, 1906.

Copyright, 1906, by
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

All rights reserved.

The Girl from Tim’s Place.

INTRODUCTION

When we leave the world’s busy haunts and penetrate the primal solitude of a vast wilderness, a new realm peopled by mystic genii opens to us. Each sombre gorge, where twisted roots clasp the moss-coated walls, discloses fabled gnomes and dryads. Nymphs and naiads outline their shadowy forms in the mist of every cascade. Elfin sprites dance in the ripples of a laughing brook, and brownies scamper away over the leaf-swept hilltops.

A wondrous Presence, multiform, omnipresent, and ever fascinating, meets us on every hand, and there in those magic aisles and sombre glades, where man seems far away and God very near, Nature sits enthroned.

It is with the hope that a few of my readers may feel this forest-born mood, and in its poetic spirit forget worldly cares, that I have written the story of “The Girl from Tim’s Place.”

THE AUTHOR.

PART I
CHIP MCGUIRE

CHAPTER I

Chip was very tired. All that long June day, since Tim’s harsh, “Come, out wid ye,” had roused her to daily toil, until now, wearied and disconsolate, she had crept, barefoot, up the back stairs to her room, not one moment’s rest or one kindly word had been hers.

Below, in the one living room of Tim’s Place, the men were grouped playing cards, and the medley of their oaths, their laughter, the thump of knuckles on the bare table, and the pungent odor of pipes, reached her through the floor cracks. Outside the fireflies twinkled above the slow-running river and along the stump-dotted hillside. Close by, a few pigs dozed contentedly in their rudely constructed sty.

A servant to those scarce fit for servants, a menial at the beck and call of all Tim’s Place, and laboring with the men in the fields, Chip, a girl of almost sixteen, felt her soul revolt at the filth, the brutality, the coarse existence of those whose slave she was.

And what a group they were!

First, Tim Connor, the owner and master of this oasis in the wilderness, sixty miles from the nearest settlement; his brother Mike, as coarse; their wives and a half a dozen children who played with the pigs, squealed as often for food, and were left to grow up the same way; and Pierre Lubec, the hired man, completed the score.

There was another transient resident here, an old Indian named Tomah, who came with the snow, and deserted his hut below on the river bank when spring unlocked that stream.

Two occasional visitors also came here, both even more objectionable to Chip than Tim and his family. One was her father, known to her to be an outlaw and escaped murderer in hiding; the other a half-breed named Bolduc, but known as One-eyed Pete, a trapper and hunter whose abode was a log cabin on the Fox Hole, ten miles away. His face was horribly scarred by a wildcat’s claws; one eye-socket was empty; his lips, chin, and protruding teeth were always tobacco-stained. For three months now, he had made weekly calls at Tim’s Place, in pursuit of Chip. His wooing, as might be expected, had been a persistent leering at her with his one sinister eye, oft-repeated innuendoes and insinuations of lascivious nature, scarce understood by her, with now and then attempted familiarity. These advances had met with much the same reception once accorded him by the wildcat.

Both these visitors were now with the group below. That fact was of no interest to Chip, except in connection with a more pertinent one–a long conference she had observed between them that day. What it was about, she could not guess, and yet some queer intuition told her that it concerned her. Ordinarily, she would have sought sleep in her box-on-legs bed; now she crouched on the floor, listening.

For an hour the game and its medley of sounds continued; then cessation, the tramp of heavily shod feet, the light extinguished, and finally–silence. A few minutes of this, and then the sound of whispered converse, low yet distinct, reached Chip from outside. Cautiously she crept to her window.

“I gif you one hunerd dollars now, for ze gal,” Pete was saying, “an’ one hunerd more when you fotch her.”

“It’s three hundred down, I’ve told ye, or we don’t do business,” was her father’s answer, in almost a hiss.

A pain like a knife piercing her heart came to Chip.

“But s’pose she run away?” came in Pete’s voice.

“What, sixty miles to a settlement? You must be a damn fool!”

“An’ if she no mind me?”

“Wal, thrash her then; she’s yours.”

“But I no gif so much,” parleyed Pete; “I gif you one-feefty now, an’ one hunerd when she come.”

“You’ll give what I say, and be quick about it, or I’ll take her out to-morrow, and you’ll never see her again; so fork over.”

“And you fotch her to-morrow?”

“Yes, I told you.” And so the bargain was concluded.

Only a moment more, while Chip sat numb and dazed, then came the sound of footsteps, as the two men separated, and then silence over Tim’s Place.

And yet, what a horror for Chip! Sold like a horse or a pig to this worse than disgusting half-breed, and on the morrow to be taken–no, dragged–to the half-breed’s hut by her hated father.

Hardly conscious of the real intent and object of this purchase, she yet understood it dimly. Life here was bad enough–it was coarse, unloved, even filthy, and yet, hard as it was, it was a thousand times better than slavery with such an owner.

And now, still weak and trembling from the shock, she raised her head cautiously and peeped out of the window. A faint spectral light from the rising moon outlined the log barn, the two log cabins, and pigsty, which, with the frame house she was in, comprised Tim’s Place. Above and beyond where the forest enclosed the hillside, it shone brighter, and as Chip looked out upon the ethereal silvered view, away to the right she saw the dark opening into the old tote road. Up this they had brought her, eight years before. Never since had she traversed it; and yet, as she looked at it now, an inspiration born of her father’s sneer came to her.

It was a desperate chance, a foolhardy step–a journey so appalling, so almost hopeless, she might well hesitate; and yet, escape that way was her one chance. Only a moment longer she waited, then gathering her few belongings–a pair of old shoes, the moccasins Old Tomah had given her, a skirt and jacket fashioned from Tim’s cast-off garments, a fur cap, and soft felt hat–she thrust them into a soiled pillow-case and crept down the stairs.

Once out, she looked about, listened, then darted up the hillside, straight for the tote road entrance. Here she paused, put on her moccasins, and looked back.

The moon, now above the tree-tops, shone full upon Tim’s Place, softening and silvering all its ugliness and all its squalor. Away to the left stood Tomah’s hut, across the river, a shining path bright and rippled.

In spite of the awful dread of her situation and the years of her hard, unpaid, and ofttimes cursed toil, a pang of regret now came to her. This was her home, wretched as it was. Here she had at least been fed and warmed in winters, and here Old Tomah had shown her kindness. Oh, if he were only in his hut now, that she might go and waken him softly, and beg him to take her in his canoe and speed down the river!

But no! only her own desperate courage would now avail, and realizing that this look upon Tim’s Place was the last one, she turned and fled down the path. Sixty miles of stony, bush-encumbered, brier-grown, seldom-travelled road lay ahead of her! Sixty miles of mingled swamp, morass, and rock-ribbed hill! Sixty miles through the sombre silence and persistent menace of a wilderness, peopled only by death-intending creatures, yellow-eyed and sharp-fanged!

With only a sickening, soul-nauseating fate awaiting her at Tim’s Place, and her sole escape this almost insane flight, she sped on. The faint, spectral rifts of moonlight through interlaced fir and spruce as often deceived as aided her; bending boughs whipped her, bushes and logs tripped her, sharp stones and pointed sticks bit her; she hurried over hillocks, wallowed through sloughs and dashed into tangles of briers, heedless of all except her one mad impulse to escape.

Soon the ever present menace of a wilderness assailed her,–the yowl of a wildcat close at hand; in a swamp, the sharp bark of a wolf; on a hillside above her, the hoot of an owl; and when after two hours of this desperate flight had exhausted her and she was forced to halt, strange creeping, crawling things seemed all about.

And now the erratic, fantastic belief of Old Tomah returned to her. With him the forest was peopled by a weird, uncanny race, sometimes visible and sometimes not–“spites,” he called them, and they were the souls of both man and beast; sometimes good, sometimes evil, according as they had been in life, and all good or ill luck was due to their ghostly influences. They followed the hunter and trapper day and night, luring him into safety or danger, as they chose. They were everywhere, and in countless numbers, ready and sure to avenge all wrongs and reward all virtues. They had a Chieftain also, a great white spectre who came forth from the north in winter, and swept across the wilderness, spreading death and terror.

Many times at Tim’s Place, Chip had sat enthralled on winter evenings, while Old Tomah described these mystic genii. They were so real to him that he made them real to her, and now, alone in this vast wilderness, spectral in the faint moonlight and filled with countless terrors, they returned in full force. On every side she could see them, creeping, crawling, through the undergrowth or along the interlaced boughs above her. She could hear the faint hiss of their breath in the night wind, see the gleam of their little eyes in dark places–they were crossing the path in front of her, following close behind, and gathering about her from every direction.

Beneath bright sunlight, a vast wilderness is at best a place peopled by many terrors. Its solitude seems uncanny, its shadow fearsome, its silence ominous. The creaking of limbs moving in the breeze sounds like the shriek of demons; the rush of winds becomes the hiss of serpents. Vague terrors assail one on every hand, and the rustle of each dry leaf, or breaking of every twig, becomes the footfall of a savage beast. We advance only with caution, oft halting to look and listen. A stern, defiant Presence seems everywhere confronting us, and the weird mysticism of Nature bids us beware. By night this invisible Something becomes of monstrous proportions. Ghosts fashion themselves out of each rift of light, and every rock, thick-grown tree-top, or dark shadow becomes a goblin.

To Chip, educated only in the fantastic lore of Old Tomah, these terrors now became insanity-breeding. She could not turn back–better death among the spites than slaving to the half-breed; and so, faint from awful fear, gasping from miles of running, she stumbled on. And now a little hope came, for the road bent down beside the river, and its low voice seemed a word of cheer. Into its cool depths she could at least plunge and die, as a last resort.

Soon an opening showed ahead, and a bridge appeared. Here, for the first time, on this vantage point, she halted. How thrice blessed those knotted logs now seemed! She hugged and patted them in abject gratitude. She crawled to the edge and looked over into the dark, gurgling water. Up above lay a faint ripple of silver. Here, also, she could see the moon almost at the zenith, and a few flickering stars.

A trifle of courage and renewal of hope now came. Her face and hands were scratched and bleeding, clothing torn, feet and legs black with mud. But these things she neither noticed nor felt–only that blessed bridge of logs that gave her safety, and the moon that bade her hope.

Then she began to count her chances. This landmark told her that five miles of her desperate journey had been covered and she was still alive. She began to calculate. How soon would her escape be discovered, and who would pursue her? Only Pete, her purchaser, she felt sure, and there was a possible chance that he might return to his cabin before doing so. Or perhaps he might sleep late, and thus give her one or two hours more of time.

All the goblin forms and hideous shapes of Old Tomah’s fancy were rushing and leaping about.

And now she began to review the usual morning movements at Tim’s Place–Tim the first one up, calling her, then going out to milking; the others, slower to arise, getting out and about their special duties. Pete, she knew, always slept in one of the two empty log cabins which were first built there. Her father slept in the other or in the barn. Neither would be called, she knew–it was get around in time for breakfast at Tim’s Place or go hungry. And so she speculated on her chances of early pursuit. Here on this bridge she now meant to remain until the first sign of dawn, then push on again with all speed. She already had a five-mile start, she was weary, footsore, and still faint from the awful terrors of her flight; to go on meant to rush into the swarm of spites once more, and so she lay inert on the hard logs watching, listening, calculating.

And now cheered by this trifling hope and lessening sense of danger, her past life came back. Her childhood in a far-off settlement; the home always in a turmoil from the strange men and women ever coming and going; the drinking, swearing, singing, at all hours of the night, her constant fear of them and wonder who they were and why they came. There were other features of this disturbed life: frequent quarrels between her father and mother; curses, tears, and sometimes blows, until at last after a night more hideous than any other her mother had taken her and fled. Then came a long journey to another village and a new life of peace and quietness. Here it was all so different–no red-shirted men to be afraid of, no loud-voiced women drinking with them. She became acquainted with other children of her own age, was sent to school and taken to church. Here, also, her mother began to smile once more, and look content. For two years, and the only ones Chip cared to recall, she had been a happy schoolgirl, and then came a sudden, tragic end to it all. Of that she never wished to think. It was all so horrible, and yet so mercifully brief.

The one friend life held, her mother, had been brought home, wounded to death amid the whirring wheels of the mill where she worked; there were a few hours of agonized dread as her life ebbed away, a whisper or two of love and longing, and then the sad farewell made doubly awful by her father’s frowning face and harsh voice. At its ending, and in spite of her fears and tears, she was now borne away by him. For days they journeyed deeper and deeper into a vast wilderness, to halt at last at Tim’s Place.

Like a dread dream it all came back now, as she lay there on this one flat spot of security–the bridge–and listened to the river’s low murmur.

The moon was lowering now. Already the shadow of the stream’s bordering trees had reached her. First the stars vanished, then the moon faded into a dim patch of light, finally that disappeared, a chill breeze swept down from a neighboring mountain, and the trees began to moan and creak. Then a fiercer blast swept through the forest, the great firs and spruces bent and groaned and screamed. Surely the spites were gathering in force again, and this was their doing.

Once more she began to hear them creeping, crawling, over the bridge. They spit, they snarled, they growled. The darkness grew more intense, no longer could the river’s course be seen, but only a black chasm.

All through her mad flight the wilderness had been ghostly and spectral in the moonlight; now it had become lost in inky blackness, yet alive with demoniac voices. All the goblin forms and hideous shapes of Old Tomah’s fancy were rushing and leaping about. Now high up in the tree-tops, now deep in the hollows, they screamed and shrieked and moaned.

And now, just as this fierce battle of sound and spectral shape was at its worst, and Chip, a hopeless, helpless mite of humanity, crouched low upon the bridge, suddenly a vicious growl reached her, and raising her head she saw at the bridge’s end two gleaming eyes!

CHAPTER II

Martin Frisbie and his nephew Raymond Stetson, or Ray, were cutting boughs and carrying them to two tents standing in the mouth of a bush-choked opening into the forest. In front of this Angie, Martin’s wife, was placing tin dishes, knives, and forks, upon a low table of boards. Upon the bank of a broad, slow-running stream, two canoes were drawn out, and halfway between these and the table a camp-fire burnt.

Here Levi, Martin’s guide for many trips into this wilderness, was also occupied, intently watching two pails depending from bending wambecks, a coffee-pot hanging from another, and two frying-pans, whose sputtering contents gave forth an enticing odor.

Twilight was just falling, the river murmured in low melody, and a few rods above a small rill entered it, adding a more musical tinkle.

Soon Levi deftly swung one of the pails away from the flame with a hook-stick and speared a potato with a fork.

“Supper ready,” he called; and then as the rest seated themselves at the table, he advanced, carrying the pail of steaming potatoes on the hooked stick and the frying-pan in his other hand.

The meal had scarce begun when a crackling in the undergrowth back of the tent was heard, and on the instant there emerged a girl. Her clothing was in shreds, her face and hands were black with mud, streaks of blood showed across cheek and chin, and her eyes were fierce and sunken.

“For God’s sake give me suthin’ to eat,” she said, looking from one to another of the astonished group. “I’m damn near starved–only a bite,” she added, sinking to her knees and extending her hands. “I hain’t eat nothin’ but roots ’n’ berries for three days.”

Angie was the first to recover. “Here,” she said, hastily extending her plate, “take this.”

Without a word the starved creature grasped it and began eating as only a desperate, hungry animal would, while the group watched her.

“Don’t hurry so,” exclaimed Martin, whose wits had now returned. “Here, take this cup of coffee.”

Soon the food vanished and then the girl arose. “Sit down again, my poor child,” entreated Angie, who had observed the strange scene with moist eyes, “and tell us who you are and where you came from.”

“My name’s Chip,” answered the girl, bluntly, “an’ I’m runnin’ away from Tim’s Place, ’cause dad sold me to Pete Bolduc.”

“Sold–you–to–Pete–Bolduc,” exclaimed Angie, looking at her wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“He did, sartin,” answered the girl, laconically. “I heerd ’em makin’ the bargain, ’n’ I fetched three hundred dollars.”

Martin and his wife exchanged glances.

“Well, and then what?” continued Angie.

“Wal, then I waited a spell, till they’d turned in,” explained the girl, “and then I lit out. I knowed ’twas sixty miles to the settlement, but ’twas moonlight ’n’ I chanced it. I’ve had an awful time, though, the spites hev chased me all the way. I was jist makin’ a nestle when I seed yer light, an’ I crept through the brush ’n’ peeked. I seen ye wa’n’t nobody from Tim’s Place, ’n’ then I cum out. I guess you’ve saved my life. I was gittin’ dizzy.”

It was a brief, blunt story whose directness bespoke truth; but it revealed such a pigsty state of morality at this Tim’s Place that the little group of astonished listeners could scarce finish supper or cease watching this much-soiled girl.

“And so your name is Chip,” queried Angie at last. “Chip what?”

“Chip McGuire,” answered the waif, quickly; “only my real name ain’t Chip, it’s Vera; but they’ve allus called me Chip at Tim’s Place.”

“And your father sold you to this man?”

“He did, ’n’ he’s a damn bad man,” replied Chip, readily. “He killed somebody once, an’ he don’t show up often. I hate him!”

“You mustn’t use swear words,” returned Angie, “it’s not nice.”

The girl looked abashed. “I guess you’d cuss if you’d been sold to such a nasty-looking man as Pete,” she responded. “He chaws terbaccer ’n’ lets it drizzle on his chin, ’n’ he hain’t but one eye.”

Angie smiled, while Martin stared at the girl with increased astonishment. He knew who this McGuire was, and something of his history, and that Tim’s Place was a hillside clearing far up the river, inhabited by an Irish family devoted to the raising of potatoes. He had halted there once, long enough to observe its somewhat slothful condition, and to buy pork and potatoes; but this tale was a revelation, and the girl herself a greater one.

This oasis in the wilderness was fully forty miles above here, its only connection with civilization was a seldom-used log road which only an experienced woodsman could follow, and how this mere child had dared it, was a marvel.

But there she was, squat on the ground and watching them with big black, pleading eyes. There was but one thing to do, to care for her now, as humanity insisted, and Angie made the first move. It was in the direction of cleanliness; for entering the tent, she soon appeared with some of her own extra clothing, soap, and towels, and bade the girl follow her up the river a few rods.

The moon was shining clearly above the tree-tops, the camp-fire burned brightly, and Martin, Ray, and Levi were lounging near it when the two returned, and in one an astonishing transformation had taken place.

Angie had gone away with a girl of ten in respect to clothing, her skirt evidently made of gunny cloth and reaching but little below her knees, and for a waist, what was once a man’s red flannel shirt, and both in rags. Soiled with black mud, and bleeding, she was an object pitiable beyond words; she returned a young lady, almost, in stature, her face shining and rosy, and her eyes so tender with gratitude that they were pathetic.

Another change had also come with cleanliness and clothing–a sudden bashfulness. It was some time ere she could be made to talk again, but finally that wore away and then her story came. What a tale it was–scarce credible.

At first were growing terrors as she plunged deeper and deeper into the shadowy forest, the brush and logs that tripped her, the mud holes she wallowed through, the ever increasing horrors of this flight, the blood-chilling cries of night prowlers, the gathering darkness while she waited on the bridge, the awful moment when she saw two yellow eyes watching her, not twenty feet away, her screams of agonized fear, and then time that seemed eternity, while she expected the next moment to feel the fangs of a hungry panther.

How blessed the first dawn of morning had seemed, how she ran on and on, until faint with hunger she halted to eat roots, leaves, berries–anything to sustain life! The river had been her one boon of hope and consolation, and even beyond the fear of wild beast had been the dread of pursuit and capture by this half-breed. When night came, she had crept into a thicket, covering herself with boughs; when daylight dawned, she had pushed on again, ever growing weaker and oft stumbling from faintness.

Hope had almost vanished, her strength had quite left her, the last day had been a partial blank so far as knowledge of her progress went, but filled with eerie sights and sounds. From first to last the spites of Old Tomah had kept her company–by day she heard them, swifter-footed than she, in the undergrowth; by night they were all about, dodging behind trees, hopping from limb to limb, and sometimes snapping and snarling. The one supreme moment of joy, oft referred to, was when she had seen her rescuers’ camp-fire, with human, and possibly friendly, faces about it.

It was a fantastic, weird, almost spookish tale,–the spectres she had seen were so real to her that the telling made them seem almost so to the rest, and beyond that, the girl herself, so like a young witch, with her shadowy eyes and furtive glances, added to the illusion.

But now came a diversion, for Levi freshened the fire, and at a nod from Angie, Ray brought forth his banjo. It was his one pet foible, and it went with him everywhere, and now, with time and place so in accord, he was glad to exhibit his talent. He was not an expert,–a few jigs and plantation melodies composed his repertory,–but with the moonlight glinting through the spruce boughs, the river murmuring near, somehow one could not fail to catch the quaint humor of “Old Uncle Ned,” “Jim Crack Corn,” and the like, and see the two dusky lovers as they floated down the “Tombigbee River,” and feel the pathos of “Nellie Grey” and “Old Kentucky Home.”

Ray sang fairly well and in sympathy with each theme. To Angie and the rest it was but ordinary; but to this waif, who never before had heard a banjo or a darky song, it was marvellous. Her face lit up with keen interest, her eyes grew misty at times, and once two tears stole down her cheeks.

For an hour Ray was the centre of interest, and then Angie arose.

“Come, Chip,” she said pleasantly, “it’s time to go to bed, and you are to share my tent.”

“I’d rather not,” the girl replied bluntly. “I ain’t fit. I kin jist ez well curl ’longside o’ the fire.”

But Angie insisted and the girl followed her into the tent.

Here occurred another incident that must be related. Angie, always devout, and somewhat puritanical, was one who never forgot her nightly prayer, and now, when ready for slumber, she knelt on the bed of fir twigs, and by the light of one small candle offered her usual petition, while Chip watched her with wide and wondering eyes. As might be expected, that waif was mentioned, and with deep feeling.

“Do ye s’pose God heard ye?” she queried with evident candor, when Angie ceased.

“Why, certainly,” came the earnest answer; “God hears all prayers.”

“And do the spites hear ’em?”

“There are no such creatures as ‘spites,’” answered Angie, severely; “you only imagine them, and what this Indian has told you is superstition.”

“But I’ve seen ’em, hundreds on ’em, big and little,” returned the girl, stoutly.

Angie looked at her with pity.

“Put that notion out of your head, once for all,” she said, almost sternly. “It is only a delusion, and no doubt told to scare you.”

And poor Chip, conscious that perhaps she had sinned in speech, said no more.

For a long time Angie lay sleepless upon her fragrant bed, recalling the waif’s strange story and trying to grasp the depth and breadth of her life at Tim’s Place; also to surmise, if possible, how serious a taint of evil she had inherited. That her father was vile beyond compare seemed positive; that her mother might have been scarce better was probable. No mention, thus far, had been made of her; and so Angie reflected upon this pitiful child’s ancestry and what manner of heritage she had been blessed or cursed with. Some of her attributes awoke Angie’s admiration. She had shown utter abhorrence of this brutal sale of herself, a marvellous courage in endeavoring to escape it. She seemed grateful for what had been done for her, and a partial realization of her own unfitness for association with refined people. Her speech was no worse than might be expected from her life at Tim’s Place. Doubtless, she was unable to read or write. And so Angie lay, considering all the pros and cons of the situation and of this girl’s life.

There was also another side to it all, the humane one. They were on their way out of the wilderness, for a business visit to the nearest settlement, intending to return to the woods in a few days–and what was to be done with this child of misfortune?

Most assuredly they must protect her for the present. But was there any one to whom she could be turned over and cared for? It seemed possible this brutal buyer of her would follow her out of the woods, to abduct her if found, and then the moral side of this episode with all its abominable possibilities occurred to Angie, who was, above all, unselfish and noble-hearted. Vice, crime, and immorality were horrible to her.

Here was a self-evident duty thrusting itself upon her, and how to meet it with justice to herself, her husband, and her own conscience, was a problem. Thus dwelling upon this complex situation, she fell asleep.

The first faint light of morning was stealing into the tent when Angie felt her companion stir. She had, exhausted as she doubtless was, fallen asleep almost the moment she lay down; but now she was evidently awake.

Curious to note what she would do, Angie remained with closed eyes and motionless. From the corner of the tent where she had curled up the night before, the girl now cautiously crept toward the elder woman. Inch by inch, upon the bed of boughs, she moved nearer, until Angie, watching with half-open eyes, saw her head lowered, and felt two soft warm lips touch her hand.

It was a trifle. It was no more than the act of a cat who rubs herself against her mistress or a dog who licks his master’s hand, and yet it settled once for all that waif’s fate and Angie’s indecision.

CHAPTER III

“Women are like grasshoppers–ye kin never tell which way they’re goin’ to jump.”–Old Cy Walker.

Levi was starting a fire, Ray washing potatoes, and Martin, in his shirt-sleeves, using a towel vigorously near the canoes, when Angie and Chip emerged that morning; and now while breakfast is under way, a moment may be seized to explain who these people were and their mission in this wilderness.

Many years before, in a distant village called Greenvale, two brothers, David and Amzi Curtis, had quarrelled over an unfortunate division of inherited land. The outcome was that Amzi, somewhat misanthropic over the death of his wife, and of peculiar make-up, deserted his home and little daughter Angeline, and vanished. For many years no one knew of his whereabouts, and he was given up as dead.

In the meantime his child, cared for by a kindly woman known as Aunt Comfort, had grown to womanhood. About this time a boyhood sweetheart of Angeline’s, named Martin Frisbie, who had been gathering wealth in a distant city, invited a former schoolmate, now the village doctor in Greenvale, to join him on an outing trip into the wilderness.

Here something of the history of a notorious outlaw named McGuire became known to Martin, and more important than that, a queer old hermit was discovered, dwelling in solitude on the shore of a small lake. Who he was, and why this strange manner of life, Martin could not learn, and not until later, when he returned to Greenvale to woo his former sweetheart once more, did he even guess. Here, however, from a description furnished by a village nondescript,–a sort of Natty Bumpo and philosopher combined, known as Old Cy Walker, who had been Martin’s youthful companion,–he was led to believe that the queer hermit and the long-missing Amzi were one and the same.

Another trip into this wilderness with Old Cy, taken to identify the hermit, resulted in proving the correctness of the surmise. Then Martin set about making this misanthropic recluse more comfortable in all ways possible; and then, leaving Old Cy to keep him company, he returned to Greenvale and Angie.

A marriage was the outcome of his return to his native village, and then, with his nephew, Ray, and long-tried guide, Levi, as helpers on this unique wedding trip, the hermit was visited.

It was hoped that meeting his child once more would result in inducing him to abandon his wildwood existence and to return to civilization; and it did–partially. He seemed happy to meet his daughter again, consented to return with them when ready, and after a couple of weeks’ sojourn here, the canoes were packed and all set out for civilization and Greenvale once more.

But “home, sweet home,” albeit it was, as in this case, a lonely log cabin in a vast wilderness, proved stronger than parental love or aught else; and sometime during first night’s camp on the way out, this strange recluse stole away in his canoe and returned.

“It’s natur,” Old Cy observed when morning came, “an’ home is the hardest spot in the world to fergit. Amzi’s lived in that old shack all ’lone for twenty years. He’s got wonted to it like a dog to his kennel, an’ all the powers o’ the univarse can’t break up the feelin’.”

It seemed an indisputable, if disappointing, fact, and Martin led his party back to the hermit’s home once more.

Another plan was now considered by Martin–to buy the township, or at least a large tract enclosing this lake, build a more commodious log cabin for the use of himself and his wife, and spend a portion of each summer there. There were several reasons other than those of affection for this decision.

This lake, perhaps half a mile in diameter, teemed with trout. The low mountains enclosing it were thickly covered with fine spruce and fir, groves of pine with some beech and birch grew in the valleys; deer, moose, and feathered game abounded here, and best of all, no vandal lumbermen ever encroached upon this region.

It was, all considered, a veritable sportsman’s paradise. Most likely a few thousand dollars would purchase it, and so, for these collective reasons, Martin decided to buy it.

Old Cy was left to keep the hermit company; Martin, his wife, and Ray, with Levi, started for civilization to obtain needed supplies, and had been four days upon the way when this much-abused waif appeared on the scene. The party were journeying in two canoes, one manned by Ray, who had already learned to wield a paddle, which carried the tents and luggage; while the other was occupied by Martin, his wife, and Levi. The only available seat for the new arrival was in Ray’s canoe, and when breakfast was disposed of and the voyagers ready to start, she was given a place therein.

The river at this point was broad and of slow current, only two days’ journey was needful to reach the settlement, and no cause for worry appeared–but Levi felt otherwise.

“You’d best hug the futher shore,” he observed to Ray quietly when the boy pushed off, “an’ don’t git out o’ sight o’ us.” “I ain’t sartin ’bout the outcome o’ this matter,” he said to Martin later. “I know that half-breed, Bolduc, and he’s a bad ’un. From the gal’s story he paid big money fer her. He don’t know the meanin’ o’ law, and if he follers down the tote road, as I callate he will, ’n’ ketches sight o’ her, the first we’ll know on’t ’ll be the crack o’ a rifle. The wonder to me is he didn’t ketch her ’fore she got to us. He could track her faster’n she could run. I don’t want to ’larm you folks, but I shan’t feel easy till we’re out o’ the woods.”

It wasn’t reassuring.

But no thought of this came to Ray, at least, and these two young people, yielding to the magic of the morning, the rippled river that bore them onward, the birds singing along the fir-clad banks, and all the exhilaration of the wilderness, soon reached the care-free converse of youthful friends.

“I never had nothin’ but work ’n’ cussin’,” Chip responded, when Ray asked if she never had any time she could call her own. “Tim thinked I couldn’t get tired, I guess. He’d roust me up fust of all ’n’ larrup me if he caught me shirkin’. Once I had a little posey bed back o’ the pig-pen. I fixed it after dark an’ mornin’s when I ketched the chance. He ketched me thar one mornin’ a-weedin’ it ’n’ knocked me sprawlin’ an’ then stomped all over the posies. That night I went out into the woods ’n’ begged the spites to git him killed somehow. ’Nother time I forgot to put up the bars, an’ the cows got into the taters. That night he tied me to a stump clus to the bars, an’ left me thar all night. I used to be more skeered o’ my dad ’n I was o’ Tim, tho’. He’d look at me like he hated me, an’ say, ‘Shut up,’ if I said a word, an’ I ’most believed he’d kill me, just fer nothin’. Once he said he’d take me out into the woods at night ’n’ bait a bear trap with me if he heerd I didn’t mind Tim. I told Old Tomah that, an’ he said if he did, he’d shoot him; but Old Tomah wasn’t round only winters. I hated dad so I’d ’a’ shot him myself, I guess, if I cud ’a’ got hold o’ a gun when he wa’n’t watchin’.”

“It’s awful to have to feel that way toward your own father,” interrupted Ray, “for he was your father.”

“I s’pose ’twas,” admitted Chip, candidly, “but I never felt much different. I’ve seen him slap mother when she was on her knees a-bawlin’, an’ the way he would cuss her was awful.”

“But you had some friendship from this old Indian,” queried Ray, who began to realize what a pitiful life the girl had led; “he was good to you, wasn’t he?”

“He was, sartin,” returned Chip, eagerly; “he used to tell me the spites ’ud fix dad ’fore long, so he’d never show up agin, ’n’ when I got big ’nuff he’d sneak me off some night ’n’ take me to the settlement, whar I could arn a livin’. Old Tomah was the only one who cared a cuss fer me. I used to bawl when he went away every spring, an’ beg him to take me ’long ’n’ help him camp ’n’ cook. I’d ’a’ done ’most anything fer Old Tomah. I didn’t mind havin’ to work all the time fer Tim. I didn’t mind wearin’ clothes made out o’ old duds ’n’ bein’ cussed fer not workin’ hard ’nuff. What I did mind was not havin’ nobody who cared whether I lived or died, or said a good word to me. Sometimes I got so lonesome, I used to go out in the woods nights when ’twas moonlight ’n’ beg the spites to help me. I used to think mother might be one on ’em ’n’ she’d keer fer me. I think she was, an’ ’twas her as kept me goin’ till I found you folks’s camp. I got awful skeered them nights I was runnin’ away, an’ when ’twas so dark I couldn’t see no more, an’ I heerd wildcats yowlin’, I’d git on my knees ’n’ beg mother to keep ’em away. I think she did, an’ allus shall.”

Much more in connection with the wild, harsh life Chip had led for eight years was now told by her. Old Tomah’s superstition and belief in hobgoblins were enlarged upon. Life at Tim’s Place, with all its filth, brutality, and nearly animal existence, was described in full; for Chip’s tongue, once loosened, ran on and on, while Ray, spellbound by this description, was scarce conscious he was wielding a paddle. Never before had he heard such a tale, so unusual and so pathetic. Naturally of chivalrous and manly nature, it appealed to him as naught else could. Then the girl herself, with her big, pleading eyes, her queer belief in those woodsy, spectral forms she called spites, and her free and easy confidence in him, and his sympathy also, surprised Ray. Her speech was coarse and crude–the vernacular of Tim’s Place. Now and then a profane word crept in; yet it was absolute truth, and forceful from its very simplicity.

But another influence, more potent than her wrongs, was now appealing to Chip–her sense of joy at her rescue, and with it a positive faith that the spites had been the means of her escape.

“I know they did it,” she said time and again, “an’ I know mother was one on ’em. I wished I cud do suthin’ to show ’em how thankful I am ’n’ how happy I am now.” And Ray, astonished that so keen-witted and courageous a girl should have such a fantastic belief, made no comment.

A more serious subject was under discussion in the other canoe, meantime, as to the future disposition of Chip herself.

“I feel it my duty to take care of her,” Angie said, after relating her conversation with Chip and that morning’s incident. “She is a homeless, outcast waif, needing education and everything else to Christianize her. We must bring her to the settlement, but to turn her adrift might mean leaving her to a life of vice, even if she escapes her brutal father and this worse half-breed. Then, again, I am not sure that her parentage will bear inspection. She has told me something about her earlier life, and about her mother, who evidently loved her. One course only seems plain to me,–to take care of and educate this unfortunate.”

“I am willing, my dear,” responded Martin, who, like all new husbands, was ready to concede anything, “only I suggest that you go a little slow. You can’t tell yet what this girl will develop into. She has had the worst possible parentage, without doubt. Her life at Tim’s Place, and contact with lumbermen or worse, has been no benefit. She is grossly ignorant, and may be ill-tempered, and once given to understand that you have practically adopted her, you can’t–or won’t–have the heart to turn her off. Now we are to return to the lake and remain a month, as you know, and in the meantime, what will you do with this girl?”

This was reducing Angie’s philanthropic impulses to a focus, as it were, and it set her thinking. Something more of this discussion followed, and finally Angie announced her decision.

“We must take the girl back with us,” she said, “and begin her reformation at the camp. If she shows any aptitude and willingness to obey, we will take her to Greenvale. If not, you must arrange to get her into some institution.”

“And suppose the half-breed finds where she is, what then?” inquired Martin.

“What do you say, Levi?” he added, turning to his guide, “you know this fellow; what will he be apt to do?”

“I s’pose you know what a panther’ll do, robbed of her cub,” Levi answered, “an’ how a bull moose acts in runnin’ time, mebbe. Wal, this Pete is worse’n both on ’em biled into one, I callate. If you’re goin’ ter take the gal back, you’ve got to keep her shady, or some day you’ll find her missin’. Besides, Pete, ez I told ye, don’t know the meanin’ o’ law and is handy with a gun.”

But Martin did not quite share Levi’s fears, and so Angie’s decision was agreed to. Levi’s advice to “keep shady” was accepted, however, and all through that summer’s somewhat thrilling experiences it was the rule of conduct.

When noon came, Levi led the way into a lagoon; in a secluded spot at its head dinner was cooked, and when the sun was well down and a tributary stream was reached, he turned into it, and halted not for the night camp until a full half-mile separated them from the river.

A certain vague sense of impending danger began to impress both Martin and his wife, and the woods seemed to hold a one-eyed, malicious villain who might appear at any moment. A danger which we know actually exists, we can avoid or meet squarely; but one merely imaginary becomes irksome and really more annoying.

No hint of this was dropped by the three older ones, and when the tents were pitched, long before twilight, and Martin and Ray had captured a goodly string of trout and the camp-fire was alight, this wildwood life seemed absolutely perfect, to the young folks at least.

Chip also showed one of the best features of her training. She wanted to help everybody and do everything, and Levi, who always did the cooking, was importuned to let her help. Strong as a young Amazon, she fetched and carried like a man, and the one thing that gladdened her most was permission to work.

When supper was over came the lounging beside the cheerful fire, and as the shadows thickened, forth came Ray’s banjo once more, and with it the light of admiration in Chip’s eyes.

All that day he had been her charming companion; his open, manly face, his bright brown eyes, had been ever before her. His well-bred ways, so unlike all the men at Tim’s Place, had impressed her as those of a youth of eighteen will a maid of sixteen; and now, with his voice appealing to the best in her, he seemed like Pan of old, once more wooing a nymph with his pipes.

No knowledge of this was hers, no consciousness of why she was happy came to her. She knew what spites were; but the god Pan and Apollo with his harp were unknown forms.

Neither did she realize that born in her soul that day, on the broad shining river, was a magic impulse woven out of heart throbs, and destined to mete out to her more sorrow than all else in her life combined.

She had entered the wondrous vale of love whose paths are flower-strewn, whose shores are rippled with laughter, and whose borders, alas! are ever hid in the midst of tears.

CHAPTER IV

“The wilderness allus seems full o’ spectres ’n’ creepin’ crawlin’ panthers. Sometimes I think it’s God, an’ then agin, the devil.”–Old Cy Walker.

Tim’s Place, this refuge in the wilderness, cleared and colonized by Tim Connor, was neither better nor worse than such pioneer openings in Nature’s domain are apt to be. Tim, a hardy Irishman of sod-hovel and potato-diet ancestors, had been blacksmith for a lumber camp on this broad river and at its junction with a tributary called the Fox Hole years before Chip was born.

When all the adjacent lumber was cut and sent down this river, the camp was abandoned, and then Tim saw his opening. With his precious winter’s wages he purchased a large tract of this now worthless land, induced a robust Bridget, his brother Mike, and his consort to join fortunes with him, brought in cows, horses, pigs, and poultry, and began farming with the lumber camp as domicile.

Another log cabin was soon added, the first crop of potatoes sold readily to other lumbermen farther in the wilderness, the pigs in a sty adjacent to his own throve, the poultry multiplied, children came, and the red-shirted men coming into the wilderness or going out found Tim’s Place convenient.

With this added business came an enlargement in Tim’s ideas, the outcome of which was a framed house containing a kitchen and dining room and half a dozen others of closet-like proportions, furnished with box-on-legs beds. It was not a pretentious hostelry. Paint, shutters, and carpets were absent, benches served for chairs, the only mirror in it was eight by twelve inches, and used in common by Bridget and Mary. The toilet conveniences consisted of a wash-basin in the kitchen sink and a “last year’s” towel, used semi-occasionally. A long table bare of cloth and set with tinware served in the dining room, warmed in winter by a round sheet-iron stove; above it usually hung an array of socks and mittens, and a capacious cook stove half filled the kitchen. It was the crudest possible backwoods abode, and yet compared to the log cabin first occupied by Tim, it was a palace, and he was proud of it.

In autumn swarms of lumbermen halted there, content to sleep on the floor if need be. In spring they came again, log-driving down stream; later a few sportsmen occasionally tried it, and all fared alike.

There was no sentiment about Tim. If the citified fishermen objected to what they found, “Be gob, you kin kape away,” he readily told them. A quarter for each meal, or a night’s lodging, was the price, whether a bed or the floor was provided, and from early spring until frost came, all the occupants went barefoot.

When snow had made the sixty miles of log road to the nearest settlement passable, Tim invariably journeyed hither with horse and bob-sled for clothing and supplies.

No knowledge or news from the world reached here, unless brought by chance visitors. Sundays were an unknown factor, the work of clearing land and potato-raising became a continuous performance from spring until autumn; and the change of seasons, the rise and fall of the river, were the only measure of time.

An addition to Tim’s Place, other than babies and pigs, came one fall in an old Indian who, by ample presents of game, soon won Tim’s good-will and help in the erection of a log wigwam; but this relic of a vanishing race–reckoned by Tim as partially insane–remained there only winters, and when spring returned, disappeared into the wilderness.

There were also two other occasional visitors both meriting description. First, a beetle-browed, keen-eyed, red-haired man garbed as a hunter, whose speech disclosed something of the Scotch dialect, and who, presenting Tim with a deer and two bottles of whiskey as a peace-offering on his first arrival, soon obtained a welcome. He told a plausible tale of having been pursued for years by enemies seeking his life; how he had been robbed and driven away from the settlements; and how two of these enemies had even followed him into the woods. He had been shot at by them, had killed one in self-defence, a price had been set upon his capture, dead or alive, and, all in all, he was a sorely abused man.

How much of this lurid and fantastic tale Tim believed, is not pertinent to this narrative. The stranger, calling himself McGuire, was evidently a good fellow, since he brought good whiskey, and Tim made him welcome.

The facts as to McGuire, however, were somewhat at variance with his assertions. He had originally been a dive-keeper in a focal city for the lumbering interests of this wilderness, had entertained swarms of log-drivers just paid off and anxious to spend money, and when the law interfered, he retreated to a smaller town.

In the interval, strange to say, his moral nature–or rather immoral–suffered a brief relapse, during which he persuaded an excellent if confiding young woman to share his name and infamy.

His second business venture came to grief, however, and his wife deserted him and met with a fatal accident a few years after. In the meantime he had kept busy, exercising his peculiar talents and tastes in an individual manner, and evading officers, and his ways of money-getting were peculiar and diverse.

The Chinese Exclusion Act had just become operative, and the admission of Celestials into the land of the free, and of good wages, became a valuable matter. McGuire conceived the brilliant, if grewsome, idea of passing “Chinks” over the border line concealed in coffins. It worked admirably, and with accomplices on both sides to obtain certificates and permits, and take charge of the “corpses,” a few dozen almond-eyed immigrants at two hundred dollars each obtained admission.

In time, this budding industry met an official quietus, and McGuire, with several warrants out against him, took to the woods. He still continued business, however, in various ways. He smuggled liquor over the border by canoe loads, hiding it at convenient points, to exchange for log-drivers’ wages. He killed game out of season, and dynamited trout and salmon on spawning beds for the same purpose; and, handy with cards, did not disdain their use in lumbering camps.

In all and through all his various ways of money-getting, one purpose had governed him–that of money-saving. Trusting no one, as he had reason to feel no one trusted him, he continually emulated the squirrels and hid his savings in the woods. A trapper and hunter by instinct, as well as thief, dive-keeper, smuggler, poacher, and gambler, he had in his wanderings discovered a cave in a slate ledge upon the shores of a small lake far into the wilderness. It was while trapping here that he found this by the aid of a fox which, while dragging a trap, became caught and held in a crevasse while attempting to enter it.

The fox thus secured, McGuire made further investigation, and by removing a loose slab of slate, he was enabled to enter a roomy cavern, or rather two small ones partially separated by slate walls. A little light entered the larger one, through a seam crossing it lengthwise. They were free from moisture at this time–early autumn–and so secluded was the spot that McGuire decided at once to use this place as a hiding-spot for his money. The entrance could be kept concealed, its location served his purpose, and, fox-like himself, he decided to occupy what he would never have found without the aid of a fox, believing no one else would find it. It could also be used as a domicile for himself as well. A fireplace of slate could be built in it, an escape for smoke might be formed through the crack, if enlarged, and so this cave’s possibilities increased.

There were still several other advantages. This lake was surrounded by precipitous mountains; no lumbermen, even, were likely to operate there; the stream flowing out of it soon crossed the border line, finding escape into the St. Lawrence valley at a point some twenty miles distant; a short carry enabled him to reach the Fox Hole which flowed by Tim’s Place, and so this served as an excellent whip road in case of pursuit.

His transient asylum at Tim’s Place also served as a vantage point in another way.

Here all who entered this portion of the wilderness invariably halted,–officers and wardens as well,–and as by this time McGuire had become an outlaw murderer, with a reward offered for his capture, this outpost was of double advantage.

Caution was a strong point in his make-up, yet he was daring as well. He still visited the settlements occasionally, to sell furs and obtain ammunition and whiskey; and when he, as ill luck would have it, happened there at the time his child was left motherless, some malign impulse led him to take her to Tim’s Place and leave her in servitude there.

There was also another chance caller at this outpost–a half-breed trapper and hunter named Bolduc, who had established himself in a lone cabin on the Fox Hole, some ten miles up from Tim’s Place. He was a repulsive minor edition of McGuire. A wildcat, with laudable intentions, had essayed putting an end to his career, and succeeded to the extent of one eye and some blood. He had been the accomplice and partner of McGuire in many a whiskey-smuggling trip. He also dealt in this pernicious, but valuable, fluid, was a poacher ever ready to pot-hunt for a lumbering camp in winter, or find a moose yard on snow-shoes, after slaughtering the helpless inmates of which, he would sell them to the busy wood-choppers.

He, too, could be classed as brigand of the wilderness, and while no warrants or charges against him were rife, he felt it wise to avoid meeting minions of the law. Tim’s Place was a convenient point to obtain information as to location of new lumber camps or possible visits of officers. An occasional bottle of whiskey secured Tim’s favor. The evenings and meals there impressed Pete with the advantages of owning a woman’s services, and as Chip matured in domestic and other possibilities, a desire to possess her began to increase his visits.

His wooing met no response, however, and when persisted in always awoke on her part the same instinct once displayed toward him by a wildcat.

Then recourse to her father’s greed for money was taken, with results as described.

The only thing that saved poor Chip from pursuit and capture, however, was his wholesome fear of her finger-nails, and the belief that it was best to let her father earn the balance of her price and fetch her, as agreed. Acting upon this theory, Pete had departed from Tim’s Place at dawn, to await her arrival at his cabin, quite oblivious of the fact that his bird had flown.

All that long day he waited in great expectancy. Toward evening he returned to Tim’s Place to learn that Chip had not been seen since the previous night; that her father had also vanished without comment. That he was a party to this trick and deception, and, after securing his three hundred dollars, had taken her away, was Pete’s conclusion, and he vowed a murderous revenge. He returned to his cabin, little realizing that twenty miles away poor Chip, faint with hunger and the terror of a vast wilderness, was fighting her way through bush, bramble, and swamp in a mad attempt to escape.

Neither did Tim, while regretting the loss of his slave, know or care that one of his occasional visitors was now a mortal enemy of the other, and that a tragedy, dark and grewsome, would be its outcome.

CHAPTER V

“The size o’ a toad is allus reg’lated by the size o’ the puddle.”–Old Cy Walker.

A week was spent by Martin and his party at the settlement, during which he acquired the title to township forty-four, range ten, which included the little lake near the hermit’s hut, and made a foursquare-mile tract about it.

Chip, thanks to Angie, secured a simple outfit of apparel and–surprising fact–evinced excellent taste in its selection, thereby proving that eight years of isolation and a gunny-sack and red-shirt garb had not obliterated the deepest instinct of woman.

To Levi, Martin’s woodwise helper, was left the selection of fittings for the new camp. A couple of husky Canucks were engaged to bring them in in a bateau, and then the party started on its return.

Only one incident of importance occurred during the wait at this village known as Grindstone. Angie and Chip had just left the only store there, in front of which a group of log-drivers had congregated, when Angie, glancing back, saw that one of the group was following them. She quickened her pace, and so did he, until just as they turned into a side street, he passed them, halted, and turned about.

“Wal, I’m damned if ’tain’t Chip, an’ dressed like a leddy,” he exclaimed, as they drew near.

“Hullo, Chip,” he added, as they passed, “when did you strike luck?”

Chip made no response and he muttered again, “Wal, I’m damned, jest like a leddy!”

It was annoying, especially to Angie, and neither of the two realized how soon this blunt log-driver’s discovery would reach Tim’s Place.

And now, leaving the bateau to follow, the party started once more on their journey into the wilderness. No sight or sign of pursuit from the half-breed had been thus far observed. A few idle lumbermen in the village–the only visible connection between the vast forest and a busy world–were little thought of, as their canoes crept slowly up the narrowing river and gave no hint of interference from this low brute to any one except Levi.

He, however, seldom speaking, but ever acting, kept watch and ward continually. At every bend of the stream his eyes were alert to catch the first sight of a down-coming canoe in time to conceal Chip, as he decided must be done. When night camps were made, a site at the head of the lagoon or up some tributary stream was selected, and while not even hinting his reason for this, he felt it wise. As they drew near to Tim’s Place, it began to occur to Martin that Chip’s presence had best be concealed until that point was passed. He also desired to learn the situation there. He had always halted at this clearing in all his up-river journeys, so far, usually to buy pork and potatoes, and he now intended to do so again. He also felt it imperative to conceal Chip in Ray’s canoe, before they reached Tim’s Place, and let Ray paddle slowly on while the halt was made. But Levi dissented.

“’Tain’t best,” he said, “to let Tim know there’s two canoes of us and one not stoppin’. It’ll make him s’picious o’ suthin, ’n’ what he ’spects, Pete’ll find out. I callate we’d best pass thar in the night, leave the wimmen above, ’n’ you ’n’ I go back ’n’ git what we want.”

“But what about the Canucks following us with the bateau?” returned Martin. “They’ll tell who is with us, won’t they?”

“They didn’t see us start,” answered Levi, “’n’ can’t swear wimmen came. We’ll say we’re alone, ’n’ bein’ so’ll make it plausible, ’n’ you might say we’re goin’ to build a camp ’n’ ’nother season fetch our wimmen in.”

“But how about our men, on the return trip, after finding we have women at the camp?” rejoined Martin. “They will be sure to tell all they know on the way back.”

“We’ve got to keep the wimmen shady, an’ fool ’em,” answered Levi. And so his plan was adopted.

It was in the early hours of morning when the two canoes crept noiselessly past Tim’s Place. The stars barely outlined the river’s course, the frame dwelling, log cabin, and stump-dotted slope back of them. All the untidiness existent about this dwelling was hid in darkness, and only the faint sounds and odors betrayed these conditions. But every eye and ear in the two canoes was alert, paddles were dipped without sound, and Chip’s heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to her Tim and all his family must be awakened. Her recent escape from this spot and all the reasons forcing it, the fear that both her father and the half-breed might even now be there, added dread; and not until a bend hid even the shadowy view of this plague spot did she breathe easier.

“I was nigh skeered to death,” she whispered to Ray when safety seemed assured, “an’ if ever Pete finds I’m up whar the folks is goin’, I’m a goner.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of you,” returned that boy, with the boundless confidence of youth; “my uncle can shoot as well as any one, and then Old Cy is up at the camp, and he’s a wonder with a rifle. Why, I’ve seen him hit a crow a half-mile off!”

Smoke was ascending from the chimney, and the rising sun was just visible when Martin and Levi returned to Tim’s. Mike was out in an enclosure, milking; Tim was back of the house, preparing the pigs’ breakfast. The pigs were squealing, and a group of unwashed children were watching operations, when Martin appeared. A pleasant “Good morning” from him and a gruff one from Tim was the introduction, and then that stolid pioneer started for the sty. Not even the unusual event of a caller could hinder him from the one duty he most enjoyed,–the care of his beloved swine.

“You have some nice thrifty pigs,” began Martin, when the pen was reached, desiring to placate Tim.

“They are thot,” he returned.

“My guide and I are on our way into the woods, to build a camp,” continued Martin, anxious to have his errand over with, “and we halted to buy a few potatoes of you and some pork. I have a couple of men following with a bateau,” he continued, after pausing for a reply which did not come; “they will be along in a day or two with most of our supplies; but I felt sure I could get some extra good pork of you and some choice potatoes.”

“You kin thot same,” replied Tim, his demeanor obviously softening under this flattery, and so business relations were established.

Martin had intended asking some cautious question regarding Chip or her father; but Tim’s surly face, his unresponsive manner, and a mistrust of its wisdom prevented. He was blunt of speech, almost to the verge of insolence, and the arrival of Martin with all his polite words evoked not a vestige of welcome; and yet back of those keen gray eyes of his a deal of cunning might lurk, thought Martin.

Two slovenly women peered out of back door and window while the interview was in progress. Mike came and looked on in silence; two of the oldest children were down by the canoe where Levi waited; the rest, open-eyed and astonished, seemed likely to be trodden on by some one each moment. When the stores were secured and paid for, and Martin had pushed off with Levi, he realized something of the life Chip must have led there.

He had intended not only to obtain potatoes, but some information of value. He obtained the goods, paying a thrifty price, also a good bit of cold shoulder, and that was all.

But Levi, shrewd woodsman that he was, fared better.

“I larned Chip’s gone off with old McGuire,” he asserted with a quiet smile when they were well away, “an’ that Pete’s swearin’ murder agin him.”

“And how?” responded Martin, in astonishment. “I felt that silence was golden with that surly chap, and didn’t ask a question.”

“I’m glad,” rejoined Levi. “I wanted to tell you not to, and I’ve larned all we want. Children are easy to pump, an’ I did it ’thout wakin’ a hint o’ ’spicion. Tim’s folks all believe Chip’s gone with her dad. Pete thinks so, an’ is watchin’ for him with a gun, I ’spect, an’ if so, the sooner they meet, the better.”

It was gratifying news to Martin, and when the other canoe was reached, the two again pushed on, with Martin, at least, feeling that the ways of Fate might prove acceptable.

Three days more were consumed in reaching the lake now owned by him, for the river was low, carries had to be made around two rapids, and when at last the sequestered, forest-bordered sheet of water was being crossed, Martin wished some titanic hand might raise an impassable barrier about his possessions.

Old Cy’s joy at their return was almost hilarious. To a man long past the spasmodic exuberance of youth, loving nature and the wild as few do, the six months here with the misanthropic old hermit, then a month of more cheerful companionship, followed by the departure of Martin and Angie, made this forest home-coming doubly welcome.

But Chip’s appearance, and the somewhat thrilling episode of her escape from Tim’s Place and her rescue, astonished him. Like all old men who are childless, a young girl and her troubles touched a responsive chord in his heart, and on the instant Chip’s unfortunate condition found sympathy. Her bluntly told story, with all its details, held him spellbound. He laughed over her description of spites, and when she seemed hurt at this seeming levity, he assured her that spites were a reality in the woods–he had seen hundreds of them. It was not long ere he had won her confidence and good-will, as he had Ray’s, and then he took Martin aside.

“That gal’s chaser’s bin here ’bout a week ago,” he said, “an’ the worst-lookin’ cuss I ever seen. I know from his description ’twas him. He kept quizzin’ me ez to how long we’d been here, if I knew McGuire, or had seen him lately, until I got sorter riled ’n’ began to string him. I told him finally that I’d been foolin’ all ’long; that McGuire was a friend o’ mine; that he’d been here a day or two afore, borrowed some money ’n’ lit out fer Canada, knowin’ there was a bad man arter him. Then this one-eyed gazoo got mad, real mad, ’n’ said things, an’ then he cleared out.”

When Martin explained the situation, as he now did, Old Cy chuckled.

“’Tain’t often one shoots in the dark ’n’ makes a bull’s eye,” he said.

“I think you and I had better keep mum about this half-breed’s call,” Martin added quietly, “and if Angie mentions it, you needn’t say that you know who he was. It will only make my wife and the girl nervous.”

The two tents were now pitched at the head of a cove, some rods away from the hermit’s hut, and well out of sight from the landing, and to these both Angie and Chip were assured they must flee as soon as the expected bateau entered the lake, and remain secluded until it had departed.

In a way, it was a ticklish situation. All knowledge that this waif was with Martin’s party must be kept from Tim’s Place and this half-breed, or she wouldn’t be safe an hour; and until the Canucks had come and gone, she must be kept hidden. Another and quite a serious annoyance to Martin was the fact that he had counted on these two men as helpers in cutting and hauling logs for this new camp. Only man-power was available, and to move logs a foot in diameter and twenty feet long, in midsummer, was no easy task; but Levi, more experienced in camp-building, made light of it.

“We’ll cut the logs we need, clus to the lake,” he said, “float ’em ’round, ’n’ roll ’em up on skids. It’s easy ’nough, ’n’ we don’t need them Canuckers round a minit.”

It was four days of keen suspense to Chip before they appeared. Neither she nor Angie left the closed tent while they remained over night, or until they had been gone many hours, and then every one felt easier.

The ringing sound of axes now began to echo over the rippled lake, logs were towed across with canoes, a cellar under the new cabin site was excavated, and home-building in the wilderness went merrily on.

While the men worked, Angie and Chip were not idle. Not only did they have meals to prepare over a rude outdoor fireplace, but they gathered grass and moss for beds, wove a hammock and rustic chair seats out of sedge grass, and countless other useful aids.

Chip was especially helpful and more grateful than a dog for any and all consideration. Not a step that she could take or a bit of work that she could do was left to Angie; her interest and do-all-she-could desire never flagged, and from early morn until the supper dishes were washed and wiped, Chip was busy.

But Martin, and especially Levi, had other causes for worry than those which camp-building entailed. The fact that this “Pernicious Pete,” as Angie had once called him, would soon learn of their presence here, and hating all law-abiding people, as such forest brigands always do, would naturally seek to injure them, was one cause. Then, there were so many ways by which he could do harm. A fire started at one corner of the hut at midnight, the same Indian-like malice applied to their two tents, the stealing of their canoes or the gashing of them with a hunting-knife, and countless other methods of venting spite, presented themselves. In a way, they were helpless against such a night-prowling enemy. Over one hundred miles separated them from civilization and all assistance; an impassable wilderness lay between. The stream and their canoes were the only means of egress. These valuable craft were left out of sight and sound each night, on the lake shore, and so their vulnerability on all sides was manifest.

Then, Chip’s presence was an added danger. If once this brute found that she was here, there was no limit to what he would do to secure her and take revenge. They had smuggled her past Tim’s Place, but concealment here was impossible; if ever this half-breed returned, she would be discovered, and then what?

And so by day, while Martin and Levi were busy with hut-building, or beside the evening camp-fire when Ray picked his banjo and Chip watched him with admiring glances, these two guardians had eyes and ears ever alert for this expected enemy.

CHAPTER VI

“It allus makes me coltish to see two young folks a-weavin’ the thread o’ affection.”–Old Cy Walker.

There were three people at Birch Camp,–as Angie had christened it,–namely, herself, Ray, and Chip, who did not share Martin’s suspicion of danger. A firm belief that a woman’s aid in such a complication was of no value, coupled with a desire to save her anxiety, had kept his lips closed as to the situation.

Life here at all hours soon settled itself into a certain daily routine of work, amusement, and, on Chip’s part, of study. True to her philanthropic sense of duty toward this waif, Angie had at once set about her much-needed education. A reading and spelling book suitable for a child of eight had been secured at the settlement, and now “lessons” occupied a few hours of each day.

It was only a beginning, of course, and yet with constant reminders as to pronunciation, this was all that Angie could do. The idioms of Tim’s Place, with all its profanity, still adhered to Chip’s speech. This latter, especially, would now and then crop out in spite of all admonitions; and so Angie found that her pupil made slow progress.

There was also another reason for this. Chip was afraid of her, and oft reproved for her lapses in speech, soon ceased all unnecessary talk when with Angie.

But with Ray it was different. He was near her own age, the companionship of youth was theirs, and with him Chip’s speech was ready enough. This, of course, answered all the purposes of benefit by assimilation, and so Angie was well satisfied that they should be together. Beyond that she had no thought that love might accrue from this association.

Chip, while fair of face and form, and at a sentimental age, was so crude of speech, so grossly ignorant, and so allied to the ways and manners of Tim’s Place, that, according to Angie’s reasoning, Ray’s feelings were safe enough. He was well bred and refined, a happy, natural boy now verging upon manhood. In Greenvale he had never shown much interest in girls’ society, and while he now showed a playmate enjoyment of Chip’s company, that was all that was likely to happen.

But the winged god wots not of speech or manners. A youth of eighteen and a maid of sixteen are the same the world over, and so out of sight of Angie, and unsuspected by her, the by-play of heart-interest went on.

And what a glorious golden summer opportunity these two had!

Back of the camp and tending northwest to southeast was a low ridge of outcropping slate, bare in spots–a hog-back, in wilderness phrase. Beyond this lay a mile-long “blow-down,” where a tornado had levelled the tall timber. A fire, sweeping this when dry, left a criss-cross confusion of charred logs, blueberry bushes had followed fast, and now those luscious berries were ripening in limitless profusion. Every fair day Ray and Chip came here to pick, to eat, to hear the birds sing, to gather flowers and be happy.

They watched the rippled lake with now and then a deer upon its shores, from this ridge; they climbed up or down it, hand in hand; they fished in the lake or canoed about it, time and again; and many a summer evening, when the moon served, Chip handled the paddle, while Ray picked his banjo and sang his darky songs all around this placid sheet of water.

And what a wondrous charm this combination of moonlight on the lake and love songs softened and made tender by the still water held for Chip! As those melodies had done on that first evening beside the camp-fire, so now they filled her soul with a strange, new-born, and wonderful sense of joy and gladness.

The black forest enclosing them now was sombre and silent. Spites still lurked in its depths and doubtless were watching; but a protector was near, his arm was strong; back at the landing were kind friends, and the undulating path of silvered light, the round, smiling orb above, the twinkling stars, and this matchless music became a new wonder-world to her.

Her eyes glistened and grew tender with pathos. She had no more idea than a child why she was happy. Each day sped by on wings of wind, each hour, with her one best companion, the most joyful, and so, day by day, poor Chip learned the sad lesson of loving.

But never a word or hint of this fell from her lips. Ray was so far above her and such a young hero, that she, a homeless outcast, tainted by the filth and service of Tim’s Place, could only look to him as she did to the moon.

They laughed and exchanged histories. Ofttimes he reproved her speech. They fished, picked berries, and worked together like two big children, and only her wistful eyes told the other why they were wistful.

Martin, busy at camp-building and watching ever for an enemy’s coming, saw it not. Angie was as obtuse; the old hermit, misanthropic and verging into dotage, was certainly oblivious, and so no ripples of interest disturbed these workers.

Such conditions were as sunshine to flowers in aiding the two young lovers, so this forest idyl matured rapidly. Chip, perhaps more imaginative than Ray, since most of her education had been the weird superstition of Old Tomah, felt most of its emotional force, though unconscious of the reason.

“I dunno why I feel so upset all the time lately,” she said one afternoon to Ray as, returning from the berry field, they halted on top of the ridge to scan the lake below. “Some o’ the time I feel so happy I want to sing, ’n’ then I feel jes’ t’other way, ’n’ like cryin’. When the good spell is on, everything looks so purty, ’n’ when I come on to a bunch o’ posies, then I feel I must go right down on my knees ’n’ kiss ’em. When I was at Tim’s Place, I never thought about anything ’cept to get my work done ’n’ keep from gettin’ cussed ’n’ licked. I was scart, too, most o’ the time, ’n’ kept feelin’ suthin awful was goin’ to happen to me. Now that’s ’most gone, but I feel a heartache in place on’t. I allus hev a spell o’ feelin’ so every mornin’ when I wake up ’n’ hear the birds singin’. They ’fect me so that I’m near cryin’ ’fore I git up. You ’n’ Mis’ Frisbie ’n’ everybody’s been so good to me, I guess it’s made me silly. Then thar’s ’nother thing worries me, an’ that’s goin’ to the settlement whar you folks is from. I feel I kin sorter earn my keepin’ here, but I s’pose I can’t thar, ’n’ that bothers me. If only you ’n’ all the rest was goin’ to stay here all the time ’n’ I could work some, same as I do now, an’ be with you odd spells ’n’ evenin’s, I’d be so happy. It ’ud be jest like the spot Old Tomah said we’re goin’ to when we die. He used to tell how ’twas summer thar all the time, with game plenty, berries ripe, flowers growin’, too, all the year ’round, ’n’ birds singin’. He believed thar was two places somewhar: one for white folks and one fer Injuns; that when we died we turned into spites, stayed ’round till we got revenge for everything bad done us, or got a chance to pay up what good we owed for.”

“I don’t know where we go to when we quit this world, and neither does anybody else, I believe,” Ray answered philosophically, and scarce understanding Chip’s mood. “I believe, as Old Cy does, that the time to be happy is when we are young and can be; that when we are ready to leave this world is time enough for another one. As to your worrying about your going to Greenvale,” he added confidently, and encircling Chip’s waist with one arm, “why, you’ve got me to look out for you, and then Angie won’t begrudge you your keep, so don’t think about that.” And then this young optimist, quite content with what the gods had provided in this maid of sweet lip and appealing eye, assured her she had everything to make her happy, including himself for companion; that all her moody spells were merely memories of Tim’s Place, best forgotten, and much more of equally tender and silly import.

Not for one instant did he realize the growing independence and self-reliance of this wilderness waif, or how the first feeling that she was a burden upon these kind people would chafe and vex her defiant nature, until she would scorn even love, to escape it.

Just now the tender impulse of first love was all Ray felt or considered. This girl of sweet sixteen and utter confidence in him was so enthralling in spite of her crude speech and lack of education, her kisses were so much his to take whenever chance offered, and himself such a young hero in her sight, that he thought of naught else.

In this, or at least so far as his reasoning went, they were like two grown-up children entering a new world–the enchanted garden of love. Or like two souls merged into one in impulse, yet in no wise conscious why or for what all-wise purpose.

For them alone the sun shone, birds sang, leaves rustled, flowers bloomed, and the blue lake rippled. For them alone was all this charming chance given, with all that made it entrancing. For them alone was life, love, and lips that met in ecstasy.

Oh, wondrous beatitude! Oh, heaven-born joy! Oh, divine illusion that builds the world anew, and building thus, believes its secret safe!

But Old Cy, wise old observer of all things human, from the natural attraction of two children to the philosophy of content, saw and understood.