The Sky Line of Spruce by Edison Marshall

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But now the real hour of crisis was at hand,--not from his illness, but
from the depletion of their food supplies. Beatrice had spent a hard
afternoon in the forest in search of roots and berries, and as she crept
homeward, exhausted and almost empty-handed, the full, tragic truth was
suddenly laid bare. Her own strength had waned. Without the miracle of a
fresh food supply she could hardly keep on her feet another day. Plainly
and simply, the wolf was at the door. His cruel fangs menaced not only
her, but this stalwart man for whose life she had fought so hard.

The fear of the obliterating darkness known to all the woods people
pressed close upon her and appalled her. She loved life simply and
primitively; and it was an unspeakable thing to lose at the end of such
a battle. Out so far, surrounded by such endless, desolate wastes of
gloomy forest, the Shadow was cold, inhospitable; and she was afraid to
face it alone. If Ben would only waken and sustain her drooping spirit
with his own! She was lonely and afraid, in the shadow of the inert
spruce, under the gray sky.

She could hardly summon strength for the evening's work of cutting fuel.
The blade would not drive with its old force into the wood. The blaze
itself burned dully; and she could not make it leap and crackle with its
old cheer. And further misfortune was in store for her when she crept
into the cave to prepare Ben's supper.

A pack rat--one of those detested rodents known so well to all northern
peoples--had carried off in her absence two of the three remaining
sticks of jerked caribou. For a moment she gazed in unbelieving and
speechless horror, then made a frenzied search in the darkened corners
of the cabin.

This was no little tragedy: the two sticks of condensed and concentrated
protein might have kept Ben alive for a few days more. It was disaster,
merciless and sweeping. And the brave heart of the girl seemed to break
under the blow.

The hot, bitter tears leaped forth; but she suppressed the bitter,
hopeless sobs that clutched at her throat. She must not let Ben know of
this catastrophe. Likely in his stupor he would not understand; yet she
must not take the chance. She must nourish the spark of hope in his
breast to the last hour. She walked to the mouth of the cave; and Famine
itself stood close, waiting in the shadows. She gazed out into the
gathering gloom.

The tears blinded her eyes at first. Slowly the dark profile of the
spruce against the gray sky penetrated to her consciousness: the somber
beauty of the wilderness sky line that haunts the woodsman's dreams.
With it came full realization of the might and the malevolency of these
shadowed wilds she had battled so long. They had got her down at last;
they had crushed her and beaten her, and had held up to scorn her
sacrifice and her mortal strength. She knew the wild wood now: its
savage power, its remorselessness, and yet, woods girl that she was, she
could not forget its dark and moving beauty.

The forest was silent to-night. Not a twig cracked or a branch rustled.
It was hushed, breathless, darkly sinister. All at once her eyes peered
and strained into the dusk.

Far across the valley, beyond the beaver marsh and on the farther shore
of the lake she saw a little glimmer of light through the rift in the
trees. She dared not believe in its reality at first. Perhaps it was a
trick of her imagination only, a hallucination born of her starvation,
child of her heartfelt prayer. She looked away, then peered again. But,
yes--a tiny gleam of yellow light twinkled through the gloom! It was
real, _it was true_! A gleam of hope in the darkness of despair.

Her rescuers had come. There could be no other explanation. She hastened
into the cave, drew the blankets higher about Ben's shoulders, then
crept out into the dusk. Half running, she hastened toward their distant
camp fire.

XXXVIII

Beatrice's first impulse was to run at a breakneck pace down the ridge
and about the lake into her father's camp, beseeching instant aid to the
starving man in the cave. She wished that she had a firearm with which
to signal to them and bring them at once to the cavern. And it was not
until she had descended the ridge and stood at the edge of the beaver
meadow that her delirious joy began to give way to serious, thought.

She was brought to a halt first by the sight of the horses that had
wandered about the long loop of the lake and were feeding in the rich
grass of the meadow. The full moon rising in the east had cast a
nebulous glow over the whole countryside by now; and she could make a
hasty estimation of their numbers. It was evident at once that her
father had not made the expedition alone. The large outfit implied a
party of at least three,--indicating that Ray Brent and Chan Heminway
had accompanied him.

She had only fear and disdain for these two younger men; but surely they
would not refuse aid to Ben. Yet perhaps it was best to proceed with
some caution. These were her lover's enemies; if for no other reason
than their rage at her own abduction they might be difficult to control.
Her father, in all probability, would willingly show mercy to the
helpless man in the cavern--particularly after she told him of Ben's
consideration and kindness--but she put no faith in Ray and Chan. She
knew them of old. Besides, she remembered there was a further
consideration,--that of a gold claim.

Could Ben have told her the truth when he had maintained that they would
kill him on sight if he did not destroy them first? Was it true that he
had waged the war in defense of his own rights? Weeks and months had
passed since she had seen her father's face: perhaps her old control of
him could no longer be relied upon. If indeed their ownership of a rich
claim depended upon Ben's death, Ray and Chan could not be trusted at
all.

She resolved to proceed with the utmost caution. Abruptly she turned out
of the beaver marsh, where the moonlight might reveal her, and followed
close to the edge of the timber, a course that could not be visible from
beyond the lake. She approached the lake at its far neck, then followed
back along the margin clear to the edge of the woods in which the fire
was built.

In her years in the woods Beatrice had learned to stalk, and the
knowledge was of value to her now. With never a misstep she took down a
little game trail toward the camp fire. She was within fifty yards of it
now--she could make out three dark figures seated in the circle of
firelight. Walking softly but upright she pushed within ninety feet of
the fire.

Then she waited, in doubt as to her course. She was still too far
distant to hear more than the murmur of their voices. If she could just
get near enough to catch their words she could probably glean some idea
of their attitude toward Ben. She pushed on nearer, through the dew-wet
brush.

Impelled by the excitement under which she advanced, her old agility of
motion had for the moment returned to her; and she crept softly as a
fawn between the young trees. One misstep, one rustling branch or
crackling twig might give her away; but she took each step with
consummate care, gently thrusting the tree branches from her path.

Once a rodent stirred beneath her feet, and she froze--like a hunting
wolf--in her tracks. One of the three men looked up, and she saw his
face plainly through the low spruce boughs. And for a moment she thought
that this was a stranger. It was with a distinct foreboding of disaster
that she saw, on second glance, that the man was Ray Brent.

She had never seen such change in human countenance in the space of a
few months. She did not pause to analyze it. She only knew that his eyes
were glittering and fixed; and that she herself was deeply,
unexplainably appalled. The man cursed once, blasphemously, his face
dusky and evil in the eerie firelight, but immediately turned back to
his talk. Beatrice crept closer.

Now she was near enough to catch an occasional word, but not discern
their thoughts. It was evident, however, that their conversation was of
Ben and herself,--the same topic they had discussed nights without end.
She caught her own name; once Chan used an obscene epithet as he spoke
of their enemy.

Her instincts were true and infallible to-night; and she was ever more
convinced of their deadly intentions toward Ben. It was not wise to
announce herself yet. Perhaps she would have to rely upon a course other
than a direct appeal for aid. Now her keen eyes could see the whole
camp: the three seated figures of the men, their rifles leaning near
them, their supplies spread out about the fire.

At one side, quite to the edge of the firelight, she saw a kyack--one of
those square boxes that are hung on a pack saddle--which seemed to be
heaped with jerked caribou or moose flesh. For the time of a breath she
could not take her eyes from it. It was food--food in plenty to sustain
Ben through his illness and the remaining weeks of their exile--and her
eyes moistened and her hands trembled at the sight. She had been taught
the meaning of famine, these last, bitter days. In reality she was now
in the first stage of starvation, experiencing the first, vague
hallucinations, the sense of incorporeality, the ever-declining
strength, the constant yearning that is nothing but the vitals'
submerged demand for food. The contents of the kyack meant _life_ to
herself and to Ben,--deliverance and safety when all seemed lost.

A daughter of the cities far to the south--even a child of
poverty--rarely could have understood the unutterable craving that
overswept her at the sight of this simple food. It was unadorned,
unaccompanied by the delicacies that most human beings have come to look
upon as essentials and to expect with every meal: it was only animal
flesh dried in the smoke and the sun. It not only attracted her
physically; but in that moment it possessed real objective beauty for
her; as it would have possessed for the most cultivated esthete that
might be standing in her place. This girl was down to the most stern
realities, and life and death hung in the balance.

She went on her hands and knees, creeping nearer. Still she did not make
the slightest false motion, creeping with an uncanny silence in the
under shrubbery. And now the words came plain.

"But we must be near," Chan was saying. "They can't be more than a mile
or so from here. We'll find 'em in the morning--"

"If he doesn't find us first and shoot up our camp," Ray replied. "I
wish we'd built our fire further into the woods. Here we've looked all
day without even finding a track except those tracks in the mud."

"They might be beyond the marsh," Neilson suggested.

"But Chan went over that way and didn't find a trace," Ray objected.
"But just the same--we'll make a real search to-morrow. I believe we'll
find the devil. And then--we can leave this hellish country and go back
in peace--if we don't want to wait for the flood."

Beatrice's eyes were on his face, wondering what growth of wickedness,
what degeneracy had so filled his cruel eyes with light and stamped his
face with evil. This was the man to whom she must look for mercy. Ben's
life, if she led the three men to the cave, would be in his hands. She
sensed from his authoritative tone that her father's control over him
was largely broken. She hovered, terrified and motionless, in her
covert.

Ray reached for his rifle, glancing at the sights and drawing the lever
back far enough to see the brass of its shells. Chan's lean face was
drawn with a cruel glee.

"You can't keep your hands off that gun, Ray," he said. "You sure are
gettin' anxious."

"I won't use it on him," Ray replied, slowly and carefully. "It's too
good for him--except maybe the stock. He didn't lead me clear out here
just to see him puff out and blow up in a minute with a rifle ball
through his head. Just the same I want the gun near me, all the time."

The two men looked at him, sardonic-eyed; and both of them seemed to
understand fully what he meant. They seemed to catch more from the slow
tones, so full of lust and frenzy that they seemed to drop from his
lips in an ugly monotone, than they did from the words themselves. They
took a certain grim amusement in these quirks of abnormal depravity that
had begun to manifest themselves in Ray. The man's fingers were wide
spread as he spoke, and his lip twitched twice, sharply, when he had
finished.

The words came clear and distinct to the listening girl. She tried to
take them literally--that Ray would not shoot Ben! _"It's too good for
him--except maybe the stock!"_ Did he mean _that_ too! Was there any
possible meaning in the world other than that he was planning some
unearthly, more terrible fate for the man she loved! She would not yet
yield to the dreadful truth, yet even now terror was clutching at her
throat, strangling her; and the cold drops were beading her brow. Still
the dark drama of the fireside continued before her eyes.

Chan suddenly turned to Neilson, evidently imbued with Ray's fervor.
"What do you think of that, old man?" he asked menacingly. Thus Chan,
too, had escaped from Neilson's dominance: plainly Ray was his idol now.
It was also plain that he recognized attributes of mercy and decency in
his grizzled leader that might interfere with his own and his
companion's plans. "What's worrying me--whether you're goin' to join in
on the sport when we catch the weasel!"

Sport! The word was more terrible to Beatrice than the vilest oath he
had used to emphasize it. She crouched, shivering. Watching intently,
she saw Ray look up, too, waiting for the reply; and her father, sensing
his lost dominance, bowed his head.

"You could hardly expect me to let him off easy--seeing what he did to
my daughter--"

"What he done to your daughter ain't all--I don't care if he treated her
like a queen of the realm all the time," Ray interrupted harshly. "That
makes no difference to neither me nor Chan. The main thing is--he
brought us out here, away from the claim--and gave us months of the
worst hell I ever hope to spend. I guess you ain't forgotten what Chan
found out in Snowy Gulch--that the claim's recorded--in old Hiram's
name. This Darby's got a letter in his pocket from Hiram's brother that
would stand in any court. We've got to get that first. If Darby was an
angel I'd mash him under my heel just the same; we've gone too far to
start crawfishing. Just let me see him tied up in front of me--"

Beatrice did not linger to hear more. She had her answer: only in Ben's
continued concealment lay the least hope of his salvation. These wolves
about the fire meant what they said. But already her plans were shaping;
and now she saw the light.

In the kyack of venison lay her own and her lover's safety: it contained
enough nutritious food to sustain them until the fall rains could swell
the Yuga and enable them to escape down to the Indian encampment. Her
mind was swift and keen as never before: swiftly she perfected the last
detail of her plan. The canoe, due to Ben's foresight, was securely
hidden in a maze of tall reeds on the lake shore: they were certain to
overlook it. The cavern, however, was almost certain to be discovered in
the next day's search. They must make their escape to-night.

Ben, though terribly weakened, would be able to walk a short distance
with her help. They could slip into the deepest forest, concealing
themselves in the coverts until the three men had given up the search
and gone away. She would take their robes and blankets to keep them
warm; a camp fire would of course reveal their hiding place. The work
could easily be accomplished in the midnight shadows: deliverance,
salvation, life itself depended on the tide of fate in the next few
hours.

She intended to steal the kyack of dried meat without which Ben and
herself could not live. She crept back farther into the underbrush; then
waited, scarcely breathing, while the fire died down. Already the three
men were preparing to go to their bunks. Chan had already lain down; her
father was removing his coat and boots. Ray, however, still sat in the
firelight.

The moments passed. Would he never rise and go? The fire, however, was
dying: its circle of ruddy light ever drew inward. The kyack was quite
in the shadow now, yet she dared not attempt its theft until the three
men were asleep. She waited, thrilling with excitement.

Chan and Neilson were seemingly asleep, and now Ray was knocking the
ashes from his pipe. He yawned, stretching wide his arms; then, as if
held by some intriguing thought, sat almost motionless, gazing into the
graying coals. Presently Beatrice heard him curse, softly, in the
shadows.

He got up, and removing his outer coat, rolled in his blankets. The
night hours began their mystic march across the face of the wilderness.

Now was the time to act. As far as she could tell, the three men were
deeply asleep: at least the likelihood would be as great as at any time
later in the night. The fire was a heap of gray ashes except for its
red-hot center: the kyack was in gloom. Very softly she crept through
the thickets, meanwhile encircling the dying fire, and came up behind
it.

Now it was almost in reach: now her hands were at its loops. She started
to lift it in her arms.

But disaster still dogged her trail. Ray Brent had been too wary of
attack, to-night, to sink easily into deep slumber. He heard the soft
movement as Beatrice lifted the heavy canvas bag off the ground; and
with a startled oath sprang to his feet.

He leaped like a panther. "Who's there?" he cried.

Sensing immediate discovery the girl placed all her hope in flight.
Perhaps yet she could lose her pursuers in the darkness. Still trying to
hold the kyack of food that meant life to Ben, she turned and darted
into the shadows.

Like a wolf Ray sped after her. The moonlight showed her fleeing figure
in the trees, and shouting aloud he sprang through the coverts to
intercept her flight. The chase was of short duration thereafter.
Emburdened by the heavy box she could not watch her step; and a
protruding root caught cruelly at her ankle. She was hurled with
stunning force to the ground.

Desperate and intent, but in realization of impending triumph, Ray's
strong arms went about her.

XXXIX

For the second time in his life Ray Brent felt the sting of Beatrice's
strong hand against his face. In the desperation of fear she had smote
him with all her force. His arms withdrew quickly from about her; and
her wide, disdainful eyes beheld a sinister change in his expression.
The moonlight was in his eyes, silver-white; and they seemed actually to
redden with fury, and again she saw that queer, ghastly twitching at the
corner of his lips. The girl's defiance was broken with that one blow.
She dropped her head, then walked past him into the presence of her
father.

Neilson and Chan were on their feet now, and they regarded her in the
utter silence of amazement. Breathing fast, Ray came behind her.

"Build up the fire, Chan," he said in a strange, grim voice. "We want to
see what we've caught."

Obediently Chan kicked the coals from under the ashes, and began to heap
on broken pieces of wood. The sticks smoked, then a little tongue of
yellow flame crept about the fuel. But still the emburdened silence
continued--the white-faced girl in the ring of silent, watching men.

Slowly the fire's glow crept out to her, revealing--even better than the
bright moonlight--her wide, frightened eyes and the dark, speculative
faces of the men. Then Ray spoke sharply in his place.

"Well, why don't you question her?" he demanded of Neilson. "I suppose
you know what she was doing. She was trying to steal food. It looks to
me like she's gone over to the opposite camp."

Her father sighed, a peculiar sound that seemed to come from above the
tree tops, as if fast-flying waterfowl were passing overhead. "Is that
so, daughter?" he asked simply.

"I was trying to take some of your food--to Ben," Beatrice replied
softly. "He's in need of it."

"You see, they're on intimate terms," Ray suggested viciously. "Ben was
in need of food--so she came here to steal it."

But Neilson acted as if he had not heard. "Why didn't you speak to
us--and tell us you were safe?" he asked. "We've come all the way here
to find you."

"Perhaps _you_ did. If you had been here alone, I would have told you.
But Ray and Chan came all the way here to find Ben. I heard what they
said--back there in the brush. They intend to kill him when they find
him. I--I didn't want him killed."

Her father stared at her from under his bushy brows. "After carrying you
from your home--taking you into danger and keeping you a prisoner--you
still want to protect him?"

The girl nodded. "And I want you to protect him, too," she said.
"Against these men." Suddenly she moved forward in earnest appeal. "Oh,
Father--I want you to save him. He's never touched me--he's treated me
with every respect--done everything he could for me. When he was injured
he told me to go back--to take what little food there was, and go
back--"

"I can take it, then, that you're out of food?" Ray asked.

"We're starving--and Ben's sick. Father, I make this one appeal--if your
love for me isn't all gone, you'll grant it. I love him. You might as
well know that now, as later. I want you to save the man your daughter
loves."

Chan cursed in the gloom, his lean face darkened; but Neilson made no
answer. Ray in his place sharply inhaled; but the sullen glow in his
eyes snapped into a flame.

If Beatrice had glanced at Ray, she would have ceased her appeal and
trusted everything to the doubtful mercy of flight,--into the gloom of
the forest. As it was, she did not fully comprehend the cruel lust, like
flame, that sped through his veins. She would have hoped for no mercy if
she could have seen the strange, black surge of wrath in his face.

"He has been kind to me--and he was in the right, not in the wrong. I
know about the claim-jumping. Father, I want you to stand between him
and these men--help him--and give him food. I didn't speak to you
because I was afraid for him--afraid you'd kill him or do some other
awful thing to him--"

Slowly her father shook his head. "But I can't save him now. He brought
this on himself."

"Remember, he was in the right," the girl pleaded brokenly. "You
won't--you couldn't be a partner to murder. That's all it would
be--murder--brutal, terrible, cold-blooded murder--if you kill him
without a fight. It couldn't be in defense of me--I tell you he hasn't
injured me--but was always kind to me. It would be just to take that
letter away from him--"

"So he has the letter, has he?" Ray interrupted. He smiled grimly, and
his tone was again flat and strained. "And he's sick--and starving. It
isn't for your father to say, Beatrice, what's to be done with Ben.
There's three of us here, and he's just one. Don't go interfering with
what doesn't concern you, either--about the claim. You take us where he
is, and we'll decide what to do with him."

Her eyes went to his face; and her lips closed tight. Here was one
thing, on this mortal earth, that she must not tell. Perhaps, by the
mercy of heaven, they would not find the cave, hidden as it was at the
edge of the little glade. The forests were boundless; perhaps they would
miss the place in their search. She straightened, scarcely perceptibly.

"Yes, tell us where he is," her father urged. "That's the first thing.
We'll find him, anyway, in the morning."

The girl shook her head. She knew now that even if they promised mercy
she must not reveal Ben's whereabouts. Their rage and cruelty would not
be stayed for a spoken promise. The only card she had left, her one
last, feeble hope of preserving Ben's life, lay in her continued
silence. Ray's foul-nailed, eager hands could claw her lips apart, but
he could not make her speak.

"I won't tell you," she answered at last, more clearly than she had
spoken since her capture. "You said a few minutes ago I had gone
over--to the opposite camp. I am, from now on. He was in the right, and
he gave up his fight against you long ago. Now I want to go."

Fearing that Neilson might show mercy, Ray leaped in front of her. "You
don't go yet awhile," he told her grimly. "I've got a few minutes'
business with you yet. I tell you that we'll find him, if we have to
search all year. And he'll have twice the chance of getting out alive if
you tell us where he is."

She looked into his face, and she knew what that chance was. Her eyelids
dropped halfway, and she shook her head. "I'd die first," she answered.

"It never occurred to you, did it, that there's ways of _making_ people
tell things." He suddenly whirled, with drawn lips, to her father.
"Neilson, is there any reason for showing any further consideration to
this wench of yours? She's betrayed us--gone over to the opposite
camp--lived for weeks, willing, with Ben. I for one am never going to
see her leave this camp till she tells us where he is. I'm tired of
talking and waiting. I'm going to get that paper away from him, and I'm
going to smash his heart with my heel. We've almost won out--and I'm
going to go the rest of the way."

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