The Sky Line of Spruce by Edison Marshall

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In the still hour of midnight, when the forest world was swept in
mystery, he carried the equipment down to the canoe that Beatrice had
left the evening before. He loaded the craft with the greatest care,
balancing it now and then with his hands at the sides, and covering up
the food supplies with robes and blankets. Then he drew from his pocket
a sheet of paper--evidently a paper sack that had once held provisions,
cut open and spread--and wrote carefully, a long time, with a pencil.

He had no envelope to enclose it, no wax to seal it. He did, however,
carry a stub of a candle--a requisite to most northern men who are
obliged to build supper fires in wet forest. Folding his letter
carefully, he sealed it with tallow. Then wrapping one of his blankets
about him, he prepared to wait for the dawn. Fenris growled and murmured
in his sleep.

Ben himself had not slept the night before; and moved and stirred by his
plan of the morrow, slumber did not come easily to him now. He too
murmured in his sleep and had weird, tragic dreams between sleep and
wakefulness. But the shadows paled at last. A ribbon of light spread
along the eastern horizon; the more familiar landmarks emerged--ghosts
at first, then in vivid outline, the wooded sky line strengthened; the
nebulous magic of the moon died in the forest. Birds wakened and sang;
the hunting creatures crept to their lairs; sleeping flowers opened.
Morning broke on a clear, warm day.

Ben devoured a heavy breakfast--all that he could force himself to
swallow--then prepared to wait for Beatrice. He knew perfectly that
explanations would be difficult if Neilson or one of his followers found
him with the loaded boat. It was not likely, however, that any of his
enemies--except, of course, Beatrice herself--would venture down that
way.

Just before eight he saw her come,--first the glint of her white blouse
in the green of the forest, and then the flash of her brown arms. Her
voice rang clear and sweet through the hushed depths as she called a
greeting. A moment later she was beside him.

"Go back and get your heavy coat," he commanded. "I've already been out
on the water, and it'll freeze you stiff."

He was not overly pleased with himself for speaking thus. He had
resolved to put mercy from him; and he was taking a serious risk to his
own cause by the delay of sending her back for her warmer garments. She
smiled into his eyes, but she came of a breed of women that had learned
obedience to men, and she immediately turned. But Ben had builded better
than he thought. His eyes were no longer on her radiant face. They had
dropped to the pistol, in its holster, that she carried in her hands,
preparatory to strapping it about her waist. It was disconcerting that
he had forgotten about her pistol. It was one of those insignificant
trifles that before now have disrupted the mightiest plans of nations
and of men. His mind sped like lightning, and he thanked his stars that
he had seen it in time. This pistol and a small package, the contents
of which he did not know, were the only equipment she had.

"It's going to be a bright day," the girl said hesitatingly. "I don't
think I'll need the fur coat--"

"Get it, anyway," Ben advised. "The wind's keen on the river. Leave your
pistol and your package here--and go up and back at top speed. I'll be
arranging the canoe--"

She laid down the things, and in a moment the thickets had hidden her.
Swiftly Ben reached for the gun, and for a few speeding seconds his
fingers worked at its mechanism. He was busy about the canoe when the
girl returned.

Evidently Beatrice was in wonderful spirits. The air itself was
sparkling, the sun--beloved with an ardor too deep for words by all
northern peoples--was warm and genial in the sky; the spruce forest was
lush with dew, fragrant with hidden blossoms. It was a Spring
Day--nothing less. Both of them knew perfectly that miracle was abroad
in the forest,--flowers opening, buds breaking into blossoms, little
grass blades stealing, shy as fairies, up through the dead leaves; birds
fluttering and gossiping and carrying all manner of building materials
for their nests.

Spring is not just a time of year to the forest folk, and particularly
to those creatures whose homes are the far spruce forests of the North.
It is a magic and a mystery, a recreation and a renewed lease on life
itself. It is hope come again, the joy of living undreamed of except by
such highly strung, nerve-tingling, wild-blooded creatures as these; and
in some measure at least it is the escape from Fear. For there is no
other name than Fear for the great, white, merciless winter that had
just departed.

High and low, every woods creature knows this dread, this age-old
apprehension of the deepening snow. Perhaps it had its birth in eons
past, when the great glaciers brought their curse of gold into the
temperate regions, locking land and sea under tons of ice. Never the
frost comes, and the snow deepens on the land, and the rivers and lakes
are struck silent as if by a cruel magician's magic, but that this old
fear returns, creeping like poison into the nerves, bowing down the
heart and chilling the warm wheel of the blood. For the rodents and the
digging people--even for the mighty grizzly himself--the season means
nothing but the cold and the darkness of their underground lairs. For
those that try to brave the winter, the portion is famine and cold; the
vast, far-spreading silence broken only by the sobbing song of the wolf
pack, starving and afraid on the distant ridges. Man is the conqueror,
the Mighty One who can strike the fire, but yet he too knows the creepy,
haunting dread and deep-lying fear of the northern winter. But that
dread season was gone now, yielding for a few happy months to a gay
invader from the South; and the whole forest world rejoiced.

Both Beatrice and Ben could sense the new wakening and revival in the
still depths about them. The forest was hushed, tremulous, yet vibrant
and ecstatic with renewed life. The old grizzly bear had left his winter
lair; and good feeding was putting the fat again on his bones; the old
cow moose had stolen away into the farther marshes for some mystery and
miracle of her own. Everywhere young calves of caribou were breathing
the air for the first time, trying to stand on wobbly legs and pushing
with greedy noses into overflowing udders. The rich new grass yielded
milk in plenty for all these wilderness nurslings. Even the she-wolf
forgot her wicked savagery to nurse and fondle her whelps in the lair;
even the she-lynx, hunting with renewed fervor through the branches,
knew of a marvelous secret in a hollow log that she would be torn to
scraps of fur rather than reveal.

The she-ermine, her white hair falling out, was brooding a litter of
cutthroats and murderers in a nest of grass and twigs, and each one of
them was a source of pride and joy to her mother heart. Even the
wolverine had some wicked-eyed little cubs that, to her, were precious
beyond rubies; but which would ultimately receive all the oaths in the
language for stealing bait on the trap lines out from the settlements.

Beatrice, a woods creature herself, knew the stir and thrill of spring;
but there were also more personal, more deeply hidden reasons why she
was happy to-day. She was certainly a very girlish-girl in most ways,
with even more than the usual allowance of romance and sentiment, and
the idea of an all-day picnic with this stalwart forester went straight
home to her imagination. She had been tremendously impressed with him
from the first, and the day's ride out from Snowy Gulch had brought him
very close to her indeed. And what might not the day bring forth! What
mystery and wonder might come to pass!

Her dark eyes were lustrous, and the haunting sadness they often held
was quite gone. Her face was faintly flushed, her red lips wistful,
every motion eager and happy as a child's. But Ben looked at her
unmoved.

Coldly his eye leaped over her supple, slender form. He saw with relief
that she was stoutly clad in middy and skirt of wool, wool stockings,
and solid little boots. The heavy coat she had brought was not
particularly noteworthy in these woods, but it would have drawn instant
admiration from knowing people of a great city. It was not cut with
particular style, neither was it beautifully lined, but the fabric
itself was plucked otter,--the dark, well-wearing fur of many lights and
of matchless luster and beauty.

"For goodness sake, Mr. Darby," the girl cried. "What have you got in
this boat? Surely that isn't just the lunch--" She pointed to the pile
of supplies, covered by the blankets, in the center of the craft.

"It looks like we had enough to stay a month, doesn't it?" he laughed.
"There's blankets there, of course--for table cloths and to make us
comfortable--and the lunch, and a pillow or two--and some little
surprises. The rest is just some stores that I'm going to take this
opportunity to put across the river--to my next camp. Now, Miss
Neilson--if you'll take the seat in the bow. Fenris is going to ride in
the middle--"

The girl's eyes fell with some apprehension on the shaggy wolf. "I
haven't established very friendly relations with Fenris--"

"I'd leave him at home, but he won't stand for it. Besides I'd like to
teach him how to retrieve grouse. Lie down, old boy." Ben motioned, and
Fenris sprawled at his feet. "Now come here and pet him, Miss Neilson.
His fur, at this season, is wonderful--"

Reluctant to show her fear before Ben, the girl drew near. The wolf
shivered as the soft hand touched his side and moved slowly to his
fierce head; but he gave no further sign of enmity.

"He understands," Ben explained. "He realizes that I've accepted you,
and you're all right. Until he's given orders otherwise, he'll treat you
with the greatest respect."

She was deeply and sincerely pleased. It did not occur to her, in the
least, little degree, that occasion could possibly arise whereby
contradictory orders would be given. Ben started to help her into the
boat.

"You've not forgotten anything?" he asked casually.

"Nothing I can think of."

"Got plenty of extra shells?"

"Part of a box. It's a small caliber automatic, you see, and a box holds
fifty."

"It is, eh?" Ben's tone indicated deep interest. "May I see 'em a
minute? I think I had a gun like it once. Not the gun--just the box of
shells."

She had strapped the weapon around her waist, by now, so she didn't
attempt to put it in his hands. From her pocket she procured a small box
of shells, and these she passed to him. He examined them with a great
show of interest, balancing their weight in the palm of his hand; then
he carelessly threw the box down among the duffle in front of the stern
seat. Presently he started to push off.

"You're not taking the other paddle?" the girl asked curiously.

"No. I don't believe in letting young ladies work when I take 'em on an
outing. You are just to sit in the bow and enjoy yourself. Fenris, sit
still and don't rock the boat!"

Just one moment more he hesitated. From his pocket he drew a piece of
paper, carefully folded and sealed with tallow. This he inserted into a
little crack in the blade of the second paddle--the one that was to be
left at the landing.

"Just a little note for your father," he explained, "to tell him where
we are, in case he worries about you."

"That's very considerate of you," the girl answered in a thoughtful
voice.

She wondered at the curious glowings, lurid as red coals, that came and
went in his eyes.

XIX

After the manner of backwoods fathers Jeffery Neilson had offered no
objections to his daughter's all-day excursion with Ben. The ways of the
frontier are informal; and besides, he had every confidence in her
ability to take care of herself. The only unfortunate phase of the
affair concerned Ray. The latter would look with no favor upon the
venture; and in all probability a disagreeable half-hour would ensue
with him if he found it out.

The control of Ray Brent had been an increasingly difficult problem.
Always sullen and envious, once or twice he had not been far from open
rebellion. There is a certain dread malady that comes to men at the
sight of naked gold, and Ray's degenerate type was particularly subject
to it. Every day the mine had shown itself increasingly rich, and Ray's
ambition had given way to greed, and his greed to avarice of the most
dangerous sort. For instance, he had a disquieting way of gathering the
nuggets into his hands, fondling them with an unholy love. Neilson
realized perfectly, now, that the younger man would not be content with
a fourth share or less; and on the other hand he resolutely refused to
yield any of his own, larger share. Sometime the issue would bring them
to grips. Ray's dreadful crime of a few days past had given him an added
insolence and self-assurance that complicated the problem still further.
The leopard that has once tasted human flesh is not to be trusted again.
Finally, there remained this matter of Beatrice.

Neilson's love for his daughter forbade that he should force her to
receive unwelcome attentions. Ray, on the other hand, had always
insisted that his chief allow him a clear field. He would be infuriated
when he heard of the trip she was taking with Ben to-day. Neilson
straightened, resolving to meet the issue with old-time firmness.

When he heard his daughter's voice on the canoe landing, one hundred
yards below, he was inordinately startled. She had not told him that
their picnic would take them on to the water. The reason had been, of
course, that Beatrice knew her father's distrust of the treacherous
stream and either feared his refusal to her plan or wished to save him
worry. Even now they were starting. He could hear the first stroke of
the paddle through the hushed woods.

He turned toward the door, instinctively alarmed; then hesitated. After
all, he could not tell her to come back. Beatrice would be mortified;
and besides, there was nothing definite to fear. The river was almost as
still as a lake for a long stretch immediately in front of the landing;
even a poor canoeist could cross with ease. It was true that rapids,
mile after mile of them past counting, lay just below, but surely the
canoeists would stay at a safe distance above them. And if by any chance
this young prospector had no skill with a canoe, Beatrice herself was an
expert.

Yet what, in reality, did he know of Ben Darby? He had liked the man's
face: whence he came and what was his real business on the Yuga he had
not the least idea. All at once a baffling apprehension crept like a
chill through his frame.

He could not laugh it away. It laid hold of him, refusing to be
dispelled. It was as if an inner voice was warning him, telling him to
rush down to the river bank and check that canoe ride at all costs. It
occurred to him, for the moment, that this might be premonition of a
disastrous accident, yet vaguely he sensed a plot, an obscure design
that filled him with ghastly terror. Once more the man started for the
door.

Unaware of his ground, he did not hurry at first. He hardly knew what to
say, by what excuse he could call Beatrice back to the landing. His
heart was racing incomprehensibly in his breast, and all at once he
started to run.

At the first step he fell sprawling, and stark panic was upon him when
he got to his feet again. And when he reached the landing the canoe was
already near the opposite shore, heading swiftly downstream.

He saw in one glance that the craft was rather heavily laden, Fenris
atop the pile of duffle, and that Ben was paddling with a remarkably
fast, easy stroke. "Come back, Beatrice," he shouted. "You've forgotten
something."

The girl turned, waving, but Ben's voice drowned out hers. "We'll see
you later," he called in a gay voice. "We can't come back now."

"Come back!" Neilson called again. "I order you--"

He stared intently, hoping that the man would turn. Already they were
practically out of hearing; and not even Beatrice was dipping her paddle
in obedience to his command. Looking more closely, he saw that the man
only was paddling.

Then his eye fell to the landing on which he stood, instinctively trying
to locate the second paddle. It lay at his feet. A foolhardy thing to
do, he thought, a broken paddle, out there above the rapids, would mean
death and no other thing. Helpless in the current, the canoe could not
be guided through those fearful gates of peril below. If by a
thousandth chance it escaped the rocks, it would be carried for
unnumbered miles into a land unknown, a territory that could be entered
only by the greatest difficulty--packing day after day over range and
through thicket with a great train of pack horses--and from which the
egress, except by the same perilous water route, would be almost
impossible. But the thought passed as he discerned the white paper that
had been fastened in the paddle blade.

He bent for it with eager hand. He knew instinctively that it contained
an all-important and sinister message for him. His eyes leaped over the
bold writing on the exterior.

"To Ezra Melville's murderers," Ben had written. And with that reading
Jeffery Neilson knew a terror beyond any experienced in the darkest
nightmare of his iniquitous life.

It did not occur to him to bring the note, unopened, to Ray Brent. As
yet he did not fully understand; yet he knew that the issue was one of
seconds. _Seconds_ must decide everything; his whole world hung in the
balance. His hand ripped apart the sealed fold, and he held the sheet
before his eyes.

Possessing only an elementary education Jeffery Neilson was not,
ordinarily, a fast reader. Usually he sounded out his words only with
the greatest difficulty. But to-day, one glance at the page conveyed to
him the truth: from half a dozen words he got a general idea of the
letter's full, dread meaning. Ben had written:

TO NEILSON AND HIS GANG:--

When you get this, Beatrice will be on her way to Back There--either
there or on her way to hell.

Ezra Melville was my pard. A letter leaving his claim to me is in my
pocket, and I alone know where Hiram's will is, leaving it to Ezram.
Your title will never stand as long as those papers aren't
destroyed. If you don't care enough about saving your daughter from
me, at least you'll want those letters. Come and get them. I'll be
waiting for you.

BEN DARBY.

As the truth flashed home, Neilson's first thought was of his rifle. He
was a wilderness man, trained to put his trust in the weapon of steel;
and if it were only in his hands, there might yet be time to prevent the
abduction. One well-aimed bullet over the water, shooting with all his
old-time skill, might yet hurl the avenger to his death in the moment of
his triumph. Just one keen, long gaze over the sights,--heaven or earth
could not yield him a vision half so glorious as this! For all his
terror he knew that he could shoot as he had never shot before, true as
a light-ray. His remorseless eyes for once could see clear and sure. One
shot--and then Beatrice could seize the paddle and save herself. And he
cursed himself, more bitterly than he had ever cursed an enemy, when his
empty hands showed him that he had left his rifle in his cabin.

His pistol, however, was at his belt, and his hand reached for it. But
the range was already too far for any hope of accurate pistol fire. His
hard eyes gazed along the short, black barrel. His steady finger pressed
back against the trigger.

The first shot fell far short. The pistol was of large caliber but small
velocity; and a hundred yards was its absolute limit of point-blank
range. He lifted the gun higher and shot again. Again he shot low. But
the third bullet fell just a few feet on the near side of the canoe.

He had the range now, and he shot again. It was like a dream, outside
his consciousness, that Beatrice was screaming with fear and amazement.
She was already too far to give or receive a message: all hope lay in
the pistol alone. The fifth shot splashed water beyond the craft.

Once more he fired, but the boat was farther distant now, and the bullet
went wild. The pistol was empty. Like a moose leaping through a marsh he
turned back to his cabin for his rifle.

But already he knew that he was lost. Before ever he could climb up the
hundred yards to the cabin, and back again, the craft would be around
the bend in the river. Heavy brush would hide it from then on. He
hastened frantically up the narrow, winding trail.

XX

Ben was fully aware, as he pushed the canoe from landing, that the
success of his scheme was not yet guaranteed. Long ago, in the hard
school of the woods, he had found out life; and one of the things he had
learned was that nothing on earth is infallible and no man's plans are
sure. There are always coincidents of which the scheming brain has not
conceived: the sudden interjection of unexpected circumstances. The
unforeseen appearance of Beatrice's father on the landing had been a
case in point.

Most of all he had been afraid that Beatrice herself would leap from the
canoe and attempt to swim to safety. He had learned in his past
conversations with her that she had at least an elementary knowledge of
swimming. Had she not confessed at the same time fear of the water, his
plan could have never been adopted. The northern girls have few
opportunities to obtain real proficiency in swimming. Their rivers are
icy cold, their villages do not afford heated natatoriums. Yet he
realized that he must quiet her suspicions as long as possible.

"I've got the landing picked out," he told her as they started off.
"I've been all over the river this morning. It is quite a way
down--around the bend--but it's perfectly safe. So don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid--with you. And how fast you paddle!"

It was true: in all her days by rivers she had never seen such perfect
control of a canoe. He paddled as if without effort, but the streaming
shore line showed that the boat moved at an astonishing rate. He was a
master canoeist, and whatever fears she might have had vanished at once.

She talked gayly to him, scarcely aware that they were heading across
and down the stream.

When her father had appeared on the bank, calling, she had not been in
the least alarmed. Ben's gay shouts kept her from understanding exactly
what he was saying. And when the old man had drawn his pistol and fired,
and the bullet had splashed in the water some twenty yards toward shore,
her mind had refused to accept the evidence of her senses.

The second shot followed the first, and the third the second, resulting
in, for her part, only the impotence of bewilderment. Her first thought
was that her father's fierce temper, long known to her, had engulfed him
in murderous rage. Trusting Ben wholly, the real truth did not occur to
her.

She screamed shrilly at the fourth shot; and Ben looked up to find her
pale as the foam from his flashing paddle. "Turn around and go back,"
she cried to Ben. "He'll kill you if you don't! Oh, please--turn
around--"

"And get in range of him so he _can_ kill me?" Ben replied savagely.
"Can't you see he's shooting at me?"

"Then throw up your hands--it's all some dreadful mistake. Can't you
hear me--turn and go back."

The fifth and sixth shots were fired by now; and Neilson had gone to his
cabin for his rifle. Ben smiled grimly into her white face.

"We'd better keep on going to our landing place," he advised. "There's
no place to land above it--I went all over the shore this morning. That
will give him time to cool down. I only want to get around this curve
before he comes with his rifle."

She stared at him aghast, too confused and terrified to make rational
answer. He was pale, too; but she had a swift feeling that the cold,
rugged face was in some way exultant, too. The first chill of fear of
him brushed her like a cold wind.

But they were around the bend by now, and Ben's breath caught as if in a
triumphant gasp. Already all opportunity for the girl to swim to shore
was irremediably past. While he could still control the canoe with
comparative ease, the river was a swift-moving sheet of water that would
carry any one but the strongest swimmer remorselessly into the rapids
below. Ben smiled, like a man who has come into a great happiness, and
rested on his paddle.

"Push into shore," the girl urged. "The home shore--if you can. Then
I'll go and find him and try to quiet him. He'll kill you if you don't."

A short pause followed the girl's words. The man smiled coldly into her
eyes.

"He'll kill me, will he?" he repeated.

The response to the simple question was simply unmitigated terror, swift
and deadly, surging through the girl's frame. It caught and twisted her
throat muscles like a cruel hand; and her childish eyes widened and
darkened under his contemptuous gaze.

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly. "What--are you going to do?"

"He won't kill me," Ben went on. "I may kill him--and I will if I
can--but he won't kill me. See--we're going faster all the time."

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