the timber-line began to show in a thin, black streak. His cheeks burned, half with shame, half with tumultuous joy. Then he straightened his shoulders and shook the floating tress from his arm.
Three-quarters of an hour later they came to the first of the timber. He still held her hand. He was still holding it, with the brilliant starlight falling upon them, when his chin shot suddenly into the air again, alert and fighting, and he cried, softly:
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” said the woman. “I heard nothing—unless it was the wind in the trees.”
She drew away from him. The dogs whined and slunk close to the box. Across the Barren came a low, wailing wind.
“The storm is coming back,” said MacVeigh. “It must have been the wind that I heard.”
III
IN HONOR OF THE LIVING
For a few moments after uttering those words Billy stood silent listening for a sound that was not the low moaning of the wind far out on the Barren. He was sure that he had heard it—something very near, almost at his feet, and yet it was a sound which he could not place or understand. He looked at the woman. She was gazing steadily at him.
“I hear it now,” she said. “It is the wind. It has frightened me. It makes such terrible sounds at times—out on the Barren. A little while ago—I thought—I heard—a child crying—”
Billy saw her clutch a hand at her throat, and there were both terror and grief in the eyes that never for an instant left his face. He understood. She was almost ready to give way under the terrible strain of the Barren. He smiled at her, and spoke in a voice that he might have used to a little child.
“You are tired, little girl?”
“Yes—yes—I am tired—”
“And hungry and cold?”
“Yes.”
“Then we will camp in the timber.”
They went on until they came to a growth of spruce so dense that it formed a shelter from both snow and wind, with a thick carpet of brown needles under foot. They were shut out from the stars, and in the darkness MacVeigh began to whistle cheerfully. He unstrapped his pack and spread out one of his blankets close to the box and wrapped the other about the woman’s shoulders.
“You sit here while I make a fire,” he said.
He piled up dry needles over a precious bit of his birchbark and struck a flame. In the glowing light he found other fuel, and added to the fire until the crackling blaze leaped as high as his head. The woman’s face was hidden, and she looked as though she had fallen asleep in the warmth of the fire. For half an hour Mac-Veigh dragged in fuel until he had a great pile of it in readiness.
Then he forked out a deep bed of burning coals and soon the odor of coffee and frying bacon aroused his companion. She raised her head and threw back the blanket with which he had covered her shoulders. It was warm where she sat, and she took off her hood while he smiled at her companionably from over the fire. Her reddish-brown hair tumbled about her shoulders, rippling and glistening in the fire glow, and for a few moments she sat with it falling loosely about her, with her eyes upon MacVeigh. Then she gathered it between her fingers, and MacVeigh watched her while she divided it into shining strands and pleated it into a big braid.
“Supper is ready,” he said. “Will you eat it there?”
She nodded, and for the first time she smiled at him. He brought bacon and bread and coffee and other things from his pack and placed them on a folded blanket between them. He sat opposite her, cross-legged. For the first time he noticed that her eyes were blue and that there was a flush in her cheeks. The flush deepened as he looked at her, and she smiled at him again.
The smile, the momentary drooping of her eyes, set his heart leaping, and for a little while he was unconscious of taste in the food he swallowed. He told her of his post away up at Point Fullerton, and of Pelliter, who was dying of loneliness.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman like you,” he confided. “And it seems like heaven. You don’t know how lonely I am!” His voice trembled. “I wish that Pelliter could see you—just for a moment,” he added. “It would make him live again.”
Something in the soft glow of her eyes urged other words to his lips.
“Mebbe you don’t know what it means not to see a white woman in—in—all this time,” he went on. “You won’t think that I’ve gone mad, will you, or that I’m saying or doing anything that’s wrong? I’m trying to hold myself back, but I feel like shouting, I’m that glad. If Pelliter could see you—” He reached suddenly in his pocket and drew out the precious packet of letters. “He’s got a girl down south—just like you,” he said. “These are from her. If I get ’em up in time they’ll bring him round. It’s not medicine he wants. It’s woman— just a sight of her, and sound of her, and a touch of her hand.”
She reached across and took the letters. In the firelight he saw that her hand was trembling.
“Are they—married?” she asked, softly.
“No, but they’re going to be,” he cried, triumphantly. “She’s the most beautiful thing in the world, next to—”
He paused, and she finished for him.
“Next to one other girl—who is yours.”
“No, I wasn’t going to say that. You won’t think I mean wrong, will you, if I tell you? I was going to say next to—you. For you’ve come out of the blizzard—like an angel to give me new hope. I was sort of broke when you came. If you disappeared now and I never saw you again I’d go back and fight the rest of my time out, an’ dream of pleasant things. Gawd! Do you know a man has to be put up here before he knows that life isn’t the sun an’ the moon an’ the stars an’ the air we breathe. It’s woman—just woman.”
He was returning the letters to his pocket. The woman’s voice was clear and gentle. To Billy it rose like sweetest music above the crackling of the fire and the murmuring of the wind in the spruce tops.
“Men like you—ought to have a woman to care for,” she said. “He was like that.”
“You mean—” His eyes sought the long, dark box.
“Yes—he was like that.”
“I know how you feel,” he said; and for a moment he did not look at her. “I’ve gone through—a lot of it. Father an’ mother and a sister. Mother was the last, and I wasn’t much more than a kid—eighteen, I guess—but it don’t seem much more than yesterday. When you come up here and you don’t see the sun for months nor a white face for a year or more it brings up all those things pretty much as though they happened only a little while ago.’ ”
“All of them are—dead?” she asked.
“All but one. She wrote to me for a long time, and I thought she’d keep her word. Pelly—that’s Pelliter—thinks we’ve just had a misunderstanding, and that
