his face and pushed back his head, looking squarely into his eyes.
"If I tell you," she said softly, "and in telling you I betray those whom I love, will you promise to bring harm to none of them, but go--go back into the South?"
"And leave you?"
"Yes--and leave me."
There was the faintest tremor of a sob in the voice which she was trying so hard to control. His arms tightened about her.
"I will swear to do what is best for you--and for me," he replied. "I will swear to bring harm to none whom you care to shield. But I will not promise to leave you!"
A soft glow came into the girl's eyes as she unclasped his arms and stood back from him.
"I will think--think--" she whispered quickly. "Perhaps I will tell you to-morrow night--here--if you will keep your oath and do what is best for you--and for me."
"I swear it!"
"Then I will meet you here--at this time--when the others are asleep. But--to-morrow--you will be careful--careful--" Unconsciously she half reached her arms out to him as she turned toward the path. "You will be careful--to-morrow--promise me that."
"I promise."
Like a shadow she was gone. He heard her quick steps running up the path, saw her form as it disappeared in the forest gloom. For a few moments longer he stood, hardly breathing, until he knew that she had gone beyond his hearing. Then he walked swiftly along the footpath that led to the cabin.
CHAPTER VII
THE BLOWING OF THE COYOTE
In the new excitement that pulsated with every fiber of his being, Howland forgot his own danger, forgot his old caution and the fears that gave birth to it, forgot everything in these moments but Meleese and his own great happiness. For he was happy, happier than he had ever been in his life, happier than he had ever expected to be. He was conscious of no madness in this strange, new joy that swept through his being like a fire; he did not stop to weigh with himself the unreasoning impulses that filled him. He had held Meleese in his arms, he had told her of his love, and though she had accepted it with gentle unresponsiveness he was thrilled by the memory of that last look in her eyes, which had spoken faith, confidence, and perhaps even more. And his faith in her had become as limitless as the blue space above him. He had known her for but a few hours and yet in that time it seemed to him that he had lived longer than in all of the years that had gone before. She had lied to him, had divulged only a part of her identity--and yet he knew that there were reasons for these things.
To-morrow night he would see her again, and then--
What would she tell him? Whatever it was, it was to be a reward for his own love. He knew that, by the half-fearing tremble of her voice, the sobbing catch of her breath, the soft glow in her eyes. Impelled by that love, would she confide in him? And then--would he go back into the South?
He laughed, softly, joyfully.
Yes, he would go back into the South--he would go to the other end of the earth, if she would go with him. What was the building of this railroad now to that other great thing that had come into his life? For the first time he saw duty in another light. There were others who could build the road; success, fortune, ambition--in the old way he had seen them--were overshadowed now by this love of a girl.
He stopped and lighted his pipe. The fragrant odor of the tobacco, the flavor of the warm smoke in his mouth, helped to readjust him, to cool his heated brain. The old fighting instincts leaped into life again. Go into the South? He asked himself the question once more, and in the gloomy silence of the forest his low laugh fell again as he clenched his hands in anticipation of what was ahead of him. No--he would build the road! And in building it he would win this girl, if it was given for him to possess her.
His saner thoughts brought back his caution. He went more slowly toward the cabin, keeping in the deep shadows and stopping now and then to listen. At the edge of the clearing he paused for a long time. There was no sign of life about the cabin abandoned by Gregson and Thorne. It was probable that the two men who had passed along the path had returned to the camp by another trail, and still keeping as much within the shadows as possible he went to the door and entered.
With his feet propped in front of the big box stove sat Jackpine. The Indian rose as Howland entered, and something in the sullen gloom of his face caused the young engineer to eye him questioningly.
"Any one been here, Jackpine?"
The old sledge-driver gave his head a negative shake and hunched his shoulders, pointing at the same time to the table, on which lay a carefully folded piece of paper.
"Thorne," he grunted.
Howland spread out the paper in the light of the lamp, and read:
"MY DEAR HOWLAND:
"I forgot to tell you that our mail sledge starts for Le Pas to-morrow at noon, and as I'm planning on going down with it I want you to get over as early as you can in the morning. Can put you on to everything in the camp between eight and twelve. THORNE."
A whistle of astonishment escaped Howland's lips.
"Where do you sleep, Jackpine?" he asked suddenly.
"Cabin in edge of woods," replied the Indian.
"How about breakfast? Thorne hasn't put me on to the grub line yet."
"Thorne say you eat with heem in mornin'. I come early--wake you. After heem go--to-morrow--eat here."
"You needn't wake me," said Howland, throwing off his coat. "I'll find Thorne--probably before he's up. Good night."
Jackpine had half opened the door, and for a moment the engineer caught a glimpse of his dark, grinning face looking back over his shoulder. He hesitated, as if about to speak, and then with a mouthful of his inimitable chuckles, he went out.
After bolting the door Howland lighted a small table lamp, entered the sleeping room and prepared for bed.
"Got to have a little sleep no matter if things are going off like a Fourth of July celebration," he grumbled, and rolled between the sheets.
In spite of his old habit of rising with the breaking of dawn it was Jackpine who awakened him a few hours later. The camp was hardly astir when he followed the Indian down among the log cabins to Thorne's quarters. The senior engineer was already dressed.
"Sorry to hustle you so, Howland," he greeted, "but I've got to go down with the mail. Just between you and me I don't believe the camp doctor is much on his job. I've got a deuced bad shoulder and a worse arm, and I'm going down to a good surgeon as fast as I can."
"Didn't they send Weston up with you?" asked Howland. He knew that Weston was the best "accident man" in the company's employ.
"Yes--Weston," replied the senior, eying him sharply. "I don't mean to say he's not a good man, Howland," he amended quickly. "But he doesn't quite seem to take hold of this hurt of mine. By the way, I looked over our pay-roll and there is no Croisset on it."
For
