The Greatest Works of James Oliver Curwood (Illustrated Edition). James Oliver CurwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
set off again toward the forest, the touch of her lips and the prayers of this girl whose father he had slain filling him with something that was more than strength, more than hope. Life had been given to him again, strong, fighting life, and with it and Winnsome's words there returned his old confidence, his old daring. There was everything for him to win now. His doubts and his fears had been swept away. Marion was not dead, she was not the king's wife—and it was not of another that he had accepted proof of her love for him, for he had felt the pressure of her arms about his neck and the warmth of her lips upon his face. He had until night—and the dawn was just beginning to break. Ten or fifteen miles to the north there were settlements, and between there were scores of settlers' homes and fishermen's shanties. Surely within an hour or two he would find a boat.
He turned where the edge of the forest came down to meet the white water-run of the sea, and set off at a slow, steady trot into the north. If he could reach a boat soon he might overtake Marion in mid-lake. The thought thrilled him, and urged him to greater speed. As the stars faded away in the dawn he saw the dark barrier of the forest drifting away, and later, when the light broke more clearly, there stretched out ahead of him mile upon mile of desert dunes. As far as he could see there was no hope of life. He slowed his steps now, for he would need to preserve his strength. Yet he experienced no fear, no loss of confidence. Each moment added to his faith in himself. Before noon he would be on his way to the Mormon kingdom, by nightfall he would be upon its shores. After that—
He examined the pistol that Winnsome had given him. There were five shots in it and he smiled joyously as he saw that it had been loaded by an experienced hand. It would be easy enough for him to find Strang. He would not consider the woman—his wife. The king's wife! Like a flash there occurred to him the incident of the battlefield. Was it this woman—the woman who had begged him to spare the life of the prophet, who had knelt beside him, and whispered in his ear, and kissed him? Had that been her reward for the sacrifice she believed he had made for her in the castle chamber? The thought of this woman, whose beauty and love breathed the sweet purity of a flower and whose faith to her king and master was still unbroken even in her hour of repudiation fell upon him heavily. For there was no choice, no shadow of alternative. There was but one way for him to break the bondage of the girl he loved.
For hours he trod steadily through the sand. The sun rose above him, hot and blistering, and the dunes still stretched out ahead of him, like winnows and hills and mountains of glittering glass. Gradually the desert became narrower. Far ahead he could see where the forest came down to the shore and his heart grew lighter. Half an hour later he entered the margin of trees. Almost immediately he found signs of life. A tree had been felled and cut into wood. A short distance beyond he came suddenly upon a narrow path, beaten hard by the passing of feet, and leading toward the lake. He had meant to rest under the shade of these trees but now he forgot his fatigue. For a moment he hesitated. Far back in the forest he heard the barking of a dog—but he turned in the opposite direction. If there was a boat the path would take him to it. Through a break in the trees he caught the green sweep of marsh rice and his heart beat excitedly with hope. Where there was rice there were wild-fowl, and surely where there were wild-fowl, there would be a punt or a canoe! In his eagerness he ran, and where the path ended, the flags and rice beaten into the mud and water, he stopped with an exultant cry. At his feet was a canoe. It was wet, as though just drawn out of the water, and a freshly used paddle was lying across the bow. Pausing but to take a quick and cautious glance about him he shoved the frail craft into the lake and with a few quiet strokes buried himself in the rice grass. When he emerged from it he was half a mile from the shore.
For a long time he sat motionless, looking out over the shimmering sea. Far to the south and west he could make out the dim outline of Beaver Island, while over the trail he had come, mile upon mile, lay the glistening dunes. Somewhere between the white desert sand and that distant coast of the Mormon kingdom Marion was making her way back to bondage. Nathaniel had given up all hope of overtaking her now. Long before he could intercept her she would have reached the island. When he started again he paddled slowly, and laid out for himself the plan that he was to follow. There must be no mistake this time, no error in judgment, no rashness in his daring. He would lie in hiding until dusk, and then under cover of darkness he would hunt down Strang and kill him. After that he would fly to his canoe and escape. A little later, perhaps that very night if fate played the game well for him, he would return for Marion. And yet, as he went over and over his scheme, whipping himself into caution—into cool deliberation—there burned in his blood a fire that once or twice made him set his teeth hard, a fire that defied extinction, that smoldered only to await the breath that would fan it into a fierce blaze. It was the fire that had urged him into the rescue at the whipping-post, that had sent him single-handed to invade the king's castle, that had hurled him into the hopeless battle upon the shore. He swore at himself softly, laughingly, as he paddled steadily toward Beaver Island.
The sun mounted straight and hot over his head; he paddled more slowly, and rested more frequently, as it descended into the west, but it still lacked two hours of sinking behind the island forest when the white water-run of the shore came within his vision. He had meant to hold off the coast until the approach of evening but changed his mind and landed, concealing his canoe in a spot which he marked well, for he knew it would soon be useful to him again. Deep shadows were already gathering in the forest and through these Nathaniel made his way slowly in the direction of St. James. Between him and the town lay Marion's home and the path that led to Obadiah's. Once more the spirit of impatience, of action, stirred within him. Would Marion go first to her home? Involuntarily he changed his course so that it would bring him to the clearing. He assured himself that it would do no harm, that he still would take no chances.
He came out in the strip of dense forest between the clearing and St. James, worming his way cautiously through the underbrush until he could look out into the opening. A single glance and he drew back in astonishment. He looked again, and his face turned suddenly white, and an almost inaudible cry fell from his lips. There was no longer a cabin in the clearing! Where it had been there was gathered a crowd of men and boys. Above their heads he saw a thin film of smoke and he knew what had happened. Marion's home had burned! But what was the crowd doing? It hung close in about the smoldering ruins as if every person in it were striving to reach a common center. Surely a mere fire would not gather and hold a throng like this.
Nathaniel rose to his feet and thrust his head and shoulders from his hiding-place. He heard a loud shout near him and drew back quickly as a boy rushed madly across the opening toward the crowd, crying out at the top of his voice. He had come out of the path that led to St. James. No sooner had he reached the group about the burned cabin than there came a change that added to Nathaniel's bewilderment. He heard loud voices, the excited shouting of men and the shrill cries of boys, and the crowd suddenly began to move, thinning itself out until it was racing in a black stream toward the Mormon city. In his excitement Nathaniel hurried toward the path. From the concealment of a clump of bushes he watched the people as they rushed past him a dozen paces away. Behind all the others there came a figure that drew a sharp cry from him as he leaped from his hiding-place. It was Obadiah Price.
"Obadiah!" he called. "Obadiah Price!"
The old man turned. His face was livid. He was chattering to himself, and he chattered still as he ran up to Nathaniel. He betrayed no surprise at seeing him, and yet there was the insane grip of steel in the two hands that clutched fiercely at Nathaniel's.
"You have come in time, Nat!" he panted joyfully. "You have come in time! Hurry—hurry—hurry—"
He ran back into the clearing, with Nathaniel close at his side, and pointed to the smoking ruins of the cabin among the lilacs.
"They were killed last night!" he cried shrilly. "Somebody murdered them—and burned them with the house! They are dead—dead!"
"Who?" shouted Nathaniel.
Obadiah had stopped and was rubbing and twisting his hands in his old, mad way.
"The old folks. Ho, ho, the old folks, of course! They are dead—dead—dead—"
He fairly shrieked the words. Then, for a moment, he stood tightly clutching his thin hands over his chest in a powerful effort to control