Chapter XI: The Westward Trail

The reduced Ducats were half-way through supper when Sheriff Hart and Widow Wilson got back from Millbrook. The sheriff and the widow had interviewed Amos Hammond separately and together, and Amos (from whom the pellets of lead had been picked by a doctor) had withdrawn his charge against Jim Todhunter and refused to make one against the indomitable widow. The sheriff drove away after supper. He hadn't been gone more than twenty minutes before Homer Steeves arrived. Homer twiddled his thumbs for half an hour, then asked point-blank why Flora was not in evidence.

"She's out, an' I can't rightly say exactly when she'll be home," said Mrs. Ducat uneasily.

"Don't know when she'll be home?" cried the youth. "Maybe ye don't know where she is--at this time of night!"

"Now don't ye be sassy, Homer," said old Hercules. "That there sarcastic tone of voice ain't for use twixt young folk an' their elders."

"Where is she, then? Out to a spree somewheres with the dood?"

"That ain't much better, Homer. Sounds to me like yer four hosses an' fifteen head o' cattle was talkin' more'n yer manners. Us Ducats an' McKims be easy-goin', hospitable folks, but I licked both yer gran'pas, an' I licked yer pa, an' for a chew o' baccy I'd up onto my two hind legs an' lam ye a wallop!"

"I don't mean to be sassy, Mr. Ducat, an' all I want's a civil answer to a civil question."

"An' I give it to ye, Homer. Jim Todhunter went out early this mornin' on a pair of snowshoes an' he ain't come back yet, an' Flora went out a spell before supper to look for 'im an' she ain't got back yet. There be yer civil answer. She be out, an' we can't rightly say aigzactly when she'll be home agin--jist like her ma told ye."

"He run, did he? I reckoned that's what he'd do! But what did Flora go huntin' 'im for? Couldn't she leave it to the police?"

"What's the police gotter do with it?" asked Hercules.

"It's all up with yer dood, folks," replied Homer derisively. And then, with a swift change of tone, "Will you rig me out with snowshoes an' a rifle?" he continued. "I'll stable the mare an' take a look around. Todhunter don't know the woods an' maybe some accident has happened to him, an' Flora ain't ust to travelin' the woods at night. I guess it won't do no hurt to take a look round."

"Reckon ye're right, Homer, as usual," said Hercules. "Stable the mare, an' welcome. I'll rig ye out with webs an' a rifle."

Archie McKim parted his whiskers with the very evident intention of saying something important, but a furtive hack on the shin by Hercules, accompanied by a terrific scowl, caused him to change his mind. Then Hercules got to his feet, whispered a few words in Widow Wilson's ear, and took a lantern from a nail in the wall and lit it. Homer Steeves took the lantern and went out to stable his mare. The moment the door was shut, old Ducat hobbled to the dresser and from a lower drawer produced a few brass shells. He laid these on the table, in the lamplight, and, looking around at old Archie, his daughter-in-law, and the widow, he winked three times.

"There be no fool like a young fool," he said.

The shells and protruding bullets were large and of simple construction, for his rifle was a Snider. He removed the bullets, working swiftly with deft fingers, a pointed knife-blade and pincers, then extracted the explosive charges and returned the bullets to the shells. The job was completed and all evidences of it were cleared away by the time Homer reentered the kitchen.

"Here be my own trusty rifle, an' here be my own snowshoes," said Hercules to Hornet, "An' Jane'll put up a pa'cel o' cooked grub for ye. But here be only four cartridges."

"Four'll be plenty," returned the young man.

Knowing nothing of old Mrs. Wilson's confession, Homer believed Jim Todhunter to be a fugitive from the law. Flora's action puzzled him, but he put it out of his mind, for she had frequently puzzled him before by word and deed and look. But the smart of jealousy remained. Now was his chance to get that formidable rival out of the way without a downright declaration of the degrading and unpopular passion. He would go out to hunt for Flora, which was only right and proper and a thing any young man of spirit would do, and, with luck, he would find the man who was wanted for shooting Amos Hammond. With a little more luck, he would bring that young man out of the woods with him and hand him over to the sheriff. He might meet with resistance. He might have to use old Hercules Ducat's rifle. In that case he might need a sled.

Homer left the kitchen with a rifle, a day's provisions, a lantern, and blankets. By the light of the lantern he hunted out the light, strong sled which was used for hauling turnips and carrots from the root-house to the stables. Thus completely equipped, he made straight for the nearest edge of timber, which lay to the southwest of the farmstead. He realized that it would be useless to look for tracks in the open--as useless as to accept old Ducat's suggestion that the fugitive and the girl had gone north toward Mark's trapping ground. He was a shrewd fellow, this Homer. He turned northward upon reaching the shelter of the spruces, with the lighted lantern swinging low and his gaze on the ground. No wild-goose chase for him! He would find the tracks and start right, even if he was forced to make a complete circuit of the clearings to do so. But he was in luck. He found the tracks before he had gone two hundred yards--tracks of two pairs of snowshoes and of one or two dogs, leading due west.

Flora awoke early and suddenly as the first faint gray of dawn sifted through the windless and frozen forest. She sat bolt upright at the instant of waking and stared about her in bewildered dismay for several seconds before she remembered the events of the night and realized her position. Her conscience smote her immediately and dismay gave way to shame and anxiety. She scrambled away from her snowy blankets, and the dogs leaped to their feet. She built the fire up from its ash-filmed, red heart, boiled snow water and brewed tea, breakfasted, and fed the dogs. She was away on Jim's trail again within a half-hour of opening her eyes.

She traveled through heavy woods, over uneven country, throughout the long, windless morning. The trail led up and down, up and down, but steadily westward. The colorless sunshine struck down to her through the somber browns and dull greens of the crowding forest. The dogs ran ahead and on the flanks, coursing rabbits and now and again putting a grouse up in a whirl of snow. She traveled fast, but was forced to rest often to ease her shoulders of the weight of the unaccustomed pack. She always did this by leaning back against a convenient tree. At noon she made a fire, fried bacon, and toasted bread and rested for an hour.

She had not gone more than five hundred yards after the noon rest when she came to the edge of a wide, white expanse of open country and the end of the visible trail. The wind of yesterday had filled and obliterated the imprints of Jim's webs with drifting snow. A sudden sense of desolation possessed the girl. She left the woods and advanced upon the barren with a strange reluctance of spirit. Clumps of dead trees and stunted brush showed here and there between her and the distant line of black hills, and to her right and left the white emptiness extended to the colorless horizon. She was without a compass, but she walked as straight a course as possible under the circumstances, by selecting and advancing upon one landmark after another. The sun, red as fire, was on the crest of the tumbled black horizon in front of her by the time she reached the western edge of the barren ground.

Flora moved to the right, in the shelter of the trees, seeking the lost trail. She went half a mile in that direction without success, then retraced her steps to the point at which she had entered the timber. The sun and its red glow were gone by now, the stars shone but faintly, the barren was a vague pallor and the forest was utter gloom. The girl realized the uselessness of continuing the search for Jim's tracks in the dark, and so dropped her pack and gun and felt about in the underbrush for dry wood for a fire. She found some dead stuff, hacked it down with the short ax, and dragged it out. Soon a flame was crackling in the rusty red needles. She fed it with dry boughs, and it leaped high and clear. She glanced around in the widening circle of wavering light, saw the dogs, the brown boles and drooping branches of the trees, the trampled white about the fire and, at the very edge of the firelight, a thing that might be a shadow and yet might be something else. She ran to it and stooped above it. It was a deep imprint of a snowshoe, a link of the lost trail. And here was another, and beyond yet another.

Flora reshouldered her pack, took up the gun and followed the tracks into the darkness, leaving the fire to flare and glow and expire of neglect. The dogs dashed after her. She moved slowly, stooping low after every step or two. The tracks led through tangles of brush. The dogs passed her and ran ahead. She struggled forward, fouling her snowshoes frequently and falling into the harsh brush and feathery snow. At last she heard the dogs barking and yelping far ahead.