"Four shots."

"You was running away when your colt shied at the bear?"

"My ankle! Jesse, it hurts so dreadfully. Yes the left."

My knife ripped her riding-boot clear. The old red bandana from my neck made her a wet bandage, and the boot top served for a splint. There was no call to tell her the foot was broken, and the fainting fits eased my job. Between whiles she would tell me to hurry, knowing that the return of that d.a.m.ned colt would show Trevor which way she'd run. I had no weapon, so if Trevor happened along with the .45 revolver it wouldn't be healthy.

I couldn't leave the loads of ore on my ponies, and if I got Mrs. Trevor mounted with her foot hanging down, she'd lose time swooning. So I unloaded all the ponies except Jones, and turned them loose, keeping Jones and Swift, who has a big heart for travel. Next I filled one of the rawhide panniers with brush, and lashed it across Jones' neck for a back rest. A wad of pine brush made a seat between Jones' panniers where I mostly carry my grub. Hoisting Mrs. Trevor on to the mare's back was a pretty mean job, but worst of all I had to lash her down. Taking my thirty-eight-foot rope I threw a single-hand diamond, hitching the lady good and hard to mare and cargo. Her head and shoulders was over Jones'

neck, her limbs stretched out above his rump, where I had made them fast with a sling rope. I've packed mining machinery, wheels, and once a piano, but I never heard tell of any one packing a lady. For chafing gear to keep the ropes from scorching, I had to use my coat, shirt, and undershirt, so that when I mounted Swift to lead off, I'd only boots and overalls, and Mrs. Trevor could see I was blushing down to my belt.

Shocked? Nothing! Great ladies doesn't shock like common people. No, in spite of the pain-racking and the fear-haunting, she laughed, and it done me good. She said I looked like Mr. Pollo Belvideary, a dago she'd met up with in Italy. Dagos are swine, but the way she spoke made me proud.

Jones leads good, which was well for me riding bareback, for we didn't stop to pick flowers.

Washing day after supper.

We weren't more than half-way down to the river when we heard Trevor surging and yelling astern, somewheres up on the bench. At that I broke to a trot, telling the lady to let out a howl the moment it hurt beyond bearing. I wonder what amount of pain is beyond the bearing of real thoroughbreds? That lady would burn before she'd even whimper.

Nearing the ferry my innards went sick, for the punt was on the far bank, the man was out of sight, and even Jones wouldn't propose to swim the river with a cargo of mineral and a deck load. As we got to the door of Brown's cabin, Trevor hove in sight.

Now, supposing you're poor in the matter of time, with, say, half a minute to invest to the best advantage, you try to lay out your thirty seconds where they will do most good. I lep' to the ground, giving Jones a hearty slap on the off quarter, which would steer her behind Brown's cabin; then with one jump I grabbed old man Brown's Winchester rifle from its slings above the hearth, shoved home two cartridges from the mantel, rammed the muzzle through the window-pane, which commands a view up the trail, and proceeded to take stock of Mr. Trevor.

The man's eyes being stark staring mad, it was a sure fact he'd never listen to argument. If I shot him, the horse would surge on, dropping the corpse at Mrs. Trevor's feet, which would be too sudden to please.

If I stopped the horse at full gallop, the rider would go on till he hit the scenery, and after that he wouldn't feel well enough to be injurious. That's why I waited, following with the rifle until the horse's shoulder widened out, giving me a clear aim at the heart.

The horse finished his stride, but while I was running to the door, he crumpled and went down dead, the carca.s.s sliding three yards before it stopped. As to the man, he shot a long curve down on his back in a splash of dust, which looked like a brown explosion. His revolver went further on whirling, until a stump touched off the trigger, and its bullet whined over my head.

Next thing I heard was the rapids, like a church organ finishing a hymn, and Mrs. Trevor's call.

"You've killed him?"

"No, ma'am, but he's had an accident. I'll take him to the cabin for first aid."

Trevor was sitting up by the time I reached him. He looked sort of sick.

"Get up," said I, remembering to be polite in the presence of a lady.

"Get up, you cherub."

Instead of rising, he reached out a flask from his pocket, and uncorked to take a little nourishment. I flicked the bottle into the river, and a.s.sisted him to rise with my foot. "My poor erring brother," said I, "please step this way, or I'll kick your tail through your hat."

He said he wasn't feeling very well, so when I got him into the cabin, I let him lie on Brown's bed, lashing him down good and hard. I gave him a stick to bite instead of my fingers, which is private. "Now," said I, "your name is Polecat. You're due to rest right there, Mr. Polecat, until I get the provincial constable." I gathered from his expression that he'd sort of taken a dislike to me.

Swift and the mare were grazing on pine chips beside the cabin, and Mrs.

Trevor looked wonderfully peaceful.

"Your husband," said I, "is resting."

She gave me a wry laugh, and seeing she was in pain, I poured water over her foot.

"That's better," said she, "how good you are to me!"

Old man Brown was coming across with the punt, mighty peevish because I'd dropped a horse carca.s.s to rot at his cabin door, and still worse when he seen I had a lunatic roped in his bunk. Moreover, he wasn't broke to seeing ladies used for cargo on pack-animals, or me naked to the belt, and making free with his rifle. I give him his Winchester, which he set down by his door, also a dollar bill, but he was still crowded full of peevishness, wasting the lady's time. At last I hustled the ponies aboard the punt, and set the guide lines so that we started out along the cable, leaving the old man to come or stay as he pleased.

He came. Fact is, I remembered that while I took Mrs. Trevor to my home, I'd need a messenger to ride for doctor, nurse, groceries, and constable. I'm afraid old man Brown was torn some, catching on a nail while I lifted him into the punt. His language was plentiful.

Now I thought I'd arranged Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Trevor and Mr. Brown, and added up the sum so that old Geometry himself couldn't have figured it better. Whereas I'd left out the fact that Brown's bunk was nailed careless to the wall of his cabin. As Trevor struggled, the pegs came adrift, the bed capsized, the rope slacked, and the polecat, breaking loose, found Brown's rifle. I'd led the ponies out of the punt, and was instructing Brown, when the polecat let drive at me from across the river. With all his faults he could shoot good, for his first grazed my scalp, half blinding me. At that the lady attracted attention by screaming, so the third shot stampeded poor Jones.

I ain't religious, being only thirty, and not due to reform this side of rheumatism, but all the sins I've enjoyed was punished sudden and complete in that one minute. Blind with blood, half stunned, and reeling sick, I heard the mare as she plunged along the bank dispensing boulders. No top-heavy cargo was going to stand that strain without coming over, so the woman I loved--yes, I knew that now for a fact--was going to be dragged until her brains were kicked out by the mare. It seemed to me ages before I could rouse my senses, wipe my eyes, and mount the gelding. When sight and sense came back, I was riding as I had never dared to ride in all my life, galloped Mr. Swift on rolling boulders steep as a roof, and all a-slither. I got Swift sidewise up the bank to gra.s.s, raced past the mare, then threw Swift in front of Jones. Down went the mare just as her load capsized, so that she and the lady, Swift and I, were all mixed up in a heap.

My little dog Mick was licking my scalp when I woke, and it seemed to me at first that something must have gone wrong. My head was between two boulders, with the mare's shoulder pressing my nose, my legs were under water, and somewhere close around was roaring rapids. Swift was scrambling for a foothold, and Mrs. Trevor shouting for all she was worth. I waited till Swift cleared out, and the lady quit for breath.

"Yes, ma'am," says I.

"Oh, say you're not dead, Jesse!"

"Only in parts," said I, "and how are you?"

"I'm cutting the ropes, but oh, this knife's so blunt!"

"Don't spoil your knife. Will you do what I say?"

"Of course I will."

"Reach out then on the off side of the load. The end of that lashing's fast to the after-basket line."

When I'd explained that two or three times, "I have it," she answered.

"Loose!"

"Pull on the fore line of the diamond."

"Right. Oh, Jesse, I'm free!"

"Kneel on the mare's head, reach under the pannier, find the latego, and cast off."

She fumbled a while, and then reported all clear.

"Get off the mare."

In another moment Jones was standing up to shake herself, knee deep in the river, and with a slap I sent her off to join Swift at the top of the bank. Mrs. Trevor was sitting on a boulder, staring out over the rapids, her eyes set on something coming down mid-stream. Her face was all gray, and she clutched my hand, holding like grim death. As for me, I'd never reckoned that even a madman would try to swim the Fraser in clothes and boots.

"I can't bear it!" she cried, turning her face away. "Tell me--"

"I guess," said I, feeling mighty grave, "you're due to become a widow."

The rapids got Trevor, and I watched.

"You are a widow," says I, at last.