"You will rest easier this way, Pierre," he said.

After a few moments Pierre spoke in a gasping whisper.

"You must understand. I must be quick," he said. "We could not warn you of what Jeanne had discovered. That would have revealed her father.

D'Arcambal would have known--every one. Thorpe plans to dress his men--like Indians. They are to attack your camp to-morrow night. Ten days ago we went to the camp of old Sachigo, the Cree, who loves Jeanne as his own daughter. It was Jeanne's idea--to save you. Jeanne told him of Thorpe's plot to destroy you, and to lay the blame on Sachigo's people. Sachigo is out there--in the mountains--hiding with thirty of his tribe. Two days ago Jeanne learned where her father's men were hiding. We had planned everything. To-morrow night--when they move to attack--we were to start a signal-fire on the big rock mountain at the end of the lake. Sachigo starts at the signal, and lays in ambush for the others in the ravine between the two mountains. None of Thorpe's men will come out alive. Sachigo and his people will destroy them, and none will ever know how it happened, for the Crees keep their secrets.

But now--it is too late--for me. When it happens--I will be gone. The signal-pile is built--birch-bark--at the very top of the rock. Jeanne will wait for me out on the plain--and I will not come. You must fire the signal, M'sieur--as soon as it is dark. None will ever know.

Jeanne's father is dead. You will keep the secret--of her mother--always--"

"Forever," said Philip.

MacDougall came into the room, He brought a gla.s.s, partly filled with a colored liquid, and placed it to Pierre's lips. Pierre swallowed with an effort, and with a significant hunch of his shoulders for Philip's eyes alone the engineer returned to the little room.

"Mon Dieu, how it burns!" said Pierre, as if to himself. "May I lie down again, M'sieur?"

Philip lowered him gently. He made no effort to speak in these moments.

Pierre's eyes were dark and luminous as they sought his own. The draught he had taken gave him a pa.s.sing strength.

"I saw Thorpe again this afternoon," he said, more calmly. "D'Arcambal thought I had taken Jeanne to visit a trapper's wife down the Churchill. I saw Thorpe--alone. He had been drinking. He laughed at me, and said that Jeanne and I were fools--that he would not leave as he had said he would--but that he would remain--always. I told Jeanne, and asked her again to let me kill him. But she said no--and I had taken my oath to her. Jeanne saw him again to-night. I was near the cabin, and saw you. I told him I would kill him if he did not go. He laughed again, and struck me. When I came to my feet he was half across the open; I followed. I forgot my oath. Rage filled my heart. You know what happened. You will tell Jeanne--so that she will understand--"

"Can we not send for her?" asked Philip. "She must be near."

"No, M'sieur," he replied, softly. "It would only give her great pain to see me--like this. She was to meet me to-night--at twelve o'clock--on the trail where the road-bed crosses. You will meet her in my place. When she understands all that has happened you may bring her here, if she wishes to come. Then--to-morrow night--you will go together to fire the signal."

"But Thorpe is dead," said Philip. "Will they attack without him?"

"There is another, besides him," said Pierre. "That is one secret which Thorpe has kept from Jeanne--who the other is--the one who is paying to have you destroyed. Yes--they will attack."

Philip bent low over Pierre.

"I have known of this plot for a long time, Pierre," he said, tensely.

"I know that this Thorpe, who for some reason has pa.s.sed as Lord Fitzhugh Lee, is but the agent of a more powerful force behind him.

Have you told me all, Pierre? Do you know nothing more?"

"Nothing, M'sieur."

"Was it Thorpe who attacked you on the cliff at Churchill?"

"No, I am sure that it was not he. If the attack had not failed--it would have meant loss--for him. I have laid it to the ruffians who wanted to kill me--and secure Jeanne. You understand--"

"Yes, but I do not believe that was the motive for the attack, Pierre,"

said Philip. "Did Thorpe go to see any one in Churchill?"

"I don't know. He was concealing himself in the forest."

A convulsive shudder ran through Pierre's body. He gave a low cry of pain, and his hand clutched at the babiche cord which held the locket about his neck.

"M'sieur," he whispered, quickly, "this locket--was on the little Jeanne--when I found her in the snow. I kept it because it bears the woman's initials. I am foolish, M'sieur. I am weak. But I would like to have it buried with me--under the old tree--where Jeanne's mother lies.

And if you could, M'sieur--if you only could--place something of Jeanne's in my hand--I would rest easier."

Philip bowed his head in silence, while his eyes grew blinding hot.

Pierre pressed his hand.

"She loves you--as I love her," he whispered, so low that Philip could scarcely hear. "You will love her--always. If you do not--the Great G.o.d will let the curse of Pierre Couchee fall upon you!"

Choking back the great sobs that rose in his breast, Philip sank upon his knees beside Pierre, and buried his face in his arms like a heartbroken boy. For several moments there was a silence, punctuated by the rasping breath of the wounded man. Suddenly this sound ceased, and Philip felt a cold fear leap through him. He listened, neither breathing nor lifting his head. In that interval of pulseless quiet a terrible cry came from Pierre's lips, and when Philip looked up the dying half-breed had struggled to a sitting posture, blood staining his lips again, his eyes blazing, his white face damp with the clammy touch of death, and was staring through the cabin window. It was the window that looked out over the lake, toward the rock mountain half a mile away. Philip turned, horrified and wondering. Through the window he saw a glow in the sky--the glow of a fire, leaping up in a crimson flood from the top of the mountain!

Again that terrible, moaning cry fell from Pierre's lips, and he reached out his arms toward the signal that was blazing forth its warning in the night.

"Jeanne--Jeanne--" he sobbed. "My Jeanne--"

He swayed, and fell back. His words came in choking gasps.

"The signal!" he struggled, fighting to make Philip understand him.

"Jeanne--saw--Thorpe--to-night. He--must--changed--plans.

Attack--to-night. Jeanne--Jeanne--my Jeanne--has lighted--the signal--fire!"

A tremor ran through his body, and he lay still. MacDougall ran across from the half-open door, and put his head to Pierre's breast.

"Is he dead?" asked Philip.

"Not yet."

"Will he become conscious again?"

"Possibly."

Philip gripped MacDougall by the arm.

"The attack is to be made to-night, Mac," he exclaimed. "Warn the men.

Have them ready. But you--YOU, MacDougall, attend to this man, AND KEEP HIM ALIVE!"

Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night. The signal-fire was leaping to the sky. It lighted up the black cap of the mountain, and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing across the lake.

And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated over and over again the dying words of Pierre--

"Jeanne--my Jeanne--my Jeanne--"

XXII

News of the double tragedy had swept through the camp, and there was a crowd in front of the supply-house. Philip pa.s.sed close to Thorpe's house to avoid discovery, ran a hundred yards up the trail over which Jeanne had fled a short time before, and then cut straight across through the thin timber for the head of the lake. He felt no effort in his running. Low bush whipped him in the face and left no sting. He was not conscious that he was panting for breath when he came out in the black shadow of the mountain. This night in itself had been a creation for him, for out of grief and pain it had lifted him into a new life, and into a happiness that seemed to fill him with the strength and the endurance of five men. Jeanne loved him! The wonderful truth cried itself out in his soul at every step he took, and he murmured it aloud to himself, over and over again, as he ran.

The glow of the signal-fire lighted up the sky above him, and he climbed up, higher and higher, scrambling swiftly from rock to rock, until he saw the tips of the flames licking up into the sky. He had come up the steepest and shortest side of the ridge, and when he reached the top he lay upon his face for a moment, his breath almost gone.

The fire was built against a huge dead pine, and the pine was blazing a hundred feet in the air. He could feel its heat. The monster torch illumined the barren cap of the rock from edge to edge, and he looked about him for Jeanne. For a moment he did not see her, and her name rose to his lips, to be stilled in the same breath by what he saw beyond the burning pine. Through the blaze of the heat and fire fie beheld Jeanne, standing close to the edge of the mountain, gazing into the south and west. He called her name. Jeanne turned toward him with a startled cry, and Philip was at her side. The girl's face was white and strained. Her lips were twisted in pain at sight of him. She spoke no word, but a strange sound rose in her throat, a welling-up of the sudden despair which the fire-light revealed in her eyes. For one moment they stood apart, and Philip tried to speak. And then, suddenly, he reached out and drew her quickly into his arms--so quickly that there was no time for her to escape, so closely that her sweet face lay imprisoned upon his breast, as he had held it once before, under the picture at Fort o' G.o.d. He felt her straining to free herself; he saw the fear in her eyes, and he tried to speak calmly, while his heart throbbed with the pa.s.sion of love which he wished to pour into her ears.