of California 
 Q Regional 
 y Facility 
 
 WALTER 
 SOMERVILLE
 
 ;
 
 'LIAR! LIAR ! LIAR!" 
 
 Frontispiece. Page 220.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 BY 
 
 EUGENE WALTER 
 
 Author of "Paid in Full," Etc. 
 
 Founded on the Play by 
 
 CHARLES SOMEEVILLE 
 
 Illustrated from flashlights taken of Sam S. and 
 Lee Shubert's, Inc.'s production of "The Wolf." 
 Permission of Sam S. and Lee Shubert, Inc. 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 Copyright, 1908, by 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 THE WOLF
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER IMGE 
 
 I THE CONFESSION .... 9 
 
 II ANNETTE 22 
 
 III HILDA 34 
 
 IV THE BAD WOMAN .... 50 
 
 V THE WOLF 65 
 
 VI "SHE MUST TAKE CAEE OF HERSELF" . 85 
 
 VII CONSCIENCELESS .... 105 
 
 VIII THE UNEXPECTED .... 121 
 
 IX THE DUPE 135 
 
 X "STAND ON TOUR FEET AND FIGHT" . 156 
 
 XI THE GREAT DESIRE . . . .178 
 
 XII THROWN TO THE WOLF . . . 198 
 
 XIII "YOU CAN'T DO IT" .... 216 
 
 XIV "WHEN YOU SHOOT KILL" . . 222 
 
 XV THE FLIGHT 241 
 
 XVI THE PURSUIT 255 
 
 XVII THE LAW OF THE WILDERNESS . . 277 
 
 XVIII "i LOVE YOU" 288 
 
 XIX THE DEATH DUEL .... 305 
 
 XX FATHEfi SEBASTIAN 318 
 
 2138404 '
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "Liar, Liar, Liar I" Frontispiece 220 
 
 " J Tis her business to haul the water. Weemen are 
 
 worth nothin* but work" 45 
 
 'Then, Hilda, the world is full of love" 191 
 
 There was that in the kiss . . . that made the girl 
 
 writhe and struggle for release from his arms. 214 
 
 "Wait one moment, M'sieur McTavish" 227 
 
 They were ever on the alert with their rifles at the 
 
 slightest sound 263 
 
 "The great desire has been mine, and it is yours, 
 
 and it will be ours forever, Hilda" 293 
 
 "Damn your knife! I'll make you eat it!" 315
 
 The Wolf 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE CONFESSION 
 
 Jules Beaubien arrived in all anxiety at his 
 father's house. It was a stout old stone struc- 
 ture lying back of a wooded slope on the outskirts 
 of the City of Montreal. It was, in fact, a man- 
 sion. The Beaubien family had for generations 
 dealt profitably in the lumber of the great 
 Canadian forests. They were of a line of the 
 sturdiest of the French adventurers that had 
 settled Canada. 
 
 The old mansion had known its decades of 
 generous hospitality and joy and laughter. But 
 for some years now it had been a lonely home 
 the abode only of the master of the house and a 
 
 9
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 half score old servants. Jules' mother died when 
 he was a lad of twelve, and after that there had 
 been years spent away at school and college. 
 Only now and then had father and son found 
 themselves together in the family hall. 
 
 Yet there had always been the gentle under- 
 standing of genuine affection between the man 
 and boy. And the summons that had found 
 Jules out in his bungalow in the woods, where he 
 had gone for the autumn shooting, had carried 
 its natural consequences of shock and grief, for it 
 had told him that his father was dying. 
 
 The illness had been quite sudden. There had 
 been no forewarning that the man's life was near 
 its end. As a matter of fact, he had only turned 
 the three-score mark, and seemed to have many 
 years before him. But Jules, having passed the 
 silent servants who met him in the hallway with 
 a nod of sympathy to do for all, entered the sick- 
 chamber, and a first glance at his father told him 
 10
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 that death must be hovering very near. The 
 face was shrunken, the lips were pallid, the eyes 
 almost without the light of life in them. 
 
 As between two men facing such a crisis, there 
 were no words at first; merely silent, long pres- 
 sure of hands. 
 
 "I am glad, my son; glad that you have come 
 to me in time. There is, of course, a great deal 
 that I might say to you now that you will have 
 to take up the responsibilities of our properties. 
 And yet, after all, not so much is needed in 
 regard to that, for everything is in good shape 
 Our attorney is perfectly trustworthy and cai. 
 make everything clear to you just as clear as I 
 could myself. 
 
 "But there is another matter, my son. And 
 this this will be harder for me to tell you, and 
 yet this I must tell you, Jules. It is the most 
 sacred charge of all that I am leaving to you." 
 
 The old man closed his eyes a little while and 
 11
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 opening them again, indicated to his son a bottle 
 on a table nearby. It contained a powerful 
 stimulant left by the physician to ward off the 
 complete collapse that might overtake the sick 
 man during the ordeal of his last interview with 
 his boy. 
 
 Having given his father the medicine according 
 to the directions to be read on the bottle, Jules 
 leaned near the pillow and listened to the sur- 
 prising revelation made in the whispering, weak 
 voice of the dying: 
 
 "Jules," said his parent, "you are not alone the 
 heir to my fortune. In law in law, yes, I think 
 you would be considered the only one. But you 
 are a man of honor, Jules, and you would help 
 your father right a wrong would you not, 
 Jules?" 
 
 His son nodded quickly in assent. 
 
 Outside, the twilight settled among the great 
 oak trees, and gusts of winter-threatening winds 
 12
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 sent the brown leaves flapping against the panes 
 in the big bow window. And with this monotony 
 made by the wind and leaves a sad forest voice 
 sounding without Jules leaning over his father's 
 pillow heard for the first time in his life of the 
 existence of his little sister, Annette. 
 
 The business of Beaubien pere had necessi- 
 tated many trips into the far-off forest land 
 where he had made his contracts for the purchase 
 of lumber. It had been on a trip made twenty 
 years ago to the Nipissing country that he had 
 met a squaw of the Ojibway tribe. In her slender 
 youthfulness, her great brown-eyed simplicity, 
 she was very beautiful. The sin was quite 
 commonplace among the white men who had 
 invaded the primitive homes of the forest tribes 
 with its consequent, the "marriage" that wa-, 
 no marriage at all. 
 
 Annette was born. The day that she opened 
 her eyes on the world great, brown trustful eyes 
 13
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 eyes like her mother's, the mother herself had 
 given up her life. She had died in full faith that 
 her marriage had been all that it should be; and 
 she had died in full faith that the father whose 
 mysterious "affairs" kept him far from her bed- 
 side at the hour of her death would come to claim 
 his little child. 
 
 But this Beaubien the elder had not dared to 
 do. His means permitted him to exercise some 
 sort of protection over the little one. He caused 
 her adoption by a French-Canadian family in 
 the valley of the Nipissing, where Annette was 
 born. In the rude schools, but in the fresh, in- 
 vigorating air of the woods, the child had grown 
 into maidenhood. 
 
 " I myself have never dared to see her although 
 I have longed most sincerely from time to time 
 for a sight of the little girl," whispered the dying 
 Beaubien. "But they told me she had grown 
 up to be very beautiful and to be more French 
 14
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 than Indian in appearance and character; that 
 she showed signs of real caste in breeding and a 
 disposition all tenderness and goodness. Now 
 that your mother has been dead so many years, 
 I had made up my mind to bring the little girl to 
 our home; to give her the full rights and recog- 
 nition that belonged to her; to send her to the 
 best educational institutions; in short, I meant 
 to make her my daughter in everything. For 
 some time also I hesitated to do so on your ac- 
 count. You have been a worthy son. I did not 
 know if you could forgive me; if you could wel- 
 come this little girl. But, Jules, as you have 
 grown into manhood I have understood and 
 appreciated what a great, generous heart is in 
 your breast. There have been countless acts of 
 yours of which I have come to know that have 
 decided me that you would join with me heartily 
 in giving this little half-sister of yours the ad- 
 vantages of wealth and education. 
 
 15
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "But when I would have done this, there sud- 
 denly came over the good people in whose care 
 I had left Annette, a strange silence. My 
 letters to them have remained unanswered. 
 Perhaps they have grown to love the child 
 so much that they do not wish to part with 
 her. But in all fairness to her, her fu- 
 ture must lie in our hands in your hands, 
 my son. 
 
 "And that is why I have spoken. It is to ask 
 you for your promise that when my eyes have 
 been closed for the last time, you will, without 
 loss of time, seek out your sister you do not 
 mind my calling her your sister, Jules? and 
 take charge of her future, that you will give her 
 your protection and, perhaps, your love, my son, 
 for after all she is of our blood and that, itself, 
 wilf make its own strong, silent appeal to the 
 heart of a Beaubien." 
 
 The man's head had fallen back on the pillow. 
 16
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 There had come into his eyes the very glaze of 
 death itself. 
 
 He could barely whisper the final words of 
 instruction to Jules that informed the young man 
 where could be found the correspondence with 
 the La Porte family in whose care Annette had 
 been left and which would contain in itself 
 sufficient direction to aid him in the search for 
 his half-sister. 
 
 Beaubien pere only lived long enough after 
 that to hear his son's earnest assurance that 
 Annette should be sought and found, and that 
 having been found would be cared for and en- 
 dowed with all of her father's wealth that her 
 needs should demand. In short, Jules promised 
 to give her all the love and protection that she 
 might expect had she been born, as he was, in the 
 great, old mansion of the Beaubien family. 
 
 And this assurance made his father's death 
 
 wholly peaceful. 
 
 I 
 
 17
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Upon this promise to his dying father is founded 
 the tragic story of what befell Jules Beaubien 
 of his own romance that he found out in the 
 wilderness, of the strategy and courage with 
 which he met and defeated his great enemy, and 
 of the stirring adventures that terminated in a 
 deadly duel all growing out of the quest that 
 began some few days after his father had been 
 laid at rest and he sought the Nipissing country 
 to find his little half-sister, Annette. 
 
 It is fitting that the reader should know more 
 of Beaubien as he begins this journey lest he 
 should be regarded as merely the type of the rich 
 man's son easy in morals, easy in love, easy in 
 principle. 
 
 That is the type of young man that belongs 
 more absolutely to the larger cities; that is the 
 type of young man who has not known, as young 
 Beaubien had known since he was big enough 
 to shoulder a gun, the life of woods and camp; 
 
 18
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the life of physical prowess that preserves the 
 nerves and the sanity of youth; that does even 
 more that preserves the decency of young men. 
 
 The forest and its lively air, its primitive at- 
 mosphere of self-dependence; its almost hourly 
 demand for displays of personal courage founded 
 on physical effort, had done more than make 
 Beaubien a decent fellow. It had made him 
 sympathetic with those less fortunate in life's 
 station than himself. It had brought him in 
 touch with the rugged trappers and lumbermen 
 and their no less rugged families. It had made 
 a wholesome democrat of him. It had made of 
 him, of course, an admirable specimen of physical 
 manhood. He was tall and straight and lithe. 
 His skin was brown and smooth with a tinge of 
 red color fighting to show beneath. His blood 
 flowed freely and with strength. 
 
 Beaubien had known in a small way the 
 temptations of the city. He had been a lively 
 19
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 youngster in his student days that had only 
 barely gone into the past. At the time of his 
 father's death he was twenty -five years old. 
 The pranks of extreme youth were behind him. 
 And when he searched his own desires he found 
 them more strongly calling him to the beautiful 
 forests, to the excitements of the hunt, than they 
 ever could claim him for the divertisements of 
 the ballroom or the pleasures of the cafe. 
 
 He was untouched by the cynicism of college- 
 mates of affected worldliness. He believed in 
 the old-fashioned virtues; he was a disciple of 
 honesty; he was a follower of the ancient religion 
 of Rome. 
 
 Simple, almost unsophisticated, if you will, 
 but nevertheless clean, manly, with a straight 
 eye and a steady hand this was the Jules Beau- 
 bien who had been entrusted with the finding of 
 little Annette and of the task of righting the 
 wrong that her hidden father had placed upon 
 20
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 her from her cradle; this was the Jules Beaubien 
 who, a few days after his father had been laid at 
 rest, had a long talk with the estate's attorney; 
 arranged business affairs looking toward his own 
 absence and set out with a heart all generously 
 inclined, to find a half-breed Indian maiden and 
 return with her to his father's house and compel 
 that social world of Montreal to whom the name of 
 Beaubien stood as most representative of the new 
 aristocracy of the new country, to bid her wel- 
 come as his father's child. 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ANNETTE 
 
 Until Jules Beaubien, having made his way to 
 the Nipissing country, had found Baptiste Le 
 Grand, his quest of Annette had been a great 
 puzzlement. The family that had cared for 
 Annette had moved from the valley. The parish 
 priest had been making a long tour to some of 
 the outlying lumber camps, taking the Gospel 
 to the isolated workers, and others whom he 
 met and asked of Annette had told him nothing. 
 They had looked upon his youth and good looks, 
 and demanded rather sharply why he asked of 
 her whereabouts, and when he frankly told them 
 that he was her brother come to seek her come 
 to show her wealth and high social station they 
 had moved away from him, refusing answer. 
 They had only to say: 
 
 22
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Speak with Ba'tiste Le Grand; he knows 
 Ba'tiste Le Grand, he can tell you the story of 
 Annette." 
 
 Of the whereabouts of this Le Grand they could 
 tell him little. But they bade him await in 
 patience the return of this hunter. He would be 
 back in the village within a week, they said, 
 ready to ship his game and the hides to the 
 markets. 
 
 Beaubien, perforce, waited. 
 
 He thought sorely of this Le Grand. Did all 
 this secrecy mean that Le Grand had wronged 
 the girl ; that she had gone away in the wilderness 
 to live as an Indian woman might, and not as a 
 girl who had been brought up in religion and 
 with some learning at least? What in the 
 world did it mean? 
 
 Baptiste Le Grand was to tell him all about 
 Annette; or rather Baptiste was to sit there most 
 of the time, a young, squat, strong-shouldered 
 23
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 man of the woods, and listen with fiercely glowing 
 eyes while Father Paul told the story the 
 piteous, horrible story of Annette. 
 
 Baptiste had Father Paul as his passenger in 
 his canoe. In the humble cottage that was the 
 pastorate, Jules, seeking Father Paul, found also 
 Baptiste Le Grand. And when he inquired con- 
 cerning Annette, Baptiste had leaped to his feet 
 and glared at him and demanded to know in- 
 stantly who he was and why he made inquiry. 
 
 Then Jules told of the death of his father; of 
 the confession of the death-bed, and both Father 
 Paul and Le Grand knew that Jules was telling 
 the truth, because little Annette had told of this 
 mysterious father to the priest, her confessor; 
 to Baptiste Le Grand, to whom she had been 
 betrothed. 
 
 Baptiste began the story of Annette. But 
 scarcely had he begun when he cursed and was 
 seized with a rage that was utterly mad so that 
 24
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Father Paul signified to him that he was to do 
 no more talking. The little priest then took up 
 the account of the hopelessly tragic adventures 
 of Annette. 
 
 "I am afraid," began the good father, "that 
 I myself am not without some blame. I am 
 afraid that I have frowned too sternly; that I 
 misjudged; that I believed it in the beginning an 
 offence that indicated that the girl had not 
 profited by the teachings of the Church. This 
 pained and astounded me. For Annette had 
 always seemed more French than Indian. None 
 of her instincts had indicated the savage; none 
 of her thoughts had seemed otherwise than 
 gentle and pure. And now that I know fully 
 all the agony of shame that the child suffered, 
 all the deadly despair that preyed upon her 
 ah, it shall be a long, long time before I will for- 
 give myself for the severity with which I looked 
 upon her child's face. Of course, I had meant 
 25
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 that forgiveness should in the end be fully given 
 her. But in my duty to the moral discipline 
 of my congregation, I withheld for a few days 
 this forgiveness. The result was frightful. Per- 
 haps in any event it would have been the same. 
 Perhaps no comfort could have been given the 
 child in her shame." 
 
 The priest sighed and continued: 
 
 "Jules Beaubien, you see I have not spared 
 myself; I will tell you all concerning Annette. 
 
 "In the beginning, you must know that she 
 was the fairest and sweetest girl in the Nipissing 
 valley. This with my own eyes, although re- 
 luctantly, I could not help but observe. 
 
 "That she was devout and of the gentlest and 
 sweetest disposition I also observed with rejoic- 
 ings of my heart. And so modest and shy was 
 Annette that although I had often a worried 
 heart over other of the maidens of the flock, with 
 her I never had concern of this kind." 
 26
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Beaubien was left gripping his chair, for the 
 priest fell suddenly into staring at the floor and 
 Le Grand stared also, so that the silence became 
 intolerable. 
 
 "Well well?" demanded Jules. "There was 
 a man a man who betrayed her? " 
 
 "Yes," said the priest. 
 
 "But she was but a child, Father." 
 
 "Eighteen years old, my son, and here in the 
 woodlands a maiden is ranked at womanhood 
 when she is eighteen. But it had all been settled. 
 She was to have married Ba'tiste Le Grand. 
 
 "In your eyes, M'sieur Le Grand may not 
 appear so splendid a choice. But here in the 
 woods, M'sieur Ba'tiste is accounted a man of 
 first quality sturdy in labor, clean in habits, of 
 great Christian heart." 
 
 "I know I know the kind of man," said 
 Jules, with an impatient gesture. "Oh, I know 
 men of the woods, Father Paul. I love them as 
 37
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 I do the forest they inhabit. But that is why 
 I am doubly pained at what you tell that a man 
 of the woods could so have offended against the 
 innocence and purity of Annette." 
 
 "Non non," cried Le Grand. "He was not 
 of us! He was a stranger to us! He was 
 he clenched his hands, emotion oppressing him so 
 that he could not speak. 
 
 "He was as I have heard," said Father Paul, 
 "a consummately villainous man. The simple 
 folk did not even know his name. But he was 
 an American from New York a chief of en- 
 gineers a man quite old enough to have been 
 Annette's father. One hardly can learn how the 
 meeting came about. Still, these engineering 
 parties are numerous in our wilderness in these 
 days of vast railroad enterprises. 
 
 "Poor little Annette, she hardly told her story 
 not not even to me. To some of the women 
 in her days of delirium, she whispered or cried out 
 28
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 of her wrongs the man's interest that had 
 appeared so kindly; the tales he told her of his 
 greatness and his wealth; the fascinations of the 
 great cities with which he filled her ears; the 
 marriage that he promised and then then he 
 disappeared." 
 
 "What kind of a man of the woods were you 
 what kind of a man at all, Ba'tiste Le Grand," 
 cried Jules Beaubien, "you who the priest tells 
 me were her honest lover, that you stood by to 
 see all this happen that you did not take your 
 gun and kill- 
 Father Paul's hand went up in warning. Le 
 Grand was staring sullenly at Beaubien. 
 
 "Ba'tiste did not know. He had gone to work 
 during the winter with the Hudson Bay Company 
 far far in the north. When he returned 
 when he returned there was nothing to be done," 
 the priest murmured. 
 "Nothing why?" 
 
 29
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Because" 
 
 "She did not wantonly go with him as his 
 mistress?" 
 
 "No," said the priest, swiftly. 
 
 "Then what what has happened? Where is 
 Annette now?" demanded Beaubien. "No mat- 
 ter what her sin has been, there is the promise 
 I made to my dying father. There is, more- 
 over, a duty that I owe her now, for God knows, 
 if ever this poor child needed a brother to shield 
 and protect her, it is now now!" 
 
 Jules had arisen. The priest laid his hand on 
 his shoulder, gently forcing him back into his 
 chair. 
 
 But Baptiste Le Grand got up. 
 
 "Jules Beaubien, you have come too late to 
 help her just as I came too late to help her. 
 Annette Annette she is dead." 
 
 Jules stared. Father Paul would have spoken 
 but Baptiste cried hoarsely: 
 30
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Non non I tell. I tell you, her brother, 
 how she died! You listen! He leave her. He 
 is gone many months. She hear nothing. Then 
 she know that all he has said have been lies; 
 then she know that he will never come back. 
 Then she know that before all everybody 
 she is in shame! And then she go she go!" 
 Baptiste's rough voice had broken and the end 
 came in a sob "She go an' she die she die an'- 
 Jules Beaubien, the wolves the wolves they 
 eat her up!" 
 
 "Eaten by wolves!" cried Beaubien. "God! 
 Father Paul, is this true? " 
 
 The priest was silent. 
 
 For indeed it was true. The priest told 
 slowly of the frightful happening. The girl had 
 run away from her foster parents. She had been 
 found wandering again and again in the wilder- 
 ness and in the snow. Trappers brought her to 
 their huts, and they that had women folk gave 
 31
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 her to their care. Sometimes she was delirious; 
 sometimes she was quiet, like a little scared 
 child. In her delirium a part of her story had 
 become known. Yet she had never whispered 
 the name of the man. 
 
 On the wildest night of the winter she had 
 disappeared from the house that had sheltered 
 her. A blizzard roared and screamed along the 
 mountain sides and piled the snow impassably 
 in the valley. The searching parties had come 
 home without a trace of her. But there, as she 
 lay in the snow, the wolves had found her found 
 her and her little baby in her arms or rather 
 found something that resembled her and her 
 little child. The rest was too horrible to tell. 
 
 When Baptiste Le Grand left the home of 
 Father Paul to seek his own cabin that night, 
 Jules Beaubien was with him. Over the rough 
 pine table they discussed again the story of 
 Annette. And the handsome face of Jules 
 82
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Beaubien took on a ghastly tinge of color beneath 
 its bronze; and staring straight into the eyes of 
 Baptiste Le Grand, he said with an intensity 
 that drew back his upper lip and bared his 
 strong white teeth: 
 
 "You, my friend, who loved her like an 
 honorable man, and I, my friend, her brother 
 we who were not here to protect her we, 
 Ba'tiste Le Grand and Jules Beaubien we must 
 hunt and hunt until we find this man, and when 
 we find him 
 
 More words were idle. Each man could read 
 the declaration in the other man's eyes. 
 
 Clumsily the squat, strong Le Grand opened 
 the neck of his leather jacket and the collar of 
 his woollen shirt. He detached a silver crucifix 
 from the chain around his neck. Slowly, solemnly, 
 he kissed the shining symbol. And then he 
 held it out. Jules took it, and as solemnly and 
 reverentially he placed his lips upon it. 
 33
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HILDA 
 
 Jules Beaubien and Baptiste Le Grand had 
 been hunting the grim hunt for two years. The 
 comradeship between the young wealthy Beau- 
 bien and the tough, rough man of the woods had 
 become almost as master and dog. 
 
 Baptiste knew that if they were to find the 
 man it would be the keen wit of Jules that would 
 discover him. And Jules he respected also as 
 being as good a woodsman as himself. Jules' 
 early boyhood had been in the great forests. 
 Later his wealthy lumberman father had sent 
 him to the fine college of the Jesuits in Montreal, 
 and Jules had why, he had been in Montreal, 
 in Toronto, and in Quebec. He was a man of 
 the world a great man in the eyes of Baptiste 
 Le Grand. 
 
 34
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 It gratified Baptiste for Jules to tell him again 
 and again that after all he loved the woods best; 
 that the strong, sweet breath of the pines was 
 after all the best breath of life; that there were 
 no more imposing cathedrals built to God than 
 the huge mountains of God's own creation; that 
 a man's soul was the cleaner for the life in the 
 big silent places of the world places like these 
 forests where they roamed and hunted always 
 hunted for the man they meant to kill. 
 
 Such is the crazy-quilt pattern of our lives, 
 that Jules, in wanderings directed by hatred, 
 found love. He himself scarcely realized that, 
 but it was true. 
 
 In the Indian summer, when their search was 
 a year old, Jules and Baptiste had heard that 
 often parties of engineers, seeking to solve the 
 great railway problems of the Northwest, quar- 
 tered themselves at the house of one Andrew 
 McTavish. 
 
 35
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The man they hunted he was an engineer. 
 
 Baptiste had not seen him. Baptiste had been 
 
 
 
 deep in the woods, toiling for the Hudson Bay 
 Company. He, coming out of the woodlands, 
 had, like Jules coming out of the city, both in 
 quest of Annette, found only the soiled tale of her 
 memory and the ghastly news of her wild death. 
 
 That year they found no party of engineers 
 at McTavish's house. But there Jules found 
 Hilda. She had great strands of shining golden 
 hair in contrast to his crisp, black curls; she had 
 great blue eyes in contrast to his eloquent, ex- 
 pressive brown eyes. And her eyes wore an 
 expression that struck swiftly into the heart 
 of Beaubien a startled, hurt expression that 
 never went out of them. 
 
 One understood this look in her eyes when one 
 came to know the fanatical McTavish, her 
 father. 
 
 He was huge, gaunt, the spare figure somewhat 
 36
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 bent by the passing of seventy years. But still 
 he was a rugged man. There was enormous 
 power yet in the big hands that had fought a 
 fortune out of the forest an endless battle with 
 the giant trees. 
 
 His hair that had been sandy was yellowish 
 white. There was a shock of it on his head; 
 thick patches of it bristled over his eyes; a huge 
 beard hung from his face. 
 
 Hilda's golden hair, her big blue eyes, her fair 
 skin, her slender form were hateful to old Mc- 
 Tavish . Jules found that out. Indeed , McTavish 
 made no secret of the fact that he saw in the girl 
 but a reproduction of the mother the woman 
 whom he had married, who had dwelt and suf- 
 fered with his harshness until one summer an 
 itinerant French trader had brought something 
 into her life that she had never known, a happiness 
 that transported her, a happiness that made her 
 reckless with the hope of retaining it. 
 37
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 She had fled from McTavish. She had left 
 Hilda. 
 
 If men's minds brood, the vast, silent places 
 are not good. McTavish had come to such a 
 place, swearing as far as in his power to keep his 
 child from the eyes of men. Out of the breedings 
 came a certainty in his mind that all women were 
 evil. He read his Bible with interpretations that 
 fitted his mania. 
 
 Hilda had to bear the brunt of all this bitter- 
 ness. From the days when she could lisp she 
 remembered her father's own thick Scotch speech 
 harshly telling her that her soul was like the soul 
 of her mother black, black, black! 
 
 Jules and the faithful Baptiste had gone away, 
 Jules thinking that it was only pity that made 
 him remember so much of the blue-eyed Hilda. 
 But in the long winter and the sweet spring, the 
 truth got into him. He loved Hilda. But there 
 was Annette Annette to be revenged. 
 38
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Circumstances worked the solution. The party 
 of engineers, in which might be the man that he 
 and Baptiste sought, that they had trailed 
 through this second summer of their hunt, had 
 quartered themselves at the lonely house of Me- 
 Tavish. So Jules and the faithful Baptiste had 
 come once more under the roof of the queer, 
 cruel Scot. 
 
 It was not strange, with little Annette always 
 in the thoughts of dull, faithful Baptiste Le Grand, 
 that half unconsciously he had begun to speak of 
 her to McTavish. 
 
 The red sun was half hidden by the giant pines, 
 a brook gurgled softly behind the jagged rocks 
 that bound the clearing in which the Scot's rough 
 log house stood. McTavish sat in a huge chair, 
 his long, gaunt legs crossed. He puffed at his 
 pipe jerkily. His little blue eyes shot scorn at 
 Baptiste. 
 
 The Frenchman's pipe had been laid aside on
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the rustic seat built around the trunk of a huge 
 pine. Baptiste had his back against the tree 
 trunk. His heavy hairy hand tugged thought- 
 fully at his rough brown beard. 
 
 "An' ye say she deed, mon?" asked McTavish. 
 "Went out in the snow and froze to death, eh? 
 An' ye loved her?" 
 
 With an affirmative nod Baptiste said : 
 
 "Oui er, how you say, yes." 
 
 "An' I suppose had she lived ye'd a'taken her 
 for wife?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' her a half-breed and havin' a bairn of 
 another man? " 
 
 "Yes yes. I lofe her. M'sieur M'Taveesh." 
 
 
 
 The Scot grunted. 
 
 "Mon, ye hae nae knowledge o' weemen." 
 "I don't onnerstan'." 
 
 McTavish waved his hand as a man who could 
 explain but saw no occasion to take the trouble. 
 
 40
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Ye say her name was what Annette? 
 H'm! Did she love ye?" 
 
 Le Grand stared. 
 
 "I teenk so," he said. 
 
 "Ye're a fool," flared the Scot. "Ye're a 
 muckle sight better off wi'out her. It's a guid 
 thing she's gone the wanton." 
 
 Baptiste hardly understood more than the 
 tone. But he got up suddenly and drew nearer 
 McTavish. 
 
 "I no mak fight with you not now. Some- 
 time mabbe I come back and I ask you to tak 
 back what you say. You know, Annette, she is 
 the half sistaire of Jules Beaubien. Two moth- 
 aire one f athaire you onnerstan' ?" 
 
 "Ye mean, mon, that Jules' faither was the 
 mon who was the faither to this half- 
 breed?" 
 
 "Yes. Sometime this man, fathaire of Jules, 
 he trade in the Nipissing country. He live in 
 41
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Montreal. His wife too. Sometime in the Nip- 
 issing country he meet one ver' fine jib way 
 squaw, and sometime, mabbe, he say to squaw, 
 'I make you one ver' fine, gran' lady. You be 
 ma wife.' The squaw she lofe him. She no 
 know of dat othaire wife in Montreal. 
 
 "And sometime there is one petite fille one 
 leet' girl and jus' the same time the leet' girl 
 she opens the eyes, the squaw she die. And this 
 leet' girl, some one tak her home and her fath- 
 aire come once ever' leet' while, and he name 
 her Annette. Ah, M'sieur McTaveesh dees 
 Annette she was so sweet, so good." 
 
 "Bah, ye idiot! Nae weemen are guid. Well, 
 well? Goon." 
 
 " I lofe her. I want her for ma wife. I leave 
 to go to the North to do the work for the Hudson 
 Bay Compagnie. I come back. I look for 
 Annette. She no is there. Annette she is 
 how you say, M'sieur McTaveesh?" 
 42
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Deed?" 
 
 "Yes dead." 
 
 " We all got to dee," grunted McTavish. " It's 
 sma' use wastin' yer life whinin' over weemen. 
 Tis far better, Ba'tiste, that a man worry his 
 soul over money. Tis more faithfu'." 
 
 "No, no!" cried Baptiste, and new lights came 
 up into his eyes. "You leesen. While I am 
 away in the North, Annette she is meeting one 
 American. I dunno his name or where he came. 
 Annette she lofe him. He say to her, 'Annette, 
 you be ma wife. I take you to ma country.' 
 And she believe. She say, 'C'est bien,' and he 
 say, 'Dere is priests here/ and he" 
 
 "Ba-ah, mon," exclaimed the Scot, furiously. 
 " I know yer story. There was nae priest. Nor did 
 she want 'em. She enjoyed herself wi' this mon 
 and he left her, and there was a child. And be- 
 cause people wouldn't hae her aroun', which 
 was right, she went wanderin' and got lost in the 
 43
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 cold and was deed. Ba-ah! Ba'tiste, ye're a 
 fool. Weemen are the deevil. All o' thim hae 
 black hearts. I've had a woman myseP, mon. 
 I ken what I say." 
 
 It was Baptiste who turned scornful. 
 
 "You mak one gran' mistake. Jules he come 
 to Nipissing to find his sistaire. He find only 
 me. I tell him: 'She is dead.' The hearts of 
 Jules and Ba'tiste grow cold ver* cold and 
 M'sieur M'Taveesh, sometime Jules and Ba'tiste 
 fin* dees man. Sometime mabbe they keel him. 
 Eh? Onnerstan'?" 
 
 "I tell ye, ye're a fool wastin' yer time chasm' 
 some man. 'Twas the weeman's wish and al- 
 ways hae been. They're all o' the same color." 
 
 It softened McTavish's mind none to observe, 
 at this moment of his talk with Baptiste, his own 
 daughter as she appeared walking out of the door- 
 way, tin pail in hand, making her way to the 
 spring. Baptiste lumbered toward her with a 
 44

 
 THE WOLF 
 
 view to carrying the pail. McTavish's voice 
 came harshly: 
 
 "Ba'tiste, I gie ye the freedom o' my house. 
 Leave my daughter alone. Tis her business to 
 haul the water. Weemen are worth nothin' but 
 work." 
 
 The girl shrank back, the startled, frightened 
 look that even the dull Baptiste had noticed, 
 understood and pitied, shining in her eyes. 
 
 "Hilda," said the Scot roughly. 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "What are ye snivellin' aboot? Gang awa* 
 to yer work. Remember ye're my daughter and 
 the mither before ye was worthless. Do yer work 
 cheerfully and trust yer soul to God. Gang awa' !" 
 
 "Hey, M'sieur McTaveesh you one bad man," 
 said Baptiste, with a curious hissing softness. 
 
 "And ye're a French fool, full o' rainbows and 
 sentiments. I tell ye the girl's worthless. So 
 was her mither before her." 
 45
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Hey, you, M'sieur McTaveesh," said Baptiste, 
 still softly. "Sometime, mabbe, Mam'selle Hilda 
 she tak ze pail for wataire, and sometime mabbe 
 Jules Beaubien he go to tak the pail from her and 
 you say 'Non.' Sometime mabbe you do that, 
 Jules Beaubien, he feex you." 
 
 "A Frenchman fix me!" roared the gaunt old 
 Scotchman. "Ye make me laugh." He leaned 
 back in his big chair. "Ye were speakin' 
 o' Annette. An' ye saw Hilda. That was 
 her mither's name the name o' the wan- 
 ton. I married her in Halifax. She was 
 a Swede. She had nae money and nae friends, 
 and I married her to take her off the streets. I 
 didna love her. There's nae such thing as 
 love in a mon that's a mon. But I was 
 a guid mon to her and the least she 
 could hae done would hae been to gie 
 me a son. Did she? Nae. The towhead 
 there who had the pail was my Christmas 
 46
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 present. And still I was guid to her, and 
 what did she do? Fell in love wi' a French- 
 man and ran awa', leavin' me that to take 
 care o'." 
 
 "McTaveesh, you are one bad man." 
 
 "Bad? Ye're a fool, like all Frenchmen. 
 What did I do with Hilda that was bad? She 
 has her mither's curse all weemen hae it and 
 I bring her here away from men and teach her 
 to be humble and obedient accordin' to the law 
 o' God, and men. Nae mon can speak tae her 
 except French-Canadians, and they're only half 
 mon, thank God, and not apologizing to ye for 
 the remark." 
 
 Humbly Hilda returned toward the house, bear- 
 ing the dripping pail. 
 
 "Look at her. Ye can see the sin o* her 
 
 mither in her face!" 
 
 An insane light came into McTavish's little 
 gray eyes as he spoke, and there was an uncanny 
 
 47
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 ring in his voice. The girl heard. She recoiled 
 under the brutal cry. 
 
 Baptiste was again on his feet, but with a 
 furious gesture the Scot waved him back. Bap- 
 tiste stared after the girl as she disappeared. The 
 woodsman looked curiously at the strange 
 father. 
 
 "Sometime, M'sieur McTaveesh," he said, 
 "mabbe Mam'selle Hilda, she lofe a good man. 
 Sometime, mabbe, some good man lofe Mam'- 
 selle Hilda. What you do den?" 
 
 "He'll marry her by the law o* God an* the 
 Presbyterian Church or I'll wring her neck," half 
 shouted the fanatic. 
 
 "M'Taveesh, you are one big, bad fathairc, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Ye're a French fool." 
 
 Up came Baptiste's shoulders. He smiled. 
 
 "Au revoir. I go fin' ma fren' Jules Beau- 
 bien." 
 
 48
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 McTavish chuckled. 
 
 "Right ye are, mon and bring him back. He 
 makes laugh an* few do. I dinna ken any mon 
 so full o' humor as Jules, although he is French." 
 
 The cracking twigs sounded fainter as Baptiste 
 disappeared. 
 
 49
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BAD WOMAN 
 
 Craft and meditation came into old McTav- 
 ish's eyes as he smoked for awhile in silence. 
 
 Then he looked up and called roughly: 
 
 "Hilda!" 
 
 The girl, with her frightened stare, appeared in 
 the doorway. 
 
 "Come here! Sit down," he said, and when 
 she had walked over and taken a place at his feet, 
 he looked her over very deliberately as if by an 
 unbidden impulse. " Tis a shame, girl, ye hae 
 yellow hair," he continued, but there was very 
 little softening in his voice. "Yer mither had 
 it and she was nae good." 
 
 "Yes, father," said the girl blankly. 
 
 "This engineer, MacDonald, that we hae wi' 
 us now, and that that" McTavish spat "that 
 50
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 young young Ferguson. Hae ye talked to 
 thim?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Did ye ask thim what I told ye to?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 " Yes, father yes, father ! " exploded McTavish. 
 "Hae ye any ither words in yer empty head? 
 Ye might know ye're a Swede the Scotch 
 talk!" 
 
 "What shall I say?" asked the bewildered 
 daughter. 
 
 "Ach, ye fool," stormed the parent. "If I 
 told ye what to say, I'd hae nae business askin' 
 ye. Don't slink away like that! Dinna be 
 lookin' as if I meant to eat ye up! God knows 
 ye're little eno', but ye're mine and I'll do me 
 duty to me ain. But curse the day ye got the 
 yellow hair. Now tell me what MacDonald and 
 the young jackanapes Ferguson said, if ye can 
 find words wi' yer Scandinavian tongue." 
 51
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I didn't find out a great deal from Mr. Mac- 
 Donald," said the girl, "or from Mr. Ferguson 
 either, but Jules told me " 
 
 "I dinna care what Jules told ye. Er well, 
 what did Jules say? " 
 
 "Well, Jules said Mr. MacDonald was a rail- 
 road engineer and Mr. Ferguson worked for 
 him." 
 
 "Worked fer him? I'm glad to hear it. I 
 hadna seen him work fer anybody sin' he's been 
 here. Well go on." 
 
 Under this encouragement the girl drew her 
 golden head nearer her father's knee. 
 
 "Jules said that Mr. MacDonald was up here to 
 find a way to build a railroad through the Abbitti 
 country. He said that the Americans were going 
 to build it and that Mr. MacDonald was a great 
 man." 
 
 Hilda gazed up, frightened again. Her father 
 had uttered a rude burst of laughter. 
 52
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Build a railroad through the Abbitti 'coun- 
 try?" he cried. 
 
 "Yes, father. And Jules said that if they did 
 build it they would haul to Montreal the yearly 
 harvest." 
 
 "O' what ice?" scoffed McTavish. 
 
 "Jules said wheat." 
 
 "Jules must hae been drunk. Well, go on. 
 Tell me aboot it." 
 
 "I asked Mr. MacDonald, and he was very nice 
 to me." 
 
 " He was? That's yer yellow hair again. Well, 
 speak up, Hilda! Tell me aboot it the whole 
 'o it." 
 
 The girl drew nearer. She was always making 
 these little approaches to the harsh, stern old 
 man, only to find herself suddenly rebuffed. But 
 now, as she talked, she almost seemed to forget 
 his awesome presence. 
 
 "Mr. MacDonald didn't tell me much about 
 53
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 his business here, but, father" the girl's voice 
 rose "he told me all about his country, and the 
 buildings, and the ladies, and the millions of 
 people. And he showed me some pictures of 
 trains that go on one of his railroads, and a book 
 about the theatre, with pictures of all the beauti- 
 ful actresses, and I almost forgot to ask about his 
 business. He was so gentle and kind and so 
 
 "Take care, girl," said the Scot bitterly ; "take 
 care ye dinna follow the path o' yer wicked 
 mither an' lure Mr. MacDonald to his destruction. 
 He's a fine mon, and dinna ye be interferin' wi' 
 his business wi' yer yellow hair." 
 
 McTavish arose, and the girl got up, too. He 
 pushed her rudely. 
 
 "Into the house wi' ye!" he said sharply, and 
 pray God to forgi' ye for not bein' Scotch." 
 
 He walked about, ruminating in his unimagi- 
 native mind this vast and seemingly impossible 
 railroad scheme of which he had just heard. The 
 
 54
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 sounds of his daughter at her work inside drew 
 his thoughts back to her for an instant. 
 
 "I'm thinking" he muttered, "that the same 
 God was very careless when he turned out 
 Swedes." 
 
 He resumed his stroll. 
 
 A youth came up the rocky path unobserved. 
 He was snub-nosed, smiling, presenting the 
 countenance of a mischievous urchin, as he 
 looked over the slowly moving, hulking figure of 
 McTavish. 
 
 His boyish features were surmounted by a big 
 sombrero. His jacket was of khaki, his trousers 
 of corduroy. His feet were protected by heavy- 
 soled shoes with long-laced uppers. There was 
 a jauntiness to the flare of his blue flannel collar 
 and the careless knotting of the scarf. 
 
 This was young Ferguson. And by the way of 
 relieving the monotony of the woodland life, the 
 sullen McTavish was young Ferguson's game. 
 55
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Hello, Santa Glaus," he called cheerily, as he 
 approached. 
 
 McTavish wheeled. 
 
 "Santa Glaus," he snarled. "Away wi' 
 ye." 
 
 "Too near dinner time," replied Ferguson, by 
 way of apology. 
 
 "Ye young jackanapes ! Ye're much too free 
 wi' yer tongue." 
 
 Ferguson took a seat against the tree. 
 
 "Well, old Ironsides," he said cordially. 
 
 "Ironsides?" demanded McTavish. 
 
 "Excuse me, Sir Walter Scott," pursued Fer- 
 guson. 
 
 "Ye're an impudent rascal," snorted the Scot. 
 
 "Oh, all right, Robert Bruce. If you don't get 
 mad, I'll sing 'Annie Laurie' for you. How'll 
 that suit you?" 
 
 "Ye hae nae respect for yer elders," cried 
 McTavish, shaking his horny fist near Ferguson's 
 56
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 face, "an' if ye dinna treat me better, I'll be 
 chastisin' ye." 
 
 "If you do," said Ferguson, shaking his finger 
 at the big man as if he had been a naughty child, 
 "if you do that, Bonnie Prince Charlie, I'll make 
 you get a hair cut." 
 
 "Ye brat! Ye're incorrigible." 
 
 "Wrong again. I'm in Canada," smiled Fer- 
 guson. 
 
 "Ba-ah!" roared the Scot. 
 
 "Two ba-ahs," replied Ferguson. 
 
 "I'll be tellin' Mr. MacDonald on ye to make 
 ye behave," muttered McTavish, retreating into 
 the house. 
 
 "Tattle-tale! Tattle-tale!" called Ferguson 
 after him. 
 
 The jackanapes leaned against a tree and 
 groaned. 
 
 "An hour before grub time, and I'm as hollow 
 as a barrel. Oh, you, Hilda!" he cried cordially, 
 57
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 at sight of the girl's gorgeously golden-haired head 
 in the doorway; "what's the one best bet for 
 dinner? No, don't tell me. I've got it pork 
 and beans to win, biscuits for place, and coffee to 
 show." 
 
 "Why, what does all that mean, Mr. Ferguson?" 
 smiled the girl. 
 
 The jackanapes looked tragic. 
 
 "Hilda, that cost me so much to learn that I 
 won't give it up for nothing." 
 
 "You're a funny man," laughed the girl. 
 
 "Ain't I?" agreed Ferguson cheerfully, with a 
 comical screw of his urchin's face. "I've just 
 been giving that amiable father of yours some of 
 my comedy, and he's gone off into the woods to 
 bite a tree in two. He's the happiest man I ever 
 saw, and I guess that's what makes him so sore. 
 Every time he suspects he's happy he gets mad." 
 
 Hilda was a bit confused at the rattle of 
 raillery that came from the young fellow. 
 58
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Father," she said seriously, "is very harsh." 
 
 "Harsh? Oh, nothing like that. Nix. Why, 
 say, Hilda, that dad of yours is hiding behind that 
 white beard and throwing an awful bluff. Why 
 don't you call him?" 
 
 "Call him?" queried the girl, puzzled at the 
 slang phrase. 
 
 "Yes, call him," said young Ferguson, warmly. 
 "I notice the way he treats you, and while it's 
 none of my affair, I don't think it's a square 
 deal." 
 
 "I don't quite understand you," answered the 
 woodland girl with a slow shake of her gloriously 
 mantled head. 
 
 "Well, well; I suppose not. What I mean is 
 that you are too nice a girl to have anybody try- 
 ing to whip you ail the while." 
 
 "Oh, no, Mr. Ferguson," said Hilda earnestly, 
 "he's never struck me." 
 
 "Not in the face, maybe, but I guess in the 
 59
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 heart, all right," said the boy. "Say, tell me 
 about yourself. It doesn't seem exactly right 
 that you are the daughter of that old blunder- 
 buss." 
 
 Hilda looked at him in frightened fashion. 
 
 "Oh, but I am. You know I am," she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Sure, sure," Ferguson hastened to say; "but 
 I mean he makes it altogether too rough. You 
 know, since I've been up here fussing around with 
 MacDonald, I couldn't help hearing things, and 
 Jules has told me a lot." 
 
 "You like Jules?" demanded the girl sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Well, I should think I did," came the en- 
 thusiastic reply. "He's a great fellow. I ain't 
 got any prejudice against these Frenchmen, and 
 Jules can run for my money." 
 
 "And what," asked Hilda anxiously, "did 
 Jules tell you?" 
 
 60
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Ferguson drew very near her. 
 
 "Oh, a lot, and nothing much. Hilda, do 
 you like me? " 
 
 "Yes," she said frankly. 
 
 "That's good! Few girls do. But he told 
 me well, if you'll stand for this, I'll tell you. 
 Jules told me about about your mother how 
 she came over here alone without a red cent in 
 her bankroll and landed in Halifax didn't even 
 know how to speak English; how she was pretty, 
 just like you are, and how this old fellow married 
 her and treated her awful rough, and how you 
 came into the world looking just like her, and 
 how mad it made the old man. And then how 
 he raised the devil with her until she ran away 
 and died and left you with the old man all alone, 
 and how he came into the woods and he brought 
 you up, treating you all to the bad, keeping you 
 away from men and always telling you about 
 your mother." 
 
 61
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The boy took her hand in a frank, brotherly 
 fashion. 
 
 "Say, Hilda, I don't stack up very strong in 
 thk world, and maybe somewhere in my system 
 there's a streak of yellow; but I'd go through a 
 lot for you; and so would Jules. Jules, Hilda, is 
 a good man. And, take it from me, there ain't 
 many." 
 
 The touch of young Ferguson's hand gave the 
 girl courage to utter the question that was 
 trembling on her lips. 
 
 "Do you think my mother was such a bad 
 woman, Mr. Ferguson?" 
 
 "Not on your life!" cried the boy. "Hilda 
 some folks go to the bad because they kind of 
 like that sort of thing, and some go because they're 
 driven, just like you drive your dogs in the winter 
 time. But I guess those who are driven have an 
 even chance in heaven with those who are not." 
 
 Hilda uttered a little sob of happiness. 
 62
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," she whispered. 
 "You are the first human being outside of Jules 
 who ever told me that. And I love my mother 
 and her memory," concluded the girl, with in- 
 finite tenderness. 
 
 "Why why" Ferguson was both abashed 
 and angry to find his throat clogged. "Sure 
 you do. Well, well, Hilda say," he went on, 
 resuming his characteristic grinning demeanor, 
 "will grub be ready soon? I'm awful strong 
 for that sort of business." 
 
 "Pretty soon," she laughed back at him, "and 
 you've been so nice that I'm going to do my very 
 best." 
 
 "Me to the wash up and haircomb things, and 
 I'll try to believe I'm in the United States." 
 
 Hilda watched him enter the house, smiling 
 prettily at the good-natured youngster. 
 
 And then she turned suddenly and peered past 
 the rocks and down into the valley through the 
 63
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 big pines. A voice that she knew was humming 
 the snatch of a merry song, and a firm, quick 
 footfall sounded on the soft turf of the pathway 
 leading to the house. MacDonald, the wonder- 
 ful man the man who had set her dreaming of 
 the great cities MacDonald was approaching. 
 
 64
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 MACDONALD appeared in the clearing, waving 
 his hand to the girl and calling her name. She 
 watched him intently as he approached. There 
 was that in her gaze and attitude that was sug- 
 gestive of a fascinated bird. 
 
 The chief engineer was a stalwart man, and a 
 splendid combination of physical and mental 
 strength was to be quickly read in his compact 
 yet supple and broad-shouldered body, in his 
 large, clearly chiselled features, and the splendid 
 width and height of the forehead that was fully 
 displayed, because he had thrown back his 
 broad-brimmed hat as he walked with a big, free 
 stride the stride of a man all confidence and 
 energy. 
 
 Success was written in the poise of his head, 
 65
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 and there was magnetism in his fine eyes. In only 
 one feature did the face fail of nobility, and that 
 was his mouth. Its corners had sinister lines. 
 Sensuality and cruelty were marked there with 
 a harsh certainty. 
 
 But the innocent, golden-haired girl saw only 
 the attractiveness of the man. Intuition would 
 have told her that he was a man among men, 
 even if Jules had not told her that this Mac- 
 Donald was a creature of genius, a worker of 
 marvels in engineering; a man who made slaves 
 of the very mountains and valleys that stood 
 seemingly an impassable barrier in the way of 
 the railroads and the progress that came swiftly 
 in the wake of the laying of shining steel rails. 
 
 And he was a man to whom the world was an 
 open book a man who knew the effete places 
 and the wild places of the earth equally well. 
 All that the world had to show he had seen. 
 
 He was no longer young. Gray hair was 
 66
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 mixed with his black hair. Deep lines of thought 
 were marked on his brow. But his forty years 
 of life, with all his big efforts, all its dissipations, 
 had not robbed him of vigor, had not made his 
 body flabby or his nerves weak. He was virile, 
 magnetic, superior. 
 
 The picturesque garb of the woods sombrero, 
 hunting jacket, corduroy trousers and leggings 
 he wore attractively, and it was easy to imagine 
 that in the evening dress of civilization he would 
 have been no less a striking and handsome 
 figure. 
 
 "Oh," said the girl eagerly, "I'm so glad you 
 are here." 
 
 "I'm mighty glad to be here, little girl," re- 
 turned MacDonald in his big, genial way. "How 
 are you? " 
 
 "Dreaming dreaming all day, dreaming of 
 what you said to me last night," she replied im- 
 pulsively. 
 
 67
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I know," he said, with a comprehensive, 
 sympathetic glance of his lively eyes. 
 
 "Oh, I could hardly think it was all true," 
 Hilda whispered. 
 
 "What?" he asked caressingly. 
 
 "That you are really going to take me away 
 from here from father from everything that 
 has made me so unhappy; to see something that 
 lies beyond the woods and the barrens; to see 
 the big cities and the people and the ladies." 
 
 She halted the rush of words, and came close 
 and looked up into his face. 
 
 "You did mean what you said to me, didn't 
 you every word?" 
 
 MacDonald took both her hands and drew her 
 over to the pine tree seat and sat down with her. 
 
 "Every word," he said. "You know, Hilda, 
 I've seen how you suffered with your father. 
 I've heard the whole pitiful story of your mother 
 and I love you. Do you know what love is?" 
 
 68
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 he added suddenly, and looked at her with some- 
 thing of amused curiosity lurking behind an out- 
 wardly ardent glance. 
 
 The girl's golden-haired head moved slowly, 
 negatively. 
 
 "No," she answered; "but it must be very 
 beautiful. Do they have it up here in the woods 
 just like they do in your country?" 
 
 The childish innocence of the query stirred 
 the imagination of Mac Donald. 
 
 "Yes/' he said, and his voice got the swinging 
 cadence of a song almost; "they have it every- 
 where. The birds have it, the wolves have it, 
 and every living thing has it. And you, Hilda, 
 will have it. No matter what your father has 
 done; no matter how harsh he has been to you, 
 or how he has brought you up; no matter what 
 he has said of your mother, poor soul you, 
 Hilda, will have love too. As I told you last 
 night, you shall not stay here in this loneliness 
 69
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 forever. You must go beyond the woods and 
 prairies and into the world with me. You've 
 never even had any kindness, Hilda. You must 
 have some kindness." 
 
 "I have had kindness," she said to him. 
 "Jules has been kind. Every summer for two 
 years he has come here, and he has always been 
 kind to me. He has made me laugh, and he has 
 treated me just as if mother had never done 
 wrong, as father says. Jules is good isn't he? " 
 
 "Why, yes," said MacDonald easily. "Do you 
 care for him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Love him?" 
 
 Hilda stared and smiled. 
 
 " I don't know what that means. No one ever 
 said anything to me about that until you did last 
 night. How do you tell when you are in 
 love?" 
 
 MacDonald leaned quickly toward her and 
 70
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 caught her hand. The deep qualities in his voice 
 thrilled the girl as he said : 
 
 "One feels just as I feel toward you just as 
 if it were absolutely necessary for you to be 
 with me, and always with me. Something sort 
 of grips you here." He placed her hand upon 
 his heart almost roughly. "Do you feel that, 
 Hilda? Does your heart beat as mine is beat- 
 ing now?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know," she answered 
 confusedly. "I only know that I have been so 
 lonely and unhappy and miserable. Oh, so mis- 
 erable!" 
 
 All unheard, Jules Beaubien had come to the 
 house by the woodland path. He paused, his 
 cigarette half lifted to his lips, and he saw the 
 engineer's face thrust so closely to the girl's that 
 his lips were almost touching her cheek, as he 
 said: 
 
 "I want to take you away from here from 
 71
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the cruelty of your father, and all that. Will 
 you go when I go, Hilda? " 
 
 "You mean to marry you?" 
 
 "Yes; just that." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know I don't know." His hands 
 were upon her arms. "I must go ! I must go !" 
 she cried, and there was a sob in her throat as 
 she slipped away from him and ran into the 
 house. 
 
 "Hello, MacDonald," said Jules Beaubien, 
 stepping forward. "Have you worked much to- 
 day?" 
 
 At the sound of Jules' voice, MacDonald 
 wheeled quickly. For an instant he was ill at 
 ease. 
 
 "Hello, Beaubien, where did you come from?" 
 he asked sharply. 
 
 The lithe, handsome Jules laughed at him, 
 showing his very white and even teeth, the while 
 he drooped a lid over one expressive brown eye. 
 72
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "From heaven," he answered cheerfully. "I 
 am what you call him? a fairy king. Once 
 I have read of such a king in one of your books. 
 He is everywhere and nowhere and everywhere 
 when he isn't wanted. Eh?" 
 
 MacDonald joined in the laugh. 
 
 "Why, you are always wanted, you beggar. 
 Among others, I like to have you around my- 
 self." 
 
 "Merci! And I I like to be around. Only 
 here it is somewhat lonely, eh?" 
 
 "How, lonely, Beaubien?" 
 
 " I mean for you." 
 
 "I don't get you." 
 
 "Ah, we have forests; eh, M'sieur MacDonald?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And rivers, and plenty of lakes with fish; 
 
 three meals a day and a good night's sleep. But, 
 
 ah! there is one thing we lack, is there not? 
 
 One thing you may not be happy without, eh?" 
 
 73
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "What what are you driving at?" 
 
 "Women. Is it not so, M'sieur MacDonald? 
 There are but few. I think you like them very 
 much, eh?" 
 
 "Jules, you are a happy-hearted beggar, but 
 you are not nearly as clever as I thought you 
 were. I've been all over the world, Jules ' 
 
 "Well, I also have been out in the world- 
 Montreal, Quebec and Buffalo. What more can 
 a man ask? " 
 
 "I mean, Jules, I have been in all the wilder- 
 nesses of the world as well. And your argument 
 is wrong." 
 
 "How, wrong, M'sieur MacDonald? I am 
 
 always noted in Canada for being one very smart 
 man." 
 
 "Well," grinned MacDonald, "that wouldn't 
 carry you through the world being smart in 
 Canada." 
 
 Jules made a little bow. 
 74
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "It satisfies me," he answered. "I have 
 money plenty. My father left me much. I 
 could go to France or America, but I prefer my 
 own country. Only there is one drawback." 
 
 "That is?" 
 
 "No ladies," laughed Jules. 
 
 He was watching MacDonald narrowly. The 
 engineer said a bit flamboyantly: 
 
 "Why, that's never troubled me. I've always 
 been able to find them somehow, some place 
 no matter where I might be." 
 
 "You have?" inquired the young Canadian 
 in surprised tones. "But here, for instance, you 
 are quite alone." 
 
 "Oh, not altogether," said the big man com- 
 placently. "There's one." 
 
 "Hilda?" 
 
 "I said there was one here." 
 
 "You like her, eh, M'sieur MacDonald?" 
 
 "Do you?" demanded the other. 
 75
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Oh oh, yes; I like her. She amuses me. 
 And you? She amuses you, too?" 
 
 "Yes," assented McDonald, his self-compla- 
 cency still uppermost. 
 
 "Yet," observed Jules, "Hilda is only a child." 
 
 "Twenty-one," observed the engineer. 
 
 "Still, MacDonald, she knows nothing. She 
 is what you say? innocent." 
 
 "Jules, my boy, that's what makes her interest- 
 ing. When a woman ceases to be innocent, she 
 ceases to be interesting. That's my way of 
 looking at it." 
 
 Beaubien rolled a cigarette deftly with his 
 slender, strong young fingers. Had MacDonald's 
 thoughts not been otherwise steeped, he might 
 have noticed that the young Canadian's fingers 
 trembled slightly. 
 
 "Maybe you are right," said Jules cas- 
 ually. 
 
 He looked up suddenly: "And now I am going 
 76
 
 THE WOLF \ 
 
 to tell you a little secret, MacDonald. You 
 have been making love to Hilda." 
 
 "So have you," retorted the other man. 
 
 "Did she tell you so?" 
 
 "Why, I know you, Jules. You couldn't any 
 more help making love to a woman than I could. 
 A man has to have some relaxation, eh? It 
 would be strange if you didn't." 
 
 Jules laughed. 
 
 "How are you getting on?" he asked. 
 
 "None of your business," answered MacDonald, 
 with a grin. He sauntered to the pine tree seat 
 and reclined there. 
 
 "That's right," commented Beaubien, taking 
 a seat beside him. Jules was silent for several 
 seconds. Covertly he watched MacDonald's face 
 until he saw a look of abstraction come into the 
 engineer's eyes. Then Jules said quickly, suddenly: 
 
 "You have a wife in America, M'sieur Mac- 
 Donald?" 
 
 77
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Yes, and a family," the engineer answered 
 almost as quickly, and in the same instant a look 
 of annoyance came into his face. On considera- 
 tion, he would not have said so much. 
 
 Beaubien's tone went to reassure him. 
 
 "Ah, but you are like me. What do you say 
 out of sight, out of mind, eh? We are both 
 travelers. A wife here or a wife there makes 
 little difference as long as it's just a promise." 
 
 "True for you, Jules. What are women for 
 but to amuse you? I go out to build railroads. 
 I serve progress. Why should not I have a 
 little amusement? But, you beggar, we are 
 rivals here is that it? " 
 
 "None of your business." 
 
 Mac Donald laughed heartily. 
 
 "Oh, well, you are not the first Frenchman I 
 have gone up against and got the best of." 
 
 "In France?" 
 
 "No, in Canada. Three years ago in the 
 78
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Nipissing country. Ah, my boy, she was a 
 beauty." 
 
 Beaubien suddenly tossed away his cigarette. 
 
 "French-Canadian?" he asked. 
 
 "Half-breed," rejoined MacDonald. 
 
 "Ah! So? Maybe I know her." 
 
 "Wish you did. Do you know, I'd really like 
 to find out what became of her?" MacDonald 
 smiled fatuously. "Yes, I'd like to know what 
 became of her/' he continued. "She was one of 
 those crosses between a good Frenchman and 
 an Ojibway, you know." 
 
 "Sure," answered Beaubien, with averted head 
 and white lips. "I know." 
 
 "She was certainly a beautiful girl, Jules," 
 MacDonald went on, enthusiastically. "Indian 
 and all. I always figured her about three-quar- 
 ters French." 
 
 "And the rival you spoke about, M'sienr Mac- 
 Donald. Was he French?" 
 79
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Well, I never saw him. He was up in the 
 north woods, some one said. I suppose he was 
 one of those solemn, unkempt fellows like that 
 man of yours what's his name?" 
 
 "Ba'tiste." 
 
 MacDonald nodded. 
 
 "I was bottled up in that country, Jules, and 
 half mad for a little female society. I won her 
 out, but after awhile she began to talk about a 
 priest and marriage so strong that I had to get 
 out." 
 
 "So, M'sieur MacDonald, you left her this 
 Annette?" 
 
 "Why, certainly I did. You wouldn't want to 
 have a half-breed around with you, would you? 
 Besides, she told me there was trouble." 
 
 "You mean that " 
 
 "Exactly, Jules, my boy. I didn't care to 
 have a quarter-breed Ojibway in my family, so I 
 went home. Afterward somebody said I don't 
 80
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 know who that she got caught in a blizzard 
 and froze to death with her child." 
 
 Fighting the fury that stormed in his breast 
 as he listened to the big engineer tell thus coldly 
 the terrible story of Annette, and tell it without 
 so much as a quaver of emotion, of regret, re- 
 morse, or pity in his voice, Jules asked : 
 
 "And you think, M'sieur MacDonald, that 
 this was the best thing for this Annette to do 
 to die in the blizzard with her child?" 
 
 "Well, after all, certainly ! Don't you? " 
 
 "I will think it over and some time I will tell 
 you," answered the young Canadian. 
 
 There was that in his voice that struck Mac- 
 Donald suddenly. 
 
 "Well, don't get so serious about it," he ob- 
 served. 
 
 "Oh," answered Jules, laughing quickly, "they 
 say I am never serious." 
 
 "That's the right way to be. Do you know, 
 81
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Jules, if ever you got civilized and came to my 
 country I think we'd be good friends." 
 
 All Jules' easiness of manner had returned. 
 He threw up his hands and his shoulders and 
 widened his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, M'sieur MacDonald, don't you think I'm 
 eivilized?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly Montreal, Quebec and Buffalo 
 what more could a man ask?" 
 
 "And also," grinned Jules, "Niagara Falls." 
 
 "And some day," said MacDonald, continuing 
 the banter, "if you live long enough, Jules, you 
 may reach Toronto." 
 
 "And if you live long enough, MacDonald,"said 
 Jules quickly," you may reach the United States." 
 
 "What the devil do you mean by that?" 
 
 "This is a wild country, M'sieur MacDonald, 
 is it not? Many men die. Who knows who will 
 die next? Either of us or one of us may die soon 
 don't you think?" 
 
 82
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "No, I don't. I don't want any such gloomy 
 thoughts about me, either. I've lived long, 
 Jules, and I'm going to live a lot longer. You see 
 there are still plenty of Annettes left. And you? " 
 
 "C'est bien. We are rivals." 
 
 "For the old man's daughter, eh?" 
 
 "Well, are we not?" 
 
 "You can count me one if you like," grinned 
 MacDonald, "but I don't count you. And any- 
 way, it's all a joke, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, a joke, M'sieur MacDonald. Now it is 
 a laugh yes?" 
 
 The engineer slapped Jules on the shoulder 
 with boisterous good humor, and then announced 
 that he was going into the house to clean up for 
 dinner. 
 
 "Coming in?" he asked. 
 
 "Very soon," said Jules. "Au revoir." 
 
 When MacDonald had disappeared the youth 
 stood peering at the house. In the intensity of 
 
 83
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 his emotions his lithe figure shook. Even under 
 the bronze of his handsome face the color of livid 
 wrath was discernible. 
 
 His thoughts were flaming. He had found 
 the man. He had trailed the wolf. This big, 
 handsome, remorseless human creature was the 
 one whose life he must destroy. This was An- 
 nette's betrayer. 
 
 His impulse was to rush into the house and 
 upon MacDonald, throttle him, stab him, slay 
 him swiftly. Again and again the impulse had 
 surged into his brain as he had sat and listened 
 to the unsuspecting engineer almost gayly confess- 
 ing his deep villainy. 
 
 But there was not only Annette to be avenged. 
 There was Hilda Hilda, whom Jules loved, 
 whom he must first get away from the dangerous 
 snares that MacDonald was laying for her. With 
 Hilda out of MacDonald's way and wholly pro- 
 tected, the time of vengeance would be at hand. 
 84
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "SHE MUST TAKE CARE OP HERSELF" 
 
 If the eyesight of McTavish had not been 
 dimmed he would have seen in the face of 
 Jules Beaubien, as he stood staring at the house 
 into which MacDonald had just disappeared, that 
 which would have had excited his curiosity; for 
 the nostrils of Jules were dilated and his eyes 
 were glaring. But McTavish saw none of this 
 as he lumbered out of the house. 
 
 "Jules, mon, I'm glad to see ye," he said, with 
 as near an approach to geniality as his nature 
 would allow. Then he looked cautiously about. 
 
 "Is the young deevil around?" 
 
 " I don't understand. " 
 
 "That young jackanapes that's wi' Mr. Mac- 
 Donald," grunted McTavish disgustedly. 
 
 "Ah! M'sieur Ferguson?" 
 85
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I would nae call him that, Jules, mon, he 
 treats me wi' nae respect." 
 
 "Ah, that is not good." 
 
 "Called me Santa Glaus, mon, and Bonnie 
 Prince Charlie, and made sport of me white 
 hair. What would ye do to him, Jules? What 
 would ye do to him? He'll drive me mad wi' 
 his impudence." 
 
 "I'd pay little attention to him, M'sieur. Or, 
 better still, when he says things about your coun- 
 try, you say something back about his coun- 
 try." 
 
 "I canna say anything back at the moment, 
 but me fingers tingle to wring his neck, they do, 
 the young jackanapes." 
 
 "Make just one little bit of fun of his own coun- 
 try, and I promise you he'll get just as mad as 
 yourself. " 
 
 "Now, then," said McTavish, fumbling at his 
 long yellowish white beard, "that's a good idea.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 When next I see the brat, Jules, I'll look into his 
 face and cry: 'Doon wi' the President and 
 
 God save the King!' Ye've a clever head on ye, 
 Jules, for a Frenchman, and I canna' help 
 thinkin' that some place in yer family there's a 
 strain o' Scotch." 
 
 "And 'soda,'" laughed Jules. 
 
 "'Tis another good thing aboot ye, too, Jules, " 
 assented McTavish, with a dry chuckle. "Ye 
 could drink almost as much as I can, and it 
 stands to reason nae regular Frenchman could 
 do that. Well, now then, I'll gae into the hoose 
 and say to the young jackanapes, 'Boon wi' the 
 President and God save the King.' " 
 
 But Jules suddenly recalled him. 
 
 "M'sieur M'Tavish!" 
 
 "What is it, mon?" 
 
 "I have been coming here one, two summers, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Ye hae, mon, and welcome ye've been." 
 87
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Many a night you and me, M'sieur M'Tavish, 
 have sat up to see the sun come over the tree 
 tops. And one night, two years ago, do you re- 
 member, you were telling me about your wife 
 and Hilda?" 
 
 McTavish's geniality passed under a cloud of 
 ferocity. 
 
 "Weel, I told ye," he cried, "that the wee- 
 man was nae guid an' that the daughter looked 
 like her. She has the curse o' her yellow 
 hair." 
 
 "Oui, M'sieur M'Tavish, you told me all that, 
 but you* also told me that Hilda 
 
 "She's nae guid," sharply interrupted Mc- 
 
 
 Tavish. "She has the curse o* the original sm 
 
 stamped on her, and Jules, mon, maybe her 
 heart is black wi' the brand o' the deevil!" 
 
 "One can never tell, M'sieur M'Tavish," an- 
 swered Jules gently; "but listen! That night 
 you told me, Jules Beaubien, who am speaking 
 
 88
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to you now, that Hilda was never to meet 
 
 English or Americans or any one except the 
 
 * 
 Indians and the traders. You told me that this 
 
 was the system by which you hoped to send her 
 soul to Heaven. You said it was your duty and 
 that was why you brought her into the wilder- 
 ness. Is it not so, mon ami?" 
 
 McTavish lowered his big head with its 
 heavy shock of white hair. 
 
 "Ye speak the truth," he answered. 
 
 "Then why, M'sieur M'Tavish, " continued 
 Jules, his voice low almost to whispering, "why, 
 M'sieur MacDonald and M'sieur Ferguson? Is 
 there no danger?" 
 
 McTavish clenched his gaunt hands. 
 
 "Jules, Hilda is twenty-one," he said, angrily. 
 "'Tis time she learned to tak' care o' hersel'. 
 I've doon me duty as a faither and a member of 
 the kirk, though it's been a long time since I 
 prayed in a house o' worship. I've been a guid
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 faither to Hilda, and now she must tak' care o' 
 hersel'." 
 
 "But if something should happen; what then?" 
 
 "Then lad," answered the Scot with a great 
 resonance in his harsh voice, "then I'd know 
 'twas the mither in her blood an* the wicked- 
 ness in her soul." 
 
 McTavish paused and wheeled, facing Jules 
 fully. He brought up his big hands, with their 
 long, bony fingers distended, and cried furious- 
 ly, "An' I'd take out her life wi' me bare hands 
 me bare hands on her throat. It would be me 
 duty to mesel' an' the Church to kill such a wan- 
 ton daughter." 
 
 "But the man, M'sieur M'Tavish; what of 
 him?" 
 
 "The mon? I dinna ken what he would do 
 after having been lured to his destruction. 
 'Twould be her the girl that'd merit the 
 punishment o' death." 
 
 90
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Jules was looking in astonishment at the old 
 man who had with such evident sincerity made this 
 hideous declaration, when the tensity of the 
 scene was broken by the voice of Ferguson crying: 
 
 "Hello, there, King Jamie! How's Mary, 
 Queen of Scots?" 
 
 Rage came into McTavish's face. He clenched 
 his hands and puckered his brow in the effort 
 to remember the blow of retort that he had 
 planned for Ferguson. Finally he got it out but 
 backwards, for in his rage he blunderingly 
 blurted : 
 
 "Boon wi' the King and God save the Presi- 
 dent." 
 
 "That's right," chirped Ferguson, slapping 
 him heartily on the back. "Scots awa', and 
 hooray for the Irish. Doon wi' the Germans 
 and God bless the Swedes!" 
 
 McTavish, bellowing his wrath, retreated into 
 the house to escape the gibing. 
 91
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Little Ferguson held his ribs. 
 
 "Jules, what a great time I'm having with 
 that old man! It would be mighty dull for me 
 here if he wasn't around." 
 
 "You make him very angry." 
 
 "Well, Jules, he makes me sore, too, the way 
 he treats that girl." 
 
 "Hilda?" 
 
 "Yes. Just as if she was to blame because 
 her mother had yellow hair and couldn't stand 
 this old duffer's abuse. Say, can you see me 
 living with the same kind of a woman that he 
 is a man? And listen, if I ever got up against 
 a proposition like that I'd beat it if I had to elope 
 with the family cat." 
 
 "You like Hilda?" smiled Jules. 
 
 "Sure I like her," said the boy heartily. "Of 
 course, I ain't in love with her or anything like 
 that, because I've quit all that business." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 92
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Yes, Jules. As a lady-killer, I'm probably 
 the most complete and absolute failure on the 
 masculine bargain counter. I've been up on the 
 remnant shelf in the matrimonial store for years, 
 and not even a servant girl has ever dug into 
 her purse of affection to make one stingy little 
 bid for yours truly. Sentimentally speaking, 
 I'm out. How about you?" 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 "Yes. Are you long on getting girls to fall in 
 love with you?" 
 
 Jules shook his head. 
 
 "Why, no, M'sieur Ferguson. I've never had 
 any one in love with me at least, no girls. My 
 man, Ba'tiste Le Grand, loves me in his dog- 
 like way, but I am alone in the world even 
 more so than yourself." 
 
 Ferguson smiled. 
 
 "If enough of our sort get together we'll have 
 a \ot of company," he observed. "I guess, 
 93
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 after all, well have to give MacDonald the credit. " 
 
 "Why MacDonald?" 
 
 "Why, MacDonald is the one great, positive 
 success in the lovemaking business. He's had 
 enough girls, Jules, and has enough now, I guess, 
 so that if he wanted to hand them around he 
 could supply all us fellows and still have a 
 few left." 
 
 "What kind of girls, M'sieur Ferguson?" 
 
 "All kinds. I don't think he stops at either 
 creed or color. And, by the way, I think he is 
 casting his eyes towards Hilda. If he does, 
 Jules, I think I am going to ask him to quit." 
 
 "Did you ever tell him to quit before, M'sieur 
 Ferguson?" 
 
 "Oh, In New York," answered the boy, "it 
 was different. I'll stand for his running after 
 those kind of girls, because well, there's no real 
 goodness about that sort. But when he takes a 
 poor, innocent girl like Hilda, who's been whipped 
 
 94
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to a finish by her father, gets hold of her sym- 
 pathies and then turns mean tricks, it's about 
 time to quit. Eh, Jules? " 
 
 Young Ferguson was somewhat astounded by 
 the warmth and vigor with which he suddenly 
 found his hand gripped by Beaubien. 
 
 "You are a good man, M'sieur Ferguson," said 
 Jules. "And now, listen to me, Jules Beaubien, 
 who is talking to you and he knows what he says 
 Jules tells you that M'sieur MacDonald may get 
 her sympathies, but this is once when he will 
 never turn the trick." 
 
 Ferguson could read more in Jules' eyes than 
 even his words had declared. 
 
 "I'm on," he said quietly. "And declare me in 
 when the rumpus comes." 
 
 Hilda came out of the low, wide doorway of 
 the rough log house to call the two young men to 
 their supper. Ferguson responded to the sum- 
 mons on the jump, but Jules and Hilda lingered. 
 95
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The tall young Canadian looked fondly down 
 upon the slender, golden-haired girl. 
 
 "Where have you been all day, Jules?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, I've just walked over to Lac le Sable. A 
 good morning's tramp there and back,little Hilda." 
 
 "Why did you go?" 
 
 "Why? Ah, just a whim! The woods are 
 exquisite now all brown and gold. And this is 
 the last touch of warm weather, this Indian 
 summer." 
 
 "The last," said the girl, sadly. "And then 
 the everlasting cold will come," she went on, 
 shuddering. "Night after night and day after 
 day we will be shut up in the house, and never 
 hear anything but the moaning of the pines and 
 the crack of the frost and the yelp of some wolf 
 scratching at the door for food." 
 
 "Hilda," interrupted Jules gently, sympathet- 
 ically. 
 
 96
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "And there'll never be any sun," continued 
 the girl. "And it will always be dark, and the 
 nights will be long. And all the time my father 
 will be looking at me with his queer, cold gray 
 eyes and telling me that my hair is yellow and 
 my soul is black! Oh, God," she cried, with a 
 sudden undertone of moaning and despair. "I 
 can't stand it." 
 
 "Petite amie," said Jules quickly, soothingly, 
 "there is a fitness in all things. This all means a 
 road to somewhere some place for rest and love. 
 Only be very, very careful, little girl. Don't let 
 your impatience hurt you. Sometimes I think 
 all is for the good when one is good, and all is for 
 the bad when one is bad. And, Hilda, you are 
 good. I, Jules Beaubien, who am speaking to 
 you now and who knows, say your soul is white 
 and always will be white." 
 
 She lifted her young, graceful head and im- 
 pulsively took his hand. 
 97
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 " 'Mon ami/ Jules, you say, means 'my 
 friend.' Teach me to say 'my one friend/ and I 
 shall always say it to you." 
 
 "Mon cher ami." 
 
 "Mon cher ami," she repeated tenderly. They 
 stood in silence. 
 
 "Why," asked Jules, happening to look down- 
 ward at her other hand, in which a magazine 
 was clasped, "what is that book?" 
 
 "It is the first one I ever saw a magazine that 
 Mr. MacDonald gave me. I've read it through 
 twice, and I think it is the most beautiful thing 
 that I ever saw in the world even more beautiful 
 than the 'Lady of the Lake/" 
 
 "Ah! What would you do if you ever saw a 
 news stand in Montreal, Quebec or Buffalo where 
 there are hundreds of those?" Jules took up 
 the magazine and scanned its pages. "These 
 are pretty pictures, eh?" 
 
 "Actresses," said the girl. "And you know 
 98
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 that Mr. MacDonald knows nearly all of them 
 himself." 
 
 "Maybe he told all about them, eh?" 
 "He did. What a wonderful man he is!" 
 "You like him very much, Hilda?" 
 "I don't know," she said, and the doubtful 
 wag of her yellow head was very girlish. "Some- 
 times I do, and sometimes I'm almost afraid. 
 He tells me all about that wonderful country 
 beyond the pines and the mountains, things I 
 never even heard of, things a woman's heart 
 aches for. No one ever took the trouble to tell 
 me before." 
 
 "Maybe, Hilda, it is not good to tell one about 
 a country one cannot reach." 
 "Perhaps it is not, but Jules " 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You you don't have to live up here in the 
 snow, away from everything, in the ice, the cold 
 and the dreary woods. You've been in Montreal, 
 99
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Winnipeg, Quebec and even to the United States, 
 and you have money. You told me your father 
 left it to you. Why do you stay here away 
 from everything?" 
 
 "A man's heart, Hilda," answered the young 
 Canadian, "calls him where it will, and he can 
 give no reason. I have been told that some 
 love the song of the sea, and some the song of 
 the cities; that some men can live only where 
 there are thousands of men, and other men 
 cannot live except when feeling the roll of the 
 ocean under their feet. But me I am a 
 French-Canadian. For six generations we have 
 borne our children close to nature. Their lullaby 
 at night has been the moaning of the pine and 
 the birch, and the morning song has been that 
 of a thousand birds. To me, Hilda, the forest 
 speaks as my comrade; the bleak barrens wel- 
 come me to fight them. The snow, the cold, the 
 ice, the dogs, the sledge, they're all a part of 
 100
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 my heart. The North has been my only bride, 
 and she is always young, with a smile on her 
 face." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Jules; I know and I can understand 
 how you feel. And maybe I might feel that way, 
 too, if my hair wasn't yellow and my father was 
 kind." 
 
 "Hilda! Hilda!" called the harsh voice of 
 McTavish from within the house. 
 
 "But he is not kind, and he never will be," 
 sobbed the girl. "I must go, Jules Jules, mon 
 cher ami!" 
 
 Love there was in the eyes of Jules, and a great 
 sadness withal, as he looked after her intently. 
 And so he stood lost in reverie, and all was silent 
 about him. Twilight had fairly darkened into 
 night. A faint, fragrant wind-song murmured 
 through the pines. 
 
 A touch on Jules's shoulder caused him to turn 
 swiftly. It was to see Baptiste the rough 
 101
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 uncouth, affectionate comrade of the long man- 
 hunt in the forests. 
 
 "You," exclaimed Jules huskily, "I have some- 
 thing to tell you. Listen!" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "You remember Annette?" 
 
 Baptiste moved back as if struck in the face. 
 
 "Oui, Annette, Annette!" 
 
 "We have not spoken her name in two years, 
 Ba'tiste. But now I am going to speak it. 
 Always we have thought of the man, and that 
 sometime, Ba'tiste, we would find him. Is it 
 not so?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; it is so." 
 
 "I have found him, Ba'tiste!" 
 
 "Thees man you have fin' heem?" whispered 
 Baptiste, and murderous fury gleamed in the eyes 
 that had been so ca'm and doglike. 
 
 "MacDonald," said Jules briefly. 
 
 "Sacred God!" Baptiste's hand went to his 
 102
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 belt and his knife gleamed out of its scabbard. 
 He would have rushed straight into the house 
 but that Beaubien caught him. 
 
 "Non," said Jules commandingly. "This is 
 my business. Annette, she is my sister. But it 
 is not time yet. He is trying to do the same 
 thing again." Jules nodded toward the house. 
 "Hilda." 
 
 "Sacred God!" whispered Baptists. 
 
 "Ba'tiste, soon this time of killing it will 
 come. I am Annette's brother. I love Hilda. 
 My chance, Ba'tiste, is the first chance. But, 
 mon ami, if I do not make one great, grand success 
 then you you do the rest. Understand?" 
 
 "Keel?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I onnerstan'." 
 
 "That is good, Ba'tiste. Now I go to my 
 supper calmly calmly oh, Ba'tiste! " 
 
 The faint moonlight showed the great, hulking 
 103
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 form of Baptiste huddled in prayer by the pine 
 tree seat, his face turned toward the vast loneliness 
 and darkness of the forest as if in the murmuring 
 winds he read an answer to his supplication. 
 
 "0 good God," Baptiste, who had worshipped 
 little Annette, was saying, "0 good God! Please, 
 please let Ba'tiste keel thees man." 
 
 104
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CONSCIENCELESS 
 
 Even Jules, fully aroused as he .was to the 
 infamous design that MacDonald had against 
 Hilda, would hardly have been able to credit the 
 heartless villainy of the scheme that was maturing 
 in the mind of the subtle and sophisticated satyr. 
 
 The mind of Jules, despite his little look into 
 the life of cities as a student, could know no such 
 consummately conscienceless plan as MacDonald 
 was evolving. 
 
 Men far more knowing of the world than 
 Jules, in closer contact with its coils than he 
 had ever been, might indeed pass their whole 
 lives without meeting such a monstrous type 
 as MacDonald. 
 
 In New York he belonged to a small coterie of 
 men about whose doings there were merely 
 105
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 cautious whispers from time to time, and these 
 whisperings were hardly believed. Exposure had 
 never thrown a full light on this set of men and 
 brought them under the withering fire of public 
 indignation #nd legal punishment. 
 
 Practically they defied exposure, for there was 
 none in this coterie but was like MacDonald, a 
 man of big achievement, of fame and wealth, and 
 therefore highly potential in their influence with 
 such public authorities as could have beaten down 
 and raided their dens of infamy and brought 
 them fully out to bear the shame and scorn that 
 was their due. 
 
 Noted lawyers, famous actors, a celebrated 
 architect, two painters of international reputation 
 and five or six men of leisure were in this little 
 vicious set. 
 
 They were monsters of egoism. They believed 
 that their genius placed them above the laws that 
 were made to govern the society of ordinary men. 
 106
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 They were loudest in demanding the enforcement 
 of laws that took the pickpocket or the highway- 
 man, the burglar or the murderer to punishment; 
 but for themselves and the pursuit of their strange 
 appetites that sacrificed innoc^ce as the most 
 precious offering to their frightful gods, they 
 claimed immunity. 
 
 They held the great majority of men who 
 sought to live according to the codes of morality 
 and religion as a horde of mere fools, frightened 
 into decent living by ignorance and superstition. 
 Virtue, purity and youth were the things they 
 hunted to despoil, and they called up the cyni- 
 cisms of every dissolute philosopher, ancient 
 and modern, as their creed. 
 
 For their big achievements in art, science and 
 commerce they demanded absolute license in 
 private life as a reward. Or at least such was 
 the reward they took, with a smile for the horror 
 of those who came to know their infamies. 
 107
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 They haunted the theatres, with loathsome 
 eyes singly intent on discovering in the groups of 
 dancing women one that was not quite a woman- 
 one that still had the half -turned lines of girlhood 
 and that wore really, behind the mask of rouge 
 and powder, a countenance of real innocence. 
 
 For the snaring of such a one as this some 
 temperamental little creature bewildered by the 
 glitter of the light there was nothing they would 
 not do in lavish expenditure. To such youthful 
 creatures, chosen as their victims, they gave 
 jewels for slender necks, glittering rings for little 
 hands, beautiful gowns for slender forms, and 
 dazzling supper parties with tinkling music and 
 sparkling wine. 
 
 These were the things they gave, and these 
 things were the luxurious forerunners of the 
 corruption that they invariably effected. 
 
 Of triumphs of this sort MacDonald could boast 
 many. And he did boast. That was part of 
 108
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the sport in this group and part of their pride as 
 well. It was a decoration that they sought in 
 the estimation of one another that they should 
 be regarded as ingenious, remarkable men, too 
 far above the world's common estimates to endure 
 any of the limitations of the ordinary perpetra- 
 tors of vice, such as an uneasy conscience, 
 stinging remorse, or indeed any conscience or 
 remorse at all. 
 
 But MacDonald had another series of tales to 
 tell this admiring group of immoral yet brilliant 
 men. He had triumphs of the wilderness that 
 they envied him that some even tried to imitate. 
 
 The fascination of the human game to be found 
 in remote places girls like Annette and Hilda, 
 who had the slender beauty that these men 
 worshipped, who had the pure-eyed, pure-lipped 
 innocence that was the great incentive was as 
 maddening hasheesh to the senses of these de- 
 spoilers. 
 
 109
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 And so when MacDonald had told Jules that, 
 after all, it was quite the best thing that could 
 have happened to Annette when she died in the 
 blizzard, wandering mad with grief and shame, 
 to be found later horribly mutilated by wolves 
 that had not respected the white pall the flying 
 snow had swept above her, he fully meant it. 
 
 All that he regretted was that her youth and 
 beauty were gone from his enjoyment forever. 
 Of her soul he never evon thought. Of her 
 sufferings well, Jie was of the humble, poor 
 creatures of the earth whom some omniscient 
 scheme had doomed to be one of those that suffer. 
 
 She had served charmingly to replace the 
 absent studio parties. He was grateful for a 
 romance of the pine-scented forests, after the 
 vitiating orgies of the romances among exotic 
 perfumes. 
 
 In the same way his thoughts now turned to 
 
 Hilda. That her father guarded her with an ever- 
 110
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 suspicious eye but made the pursuit more inter- 
 esting; that the girl herself was innately good 
 and would have to be won by the most consum- 
 mate of his wiles but lent fascination, and that 
 the young, handsome, brisk Beaubien was his 
 rival but added zest to the chase and lent the 
 sport its element of danger. 
 
 When MacDonald contemplated Jules as a 
 factor that might bring an ugly, violent chapter 
 into the romance, it did not affect his purpose. 
 Just as this remarkable man combined with high 
 intellectual talents a brute's ferocity of passion, 
 so also he had the bodily strength and physical 
 courage of a brute. 
 
 He compared his depth of chest and width of 
 shoulders with the lithe muscularity of Beaubien, 
 and decided that in the event of a struggle the 
 result would be in his own favor. 
 
 Yet he did not very seriously figure that there 
 
 would be any such outcome. In his scheme to 
 111
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 possess the girl he would act quickly. He would, 
 by a series of swift events, outgeneral Beaubien, 
 and while the young Canadian was left wondering 
 just how it all had happened, the prize of Hilda's 
 possession would be his, and he would hurry 
 with her to New York, where she would be help- 
 less, and where, innately good or innately bad, 
 he would own her. Own her body. As for her 
 soul MacDonald smiled to himself. If there 
 were such things as souls her soul might take 
 care of itself. 
 
 Of the arch wickedness of the subtle scheme 
 he had devised to make the girl his property he 
 thought nothing at all save in self -congratulation 
 at its great cleverness. 
 
 The very morning after the discovery by 
 Beaubien that MacDonald, who sought Hilda's 
 ruin, was none other than the betrayer of Annette 
 and the man whom he and Baptiste had sworn to 
 kill, MacDonald had lingered behind the party 
 112
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 as it set out from the house, to pour new allure- 
 ments of brilliant talk into Hilda's ears regarding 
 the wonders and the charms of the great, bright 
 cities far beyond the dismal, giant, oppressive 
 mountains. 
 
 And again toward evening he purposely re- 
 turned ahead of the party and found Hilda as 
 she was walking back to the house from the 
 spring, the tin pail shimmering in the sunset 
 light as it swung. 
 
 MacDonald laid a hand gently on her firm, 
 round, young sun-crowned arm. 
 
 "Hilda," he said, with his fine eyes looking 
 tenderly at her. 
 
 "Yes?" she questioned, her red lips parting 
 to return his friendly smile. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Why," she laughed, "that is rather plainly 
 to be seen into the house with this pail of water." 
 
 "Put it down a minute," he urged. "There 
 113
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 is something important that I would say to you." 
 
 She obeyed. 
 
 "Have you thought over what I said to you 
 this morning?" he continued. 
 
 "About going away?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the girl earnestly, as she 
 brushed back a strand of glistening golden hair 
 that had loosened from the tight combing and 
 was flaunting jauntily in the sunlight. "Oh, 
 yes, I have thought it all over. I have thought 
 of little else, Mr. MacDonald little else but the 
 wonderful things you have told me of the world 
 that is to be found beyond the hills." 
 
 "You have thought it over carefully, 
 Hilda?" 
 
 "Yes, carefully." 
 
 MacDonald raised his hand to her shoulder. 
 He regarded her with a fond eye for the graceful 
 beauty that was only slightly suggested under 
 114
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the lines of the loose, rough, blue serge blouse 
 and skirt that she wore. 
 
 "Well," he asked at the end of this survey, 
 "what is your decision?" 
 
 The girl instinctively turned to look back into 
 the brown and gold forest, whither she had gone 
 and spent an hour of that day in its helpful 
 solitude in prayer for guidance. 
 
 "I I don't know," she said to MacDonald. 
 
 "Why 'don't know'?" he demanded, some- 
 what impatiently. 
 
 The girl stared at her clasped hands. Her 
 brow was marked with thought, but her thoughts 
 were flooding confusedly in her pretty head. 
 
 "Only that, Mr. MacDonald; just I don't 
 know. " 
 
 MacDonald smiled as one who would humor a 
 queer child. 
 
 "Well, you want to go, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes; yes, I want to go," she replied quickly. 
 115
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "And certainly," he said, laughing low at the 
 thought, "you are not afraid of me." 
 
 "No," said the girl with unexpected quietness 
 and decision, "I am not afraid of you." 
 
 "Well, then, little Hilda, what makes you 
 hesitate? You say you want to go. You have 
 told me that your life here is utterly unhappy. 
 I have told you all the joy and knowledge and 
 beauty that are to be found where I am willing 
 to take you, and yet when I ask you if you are 
 ready to go, you can only answer 'I don't 
 know.'" 
 
 "She looked up at him, and her smile was an 
 acknowledgment that his impatience was not 
 without some right of foundation. 
 
 "Do you mean to go soon?" she asked. 
 
 "Quite soon." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Do you mean exactly how soon?" 
 
 "No; not that," she pursued. "Quite soon 
 116
 
 THE WOLF % 
 
 means in a little while. But what I mean is how 
 how are we to go? " 
 
 "I don't exactly know what you mean by 
 'how?'" 
 
 "I mean are we going to run away at night 
 run away at night and have people talk? You 
 know there was my mother. She ran away at 
 night and people talked, and always have talked, 
 and my father curses her memory. Is it going to 
 be that way with us? " 
 
 "And if it were?" demanded MacDonald 
 suddenly and boldly. 
 
 Her reply came as directly as his question. 
 First her fingers slipped up and disengaged the 
 hand that had put a fervent pressure on her arm. 
 
 "Then I would not go," said Hilda. "It is 
 an awful thing to stay here, now that I am getting 
 old enough to know and to understand. But if 
 I have to live here just this way all my life, I'll 
 try to live as happily as I can. I will do my 
 117
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 best. But, Mr. MacDonald, I would never run 
 away. I would never do that and have my 
 father say that my soul was black and that I was 
 wicked." 
 
 "I had not meant to ask you to do that, 
 Hilda," came MacDonald's voice in soft remon- 
 strance. "I was not meaning that at all. But 
 what, Hilda, if your father should say all 
 right?" 
 
 Her big, clear blue eyes lifted to meet Mac- 
 Donald's, and there was sheer amazement in 
 them. 
 
 "My father would not say all right," she said 
 positively. 
 
 "I am asking you, Hilda, what if he does say 
 all right?" 
 
 "Ah," she said with a quick smile, "if he does 
 say all right if " 
 
 "Then if he does say all right if I convince 
 
 him that it is the thing for you to do and for me to 
 118
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 do and for him to do I say if I convince him, 
 Hilda, what would you say then?" 
 
 MacDonald ended, sure of the reply that 
 would fall from her lips. But he was disappointed, 
 for Hilda, looking away from him into the dense 
 woods, out of which she seemed to draw inspira- 
 tion for her thoughts, said: 
 
 "Still, still, I don't know. But, whether I 
 will or whether I won't, father must know every- 
 thing. I am quite decided on that." 
 
 "So am I," MacDonald assured her. "I will 
 see him to-day. Only, Hilda, you must leave 
 the gaining of his consent to me entirely. What- 
 ever arrangement I make, you must not ask him 
 about it. He seems to hate you, and whatever 
 he might be willing I should do he might with- 
 draw his consent if he saw that it was going to 
 make you very happy." 
 
 "I never ask father about anything," said 
 the girl with calm bitterness. 
 119
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "And you will go go with me if he consents?" 
 
 "I don't know," she answered. "But you 
 must see him. " 
 
 "That's agreed, little Hilda. Here is my hand 
 on it. " 
 
 MacDonald grasped her hand. The pressure 
 was so warm and so hard that it alarmed her. 
 He drew her toward him, but from this she openly 
 shrank. 
 
 Finally he released her hand. She hurried 
 from him, regained the shining pail of clear 
 spring water and made her way as quickly as 
 possible into the house. 
 
 MacDonald sauntered slowly in after her. 
 Confidence was written plainly in ti., poise of 
 his head, the throw-back of his shoulders, the 
 steadiness of the smile on his viciously marked 
 mouth. 
 
 120
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 At dinner that night MacDonald showed high 
 spirits and brimming good nature, and, with a 
 view to furthering his own plans, he recounted at 
 length, in the hearing of old McTavish, some of 
 the wonderful works of engineering that he had 
 performed, and the results in wealth that had 
 accrued to hundreds and thousands of people 
 through opening to the world's markets countless 
 communities, whose produce had formerly been 
 pent up and wasted in the lonely valleys and 
 mountains. He told of cities that had grown 
 because of the magic that his scientific genius 
 could perform. 
 
 McTavish, whose creed was that gold was the 
 most precious of earthly possessions, listened 
 
 until excitement over what he had heard, and 
 121
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 admiration for the man who had accomplished 
 these great things, caused his old gray eyes to 
 shine. 
 
 MacDonald, having produced the effect he 
 sought, repaired to the main room of the house, 
 which had been given over to him as an office and 
 a study. 
 
 It was a big square room; the walls of rough 
 logs. Here and there were crude mottoes and 
 cruder pictures. The antlers of moose and car- 
 ibou were over the doorways and the two large 
 windows. 
 
 In the centre of the room was a large table. 
 Its top had been planed and smoothed and 
 polished, but its thick legs still bore the bark of 
 the trees. 
 
 MacDonald was seated at this table. 
 
 He was busily figuring. His head was hand- 
 some with its big, broad forehead symbolizing 
 
 mental power. He sat in a rude, cane-bottomed 
 122
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 chair. Some big, unpainted rockers were around 
 the room. Bear hides served for mats and on one 
 side of the wall the skin of a huge grizzly was 
 nailed, a proud badge of McTavish's prowess, 
 despite his advanced years. 
 
 MacDonald, absolutely engrossed in his work, 
 had not noticed that young Ferguson was watch- 
 ing him from outside one of the windows. Young 
 Ferguson was looking thoughtful himself. He 
 knew that what he intended to do in the next few 
 minutes would be received with very bad grace 
 by his employer. 
 
 He knew that MacDonald's masterful nature 
 would be inclined to sweep instantly aside any- 
 thing that promised to be an obstacle to his plans, 
 and that he, Ferguson, although the personal 
 favorite of the engineer who was fond of the 
 lad for his humor and good nature might 
 expect to be treated as any other obstacle the 
 
 minute he put himself in the way of the 
 123
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 engineer's schemes, romantic or otherwise. 
 
 But there were certain old-fashioned teachings 
 that were strong in the boy's heart. The inno- 
 cence of woman was something that he held 
 sacred, and Hilda was so absolutely innocent, 
 so wholly unspoiled! Her disposition was so 
 sweet that even her father's constant harsh 
 treatment had not made of her a sullen creature. 
 Her response to the least kindliness was as pure 
 and sweet as the opening of a flower. 
 
 Young Ferguson therefore rapped the ashes 
 out of his pipe and, entering the house, knocked at 
 the door of the room and entered. 
 
 "Hello, governor," he said affably. 
 
 "Hello, Fergy," said the engineer cordially. 
 
 "What are you doin'?" asked the lad with a 
 familiarity that MacDonald had long ago accorded 
 him. 
 
 "Working on these maps, kid. By the way, 
 I expect Anderson and the rest of the surveying 
 124
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 party up here to-morrow or the next day, and 
 when they come you can go with them to the 
 south, to run the new line from the fork of the 
 Little Bear River." 
 
 "And what are you going to do?" young 
 Ferguson asked casually. 
 
 "You can leave me here," said MacDonald 
 shortly. 
 
 "What do you want to stay here for?" 
 
 At this query from Ferguson, MacDonald 
 looked up in displeased surprise. 
 
 "I said you could leave me here, I guess that's 
 enough, Ferguson." 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Ferguson, with one of his 
 disarming smiles, "if that's the way you want to 
 look at it." 
 
 MacDonald didn't thaw. 
 
 "That's just the way I want to look at it." 
 
 The tone was final. It was intended for a 
 dismissal. The engineer returned to his papers, 
 125
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 with an open demonstration that signified that 
 the interview was ended. 
 
 But Ferguson lingered. He filled his pipe 
 and lighted it. After a few puffs, he said: 
 
 "Governor!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Been working for you for five years, haven't 
 I?" 
 
 "That long?" 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Well, you're still young. What's worrying 
 you?" 
 
 "Never got on very well, did I?" 
 
 "You never tried very hard, Fergy," said 
 MacDonald, kindly. 
 
 "Perhaps not. There were a lot of things 
 that I might have done and didn't." Suddenly 
 Ferguson straightened up and said vehemently, 
 "And won't!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 126
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Well," answered Ferguson, with a perceptible 
 brace of his shoulders, "I guess your business is 
 your business all right, governor, but you put 
 through a lot of deals, with the help of other 
 people, that I can't stand for, never could, and 
 never could bring myself to do." 
 
 MacDonald frowned. 
 
 "You said my business was my business, 
 didn't you?" he asked, curtly and forbiddingly. 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Well, then, I guess you'd better leave it 
 right there, Ferguson." 
 
 "I always managed to do that before. I 
 don't know how valuable a man I am to you in a 
 business way, governor. You've always trailed 
 me along because I happen to be a rather light- 
 hearted sort of an Indian, liable to start a little 
 fun when things are monotonous. As an engineer 
 I'm somewhat of a dub what." 
 
 "No one ever accused you of scintillating, 
 127
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Ferguson, but we've got along pretty well. I 
 like to have you with me, and you've always had 
 the redeeming quality of minding your own 
 business. That's an unusual virtue, my boy. 
 It is your one great asset. Hang on to it." 
 
 Ferguson shook his head. 
 
 "That's the trouble, governor." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "It's slipping." 
 
 "What's slipping?" 
 
 "My asset." 
 
 MacDonald finally cast aside his papers and 
 stood up. 
 
 "What's the trouble, Ferguson?" 
 
 "Well, governor, I find myself with a keen 
 temptation to mind somebody else's business. 
 In fact, I've committed myself." 
 
 "Whose business?" 
 
 "Yours." 
 
 "About what?" frowned MacDonald. 
 128
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "The girl Hilda," said the lad. 
 
 "In love?" 
 
 "No; in earnest." 
 
 A sneer crept across MacDonald's lips. 
 
 "Going to be a hero?" 
 
 "No; going to try to be a white man." 
 
 "I wonder if you've let it slip out of your mind 
 in this business, Ferguson, that you are working 
 for me? If I were you I wouldn't." 
 
 "No," replied the boy doggedly; "I've added 
 all that up, governor the job, the money, and 
 what it might cost if I butt in and still, still 
 I've got a yearning instinct in my heart that tells 
 me I'm going to lose that asset of mine that 
 asset of mine that you say is the most valuable 
 thing about me. Yes, I feel that I'm apt to lose 
 that asset." 
 
 MacDonald stared at the boy. Here was an 
 unexpected factor a source of annoyance that 
 
 he had not counted upon. Of course, it would be 
 129
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 absurd to think that Ferguson, slip of an irrespon- 
 sible lad that he was, could really do any decisive 
 thing that might spoil his scheme for possessing 
 himself of Hilda. But the incident was unex- 
 pected, and MacDonald would rather have 
 Ferguson for a friend. 
 
 To a man of MacDonald's nature it is disagree- 
 able to have anybody voluntarily leave associa- 
 tion with him. It hurt his vanity to think that 
 with his fame and magnetism and wealth any one 
 should voluntarily withdraw from the privilege 
 of this association. 
 
 "Don't be silly, Fergy," he said in a somewhat 
 conciliatory voice. " I hate to see you go wrong. 
 A lot of men in their time have tried to interfere 
 in my business and it didn't get them much- 
 bigger men than you, Fergy; and I guess you 
 know I'm throwing no bluffs about that. I 
 always get what I go after," he continued, with 
 an eye set steadily upon the face of Ferguson; 
 130
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "always, one way or another. And I'm going to 
 do that all my life, my boy." 
 
 Ferguson returned the deliberate stare. He 
 said slowly, but with great underlying earnest- 
 ness: 
 
 "I've never been able to quite figure you out, 
 governor. Most of the time you have been 
 almost white, but some of the time you have 
 been as black as night. I never mixed up with 
 you in New York when you pulled off those 
 parties and drunks with some of your select 
 friends. Girls of that kind never get to me very 
 strong. I've always had, somewhere in my sys- 
 tem, a streak of decency that calls my bluff 
 every time I try to be rotten. I guess that's my 
 mother's personality playing hard for me to 
 win when I backslide." 
 
 The old 3neer came to MacDonald's bad mouth. 
 
 "Is this a sermon, Ferguson?" 
 
 "No, not a sermon. Just a quiet tip." 
 131
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Give it to me," said MacDonald, with an 
 effort at toleration. 
 
 "Don't you break Hilda's heart," said the boy 
 quickly and with an energy that made his words 
 snap. "And don't you try to turn any funny 
 tricks, governor, because on the square, you 
 can't get away with it." 
 
 MacDonald laughed ill-naturedly. 
 
 "You're willing to be the little boy who is 
 coming in at the critical moment to say, 'Ha! 
 unhand her, villain!' eh?" 
 
 "No,I'm not. Although at a show-down I'd 
 help." 
 
 "Who is going to be the man, then?" 
 
 "Jules Beaubien." 
 
 "What about him?" said MacDonald, and 
 there was a noticeable slackening of the scorn- 
 fulness in his voice 
 
 "He's on." 
 
 "Jealous?" 
 
 132
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Call it what you want, governor. But the 
 first time you make a wrong move, you're going 
 to get it from him, and you are going to get it 
 good." 
 
 "What can he do?" 
 
 "Just wipe you out of existence with as much 
 compunction as I'd snap a straw." 
 
 With a gesture of impatience, the engineer 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Ferguson, you're funny! This Frenchman 
 is in the same boat that I am. The only differ- 
 ence is that so far I've got the best of it, and he 
 knows it. Don't get nervous about me, young 
 man. You are a little too young to be giving 
 me advice. Just go right on minding your own 
 business, and that asset of yours will become 
 more valuable every year." 
 
 "All right; all right," said the boy. "But 
 just remember that I've tipped you, and another 
 
 thing. I want to be open with you, governor. 
 133
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 If a show-down comes off well, I've declared 
 myself with the Frenchman and his end of the 
 game, job or no job. That's flat." 
 
 MacDonald raised his big head in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "You re a sentimental ass, Ferguson." 
 
 His declaration made all Ferguson's old 
 boyish irresponsibility of demeanor instantly 
 return. 
 
 "That's got a damned fool beat," he laughed, 
 "and let it go at that." 
 
 134
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 There was a knock on the door of the big room 
 and the shock-haired head of McTavish looked 
 inside. Indignation mantled in the rugged old 
 countenance #t sight of young Ferguson, but 
 seeing that MacDonald was also there, McTavish 
 entered. 
 
 "Hello!" said the gay Ferguson. "There's 
 the old Bonnie Briar Bush with his little bunch 
 of Scotch heather." 
 
 "Meester MacDonald," exploded the Scot, 
 "I will nae stand the impudence o' this young 
 mon!" 
 
 "All right, old Santa Glaus," laughed Ferguson. 
 
 ' ' Santa Glaus again ! ' ' roared McTavish . ' ' Got 
 o' me house wi' ye!" 
 
 Ferguson hurried to the door and bowed. 
 135
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "At once but back at supper time, Roderick 
 Dhu." 
 
 "Meester MacDonald, if ye do not stop that 
 young deevil " 
 
 "Ferguson," cut in the engineer, "you'll have 
 to drop that sort of thing. Understand ?" 
 
 "Oh, all right, governor." In the same breath, 
 however, he said to McTavish: " Don't you care, 
 King Jamie. When you and I and Sir Walter 
 Scott and Bobby Burns meet in Edinburgh next 
 summer, what a great time we'll have." 
 
 "Awa' wi' ye!" stormed the old man. 
 
 "I'll buy you a drink and stake you to a bar- 
 ber," said Ferguson, politely. 
 
 "Ferguson, drop it," commanded MacDonald, 
 who little wanted the ruffling of McTavish 's 
 disposition at this juncture in his schemes. 
 
 "All right, governor. So long," said the boy, 
 and bowed himself out of the room with a madden- 
 ing grin at the hard old woodsman. 
 136
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 McTavish struggled to regain his composure. 
 When he had done so, he said : 
 
 "Meester MacDonald, I respect yourseF and 
 yer poseetion, but I canna' stand the impudence 
 o' the young jackanapes. He'll drive me mad 
 wi' his insults." 
 
 "You mustn't mind him, Mr. McTavish," 
 spoke MacDonald sympathetically. "He doesn't 
 mean anything really. If you paid no attention 
 to him he'd soon stop. But I'll speak to him 
 when he comes back; you may depend upon it." 
 
 "If he dinna stop he canna' stay in me hoose. 
 He's past all patience." 
 
 "I'll have him stopped. I promise you that." 
 
 "Ye're a guid mon, Mr. MacDonald, and I'll 
 tak' yer word. I canna hae nae mon makin' 
 jokes o' me before me ain flesh an' blood, 
 worthless as she is." 
 
 "You mean Hilda?" 
 
 'Who else could I mean but Hilda?" 
 137
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Who else, indeed? MacDonald had deliber- 
 ately seized the opportunity to bring the name 
 of the girl into his talk. 
 
 "I see," he said. And then, quite slowly and 
 earnestly, "I want to have a talk with you about 
 her sometime, Mr. McTavish." 
 
 "She nae worthy o' discussion, Meester 
 MacDonald. She and her mither hae been the 
 blight o' me life." 
 
 "I'm sorry, sir. But now just now I want 
 to talk some business to you, and afterwards 
 afterwards, I really have something serious to 
 propose to you regarding Hilda. But first the 
 business." 
 
 "Business?" 
 
 "Why, yes, Mr. McTavish. I can show you 
 how you can make a lot of money. You might 
 as well get it as anybody else. I wouldn't have 
 the time to take advantage of the chance myself, 
 and you've won my friendship, Mr. McTavish." 
 138
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "That's guid o' ye. And it's guid to get a 
 chance to make money," answered the Scot, 
 cordially and eagerly. "I hae some money. 
 Meester MacDonald, but a mon is no mon who 
 does nae want more." 
 
 The engineer walked over to the table and 
 selected one of the blue maps. He handed it 
 to the old man. 
 
 "You see this rough sketch?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "You know what it is?" 
 
 "Aye what is it?" 
 
 "A map." 
 
 "I ken thot, mon, but the world is large and 
 there are many maps. What's this?" 
 
 "Well, now, I know you are a little skeptical 
 about this railroad, Mr. McTavish." 
 
 " 'Tis a fool's dream," said the old man 
 bluntly. 
 
 "Hardly," observed MacDonald, with a dignity 
 139
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 that he knew how to make impressive, "unless 
 you put me down for a fool." 
 
 "Nae, nae," McTavish hastened to reply. 
 "Ye're a shrewd mon, Meester MacDonald, and 
 a guid one, and what ye say I'll believe, though 
 'tis hard to credit that ye'll be able to put the 
 railroad through all this wilderness o' mountains." 
 
 The engineer went over to the old man, took 
 the map from his hand and laid it on the table. 
 With a pencil to make indications on the drawn 
 plan, he said : 
 
 "Well, see here. There's the fork of the 
 Little Bear River. You know the country, do 
 you not?" 
 
 "As I do mesel', and even better." 
 
 "How better?" 
 
 "The country nae changes, and sometimes the 
 Scotch do. 'Tis their difference from the Swedes." 
 
 "You don't seem to like Swedes?" observed 
 
 MacDonald. 
 
 140
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I dinna' like Swedes wi' their yellow hair 
 any more than I like porcupines wi' their stingin' 
 quills. I hae one in me own family." 
 
 MacDonald could not resist the temptation. 
 
 " What porcupines? " 
 
 "Nae, mon," answered McTavish, all seriously, 
 "a Swede Hilda, the guid-fer-nothing girl. 
 But I'd as soon nestle a porcupine to me breast." 
 McTavish glowered. "Well gang alang wi' the 
 business ye were tellin' me aboot." 
 
 MacDonald laid his pencil point on the map 
 again. 
 
 "This railroad that you are so doubtful about 
 is sure to be built up to this point understand." 
 
 "Aye." 
 
 "The money is ready; the success assured. 
 It may be one, two or three years, and even 
 four, but sooner or later it's bound to come." 
 
 "Aye, lad ye seem to be speakin' the truth?" 
 
 MacDonald ran his pencil along the map. 
 141
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "That land at the fork of the river is free from 
 timber." 
 
 "As bare as the palm o' me hand." 
 "Can you get that land and file a deed?" 
 "I dinna ken why I should do that." 
 "If I show you the way and how, will you do 
 it?" 
 
 "For what reason?" 
 
 "When the road goes through, the possession 
 
 of that land will make you a rich man." 
 
 McTavish looked at him with liveliest curiosity. 
 
 "Aye, lad, aye. Tell me aboot it." 
 
 "Well, can't you see for yourself? The land 
 
 isn't worth a dollar a square mile now, but with 
 
 the road it will be immensely valuable. I expect 
 
 this project to make you very, very rich. I just 
 
 want to show you that I appreciate your kindness 
 
 and hospitality, and I'm going to let you in on 
 
 the deal. Then you will have a lot of money." 
 
 "How much, laddie, how much?" 
 142
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The Scot's old heart was beginning to beat 
 very fast. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know exactly. Maybe a couple 
 of hundred thousand dollars." 
 
 McTavish half leaped from his chair. 
 
 "Twa hoondred thousand dollars!" he cried, 
 and sank back in his seat. 
 
 "That much anyway certainly and maybe 
 more." 
 
 McTavish gripped his chair and narrowed 
 his eyes. He swallowed a big lump in his 
 throat. 
 
 "Ye're not makin' jokes wi' me, like the 
 young jackanapes who calls me King Jamie and 
 Santa Glaus?" he demanded. 
 
 "Not in the least, Mr. McTavish. I, sir, have 
 proper respect for white hairs, and am really a 
 friend of yours. Will you accept it? " 
 
 McTavish arose and laid his big, rough hand 
 on the table. 
 
 143
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I weel, mon," he said slowly, adding, " 'Tis 
 me dooty as a Scotchmen." 
 
 "Then that's settled, and there's my hand." 
 
 McTavish took the hand eagerly. 
 
 MacDonald had angled his bait skilfully, and 
 the mercenary McTavish grew almost senile in 
 his emotion of gratitude, as he clasped hands 
 with the man who had promised to make him 
 wealthy beyond any dream that he had ever had. 
 
 "Meester MacDonald, ye're a guid mon and a 
 wise one," he said, with a voice that was unsteady. 
 "When ye came to my hoose I had a mind to 
 drive ye awa' to save ye from the yellow hair and 
 black heart o' the girl Hilda. 'Twas her mither's 
 aim to lure men to destruction, and the girl has 
 the signs o' inheriting it. But ye're a sensible 
 mon, and nae woman can wreck yer life. I 
 hae nae fear for the young jackanapes. The 
 Lord knows his head is as empty as his 
 
 stomach." 
 
 144
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 McTavish released the hand of MacDonald 
 slowly. And MacDonald, as the old man turned 
 away and sought the comfort of a big rocker 
 stole a glance at the huge, age-bent figure, and 
 for an instant indulged himself to the extent of 
 allowing a smile to steal across his lips. 
 
 Such moments as these, when his wiles carried 
 him to a triumph of deception, were enjoyable 
 to the conscienceless engineer. He decided that 
 now was the psychological time to successfully 
 fix the trap for the capture of Hilda, the chosen 
 victim of his evil desires. 
 
 "I wanted to speak to you about Hilda," 
 said MacDonald in a low, friendly voice. He 
 walked over to the big rocker and stood behind 
 McTavish's chair. In this position his back was 
 towards the two big windows that faced out upon 
 the forest, with the silver river below the slope. 
 
 And so it happened that words that he intended 
 solely for the ears of McTavish were heard by 
 145
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 other ears. So it happened that Jules Beaubien, 
 with cold eyes of hatred, stood at the window 
 sill and came to a realization of a deeper, more 
 cunning villainy in the nature of the engineer 
 than even he had suspected. 
 
 Jules and Baptiste, sauntering in front of the 
 house, had their attention attracted to the inte- 
 rior of the lighted room and saw there MacDonald 
 and McTavish in attitudes that bespoke the 
 happening of something important. 
 
 Baptiste impulsively brought his rifle down 
 from his shoulder. Jules frowned and motioned 
 his displeasure, and Baptiste replaced the weapon 
 as he had been carrying it before. 
 
 Beaubien followed that with a gesture of 
 dismissal that sent Baptiste to the pine tree seat 
 to smoke his pipe in a sullen silence, and to dream 
 of the sweetness of a revenge that would find 
 himself and MacDonald in mortal combat. 
 
 At the window sill Jules, left alone, hesitated 
 146
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 for an instant, but finally, with a tightening of 
 his lips and a shrug of his shoulders, he moved 
 quickly and silently forward and leaned his head 
 partly over the sill. In the cause of saving the 
 girl he loved he frankly decided to play eaves- 
 dropper. 
 
 "Ye want to talk to me o' Hilda?" he heard 
 McTavish ask. "What hae ye to say o' the girl? 
 Be brief and," added the old man with a ferocious 
 frown, "if she's been misconducting hersel', dinna 
 protect her, but gie me the truth." 
 
 MacDonald moved forward and turned slightly 
 so that he might fully study the profile of Mc- 
 Tavish, whereas the old man would have little 
 opportunity to look into the countenance of his 
 companion. 
 
 "What are your plans for her, Mr. McTavish?" 
 The tone was gentle, kindly and betokened a 
 half -paternal interest in the future of the girl 
 herself. 
 
 147
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I hae nae plans for her, Mr. MacDonald," 
 answered the Scot, still frowning. "Ye dinna 
 ken the grief o' a faither's heart. Since the day 
 she came from her mither, with the curse o' her 
 yellow hair, she's been a burden to me soul. It's 
 been the one thought o' me life to save her from 
 eternal damnation. But now she's twenty-one, 
 and and the deevil may take her any time." 
 
 MacDonald nodded sympathetically. 
 
 "I know how you must feel. I know just 
 how you feel, Mr. McTavish." He laid his hand 
 on the old man's shoulder. "But in the case of 
 Hilda, I think, sir, I can find a way for you out 
 of your trouble." 
 
 "Take care, mon," replied the Scot, "that 
 ye come not yersel' under the spell o' Hilda." 
 
 MacDonald smiled and slowly shook his head. 
 
 "No chance of that, Mr. McTavish. I'm 
 well I'm too sensible. I'm an American, 
 
 but my mother came from Scotland." 
 148
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 It was a neat stroke. It drew McTavish even 
 closer. 
 
 "That's guid; that's guid," said the old Scot, 
 with nods of his hoary head. "Ye're too fine a 
 mon not to be soom Scotch." 
 
 "Hilda is up here alone with you, and, as you 
 say, she's twenty-one. The railroad will soon be 
 up here, and there will be many men. Either 
 you will have to move far up North, give up this 
 home you've had for so many years, or Hilda 
 will be placed in the way of temptation." 
 
 "True for ye. And I dinna trust her." 
 
 "How long is it since you've been to the cities 
 or the States? " asked MacDonald. 
 
 "A score o' years." 
 
 "I am not a young man, Mr. McTavish. Old 
 enough to be a father, but I've never married." 
 
 " 'Tis a sensible head ye hae on yer shoul- 
 ders." 
 
 "I have no brothers or sisters," continued the 
 149
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 engineer, "none in the world but a fine old Scotch 
 mother in New York. She's just such a woman 
 as you are a man, and with the same ideas." 
 
 "Thin she must be Scotch," said the old man, 
 approvingly. 
 
 "And now you say that Hilda, after all your 
 years of training, is in danger. I agree with you. 
 My mother is a devout member of the church, 
 and in her old age nothing would please her more 
 than to save a soul like Hilda's and cheat the 
 devil," pursued MacDonald, his rich voice 
 sounding very sincere and earnest and rev- 
 erent. 
 
 "She's a guid woman. My mither was the 
 same. Some weemen are guid," grudgingly 
 admitted McTavish, only to add immediately, 
 "but not many not many." 
 
 "When the railroad comes here you will be 
 busy making money," resumed the engineer. 
 "You will move down to your land and you will 
 150
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 have your business to attend to. You can't 
 watch Hilda then all the time." 
 
 "True for ye. 'Twill gi' the deevil a chance. 
 But a mon should get rich. He should; should 
 he not?" 
 
 "Of course. Well, now, Mr. McTavish, having 
 thought of my good old mother and of Hilda's 
 soul, it has come to my mind that my mother 
 could devote every minute of her time to Hilda. 
 It would be a holy work, and my dear mother 
 would like it. Why not, Mr. McTavish " 
 MacDonald's hand pressed heavily and warmly 
 on the bent shoulders of Hilda's father "why 
 not let Hilda come with me to my home and there 
 my mother could complete the work that you 
 have carried on so well up to the present time?" 
 
 McTavish studied the knuckles of his big, 
 gaunt hands. He wagged his head. 
 
 "Tak' care, mon, ye dinna bring a wanton 
 under yer roof." 
 
 151
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I realize all that," agreed MacDonald, "but 
 you have done your full duty. You have buried 
 yourself in the wilderness for twenty years. You 
 have brought up Hilda according to your belief 
 and system. In your old age you should have 
 some of the pleasures of life. As soon as the 
 railroad is built you will have a great deal of 
 money. You could come and visit us and see 
 Hilda, and then you could go back to Scotland 
 and go over all your early days." 
 
 This was the master stroke. None is so 
 canny as the Scot. None possesses so deeply 
 fibered the love of native land. Back of hard 
 shells, of mercenary hearts, even a Scot forever 
 preserves soft places of sentiment for the old 
 folks at home. 
 
 "Back to Scotland back to Scotland," 
 
 murmured the old man, and the hardness 
 
 of his face softened until there was actual 
 
 tenderness there. "Back to Scotland! Ah, 
 
 152
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 'twould be grand, mon, 'twould be grand!" 
 
 "You'd like it, eh?" said MacDonald, keeping 
 the tone of his voice in harmony with the old 
 man's tenor of thought. 
 
 "Mon," almost sobbed McTavish, "I've dreamt 
 o' Scotland these twenty years. I've dreamt o' 
 it in the long cold nights o' the winter, and under 
 the pines in the summer time the wind has sung 
 her sweet, dear ballads. I hae nae closed me 
 eyes but I've seen the Highlands wi' their sheep 
 and heather, and me heart's near cracked at 
 the thought o' me bonnie land. Scotland, mon! 
 "Pis the thought o' her that's kept the life in me 
 body these long, lonely years." 
 
 The old gray eyes, that characteristically 
 were cold or glittering with hatred of wrongs 
 morosely cuddled in a narrow mind, were wet 
 now with tears. 
 
 "Then it's time you went back," said Mac- 
 Donald, his hand still on the old man's shoulder, 
 153
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "time you went back. And this is the only way. 
 It is your duty as far as Hilda's concerned. You 
 must realize that." 
 
 McTavish arose. He faced MacDonald. 
 
 "An' ye'll take Hilda to yer mither, an' ye'll 
 keep her from the weeman who bore her an' 
 watch her soul as ye would yer ain sister, an' 
 went to hell?" 
 
 "I'll do all that, Mr. McTavish," returned 
 the other man solemnly. "I've been a little 
 careless in my duties to the church, and the time 
 has come in my life when I feel that I should do 
 something to make up for my neglect. This 
 opportunity seems to have been sent to me. 
 Why, one almost might say it had been sent to 
 me from heaven. Here is my hand, McTavish, 
 and here is my word. It is your duty. It is my 
 duty. Will you do it?" 
 
 Nothing could have been more consummate 
 than the assumption of candor and sympathy and 
 154
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 noble purpose on the countenance of MacDonald. 
 Eagerly, completely charmed, the Scot made 
 reply: 
 
 "I will, sir; God bless ye, I will." 
 
 With hands together they were standing, 
 when MacDonald suddenly drew away. 
 
 "Some one is smoking a cigarette," he said 
 hastily. 
 
 Turning his head, he beheld Beaubien, hie 
 elbow on the sill and the smoke rising in a slender 
 spiral from the cigarette between his slender 
 fingers. 
 
 For several seconds the men eyed each other 
 with an intense, unblinking stare. 
 
 155
 
 CHAPTER X 
 "STAND ON YOUR FEET AND FIGHT" 
 
 The sight of Jules looking in at the window, 
 the smoke of the tell-tale cigarette rising from 
 his fingers, and the realization that came to 
 MacDonald that the young Canadian had prob- 
 ably been there for some time and had heard in 
 its entirety the elaborate scheme of deception for 
 which old McTavish had fallen so easy and 
 fully a victim caused the engineer's eye to 
 flash in anger. 
 
 But he realized that this was no time for an 
 open rupture with Beaubien, so he forced down 
 his anger and his countenance slowly assumed an 
 expression of good-humored toleration and amuse- 
 ment as he regarded Jules. 
 
 Young Beaubien tossed away his cigarette 
 and returned the smile significantly with what 
 156
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 dqjch of significance, MacDonald, of course, 
 was not able to read. 
 
 It was old McTavish who first spoke. The 
 excitement caused by MacDonald's propositions 
 by which he was to be made a wealthy man 
 and Hilda taken care of by a religious Scotch 
 woman, while he should be given an opportunity 
 to realize his dearest hope, returning to Scotland 
 to pass his last days still had possession of the 
 old man. 
 
 "Jules, hae ye been there long?" he asked. 
 
 "Some time, M'sieur M'Tavish," answered 
 Beaubien. And he looked again at MacDonald. 
 
 "And ye heard?" 
 
 "Some things, M'sieur McTavish." 
 
 The old man lumbered over to the window, 
 waving his big arm. 
 
 "Mon, mon!" he cried. "Meester MacDonald 
 hae found a way for the salvation o' Hilda an' the 
 means o' me goin' to Scotland before I dee." 
 157
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Oui, M'sieur McTavish," said Jules, smiling. 
 
 "He's to tak' Hilda to his mither's, who's 
 Scotch," went on the old man, garrulous in his 
 happiness, "and who's to bring her up accordin' 
 to God and the Presbyterian Church. And he's 
 doon more he's to mak' me rich. Jules, Mees- 
 ter MacDonald that you see here, he is a guid 
 mon, Jules, a guid mon." 
 
 McTavish passed his big fingers through his 
 shock of yellowish white hair and turned toward 
 MacDonald. 
 
 The engineer had walked about the room a 
 little uneasily. He had read plainly in the eyes 
 of Beaubien how thoroughly his deception was 
 understood in that quarter. He was anxious to 
 get the old man away. 
 
 "I'll be sendin' the girl to ye this minit," 
 said McTavish to him earnestly, "an' ye can tell 
 her yersel* o' this grand plan ye hae for her an' 
 me."
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "All right, I'll be here," answered MacDonald. 
 
 The Scot walked toward the door leading to 
 the other rooms of the big log house of the 
 forest, and there he turned and admonished the 
 engineer. 
 
 "Dinna be too gentle wi' her, lest she mistake 
 her dooty to yer guid mlther." 
 
 He left the room. 
 
 MacDonald looked quickly back to where Jules 
 stood in the window. He smiled broadly at the 
 Canadian. 
 
 "Won't you come in?" he asked. 
 
 "Merci," replied Jules, and passing out of 
 sight of the window he soon presented himself 
 at the door of the room and entered. 
 
 MacDonald seated himself at the table. 
 
 "Sit down," he said to Jules. 
 
 "I like best to stand." 
 
 MacDonald frowned. 
 
 "You were listening?" he demanded. 
 159
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "That is true," said Beaubien easily. 
 
 "In my country," said the older man, "they 
 call that eavesdropping." 
 
 Beaubien did not wince. 
 
 "It is the same by any other name," he admit- 
 ted calmly. 
 
 "Do you think it was right?" came the nettled 
 question of MacDonald. 
 
 Beaubien shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "What is it you say all is fair in love and 
 war?" he answered. 
 
 MacDonald leaned back and regarded Jules 
 contemptuously. 
 
 "So," he said, "we're still rivals, eh?" 
 
 "That may be true." 
 
 MacDonald laughed openly. 
 
 "Well," he chuckled, "well, you can see 
 what chance you've got." 
 
 "You," said Jules quietly, "lied to M'sieur 
 McTavish." 
 
 160
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 MacDonald waved his hand in deprecation. 
 
 "That's an ugly word," he observed, but in 
 light, unconcerned tones. Where the advantage 
 was so largely his, he could afford to be tolerant 
 of a natural disappointment prompting Beaubien 
 to irritation in his speech. 
 
 "It is an ugly word," assented the young man, 
 "but it is so. You did lie." 
 
 "No, I didn't lie. I just followed that method 
 of yours that you told about I promised." 
 
 He grinned victoriously. 
 
 "If you get Hilda away from here, what will 
 you do with her? " asked Jules. 
 
 "What would you do?" came MacDonald's 
 question in return. 
 
 "That's my business." 
 
 "It is my business what I would do," Mac- 
 Donald snapped back. 
 
 "That may be true, too, M'sieur MacDonald." 
 
 The engineer arose. He walked over and 
 161
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 stood in front of Beaubien, his stalwart legs 
 apart, his hands behind his back. He looked 
 up and winked in the other man's face. 
 
 "How do you like my little scheme, eh? Do 
 you wonder I beat that Frenchman out of 
 Annette?" 
 
 "No, I do not wonder. You are a great man 
 at this little game." 
 
 MacDonald thought he discovered in this 
 admission a striking down of the colors of Beau- 
 bien, believing as he did that the Frenchman's 
 interest in the girl was as impure and villainous 
 as his own. 
 
 "So," he observed, "I guess, Jules, my boy, 
 you lay down. What?" 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "I mean, do you quit and acknowledge that 
 I've got the best of you?" He nodded and 
 grinned. 
 
 "No, I do not do that, M'sieur MacDonald." 
 162
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 There was a certain quiet fervor in Beaubien's 
 tone that wiped away the grin from MacDonald's 
 lips. 
 
 "What are you going to do, then?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Suppose," returned Beaubien, "I should go 
 to M'sieur McTavish and and tell him the 
 truth, and show him how you have lied?" 
 
 "You won't do that!" exclaimed MacDonald, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because, Jules, I know you, and I like you, 
 and I know you're too game to play the game 
 against me that way." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "See here," expostulated the engineer, "we 
 both acknowledged this morning that we were 
 after the same thing. You didn't in so many 
 words, but in effect you did. And between two 
 men who are trying to win a girl, the sportsman- 
 163
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 like way is not to carry tales or resort to any such 
 baby methods, but to stand on your feet and 
 fight, and lose as gracefully as you win." 
 
 Beaubien straightened up. He walked a step 
 toward MacDonald. 
 
 "That is good. That is very good what you 
 have just now said 'stand on your feet and 
 fight!'" 
 
 "Then you are still ready to fight, Jules?" 
 
 "I have always been ready to fight." 
 
 Under the quietness of the tone there was a 
 vibrant sting. MacDonald heard it. He looked 
 at the other man quickly. All the pleasantry 
 was gone from his face. It was set and serious. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" he asked 
 angrily. 
 
 "What I said," replied Jules evenly. 
 
 Rage possessed MacDonald at the open defiance 
 of Beaubien. The young Canadian had, with 
 unexpected earnestness, seized upon Mac- 
 164
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Donald's words that the proper method 
 for two men who were rivals in a serious 
 affair was for them to "stand on their feet and 
 fight." 
 
 Jules had been perfectly cool in his retort 
 that it was something that he was always ready 
 to do. It was not that MacDonald feared him, 
 but this would be an awkward moment for an 
 open combat between them. 
 
 Jules himself had reasons for not wishing to 
 precipitate the fight that he had decided must 
 be inevitable between himself and this man, 
 who had ruined the life of Annette and sent the 
 simple child to her death in the snow to her 
 horrible end as food for the wolves. 
 
 The only difference between the thought of 
 the two men as they faced each other was that 
 Jules realized that this battle was to be to 
 death. MacDonald, not knowing that he stood 
 before the brother of Annette, and not realizing 
 165
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the exalted character of the love of Jules for the 
 golden-haired Hilda, regarded the matter in 
 the light of a passing affray; but even as such 
 he must now avoid it. 
 
 He walked over quietly to Jules. 
 
 "See here," said he, "are you going to get 
 nasty about this?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by nasty," 
 said Jules. He purposely put a gentleness in 
 his tones that somewhat cooled the anger of the 
 big engineer. 
 
 "Young Ferguson has talked with me," 
 answered MacDonald significantly. 
 
 Jules rolled a cigarette. 
 
 "M'sieur Ferguson talks a great deal to every- 
 body," he observed. 
 
 "He said that if well, you know what I 
 mean Hilda and all that that you would wipe 
 me out of existence. I infer from that that you 
 intend to raise a row here. Is that so? " 
 166
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Very deliberately Jules blew a cloud of smoke 
 from his cigarette. 
 
 "That must be M'sieur Ferguson's own idea. 
 I have never told him that I would do that, or 
 that I would raise a row. So you see that he had 
 no right to say so." 
 
 MacDonald's manner displayed some relief. 
 
 "Then you stand with Hilda and me just 
 where you stood this morning. Is that it?" 
 
 Jules weighed his answer. He had heard 
 MacDonald's scheme of luring Hilda to New 
 York, with the full consent of her father, obtained 
 through the basest and wiliest of deception, and 
 he had his own counterplans under way. It 
 was hard for Jules, with his fingers tingling, not 
 to deal the revenge or punishment that, under 
 the primitive law of wild places, he had decided 
 that MacDonald should in the end receive at his 
 hands in fair and open fight. 
 
 But if the inevitable contest should happen 
 167
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 there and then, it would mean that Hilda would 
 be left forever in the hands of her harsh father; 
 for certainly the old man would kill his daughter 
 rather than let her pass into the hands of the 
 slayer of MacDonald MacDonald, whose daz- 
 zling offer of riches, and further offer to place 
 Hilda in the care of a fictitious Scotch mother, 
 had raised the engineer to nothing less than a 
 demigod in the eyes of the old man. 
 
 The delay of a few hours at least was necessary 
 before Jules could effectively arrange for the 
 flight of Hilda. So his reply to MacDonald was 
 as reassuring as he could make it. 
 
 "I stand with Hilda and you just where I 
 stood this morning, M'sieur MacDonald," he 
 said. 
 
 "Good," said MacDonald, palpably much easier 
 in mind. "You've played fair with me. I'll play 
 fair with you." 
 
 "C'est bien," smiled Jules. 
 168
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "The old man is at this minute sending Hilda 
 
 to me, and " 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Of course. You heard, you beggar." 
 "That is so," said Jules, winking at the engi- 
 neer. 
 
 "She is coming here to talk this over with me 
 to talk over going away with me." 
 
 MacDonald walked over to Jules and smiled 
 in his big, genial fashion. 
 "Now, I'll tell you what I'll do." 
 "What will you do, M'sieur MacDonald?" 
 "I'll give you your chance to get her. I'll 
 give you your chance to win her if you can," 
 retorted the engineer with a ring of defiance 
 issuing from his lips that were, however, still 
 smiling. "I'll let you have the first talk with 
 her," he added. "You can make love to her in 
 your own way, and, understand, what I do after- 
 ward I'll do in my own way. But if Hilda likes 
 169
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 you best after you've talked with her I'll step 
 down and out. But I'll tell you frankly, I don't 
 think you've got a chance." 
 
 "Still," replied Beaubien with a slight bow, 
 "I will take that chance." 
 
 "All right. You're on. Wait here. She'll 
 come sooner or later, for her father has gone to 
 find her and send her here. And, according to 
 agreement, I'll keep away until you have finished 
 your talk with her." 
 
 MacDonald walked to the door. He turned 
 and laughed. 
 
 "Make the most of your chance, my boy, for 
 it's a mighty slim one." 
 
 "I will do that, M'sieur MacDonald," answered 
 Jules, with that same little bow that the other 
 man had come to find rather annoying. 
 
 MacDonald stepped out of the house, placing 
 his sombrero carelessly on the back of his head 
 and buttoning his corduroy jacket as he went. 
 170
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 There was a little sharpness in the autumn wind. 
 The sky had become overcast and the woods 
 looked grim and black. 
 
 He lighted his pipe and strolled slowly down 
 the woodland path. He smileo at the thought of 
 Jules as his rival. 
 
 To be sure the handsome, smiling Beaubien 
 was a most attractive fellow, and MacDonald 
 could easily imagine the admiration and success 
 that would attend the browned, lithe and roman- 
 tic young woodsman down in the big city where 
 he would move in contrast to the pallid, vitiated 
 men whose lives were spent in physical con- 
 finement and under a constant mental drive to 
 keep their shoulders up in the intense battle for 
 successful careers in commerce and the pro- 
 fessions. 
 
 But with Hilda why, Jules was an old story 
 with her. He must rank merely as a common- 
 place personality in her circle of interest, where, 
 171
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 on the other hand, he (MacDonald) had all the 
 attraction of glittering novelty, with the stories 
 of his fame that had reached the girl's ears, and 
 of his wealth, and with stories that he himself 
 had so glowingly recounted to her of the charms 
 for women in the big cities the theatres, fine 
 gowns, jewels, lights and music, the countless 
 bewildering fascinations. 
 
 And then, after all, if the unlikely thing did 
 happen if Hilda should announce her prefer- 
 ence for Jules? There was old McTavish to 
 reckon with. 
 
 McTavish was a factor that had been com- 
 pletely won. As between delivering his daughter 
 to the care of the God-fearing Scotch mother 
 whom the engineer had invented for the occasion, 
 and handing her over to be the wife of a French- 
 man he who held the French in such complete 
 contempt, though he was inclined rather to like 
 Jules McTavish would certainly render only one 
 172
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 decision, and that would be in favor of the plan 
 in which MacDonald had made him believe. 
 Whatever liking McTavish had for Jules was too 
 superficial, MacDonald decided, ever to cause the 
 old man to take sides with the young Canadian. 
 
 MacDonald halted in his walk. The path led 
 down the mountain side, and suddenly across 
 the dark valley there had sounded the sharp 
 wail of a wolf. Sounding as it did in the darkness, 
 it came as a call of evil presentiment. It made 
 MacDonald shudder, and the next instant upbraid 
 himself for permitting the thing to affect his 
 nerves. 
 
 But there is that about the cry of the wolf 
 the long, mournful cadence with its tone of 
 savagery and yet its note of fear that vibrates 
 on the strongest nerves most disagreeably. 
 
 MacDonald caught himself hoping that the 
 occurrence of the night before would not be 
 repeated. He had been awakened in the middle 
 173
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 o* the night by a series of the wailing calls outside. 
 Sometimes there was a single, sad, savage cry. 
 At other times there rose the vicious voices of 
 many wolves in a shivering chorus. 
 
 The cries, distant at first, had come nearer and 
 nearer, and the noise had been so harrowing and 
 shrill that all in the household had been awakened. 
 
 MacDonald had gone to the window as the 
 howling pack came scurrying, tumbling, and with 
 mouths agape, boldly out of the concealment of 
 the trees and foliage and into the clearing in 
 front of the house. 
 
 A great, dark, gray pack, they had rushed 
 dizzily past his window, and by the moonlight 
 one could plainly see the red of their open 
 mouths and lolling tongues. 
 
 And MacDonald remembered that as he peered 
 
 out of the window he had seen from another 
 
 window in the low extension in the rear of the 
 
 house, the face of Baptiste Le Grand peering up 
 
 174
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 at him. The great brown eyes in the broad, 
 bearded face glittered almost as had the eyes 
 of the passing wolves. 
 
 MacDonald had found himself wondering at the 
 malevolence of the expression, when Baptiste 
 had suddenly openly grinned at him and nodded. 
 
 The passing of the wolfpack gave Baptiste 
 infinite satisfaction. It meant something to 
 him that MacDonald did not know. 
 
 There was in it a sinister sign of the woods 
 a grisly superstition, religiously credited by the 
 children of the forests. 
 
 MacDonald on this very night was to hear of 
 this same grisly legend from the lips of Hilda; 
 when, of course, he would sneer at it, as becomes 
 a man whose mind is not the mind of a child. 
 
 But the simple mind of Le Grand rejoiced in 
 
 the sign of the passing of the wolfpack. It 
 
 made him the more certain that his enemy was 
 
 not to escape retribution for the monstrous 
 
 175
 
 cruelty of his actions toward Annette and his 
 subsequent complete indifference toward the 
 terrible death which had overtaken the child- 
 mother. 
 
 There was another thing that MacDonald did 
 not know, and that was that his every movement 
 had been shadowed by Baptiste since the hour 
 that he learned that this handsome, debonair 
 man of the great, wondrous civilized city, thou- 
 sands of miles away from the woods, was the 
 moral murderer of the sweet and beautiful 
 Annette, whom Baptiste had loved with all the 
 great, primitive strength of the big heart in his 
 broad body. 
 
 Baptiste feared that MacDonald might suspect 
 or might accidentally come to learn of the identity 
 of himself and Jules as the sweetheart and brother 
 of the dead girl and, finding this out, abandon 
 his schemes to possess Hilda, and seek safety in 
 flight. 
 
 176
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Such a move on his part Baptiste would have 
 stopped with a Winchester unerringly aimed. 
 
 To-night, for the first time, MacDonald walked 
 un watched. And that was because the instant 
 he had left the room telling Jules that he might 
 have the first opportunity to lay his love at 
 Hilda's feet, Beaubien had run quickly to the 
 window and when the foe was out of hearing, 
 had called to his faithful companion, who he 
 knew would, according to the orders he had 
 given him, be close at hand. 
 
 "Ba'tiste! Ba'tiste!" 
 
 A few seconds later Baptiste was in the room. 
 His rifle was in his hand. 
 
 "What you want, Jules Beaubien?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 177
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE GREAT DESIRE 
 
 The swift, almost instant response of Le Grand 
 to his call met with a smile from Jules. 
 
 "Always the faithful Ba'tiste Le Grand," he 
 said affectionately. "Listen. You have the 
 canoe all ready at the bank of the river? " 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Plenty of food?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Ready to go now?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Listen, Ba'tiste Le Grand, to Jules Beaubien 
 and to my business." 
 
 The big, brown, doglike eyes of the sturdy 
 Baptiste sought the face of Jules solemnly. 
 
 "Soon, maybe, Ba'tiste, there will be one 
 great, big fight and MacDonald " 
 178
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Chien!" 
 
 "He will try and take Mam'selle Hilda away." 
 
 "SacreT' 
 
 "But he will not do it. I, Jules Beaubien, 
 and you, Ba'tiste Le Grand, will stop him." 
 
 "Keel?" asked Ba'tiste in his blunt, brusque 
 voice. 
 
 Beaubien shook his head quickly. 
 
 "Sometime, maybe," he said, "but not now. 
 First Mam'selle Hilda; she must be saved." 
 
 "Oui," assented Le Grand, "I onnerstan'." 
 
 "To-night you do not shoot until Jules tells 
 you, and only the man Jules tells you to shoot. 
 This is not the time to kill MacDonald, my friend. 
 Sometime yes. But not now. Understand?" 
 
 The grip of Ba'tiste tightened on his rifle. 
 He nodded and said, "I onnerstan'." 
 
 "But always, Ba'tiste," cautioned Jules, "you 
 must be near Jules; and always you must come 
 when I call you; and always the canoe must be 
 179
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 ready; and always when I call you, you must not 
 shoot until I say so. Understand, Ba'tiste?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "That is good, my friend. Sit outside and be 
 ready for Jules. Au revoir." 
 
 Baptiste looked, in his simple, almost childish 
 manner, at his companion. 
 
 "I'm ready to keel heem jus' soon as I can," 
 he declared. With a final nod he left the room 
 with his silent, sure, woodsman's step. 
 
 Jules listened for the footfall of Hilda, but he 
 heard nothing. To stay his impatience, he 
 rolled a cigarette and smoked meditatively. 
 
 The talk that he was now to have with Hilda 
 meant very much indeed. What if MacDonald 
 should prevail upon the innocence of the girl 
 as he had upon the cupidity and unsophistication 
 of her father? 
 
 What if he had already made her anxious 
 and willing to accompany him, with dazzling 
 180
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 stories of the attractions of the brilliant outside 
 world with which Jules knew full well the other 
 man must have filled her ears? 
 
 What if, after all, the magnetic personality 
 and craft of MacDonald had stilled all suspicion 
 in the girl's mind against him, so that it would 
 be useless to warn her of his real designs? 
 
 Beaubien was not altogether certain of his 
 ground at this point in his interference with the 
 engineer's machinations. 
 
 He knew that his own strong, true love for 
 the girl had made its impression upon her; that 
 she liked him and trusted him, but was by no 
 means sure that she loved him. 
 
 And if he attacked MacDonald too openly, 
 if he attempted to tell the girl that the man had 
 a wife and family living and that his promise of 
 marriage could not be anything but a villainous 
 lie, what would he do were she to demand proof 
 of the truth of the attack? 
 181
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 If she got the idea that Jules' own self- 
 interest prompted him to tell unworthily a 
 falsehood against his rival, it might lead the 
 girl to impulsively place her trust in the astute 
 man of the city, and to go away with him. 
 
 He must approach the girl delicately. He 
 must leave MacDonald's name entirely out of 
 his talk. He must only seek to awaken in her 
 mind its instinctive suspicion of wickedness a 
 quality that his certainty of the girl's goodness 
 made him sure was there. 
 
 And yet little Annette had been good but 
 there had been nobody to warn her to save 
 her and little Annette was shamed, disgraced 
 and killed. 
 
 Hilda, Jules decided, should be saved even 
 if she herself resisted the efforts for her salvation. 
 
 The thought of Annette brought a frown on 
 the forehead of Beaubien that drew a livid line 
 between his brows. 
 
 182
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Soon, M'sieur MacDonald," he mused, "soon 
 we shall see. And little Annette and Hilda, 
 they will also see." 
 
 Beaubien heard a step outside. He turned, 
 expecting that it might perhaps be Hilda. 
 
 But at the window he saw the smiling counte- 
 nance of little Ferguson. 
 
 "Hello, Jules, how's everything? " asked that 
 cheerful youth. 
 
 "Bonjour! Everything is fine." 
 
 Ferguson left the window and shortly entered 
 the room. 
 
 "Seen MacDonald?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Say anything?" 
 
 "Much." 
 
 "What's the idea?" 
 
 "That depends." 
 
 Beaubien studied young Ferguson. The 
 thought came into his mind that after all this 
 183
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 seemingly frank and pleasant youth might be 
 none other than a spy in camp. 
 
 "You know what I said this morning," de- 
 clared the lad. 
 
 "You said many things this morning, Mr. 
 Ferguson." 
 
 "About being declared in." 
 
 "I don't know," answered Beawbien, his eyes 
 still studious. 
 
 "I mean," said Ferguson, "that if there is a 
 rumpus over this girl, Hilda, I'm with you. 1 ' 
 
 There was that in the young fellow's glance 
 and in the frankness of his speech that caused 
 Beaubien almost a blush of shame that he had 
 for an instant suspected him of treachery. 
 
 "That is good, my friend," he said gratefully, 
 "and if I need you I will call." 
 
 "All right," answered Ferguson warmly, "I'll 
 expect you to, and oh, I'm not stuck on this 
 job of mine, anyway. Trying to keep me up 
 184
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 here all winter. And if I get fired for taking 
 sides with you here, I'll at least get back to 
 God's country." 
 
 Further speech from him was cut off for the 
 instant by the excited entrance of McTavish. 
 
 "Jules, hae ye seen Hilda?" cried the old man. 
 "I hae been huntin' high and low for her, and " 
 
 "Well, if there isn't my old friend, the Scotch 
 thistle," came from Ferguson. 
 
 "Gang awa', ye empty-headed fool." 
 
 "Wrong again! I may be empty-headed, 
 but I'm not a fool." 
 
 "Ye hae nae respect fer yer elders," snorted 
 McTavish. 
 
 And instantly thereafter the irritated Scot 
 almost lost his breath in amazement, for Ferguson 
 came forward and said very humbly: 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. McTavish." 
 
 "Yer what?" gasped the old man. 
 
 "I said, I beg your pardon." 
 185
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 " Tis time ye were doin' it, ye jackanapes, an' 
 I'm glad ye're gettin' a little sense," was the 
 comment of McTavish, delivered with a growl 
 and a final grunt. 
 
 "Ah," exclaimed Ferguson, "how joyful! 
 My apology has been accepted." 
 
 McTavish turned impatiently from him. 
 
 "Jules," he went on excitedly, "I'm asking 
 ye if ye've seen Hilda ?" 
 
 "I have had no chance to answer," smiled 
 Beaubien. "No, I have not." 
 
 "Well, well," growled the Scot, "I've hunted 
 everywhere for her. I must find her, lad, an' 
 tell her o' Meester MacDonald's plan." 
 
 He moved toward the door through which he 
 had entered the room. Just as he reached it 
 Ferguson sang out: 
 
 "Oh, Mr. McTavish, just a moment, please." 
 
 "What is it, ye young jackanapes?" he de- 
 manded, turning. 
 
 186
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Ferguson made a quick gesture toward him. 
 
 "Pull down your kilts!" he yelled. 
 
 McTavish was trapped into an impulsive 
 motion towards his hips. Then, realizing that 
 he was again a victim, all he had for reply was a 
 roar of anger. 
 
 "Ba-ah!" he cried at Ferguson. 
 
 The door was slammed so hard it shook. 
 
 "That fellow's as full of 'ba-ahs' as a mountain 
 goat," observed the grinning Ferguson, "I'm 
 going to write some letters. If you need me, 
 call me." 
 
 "Hello," he said, as he saw Hilda hastily enter 
 the rooms. "Oh, you Hilda; your sweet tem- 
 pered dad is looking for you." 
 
 "And I'm looking for him. Hello, Jules, 
 
 I" 
 
 \ 
 
 Young Ferguson left the room with a smile 
 and a nod at them both* 
 "I'm glad you've come, Hilda. I've been 
 187
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 waiting to see you," said Jules. There was an 
 appreciable note of anxiety in his voice. 
 
 The young Canadian drew up a chair for her. 
 She sat down. He stood beside her. He felt 
 that a most important moment in both their 
 lives was at hand. 
 
 Jules looked down upon the golden-haired 
 head of Hilda. There was an impulse to touch 
 the shining golden hair, whose thick, yellow 
 strands were severely parted and drawn back 
 from her brow to fall over her shoulders in 
 tightly braided ropes of gold; to touch this hair 
 kindly, tenderly, reverently. But he contented 
 himself with merely looking down upon her 
 head and the graceful turn in the tender cheek 
 that he could see beneath her heavy hair. 
 
 The psychological bond was strong between 
 them. She felt his glance and, looking upward, 
 eyed him frankly, saying: 
 
 "What is it, Jules? Your voice sounds very 
 188
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 low, very earnest as if you had something of 
 very great meaning to tell me." 
 
 He leaned forward and took her hand. She 
 arose and followed him to the window. The 
 autumn wind, laden with the bouquet of the pines, 
 fanned their faces and stirred locks of her golden 
 hair to rebellion. The clouds had been dispelled, 
 and the moonlight had laid a gorgeous silver 
 crest upon the foliage of the forest, and upon the 
 river stealing silently and swiftly by at the bot- 
 tom of the slope. 
 
 "Hilda," said Jules, finally, "we two are 
 much the same, are we not? " 
 
 "I don't know, Jules. Are we?" 
 
 And now, unconsciously, his lithe, strong 
 young hand rested on the golden hair above her 
 brow. His brown eyes searched her large, elear 
 blue eyes. 
 
 "I mean," he said, his voice very low, "that 
 you and I we are children of the forest, and it 
 189
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 has been our mother. There is nothing we 
 know beyond it, and nothing we care about 
 beyond it. Is it not so?" 
 
 "No, Jules," she replied. "I don't think it is 
 so. I care. Since I was a wee little girl, Jules, 
 I've loved everything everything in the world, 
 but father; and he would not let me love him. 
 Every dream I have had he has driven away, 
 and now for the last two or three years I have 
 had the strangest feeling coming over me yearn- 
 ing for somebody or some place the great desire 
 that things should be different, that my life 
 should be different, that I should be different." 
 
 "Hilda," said Jules swiftly, huskily, "you 
 must not call this the great desire. There is 
 only one great desire, Hilda." 
 
 "And what is that, Jules?" 
 
 "That is love," said the man. He caught 
 her hands. She did not resist. There was that 
 in his touch that won her trust. 
 190
 
 "THEN, HILDA, THE WORLD is FULL or LOVE." 
 
 Page 191.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 She looked up at him earnestly, this girl of 
 the wilderness, in whose knowledge the lack of a 
 mother's care and guidance had left great gaps 
 of ignorance of the world's affairs. 
 
 "Tell me all about love," she whispered, 
 aware that she broached some subject that was 
 sacred to him. "Do you know love? Do I 
 love? Whom do I love? How do I love? 
 Jules, why do I love?" 
 
 "Hilda, love is the great desire, and all that 
 live have it." 
 
 He stared as if in reverie at the moonlit forest 
 spreading its great tangle of beauty, grace and 
 mystery before their eyes. 
 
 "In the spring time," he continued, "when 
 the snow melts and the ice crashes down the 
 river; when the pink flowers of the forest peep 
 from under the snowdrifts then, Hilda, the 
 world is full of love. The ducks and the geese 
 are noisy in their romances. The he-wolf kills 
 191
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 night and day to feed the mother of his cubs. 
 The bull moose bellows in the pride of his 
 fatherhood. The robin watches its bright-eyed 
 mate on the nest, waiting for those three little 
 eggs to bring new life into the world. And all 
 this, Hilda, is the love God wanted man to have. 
 But it is not always so, Hilda. Some men some- 
 times have sinned, and the great desire is not 
 always good or always pure." 
 
 The girl looked keenly at his face and saw the 
 tenderness that softened the well-turned lips of 
 his mouth and the romance that shone in his 
 expressive eyes. 
 
 "Have you ever felt the great desire, Jules? 
 Is there love in you that is good, or have you too 
 sinned as other men have, or as my father 
 the girl's voice dropped again to a whisper 
 "as my father says my mother sinned?" 
 
 "Hilda," he answered, bending so that his 
 face was very near her own, "I have had the 
 192
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 great desire, like all men, since first the blood 
 beat strong through my heart and I knew that 
 I was no longer a child. I have not always been 
 good. But having been bad I have learned 
 much, and now always I wish to be good. Love, 
 Hilda, comes to a man in his loneliness, and 
 tears at his heart like the fangs of a wolf. 
 I have been to the North, many hundred miles 
 to the North, in the cold of winter, when the gray 
 light of the departing day leaves^you in the black- 
 ness of night at three o'clock in the afternoon 
 when at noon, the red rim of a distant sun is the 
 only message from the warmth and glow of the 
 Southland. And then, in the cold and loneliness, 
 the great desire has come upon me. I loved 
 and somewhere I knew my mate was waiting. 
 And I'd curl up among my dogs and sleep peace- 
 fully and dream of my coming happiness." 
 
 "I I, too, have felt that way, Jules," faltered 
 Hilda. "In the long winter months here, I have 
 193
 
 THE WOIF 
 
 watched the wolfpack gaunt, hungry, hollow- 
 eyed, their white teeth gleaming in the moonlight 
 as they stood near the house and howled for the 
 food to give them life. I have watched my 
 father kill one only to see the dead wolf torn 
 to pieces by his comrades and then I, too, seem 
 to have felt the great desire to be willing to 
 change my place, to be one of them, to be free, 
 to suffer, to hunt, to kill but still to be free to 
 choose my own way of living. Jules Jules, 
 was that love? Tell me, for I do not 
 know." 
 
 " I cannot tell what your love is, Hilda. But," 
 said the young man, with great sudden gravity, 
 as his mind pictured the threatening figure of 
 MacDonald, who would soon have this child- 
 woman practically at the mercy of his conscience- 
 less skill, "love is not always good to listen to. 
 Sometimes love points wrong, and sometimes, 
 when you follow its trail, it leads you to where 
 194
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 there is no food or shelter, and the soul that 
 makes love dies in agony." 
 
 "I did not know that," she said, her large 
 eyes fixed in a stare of mystification. 
 
 "Hilda," said Jules, "I had a sister just your 
 age." 
 
 "I did not know that either," she said, smiling 
 at him. 
 
 "Her name was Annette and she was loved." 
 
 "Was it good for her to love, Jules?" 
 
 "No no!" he cried to her, and his voice 
 
 became broken. "It was not good for her to 
 
 love, for the mate whom she loved made many 
 
 promises, and told many lies, and he was not of 
 
 her race, nor did he speak her tongue. His 
 
 heart was black with the stain of deceit, but 
 
 Annette, she was a true mate. Then, Hilda, 
 
 according to the law of nature, there came a 
 
 little child, which you do not understand, Hilda, 
 
 but which must always be so. And this man 
 
 195
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 of different race and different tongue ran away 
 to his own country and left Annette alone, and 
 that was not good. For the church tells us that 
 there must be a marriage with mates, and be- 
 tween this man and my little sister, Annette, 
 there was no marriage." 
 
 Gently the girl removed her hands from Jules' 
 grasp. With her fingers she brushed away her 
 tears gently. 
 
 "Poor little Annette/' she murmured. "What 
 did she do, Jules?" 
 
 "She killed herself, Hilda, that the child 
 might die with her. And that was the trail of 
 love, Hilda, that led to the murder of a soul." 
 
 Her hands were crossed on her breast as, 
 with widened eyes, she watched this youthful, 
 strong man, shaken in every fibre by his great 
 emotion. He possessed himself of her hands. 
 
 "And if any man comes to you who is not of 
 your race nor of this country, I ask you, my 
 196
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 little girl, to be very careful of God and the 
 church. Promise me promise me, Hilda!" 
 
 "Ah!" she answered him quickly, "that is 
 the way it must be, Jules. Yes yes, I promise 
 you." 
 
 For an instant his lips touched her forehead. 
 
 "That is good," he said simply. "I am 
 content." 
 
 Hilda started. The rough visage of her 
 father called angrily: 
 
 "Girl, where hae ye been?" 
 
 The old man hurriedly entered the room. 
 
 197
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THROWN TO THE WOLF 
 
 Hilda, to whom the minutes that she had just 
 passed with Jules had contained more of tender- 
 ness and beauty than her isolated, affection- 
 starved existence had ever known, shrank in 
 dismay at the intrusion of her father, with his 
 rude words spoken in his characteristic harshness 
 of tone. 
 
 The poetry, the romance, the purity and the 
 pathos of the things that Beaubien had been 
 uttering to her, the frankness of his mellow voice, 
 the honesty in his fine brown eyes, had entranced 
 the girl. 
 
 Wholly unsophisticated as she was, she yet 
 
 recognized a difference in the touch of his hand 
 
 and the touch of the hand of MacDonald. She 
 
 had found herself receiving the touch of Beaubien 
 
 198
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 and even the light, flitting kiss on her brow 
 wholly without fear or shame. 
 
 The purity of it was intuitively recognized. 
 It was not exactlv realized, however, and she 
 wondered why she had welcomed the caress of 
 the one man, and had shrunk from the touch of 
 the other. 
 
 She had little time to weigh these matters, 
 however, for her father's raucous voice was 
 repeating the question: 
 
 "Girl, where hae ye been?" 
 
 His unsympathetic attitude with her, the 
 resentment that never faded out of his queer 
 green eyes, had always the effect of confusing the 
 girl, of making her summon every nerve to face 
 the old man calmly and intelligently. 
 
 "Why, father, I" 
 
 Her voice wavered and she drew away from 
 Jules at the window and nearer to the centre of the 
 room. Her father's next words were a relief to her. 
 199
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Dinna be makin' excuses," he growled. "I 
 dinna care." 
 
 Indeed McTavish was too exhilarated in mind 
 by the plans of MacDonald to have thought of 
 aught else. 
 
 "Jules," he asked, "hae ye spoken to her o' 
 Meester MacDonald and his plans?" 
 
 Beaubien shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I have not mentioned his name," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "An' ye hae told her nothin' nothin' o' the 
 grand plans o' Meester MacDonald?" demanded 
 the Scot. 
 
 "I have told her much," said Jules, in his 
 turn, walking from the window and drawing 
 near the old man, "but I have not mentioned the 
 name of MacDonald. I have not so much as 
 spoken his name." 
 
 McTavish stared at the young fellow and 
 shook bia head, at a loss to make anything of 
 200
 
 his attitude, and then resumed, excitedly: 
 
 "Then 'tis fair time she knew." 
 
 He opened the door and called MacDonald's 
 name down the hallway. He got no answer. 
 He ran to the window and peered out. He was 
 in time to behold MacDonald just entering the 
 clearing after his walk in the woods. 
 
 There was another murky figure, occupying 
 the pine tree seat. It was Baptiste Le Grand, 
 with a rifle on his knees that the darkness made 
 completely hidden. 
 
 "Meester MacDonald Meester MacDonald 
 is that you, mon?" called the Scot. 
 
 "Here, Mr. McTavish. I'll be there in a 
 minute," cried back MacDonald, and, in less 
 than that time looked in at the window. He 
 looked quickly at Hilda, but her eyes were not 
 toward him. They rather sought the eyes of 
 Jules. 
 
 A nettled frown appeared on MacDonald's 
 201
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 brow and as rapidly disappeared. He forced 
 himself to smile. After all, he was giving the 
 Frenchman too much thought too much con- 
 sideration. 
 
 Whatever Jules might have been able to say 
 to the girl, he was to have the final word. He 
 glanced at the slender woman with her face of 
 complete innocence, and by its symbolic purity 
 felt reassured that his subtle wickedness was 
 bound to conquer. 
 
 "Coom in, mon; coom in," McTavish called 
 eagerly, "I've a word to say tae ye." 
 
 "All right. In I come," responded Mac- 
 Donald cheerfully from without the window. 
 A few steps brought him into the room. He 
 smiled with his usual fascinating and good- 
 humored expression. 
 
 With the Scot the occasion that followed 
 was solemn and momentous. Much as he had 
 hated Hilda for the painful memory which her 
 202
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 golden-haired resemblance to her mother never 
 allowed to die, he yet felt the stirring of a parent's 
 affection when the time arrived when he must 
 announce to her his decision that their lives 
 were henceforth to be lived apart. 
 
 "Coom here, girl," he said, and there was in 
 his voice sufficient of latent tenderness to make 
 Hilda move toward him in swift surprise, and 
 even to smile up at him. 
 
 "Girl," said the aged man, "ye hae reached 
 the age o' danger tae yersel' an' tae ithers." 
 
 The cruelty of this speech drove her back to 
 her old shrinking fear of him. 
 
 "I do not know that, father," she said. Her 
 voice was firm. The presence of Jules, she 
 vaguely realized, was helping her. 
 
 "But I'm tellin' ye," persisted the old man 
 
 harshly. "Twas in the same year o' her life 
 
 that yer mither blackened her soul. But now I hae 
 
 found a way to save ye from the sin in yer heart." 
 
 203
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Beaubien stood looking on intently. Mac- 
 Donald was a witness whose face bore an open 
 expression of pleasant approval. 
 
 "Meester MacDonald," continued McTavish, 
 turning toward the engineer and waving his long 
 arm, "ye'll be tellin' her o' our decision, an' the 
 plans we hae made. I mysel' hae naething tae 
 say." 
 
 MacDonald moved away with smiling courtesy. 
 
 "Shall I tell her now?" he asked. 
 
 "Aye," assented the old man. "An'" Hilda, 
 treat every word Meester MacDonald says tae 
 ye wi' respect an' obedience, for 'tis yer 
 faither's wish an' yer dooty toward yersel, an' 
 ithers." 
 
 Remonstrance shot into the eyes of Jules and 
 almost obtained utterance from his lips. The 
 power passed to MacDonald was great. The 
 weapon thrust into the hands of the villainous- 
 minded enemy was so trenchant that it made 
 204
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 him despair of the effect that it would 
 have on Hilda. Surely the child so admon- 
 ished would yield fully to MacDonald's schemes. 
 
 Yet the next instant Beaubien was able to smile 
 as affably as MacDonald, for Jules remembered 
 his own decision, which was that either with her 
 consent or against her will, he would rescue her 
 from the man who would lead her down the same 
 road of shame and death that poor little Annette 
 had trod. 
 
 "Coom, Jules, mon," said McTavish, intent 
 that there should be no further delay in ac- 
 quainting Hilda with the plan on which he had 
 agreed with MacDonald, "coom, and leave them 
 alone." 
 
 "That is my pleasure, M'sieur McTavish," 
 said Beaubien, but as he passed Hilda on his way 
 to the door he flashed a great, intent look of 
 warning into her eyes. 
 
 She seemed to understand the glance, and yet 
 205
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 hardly to realize its meaning. It was plain that 
 she was confused, trembling, uncertain about 
 the portent of the words that had just passed. 
 
 MacDonaid, with the girl turned over to him 
 eo unreservedly every barrier of suspicion that 
 might be raised against him in the girl's mind so 
 assuredly broken down by the command of her 
 father that she should render unto him full 
 faith and obedience was elated. Dangerous as 
 the thing was (which was what made it irresistibly 
 attractive to the adventurous engineer) he 
 slipped between McTavish and Jules on their 
 way out of the room. 
 
 "Jules," he said in a voice that was very low, 
 but was teeming with laughter. 
 
 "What is it, M'sieur MacDonaid?" asked the 
 young man, himself outwardly serene and smiling. 
 
 "Where do you stand now, eh?" taunted the 
 strategist. 
 
 With the smile never leaving his lips and his 
 206
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 voice sunk quite to a whisper, Beaubien re- 
 torted : 
 
 "Still I stand on my feet and fight, Mac- 
 Donald . Au revoir ! ' ' 
 
 The girl was left alone in the room with the 
 betrayer of Annette. She stared at him wonder- 
 ingly. The fear of the hunted thing some- 
 how got into her mind and made her body 
 tremble. 
 
 It was against her will that these emotions 
 controlled her. The words that Jules had spoken 
 with such splendidly earnest eloquence the 
 warning that he had uttered against her ever 
 permitting herself to fall a victim to a bad love, 
 as his unfortunate little half-sister had done 
 struck across her mind unbidden. 
 
 For her eyes told her that the man before her 
 
 was regarding her in a very kindly fashion, and 
 
 if she did not like the smile on his heavy lips she 
 
 felt herself that it was only because they seemed 
 
 207
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to bespeak amusement at her own apparent 
 trepidation, which, she assured herself, was 
 really an absurdity. 
 
 "What is the matter, Hilda? Are you afraid 
 of me?" 
 
 The girl felt that she must not at this moment 
 in her life show fear show any weakness what- 
 soever. 
 
 "No," she replied, surprised at the steadi- 
 ness of her own voice, "I am not afraid of 
 you." 
 
 "Do you like me?" he asked; and his tone was 
 of one that suspected an intended slight. 
 
 "Yes," answered the girl generously. "Yes, 
 I like you." 
 
 "Then what makes you look troubled?" 
 
 She stared at him for several seconds. And 
 he stared at her, frowning slightly, annoyed that 
 he was finding the girl's mind and her disposition 
 toward him very difficult to read. 
 208
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Mr. MacDonald," she said slowly, "do you 
 believe in signs?" 
 
 "What kind of signs?" he asked indulgently. 
 
 "The signs of the forest." 
 
 "Superstitions?" 
 
 "Perhaps so." Hilda turned her head a little 
 to one side and smiled. "Am I very fool- 
 ish?" 
 
 "Oh, no; maybe not," observed the man, 
 avoiding anything that might lead to contro- 
 versy. "What sign have you seen?" 
 
 "Once, when I was very little," responded 
 Hilda. "I had an Indian nurse an Ojibway 
 and she was very wise, for in her tribe she was 
 the daughter of the medicine man. Last night 
 did you hear the wolves? " 
 
 "Why, yes," said MacDonald, finding himself 
 somewhat startled into interest, for his memory 
 of the pack was unpleasantly vivid. "They 
 woke me up." 
 
 209
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "They passed the house in a pack last night, 
 and that is a sign." 
 
 "A sign of what?" 
 
 "They say," answered Hilda, moving toward 
 one of the big chairs and leaning against it, her 
 face showing complete earnestness in her words, 
 "that the wolves never go in packs except when 
 the winter is long and the game is scarce. But 
 in Indian summer they can scent the death of 
 men for many miles, and before death comes 
 they form in a pack and howl at the camp ; and 
 then, before the moon rises and sets another time, 
 death will take some man and the pack will 
 come back for a taste of his blood." 
 
 "Ugh!" exclaimed MacDonald, with a very 
 genuine shudder. 
 
 "Is it a foolish sign? Do you think it is 
 foolish, Mr. MacDonald?" 
 
 "Does it frighten you?" asked the engineer, 
 calling back his good-humored smile. 
 210
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Something does. Something frightens me 
 as I stand here now. Maybe it was the thought 
 of that that wild pack scenting the blood of 
 some man who is to die." 
 
 MacDonald shook the uncanny subject off 
 with a shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 "I'd forget it if I were you," he said. "Be- 
 sides, I want to talk to you, and not about such 
 foolish things as superstitions, Hilda." 
 
 "Ah, yes," exclaimed the girl, looking at him 
 curiously. "What was it father wanted?" 
 
 "I've spoken to him." 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 MacDonald motioned to her to take the chair 
 beside which she had been standing. He walked 
 over and stood near the chair. 
 
 "Yes, Hilda; I've been talking to him about 
 you." 
 
 "About taking me away to the cities?" 
 211
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Yes. I told him what I told you this morning. 
 I said to him frankly that I loved you and that I 
 wanted you. I told him that I would take you 
 to my mother, and that we would marry. And 
 he said, Hilda, that he was willing. Do you 
 love me, Hilda?" 
 
 The girl's silence was annoying. MacDonald 
 watched her for a few seconds and then made a 
 gesture of impatience. She looked up at him 
 apologetically. 
 
 "I can't tell. I do not think so," she said. 
 
 MacDonald laughed. His manner was tol- 
 erant, indulgent. 
 
 "Do you know any more about love now 
 than you did then when I spoke to you 
 first?" 
 
 Her answer came as a surprise. 
 
 "Yes, I do," she said. "I know now that 
 there is a good love and a bad love. Which of 
 these is your love for me?" 
 212
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 MacDonald met the emergency. He leaned 
 over the chair. He placed his face very near to 
 her face. His breath struck against her cheek 
 ardently. 
 
 "It is the good love, Hilda," he whispered. 
 "Didn't I tell you that I wanted to marry you? 
 You can come with me now to my country. I 
 will be kind to you kind as no one has ever 
 been." 
 
 Hilda sat very straight in her chair. The 
 fear that she had felt when first left alone in the 
 room with him, and that for a time had lessened, 
 returned strongly. MacDonald's words still came 
 rapidly. 
 
 "Afterwards," he said, "when we reach my 
 country, we can be married. I must have you. 
 I've made up my mind to that. I am not of 
 your land or your people, but love does not 
 know these things. I tell you, Hilda, I want 
 to possess you; to have you for my own, away 
 213
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 from every one else; to make you a lady. Do 
 you realize all that I mean to do for you ? Your 
 father has said I may have you, and I say I 
 must have you." 
 
 Hilda started out of the chair, on her feet. 
 She looked at him with fear frankly in her eyes. 
 
 "It is a good love!" cried MacDonald; "a 
 good love, and a big love. Here, Hilda, come to 
 me." 
 
 Before she could resist, the muscular Mac- 
 Donald had seized her in his arms and drawn her 
 toward him, holding her tightly. And with the 
 same swiftness he pressed his lips against her 
 mouth. 
 
 There was that in the kiss, in the lewdness of it 
 (of which she was only half -conscious) that made 
 the girl writhe and struggle for release from his 
 arms. 
 
 But his grasp was relentless. She continued to 
 battle against him, and suddenly finding that 
 214
 
 "THKRE WAS THAT IN THE KISS .... WHICH MADE THE GIRL STRUGGLE FOR RELEASE 
 
 FROM HIS ARMS." 
 
 Page 214.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 she had wrenched her right arm free, she struck 
 at him. 
 
 It was a single, furious blow. It crashed on 
 MacDonald's cheek, and the marks of her slender 
 fingers showed like red welts from a whip-lash 
 on his face. 
 
 MacDonald released her falling back a few 
 paces. His face was agape in astonishment at 
 the power of resistance that had met him. 
 
 A great flush of shame reddened the girl's 
 countenance. 
 
 "Liar! Liar!" she gasped, her breast heaving. 
 "Your love is a bad love! You say it is a good 
 love? Liar!" 
 
 215
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 "YOU CAN'T DO IT" 
 
 The blow that the girl struck MacDonald had 
 such a stinging force, had such manifest earnest- 
 ness behind it, that the big engineer, despite his 
 fatuous illusions concerning his power over her 
 that he had so fully entertained a moment before, 
 now found himself utterly bereft of any such 
 notion. 
 
 If the blow were not sufficient to tell him that 
 the girl's instinct added to the warning that 
 Beaubien, with a sincere lover's skill, had placed 
 in her mind against trusting men of a strange 
 land spelled defeat to him, her countenance 
 as she flung the word "Liar!" at him in hot 
 denunciation, plainly flared the signals of defeat 
 for his villainous plans, prompted by a no less 
 villainous desire. 
 
 216
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Scorn had made the large blue eyes of Hilda 
 glitter as with fire, and her fresh, youthful lips 
 were curled into an expression of loathing. 
 
 "Liar!" she called again, to the man who 
 had ended his protest of holding a pure love for 
 her by seeking to implant a kiss as wantonly 
 violent as the expression that had come into his 
 eyes. 
 
 "What?" he cried, seeking to cover his bitter 
 amazement with an affectation of indignation. 
 
 "Liar!" retorted the girl with an intensity 
 that caused him to retreat a few steps. She 
 threw out her hands. They were clenched. 
 
 "It is not a good love," she cried. "It is a 
 bad love! Don't you think I know what my 
 father means? He hates me and you hate me. 
 He says my heart is black. He lies! And you 
 lie!" 
 
 The girl took a few steps toward MacDonald. 
 Whatever fear she may have had of him had fled. 
 217
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "But he wants to make my heart black and 
 you want to make it black ; and you and he are 
 trying to make me bad. But you can't do it. 
 You can't do it. You can't do it! " 
 
 Her voice rose to a scream of anger and defiance 
 at the last words. 
 
 MacDonald, striving to regain his self-possession 
 under the lash of her denunciation, protested: 
 
 "I tell you, you're wrong. I tell you, my love 
 is good." 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 "I want to make you my wife and take you 
 to my country as my wife." 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 The recollection of the kiss fell upon her and 
 she wiped her lips with her hand as though she 
 would wipe away a contamination from her 
 mouth. 
 
 The gesture angered MacDonald even more 
 than her words, for it drove straight into his 
 218
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 understanding that he was held in abhorrence 
 by this girl. And that was more than Mac- 
 Donald's vanity could bear. 
 
 He strode toward her. 
 
 "See here!" he cried, "your father has told 
 me that I could take you away with me, and you 
 might as well understand that I am going to do it." 
 
 In MacDonald's mind there was no woman 
 whom sheer force could not tame and bring into 
 amiable subjection. 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 The single word the girl was now using in an- 
 swer to all his protestation^ had its especial sting. 
 
 "If you won't come with me," snarled Mac- 
 Donald, "then, by God, I'll make you!" 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 MacDonald, flushed with anger, ran toward 
 her, his arms extended as if he meant to take 
 her in them and crush all resistance out of her 
 there and then. 
 
 219
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The girl sought refuge behind the big solid 
 table in the centre of the room. 
 
 "Take care!" she cried at him. "Take care! 
 The wolfpack passed last night ! It was a sign ! 
 Take care!" 
 
 "Hilda, Hilda, I love you!" shouted Mac- 
 Donald, desperately. 
 
 "Liar, liar, liar!" cried the girl in retort. 
 
 And it was thus, with the word of denunciation 
 on her lips, with her slender body behind the 
 barricade of the table, her yellow hair dishevelled, 
 her face burning with the shame of the kiss that 
 MacDonald had forced upon her, with her mouth 
 expressing scorn and her eyes flashing a great 
 anger, while MacDonald stood at bay, his face 
 gone from red to white, his eyes glittering men- 
 acingly, his big body shaken with excitement, 
 that old McTavish, entering the room, found the 
 girl and the man. 
 
 He stared at Hilda and then at the engineer. 
 220
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 He screwed his old eyes up to make sure that the 
 impairment of age on his vision was not forcing 
 some queer illusion upon him. He could not 
 recognize in the defiant, proud carriage of Hilda 
 any resemblance whatever to the daughter he 
 had known so long the child of whom his harsh- 
 ness had made something akin to a cringing 
 animal in his sight. 
 
 And in the angry-eyed MacDonald he could 
 not see the genial, pleasant-faced man who had 
 come into his life, promising so much wealth and 
 happiness. 
 
 221
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "WHEN YOU SHOOT KILL" 
 
 Wondering and puzzled, the aged McTavish 
 stood regarding Hilda and MacDonald. Then 
 he found his voice and addressed the engineer. 
 
 "MacDonald, mon, what is it?" he demanded. 
 
 "She won't go!" cried the broad-shouldered 
 man, ferociously. 
 
 "Hilda!" yelled old McTavish, as much amaze- 
 ment as anger a great deal of both in his 
 tones. 
 
 "No," answered the girl. Her voice rang. 
 
 "I told her what you said to me," went on 
 MacDonald, speaking swiftly. "I told her I'd 
 take her to my mother, but all she did all she 
 did" MacDonald paused and readily drew his 
 face into an expression of pious horror "was 
 222
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to throw herself in my arms and beg me to take 
 her away from you and the Church!" 
 
 There was genuine horror in the face of Hilda 
 when she shouted back at him: 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 But McTavish, with his preconceived belief 
 in the yellow-haired, innate wickedness of his 
 own child, gave full credence to the charge 
 that had been made against her. 
 
 He saw the girl in wilful wickedness ridi- 
 culing all his teachings of religion; saw her 
 enamoured only of the stalwart, handsome man 
 with whom he had left her; saw and believed 
 that she had viciously thrown herself, a full- 
 fledged temptress, in MacDonald's path. 
 
 His mind so charged, the old man's rage 
 passed from the flush of anger to the dead white 
 of ferocity. MacDonald himself was no little 
 abashed when he saw the fiendish expression 
 the madman's look that came over Mc- 
 223
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Tavish's countenance ; when he beheld the bent, 
 gaunt frame straighten, the big hands, dis- 
 tended and trembling, reaching toward the girl ; 
 the little green eyes, under the heavy yellow 
 and white brows, gleaming with murderous 
 light. 
 
 And MacDonald, who saw that he would have 
 to interfere to prevent the actual killing of the 
 girl, might have found, with all his strength, 
 that he was no match for the gigantic woods- 
 man with the strength and fire of youth that 
 was gone from his body replaced by a madman's 
 strength. 
 
 Hilda might have lost her life in that moment 
 had not new factors appeared to block the 
 threatened evil. 
 
 It was her own last cry of angry denial of 
 MacDonald's charge that acted as a signal call 
 to Beaubien, who with Baptiste awaited outside 
 the house. 
 
 224
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Jules' face appeared at the window of the 
 room, intent and dangerous. He saw only the 
 tableau of the ferocious old man striding to- 
 ward the girl with hands extended to strangle 
 her. 
 
 "Ye wanton! Ye strumpet!" the Scot bel- 
 lowed at her. 
 
 "Liar! Liar!" the girl said. And now there 
 was the high straining of hysteria in the tones 
 of her shaking voice. 
 
 "Since the day that yer unholy mither died," 
 shrieked McTavish, beating the table with his 
 fists, "wi' her yellow hair and black soul, an* 
 left me yersel' to care for, I hae feared this 
 time would coom in yer life." 
 
 McTavish continued to pound the table with 
 his hairy fist. 
 
 "Ye're nae flesh an' blood o' me," he yelled, 
 "and I hae me doubts if I begot ye ! Ye're the 
 child o' some o' yer mither's lovers!" 
 225
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Liar! I am a true child. I am a true 
 child!" 
 
 "Ye're nae a true child. Ye belong tae the 
 deevil an' hell's yer home, an' I swore tae the 
 guid God that whenever ye became the wanton 
 that ye are, I'd kill ye wi' me bare hands; an' 
 I'll do it I'll do it!" screamed the livid-faced 
 father. 
 
 The girl had retreated behind the big table, 
 but he strode after her. For an instant Hilda 
 staggered. Her head was thrown back in 
 weakness, and her throat was bared helplessly 
 to the strangling grasp of the great, gaunt 
 hands that her father would have clasped about 
 her throat. 
 
 Jules, pausing for a moment, dismayed by 
 the terrible scene, leaped forward. He caught 
 Hilda's wrist and drew her behind him. Beau- 
 bien faced McTavish. 
 
 At the interference of Beaubien, MacDonald 
 226
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 half started forward as if to aid McTavish, who 
 stood glowering with wrath to find the young 
 Canadian interposing between himself and his 
 daughter. 
 
 "Wait one moment, M'sieur McTavish," said 
 Beaubien, with snapping vigor. 
 
 Then with a lift of his head toward the win- 
 dow, the young man called : 
 
 "Ba'tiste! Ba'tiste!" 
 
 His call had no more than sounded before 
 the sturdy comrade threw open the door and 
 came into the room, his Winchester rifle in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Is your rifle loaded?" asked Jules. 
 
 "Oui," answered Baptiste. 
 
 "Stand at that door," commanded Beaubien, 
 "but don't shoot till I tell you. Under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "Oui," the other answered briefly, and took 
 his assigned post. 
 
 227
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "But when you shoot kill!" cried Jules to 
 his aid. 
 
 "I onnerstan'," said Baptiste stoically. 
 
 Old McTavish found his voice. 
 
 "Jules, mon," he cried sternly, "be nae inter- 
 ferin' wi' me family affairs!" 
 
 In appeal, however, Jules felt the hands 
 of Hilda tightening on his arm the tremb- 
 ling, frightened hands of an awestricken 
 child. 
 
 "Can't you see," broke in MacDonald fiercely, 
 as he realized that Beaubien was outgeneralling 
 him and that his scheme to possess himself of 
 Hilda was on the very verge of collapse, "can't 
 you see it's the Frenchman who wants her 
 wants her for himself? It was a Frenchman 
 with your wife, wasn't it? It will be a French- 
 man with the girl." 
 
 "Are you standin', Jules, between faither 
 and child, and the punishment that's due her?" 
 228
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 .stormed old McTavish, further stung by Mac- 
 Donald's taunt. 
 
 "I'm standing, M'sieur McTavish, on my feet 
 to fight to fight for Hilda for Hilda and my 
 dead sister!" 
 
 He turned suddenly, in response to the touch 
 of the girl's hands on his arm. He passed his 
 arm around her waist and drew her toward 
 him openly. 
 
 "There is nothing, Hilda," he said, "to fear." 
 
 Young Ferguson, with shirt sleeves rolled up 
 and a pen in his hand, came into the room with 
 a rush. The sound of the high voices had 
 reached him, and warned him that a crisis was 
 at hand. 
 
 He took a single glance at the group Mc- 
 Tavish with his big, gaunt hands reached 
 toward Hilda, and Beaubien shielding her, and 
 MacDonald looking at them all with an angry 
 leer. 
 
 229
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "What the hell it's come," said Ferguson. 
 He cast a single glance at MacDonald, and his 
 employer looked at him. But Ferguson turned 
 his glance slowly to Beaubien. 
 
 "Jules," he said, "you know what I told you 
 count me in." 
 
 McTavish had held back his boiling anger 
 until he could do so no more. 
 
 He leaped forward. 
 
 "Gi' me the girl !" he screamed. 
 
 "Stop, McTavish!" shouted Beaubien in his 
 face. "Stop, or I speak to Ba'tiste." 
 
 McTavish, even in his blind wrath, halted. 
 He looked toward the door. There stood the 
 sturdy companion of Jules. It was too plain 
 that he was holding his rifle in readiness for 
 instant use, and McTavish had sufficient reason 
 left to know that Baptiste would shoot in abso- 
 lute obedience to Jules; and what was more, 
 he would further implicitly obey the injunction 
 230
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 of Jules that when he did shoot he should "shoot 
 to kill." 
 
 The hot blood of Jules destroyed the repres- 
 sion in which he had been trying to hold it 
 trying to hold it as he had watched MacDonald 
 seeking to encompass the ruin of Hilda trying 
 to hold it through the exasperation of behold- 
 ing McTavish's cupidity, leading him as a ready 
 dupe to the engineer's craft, and through all 
 the events that finally brought him to where 
 he had listened, a few minutes before, to the 
 woman he loved, honorably and sacredly, de- 
 nounced in the repulsive, unjust expletives of 
 "wanton" and "strumpet." 
 
 His heart throbbed in the heat of his anger, 
 his eyes glared ominously, and the calm tones 
 in which he had been speaking rose to a 
 ringing cry: 
 
 "You call yourself her father," he shouted 
 at McTavish. "You are not as much her father 
 231
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 as the leader of a wolfpack! You've beaten 
 and struck her heart until her soul is nearly 
 dead. But I've listened and I've watched, Mc- 
 Tavish." 
 
 He wheeled and pointed a quivering finger at 
 MacDonald. 
 
 "You think this man was going to take her 
 to his mother and do what he said give her 
 a good home with a sweet, pure old woman? 
 You think that, don't you? Fool, McTavish 
 fool! That man has a wife at home. It was 
 Hilda's soul he wanted to steal. That is his 
 business the business of MacDonald the 
 stealing of the souls of women !" 
 
 "Ye lie, ye French dog!" yelled old McTavish 
 in return. "It was the girl's black heart an' 
 her yellow hair. Gie her tae me ! Gie her tae 
 me, damn yer ! Gie her tae me while I kill her 
 wi* me bare hands!" 
 
 McTavish had advanced so closely that Jules 
 232
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 hurled him back with a powerful throw of 
 his free arm. 
 
 "No," he cried to the staggering old man. 
 "She is with me, and so she shall stay. You 
 say you're a God-fearing man, McTavish. Take 
 care ! Take care that you do not answer to him 
 for the soul of your child!" 
 
 Then Jules turned to MacDonald. His lips 
 were fairly writhing with scorn and anger. 
 
 "And you you dog of dogs," he said. "You 
 wolf-dog! You sneak through the dark 
 through the dark and snap at the heels of 
 good women. MacDonald, I stand on my feet 
 and fight do you hear? I stand on my feet 
 and fight ! Annette, that you tracked and killed, 
 you wolf-dog she was my sister!" 
 
 Beaubien's voice suddenly became calm. His 
 words were uttered slowly. 
 
 "There is no room in the world, MacDonald 
 for you and Jules Beaubien to live in. Either 
 233
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 I die or I'll send you up to Annette to look her 
 once in the face on your trip to hell !" 
 
 "A-a-a-ah !" retorted MacDonald, and he spat 
 to show his contempt. "I might have known 
 that you were the brother of that dirty half- 
 breed!" 
 
 McTavish strode forward again. 
 
 "Gie me me daughter while I kill her wi' me 
 bare hands," he shrieked, and there was the 
 foam of mania on his lips and on his yellowish 
 white beard. 
 
 Jules ignored the old man. He still addressed 
 himself to the engineer. 
 
 "MacDonald," he went on, "I am going to 
 kill you. First I shall take Hilda away. But 
 I shall come back, and you you shall die. Do 
 not run away. Do not try to run away, Mac- 
 Donald, for Ba'tiste over there Ba'tiste, he 
 loved Annette. I'll fight you fair. He'll shoot 
 you in the dark. Make your peace with God 
 234
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 if you can, for another day you shall not live." 
 
 "Gie me me daughter," gibbered McTavish, 
 "while I kill her wi' me bare hands !" 
 
 He plunged forward toward Jules. 
 
 Jules had a strong aversion 'x> laying violent 
 hands on old man McTavish. There comes that 
 in the instincts of men that makes sacred the 
 person of a woman they love. 
 
 Much as Jules understood that this father's 
 warped mind and queer notions had made his 
 daughter's life a hard and a wretched existence, 
 still he had withheld open physical resistance 
 until it became imperative. 
 
 It was no longer possible that he should do 
 so, for the old Scot's mind was so inflamed with 
 the thought that his daughter had really become 
 the wanton that he had always suspected and 
 feared she would become, that the man was at 
 the moment wholly insane, and as he rushed 
 toward Jules and Hilda the gleam in his eyes 
 235
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 was of madness, and the plunge of his big, 
 gaunt body showed absolute recklessness, ab- 
 solute loss of all control. 
 
 Jules suddenly pushed Hilda aside and met 
 the old man. The shock of the collision stag- 
 gered both. But in such physical encounters 
 youth must ever prevail, and Jules in a few 
 seconds had floored the aged man, huge as he 
 
 was. 
 
 Jules was admirably self-contained in the 
 heat of the struggle. He used only such force 
 and measures as held the father back back 
 from attacking his child from killing her, as 
 he had declared he would do, strangling her 
 with his huge, strong hands. 
 
 As the young man and the aged man fought 
 across the floor, Hilda stood benumbed in hor- 
 ror and MacDonald and Ferguson watched the 
 struggle excitedly. Only Baptiste was unmoved. 
 He stood at the door where he had been sta- 
 236
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 tioned, rifle in hand. His eyes never left Mac- 
 Donald. 
 
 With a fall that sent one of the big arm~ 
 chairs over so that it crashed on the floor, 
 Jules and old man McTavish went down. The 
 young man was upon the old Scot and his firm, 
 lithe fingers, as they fastened on the white- 
 haired man's throat, killed further resistance. 
 McTavish lay passive. His eyelids fluttered 
 under their thick, heavy eyebrows. 
 
 Jules, seeing this, quit the attack instantly. 
 He was about to arise. 
 
 Then MacDonald suddenly became a factor 
 in the battle. 
 
 The rush of events had confused him. The 
 struggle between Jules and old McTavish had 
 held him spellbound. He had not understood 
 the character of Jules before ; he had not before 
 quite realized the nature of the love that Jules 
 bore for Hilda. He had regarded Jules as one 
 237
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 of his own kind as a hunter for pleasant 
 liaisons, unmoral, flippant of life's most serious 
 meanings. 
 
 Now, however, he understood. He under- 
 stood that Jules loved Hilda as a man loves 
 the woman he will make his wife; that Jules, 
 with his unspoiled youth and romance, was a 
 foe not lightly to be considered. And, moreover, 
 he now knew that Jules had double cause for 
 hatred against him. There was the dead sister, 
 Annette, furnishing a motive for destroying 
 him, that had moved men to kill since the world 
 began. 
 
 MacDonald, realizing this plainly and ir- 
 revocably, saw here his chance to remove Beau- 
 bien to remove him permanently; to kill him, 
 as he well knew that if he did not Beaubien was 
 bound to figure as his foe in a mortal combat 
 in the near future. 
 
 MacDonald had not fear, but he had not a 
 238
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 sense of honor, either. This sense of honor 
 had made Jules declare that when the time 
 came he would kill MacDonald in open fight. 
 
 MacDonald decided that Beaubien should 
 never get this chance. He decided 'to kill Beau- 
 bien at this instant. The repulsive aspect of 
 the act he contemplated did not stay him. He 
 decided to stab Jules in the back. 
 
 His keen mind saw there would be a ready 
 excuse to be made to the authorities if ever 
 the hand of the law invaded this wilderness. 
 He knew that it seldom did. Surely, what 
 more complete defense could there be, if he 
 declared that he killed Beaubien to prevent the 
 young Frenchman from murdering an old man ? 
 
 He could take Hilda forcibly to New York; 
 he could silence young Ferguson, and then he 
 could return and calmly face the authorities 
 and tell them a plausible story of the death of 
 Jules a story that they would promptly be- 
 239
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 lieve, coming from so famous and wealthy a man 
 as MacDonald coming from a man who could 
 not possibly be guilty of a wrong interest in 
 the girl, since he was married and the father 
 of a family, and therefore of presumable prob- 
 ity in such matters. 
 
 This was the manner of MacDonald's reason- 
 ing. 
 
 Acting upon it, he felt quickly for his 
 sheathed hunting-knife and drew it forth. He 
 held his right hand tensely at his side. The 
 light from the lamps glittered on the keen blade. 
 
 Stealthily he advanced toward Jules Beau- 
 bien. The back of Beaubien was toward him, 
 and the young Frenchman, having just taken 
 his hands from the throat of McTavish, was 
 slowly, pantingly arising. 
 
 240
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE FLIGHT 
 
 And yet MacDonald had reasoned as men 
 may in such moments, utterly without all the 
 actors in the scene. There was Baptiste, who, 
 the instant MacDonald's hand had sought the 
 knife, had levelled the barrel of his Winchester 
 at the engineer's head. And more surprising, 
 there was Ferguson. 
 
 Ferguson acted the more swiftly. He leaped 
 forward, faced MacDonald for the fraction of 
 a second and then, with a swing of the arm, 
 landed a heavy blow on the engineer's chin. 
 
 MacDonald fell to the floor and banged his 
 head against the big table as he fell. He rolled 
 over, dazed, struggling to regain his feet, and 
 yet too confused to do more than grovel on the 
 floor. 
 
 241
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Baptiste lowered the rifle. He was glad of 
 Ferguson's interference. It had relieved him 
 of disobeying Jules' orders and shooting before 
 he was given the word of command. 
 
 Jules had arisen in time to see Ferguson 
 knock MacDonald down. The knife that Mac- 
 Donald held had flown from his grasp as he 
 fell, and Beaubien was enabled by the flying 
 steel to understand the situation. 
 
 "Merci!" he called to Ferguson. 
 
 Hilda had sunk in the chair. She had covered 
 her face with her hands to shut out the sight 
 of the desperate fight between Jules and her 
 father. 
 
 She, too, had looked up in time to see the 
 knife as it flew from MacDonald's hand as he 
 received the strong, swift blow from young 
 Ferguson. 
 
 "Hilda to me !" called Jules. He caught her 
 by the hands and lifted her from the chair. 
 242
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Where to, Jules?" asked Ferguson. "You 
 know I said I'd stick to you in this thing to 
 the finish." 
 
 "Merci, Ferguson," said Beaubien. "We are 
 going down the slope to the river and then to 
 the canoe." 
 
 Hatless, Jules and Ferguson and Hilda, too, 
 they left the room. The faithful Baptiste stood 
 at the doorway, rifle in hand, until they had 
 passed out, and then he followed. 
 
 Old McTavish, recovering slowly, got on his 
 feet. 
 
 "Gie her tae me the Wanton gie her tae me 
 till I kill her!" he screamed hysterically. 
 
 The high sound of his voice seemed to bring 
 MacDonald back to his senses. He, too, stag- 
 gered upon his feet. Outside he could hear the 
 swift footfalls of the little party on their way 
 to the river bank. He cried aloud in his rage 
 and started to follow them out of the room.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Stop!" said a thick, full voice at the win- 
 dow. 
 
 MacDonald, looking in the direction whence 
 the voice had come, saw Baptiste. 
 
 "Damn you!" he cried, his face aflame with 
 anger. 
 
 Still he moved toward the door. 
 
 "Stop!" said Baptiste, very slowly, very 
 calmly, although his eyes showed the deadly 
 thought in his brain. "Stop, or I keel !" 
 
 MacDonald found himself in direct line with 
 the levelled barrel of the Winchester. 
 
 He fell back. Still dizzy from the effect of 
 Ferguson's blow, MacDonald reeled and 
 clutched the table for support. 
 
 Baptiste waited. A low call a sustained 
 musical cry came from the bottom of the slope. 
 Baptiste knew that the canoe was launched, 
 with Hilda and Ferguson aboard and Jules at 
 the paddle, and that they awaited him. 
 244
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 He turned suddenly, leaving the window, and 
 disappeared with the silent, swift footfall of 
 an Indian. 
 
 Hilda said nothing as she and Jules and 
 Ferguson made swiftly down the narrow path- 
 way to the bottom of the slope and still she 
 stood silent, watching the lithe Beaubien as he 
 launched the canoe. 
 
 In the moonlight she saw that the prepara- 
 tions for a journey had been made. Provisions 
 were packed in canvas bags with shoulder 
 straps that they might the more readily be 
 borne through the mountains when the river 
 was abandoned for a forest trail. 
 
 Jules had confided to none his exact plans 
 and Hilda hardly knew what to conjecture as 
 to the present journey and where its final des- 
 tination would take her. 
 
 But she did know that her heart told her to 
 trust this man, who had exposed the villainy 
 245
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 of MacDonald and saved her from the unjust 
 punishment that her father would have made 
 her suffer. 
 
 She knew the queer old man well enough to 
 understand that but for the presence of Jules 
 and his friends, he would have carried out his 
 threat of strangling her with his own hands 
 to the very death. 
 
 Hilda made up her mind that, whatever the 
 fate which had thrown her so completely and 
 dependency in the care of Jules Beaubien, she 
 had really nothing to fear; that in the clean, 
 fair mind of this young son of the forest, there 
 could not possibly lurk any of the thoughts that 
 soiled the brain of the unprincipled Mac- 
 Donald. 
 
 As for Jules, he felt that the girl trusted him. 
 And these were moments for action only. 
 There was not now the time to make full ex- 
 planation of his plans to her; nor was this 
 246
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 moment the time to be chosen to speak to her 
 of his exalted love and ask her to become his 
 wife. 
 
 He felt that there would be something unfair 
 in broaching such a subject at such a moment, 
 even were there leisure to do so. 
 
 The girl was absolutely dependent upon him 
 and his protection now. She might consent to 
 marriage with him purely out of gratitude for 
 what he was doing for her. 
 
 He had come to believe that she liked him 
 liked him very much. But whether her senti- 
 ments were stronger than that, whether they 
 reached the depths of the great passion that 
 make a man and a woman indispensable to 
 each other's worldly happiness, he did not know. 
 He was not sure. 
 
 He hoped and believed that Hilda loved him. 
 The time was coming in a very little while 
 when he would learn if she really loved him. 
 247
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 He would be patient for a little time longer. 
 Men who live in the forests, who hunt in the 
 vast woods and fish by the silent streams, learn 
 as a first lesson of necessity the steady fortitude 
 of patience. 
 
 Beaubien wondered if the girl was frightened 
 at the position in which she found herself. He 
 sought to convey reassurance by his every 
 action in the courtly and respectful touch 
 of his hand upon her arm as he helped her to 
 embark in the canoe, in his quiet smile and his 
 little hurried speech complimenting her upon 
 the steadiness of courage that she was showing 
 after the tragic ordeal endured a few minutes 
 before in her father's house. 
 
 With the canoe launched, the little party 
 waited in anxious silence for the coming of 
 Baptiste. They could not be sure what might 
 happen there with two defeated and chagrined 
 men on the one side and the sturdy Baptiste, 
 248
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 so filled with hatred for the man whom he held 
 defenseless under the aim of his rifle. 
 
 If MacDonald's rage moved him to attempt 
 the least resistance, Jules understood that Bap- 
 tiste would only too gladly take the opportunity 
 to revenge himself for the betrayal and robbery 
 of his little sweetheart, Annette. 
 
 It was with a premonition that he was soon 
 to hear the report of a rifle shot that Jules 
 waited. It was this that had prompted him 
 to utter the woodland call that had long been 
 a signal of communication between these com- 
 panions of the forest. 
 
 But there was no shot. 
 
 Baptiste suddenly and mysteriously appeared 
 among them. So sure was his footing, so prac- 
 ticed and silent his footfall, that none had 
 heard his coming. 
 
 He said nothing this square, squat woods- 
 man, but as softly and silently assumed his 
 249
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 place in the bow of the canoe and took up the 
 paddle. 
 
 In the stern sat Jules, paddle also in hand. 
 Simultaneously the blades were dipped in the 
 water and the light, graceful boat shot out into 
 the mountain stream. 
 
 The flight was to be long ; the toil of it ardu- 
 ous. 
 
 The Wind River would have to be followed 
 for miles through the lowlands. 
 
 Finally Jules, in his mind, saw the goal of 
 the Massequan reached. This is the point where 
 the silver Wind River flows into the larger 
 stream and its limpid waters are merged and 
 clouded by the yellow, broad Massequan. 
 
 To Jules and to Baptiste the topography of 
 the country they were following was an open 
 book. Once entering the Massequan, one en- 
 countered many small tributaries that led off 
 into the woodland fastnesses. Jules had in 
 250
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 mind a certain nameless tributary that led to 
 a portage from which point the journey would 
 be taken over the mountains. 
 
 This journey could be so arranged as to be 
 wholly concealed from any enemy that might 
 follow, and at night they could again launch 
 their canoe and proceed by the mountain 
 streams until finally they would arrive at the 
 broad highway that led to the Canadian 
 Pacific Railway. 
 
 And from this point it was that Jules in- 
 tended to send Hilda in care of Baptiste and 
 Ferguson, to the great railroad station, and 
 thence with them on to Montreal. 
 
 For himself he would not make the journey 
 all the way. There was something else to be 
 attended to before he also left the wilderness 
 and sought the city and sought the realization 
 of his hope the hope for the happiness of 
 making Hilda his wife. 
 251
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 There was the duel to be fought with Mac- 
 Donald. He had told MacDonald that he might 
 not live another day; that the world was too 
 small for them both; that Annette was to be 
 avenged, and that the cost of MacDonald's 
 awful treachery to the little sister of him, Jules 
 Beaubien, would be his life. 
 
 As soon as Hilda had been escorted to a place 
 of safety, had been carried quite beyond the 
 reach of MacDonald's pursuit, Jules would go 
 back over the trail go back and find the man. 
 
 He would make it a fair fight. He had prom- 
 ised MacDonald so much. He fully meant to 
 keep his word. 
 
 It would be a duel as fair as ever men fought, 
 but MacDonald must die. 
 
 Jules believed that he would surely triumph 
 
 over the arch enemy of Hilda and himself. 
 
 Deeply rooted in his heart was a simple religion 
 
 and this religion declared to him that pure jus- 
 
 252
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 tice was on his side; that he was fighting in a 
 righteous cause and therefore it must be the 
 will of fate for MacDonald to be the one to fall. 
 
 And what would MacDonald do? Had he 
 completely accepted the defeat of his plan to 
 possess Hilda? Would he instead possess him- 
 self of patience and wait at the house of Mc- 
 Tavish for the return of Jules, sullen anger 
 surely in his heart, the desire to kill burning 
 in his breast? 
 
 Whatever his weakness and his viciousness, 
 the big New York engineer was no coward. 
 Jules remembered that even under the cover 
 of Baptiste's rifle MacDonald had ventured to 
 attack his foe in chief, and that in all prob- 
 ability he himself would be lying prone with a 
 deep knife thrust in his side had it not been 
 that little Ferguson had splendidly kept his 
 promise to aid and had floored MacDonald in 
 the emergency. 
 
 253
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 As if in communion with the thoughts of 
 Jules, Ferguson spoke. His were the first 
 words that had been uttered by any member 
 of the little group in the canoe. Up to that 
 time there had only been the musical dip of 
 the paddles, and now and then, off in the forest, 
 the wail of wolves. 
 
 "MacDonald will not wait for you, Jules. He 
 will come after us." 
 
 "Yes yes," answered Beaubien. "My good 
 friend, we will not speak of that now," added 
 Jules, for he had seen Hilda start at the men- 
 tion of the engineer's name and the announce- 
 ment that he would probably pursue them. 
 
 254
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE PURSUIT 
 
 As Baptiste fled from the window and made 
 his way through the woods to the canoe, Mac- 
 Donald's first instinct was to rush to his room, 
 procure a rifle and start in pursuit. 
 
 If he could reach the river bank he might be 
 able to get a shot at them, as they might be 
 revealed by the moonlight. 
 
 But a second thought showed him the fool- 
 hardiness of this idea. Accurate as he was 
 with a gun, he might have been able to pick 
 off Jules and Baptiste from ambush. But Mac- 
 Donald realized that, wild as was the country 
 and little as the law interfered between men's 
 quarrels, there did exist a mounted police who 
 made it their strict business to capture mur- 
 255
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 derers, and there was a law that was inexorable 
 in punishing murder with death. 
 
 For a high crime like that, the entire force 
 and power of the great Canadian Government 
 would be set to work to track him down. It 
 would not matter that the other men were 
 armed. To shoot and kill from ambush is sim- 
 ple murder. 
 
 For men who fought each other openly and 
 fairly the law had a lenient eye. Up in the 
 mountains such duels took place, and, when 
 the fight had been fairly made and a man 
 killed, the law stood with conveniently averted 
 eye and let the victor go his way. 
 
 MacDonald, while he would have killed Beau- 
 bien without compunction, winced at the 
 thought of dying on the gallows as the price 
 of his enemy's destruction. 
 
 Yet Beaubien and Hilda must not get away. 
 He would pursue them. Beaubien had promised 
 256
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to return and give him open fight: but there 
 was Hilda who, MacDonald now understood 
 only too well, was in love with Jules. What 
 might her pleadings not do? In her fear for 
 the life of the man she loved she might per- 
 suade Jules to abandon his scheme of vengeance 
 against the betrayer of his sister. 
 
 MacDonald, inwardly, rather understood that 
 Beaubien would certainly return. He did not 
 fatuously underestimate the quality of the de- 
 termination of the young Canadian. 
 
 Assuredly, the first battle in the war between 
 them had ended in a victory for Jules; but for 
 this MacDonald consoled himself with the 
 thought that his foe had the benefit of the aid 
 of Baptiste and Ferguson. 
 
 He frowned blackly when he thought of Fer- 
 guson. He could not understand or appreciate 
 the innate decency that had led the boy to act 
 as he had done. He only saw rank treachery in 
 257
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 his act. However, he planned no vengeance 
 against Ferguson. He voted him as game too 
 small. 
 
 Old McTavish staggered to his feet from the 
 floor where he had been left unconscious by 
 Jules. He was weak and dazed. 
 
 "They've gone. They've gone," he muttered, 
 and went with unsteady steps toward the win- 
 dow. "The girl has gone gone like her evil 
 mither gone wi' a Frenchman!" 
 
 Old McTavish turned to MacDonald. 
 
 "What's tae be done, mon? What's tae be 
 done? Meester MacDonald, ye're a smart mon. 
 What's tae be done?" 
 
 "Why didn't you do something when you 
 had the chance?" retorted MacDonald. "There 
 was nothing that I could do. But as the girl's 
 father, if you had had enough sense to get 
 your shotgun and kill that animal, Baptiste, I 
 would have finished the other fellow." 
 258
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Ye talk foolishness," said McTavish, resent- 
 fully. "Yer brain is overwrought." 
 
 He looked thoughtfully at MacDonald. 
 
 "I've a mind," said the old man after a little 
 while, "that it may not be so bad, after all 
 that Jules may mean well by the girl. And you, 
 Meester MacDonald, what was it Jules said 
 aboot ye havin' a wife yersel', and it bein' a lie 
 aboot yer intendin' to take Hilda to your guid 
 mither in New York?" 
 
 "Do you believe a dog of a French- 
 man against a Scotchman?" demanded the 
 engineer. 
 
 In the logic of old McTavish, this protest of 
 MacDonald was unanswerable. 
 
 "I mean ye nae wrong," he said. "But what 
 shall we do, mon? There was a day when I 
 would hae gone out and hunted down the 
 strumpet, and never rested till I saw her deed 
 wi' her yellow hair above her white face. But 
 259
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 I misdoubt that I could do it now. I'm far too 
 old." 
 
 "You stay here," said MacDonald suddenly. 
 "You stay here. I'll find them. I'll have the 
 lives of those two French dogs, and I'll bring 
 the girl back to you. Get out the canoe from 
 the shed. The trail may be long. Put some 
 food in the boat. I'll go to my room and get my 
 Winchester, and this very night I'll start in 
 pursuit of them ; and when I find that dog Jules, 
 he'll die." 
 
 " Tis not the boy. Tis her, wi' the black 
 heart o' her mither. Kill her, Meester Mac- 
 Donald ; kill her and keep her oot o' the paths o' 
 men tae lead them tae their ruin." 
 
 "The old fool," snarled MacDonald, as he 
 raced to his apartment, drew his rifle from its 
 pegs on the log wall, examined the weapon and 
 laid it on a table. He drew on his leather 
 hunting-coat, adjusted his cartridge belt, and 
 260
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 then, catching up his slouch hat and the rifle, 
 went out to the shed. 
 
 The old man was busy storing the little boat 
 with provisions. He brought down his finest 
 pair of paddles, and then, carrying one end of 
 the canoe while MacDonald carried the other, 
 they wended their way to the river bank. 
 
 There was no word of parting. Old McTav- 
 ish silently saw the engineer depart on his 
 errand of death. 
 
 MacDonald was an expert with the paddle. 
 The light craft shot rapidly ahead. 
 
 McTavish stood on the bank and watched it 
 for a long time. One might see it for some dis- 
 tance, for beyond the landing the ground lay 
 flat a level of brush, with only here and there 
 a hemlock tree rustling in the night wind. 
 
 Far ahead there was a tiny object on the 
 water. This, perhaps, was the canoe bearing 
 the fugitives. The little object slipped around 
 261
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 a bend in the river, and as MacDonald saw 
 it go he plied the paddle with added strength of 
 rage. 
 
 He recognized that the pursuit must be care- 
 ful. He must trap Jules alone. He knew that 
 if he opened fire on the boat he not only risked 
 the killing of Hilda, but he would draw the 
 fire of three against the fire of one. He must 
 proceed cautiously in his desire to come face 
 to face with Jules and settle their deadly 
 quarrel. 
 
 He planned his best manner of pursuit, as 
 he sent the boat shooting swiftly forward with 
 powerful strokes. 
 
 With Jules and Baptiste at the paddles, as 
 against MacDonald alone working in his canoe, 
 it would have been strange if the engineer had 
 ever brought them within sight in the night's 
 row down the Wind River by the mouth of the 
 Massequan. 
 
 262
 
 THEY WEBB EVER ALERT WITH THEIR KIFLES AT THE SLIGHTEST SOUND. 
 
 Page 263.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 By following a tributary the Little Bear 
 River Jules and his party arrived at a portage 
 at sunset the next day. The men had builded 
 Hilda a little house of boughs the night 
 before for her retirement, sleeping, themselves, 
 in the open. And they were ever on the alert 
 with their rifles at the slightest sound. 
 
 Their arrival at the portage of the Little Bear 
 River was a huge relief to Jules. It meant that 
 Hilda was absolutely safe. MacDonald had 
 been so far outdistanced that nothing could now 
 prevent Baptiste and Ferguson from escorting 
 her to the railway and then to Montreal. As 
 for Jules he had another thing to do. 
 
 The camp that was pitched for an hour's rest 
 was at the bottom of a winding trail. Great 
 pines and hemlocks sheltered the little spot, 
 and the Little Bear flowed rippingly along a 
 sandy shore. 
 
 The canoe that had done such good service 
 263
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 was beached nearby. Baptiste had readily 
 kindled the camp fire, and Hilda, indignant at 
 being told that she must seek rest immediately, 
 had herself prepared the supper, boiled the 
 coffee, fried the bacon and even made a short- 
 bread that was most palatable. 
 
 The meal finished, the little party sat silently 
 for a while, their eyes contemplating the glori- 
 ous autumn coloring of the foliage. 
 
 Jules arose and walked over to where young 
 Ferguson sat, hunched in the attitude of a man 
 wholly spent. The young fellow looked up with 
 a start. 
 
 "Time to be on our way?" he asked, with 
 something of protest in the query. 
 
 "Not yet," smiled Jules. 
 
 "Oh, don't stop on my account," sighed Fer- 
 guson. 
 
 "What's the matter, my friend Ferguson?" 
 asked Jules. 
 
 264
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Oh, nothing," replied the youth staring in 
 front of him. 
 
 "Still you seem depressed." 
 
 "Aren't you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well," said young Ferguson, "I've just been 
 thinking of the pleasant little trip we've got 
 to take to Montreal, and of the hill we just 
 had to climb to reach this bank of the river." 
 
 "And that depressed you?" 
 
 "Carry that canoe on your shoulder and you 
 will be depressed anyway half an inch, what?" 
 
 Jules patted him kindly on the shoulder. 
 
 "Brace up," said he. "The worst is over for 
 you." 
 
 "For me? What about you?" 
 
 "There is only one thing for me to do." 
 
 Ferguson stared closely at him. 
 
 "You are going back?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 265
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "After MacDonald?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because, M'sieur Ferguson, that is exactly 
 what I told him I would do." 
 
 Ferguson shook his head ponderingly. 
 
 "But you are all right, now you've got Hilda. 
 What are you doing? Are you simply looking 
 for trouble?" 
 
 "I told him that I would, and, of course, I 
 will do it." 
 
 Jules spoke with no bravado. His tone was 
 in the casual character of a man who spoke 
 perhaps of a business obligation. "It is a plain 
 duty to me as a brother even if I had no other 
 reason ?" 
 
 "What other reason?" 
 
 "Hilda," 
 
 "But he did Hilda no harm." 
 
 "He tried." 
 
 266
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Yes; and you stopped him." 
 
 "Still, don't you think that's enough reason 
 for me to act?" 
 
 "I don't know much about this here business," 
 said Ferguson with a flash of his old fun. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well," said he dolefully, "look at me." 
 
 "What about you?" 
 
 "Well, carried away by the sweep of senti- 
 mentality, or a glance at a pretty girl's face 
 who is in trouble, and I manage to have 
 promptly made a monkey of myself." 
 
 "I don't quite get you," persisted Beaubien. 
 
 "Well, here I am" 
 
 "Yes," assented Jules, laughing, "here you 
 are. I see that, M'sieur Ferguson." 
 
 "I have no job." 
 
 "That is true." 
 
 "I haven't any money." 
 
 "Why, that is easily fixed." 
 267
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "And I haven't even got a hat. Forgot it in 
 the excitement." 
 
 "Well?" smiled Jules. 
 
 "Well, now, if I had just landed you on the 
 jaw instead of MacDonald, I would have had 
 a raise in pay and a chance to go home, and 
 everything would have been all right ; but but, 
 you see, my magnanimity " 
 
 "Your what?" 
 
 "My intuitive desire to fuss with other 
 people's business and butt in at the wrong psy- 
 chological moment has made me one indubitable 
 dub I am broke, a long ways from home, and 
 God knows what the finish will be. But" 
 young Ferguson turned his frank face to Jules 
 and grinned his funniest mischievous grin 
 "but don't you mind this wall I'm putting 
 up, Jules, old boy; for I'm game, and down 
 in my heart I don't regret it one bit. But 
 
 you?" 
 
 268
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "I," repeated Jules, "must go back." 
 
 "Have you told her?" asked Ferguson with 
 a nod of his head toward Hilda. 
 
 In spite of himself, Jules started slightly 
 when young Ferguson asked him if he had 
 taken Hilda fully into his confidence, as to his 
 purpose of returning and fighting a duel to 
 the death with MacDonald. 
 
 Both men turned to look at the girl. She 
 was half reclining on a nest of boughs that the 
 men had prepared for her under an overhang- 
 ing rock. 
 
 She was staring into the forest, with her 
 large blue eyes very wide, a hand supporting 
 her chin, her little moccasined feet tucked under 
 her rough blue serge skirt. 
 
 "Why," said Jules, finally, "she must know 
 that I intend to go back, for she heard me tell 
 MacDonald that I would." 
 
 "Yes, I know she did," answered Ferguson, 
 269
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "but I don't believe she thinks you are going 
 to do that!" 
 
 Jules looked again at Hilda. 
 
 "When are you going, now?" asked Ferguson, 
 in a voice that had gone down to a whisper. 
 "No, but very soon. I will leave Hilda with 
 you and Ba'tiste. You'll begin that long trip 
 to the southward to-night. I will go back. I 
 will keep my word." 
 
 As if Hilda had divined the purport of the 
 talk of the two men, she suddenly arose and 
 sauntered toward them. She smiled as she 
 came forward, and it was evident that she had 
 not guessed the subject of their conversation. 
 
 "Mr. Ferguson," she said. 
 
 "Yes, Hilda," answered the boy, rising in 
 haste and making her a little bow. 
 
 "I am sorry." 
 
 "What are you sorry about?" he asked. 
 
 "About you." 
 
 270
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "What is there to be particularly sorry for 
 about me outside of my looks?" he concluded 
 apologetically. 
 
 The girl came nearer and frankly placed her 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "What you did for me," she said. "You've 
 made Mr. MacDonald an enemy, and that is 
 very bad, isn't it?" 
 
 "What made you think that?" demanded Fer- 
 guson. 
 
 "I mean for you the position." 
 
 Ferguson laughed at her. 
 
 "Well, Hilda, I guess I never was much of 
 a fellow to take up diplomacy as an occupation. 
 I find that my argumentative faculties are 
 limited to such an extent that in order to ac- 
 centuate any particular point of a debate the 
 logic of my brain quickly descends along my 
 arm, rushes into my fist and I throw it at the 
 opposition. When I was in school I started an 
 271
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 argument by saying 'It is not so,' progressed a 
 minute until I called the other fellow a liar, and 
 then ended in a fight. So what I did to Mac- 
 Donald is second nature to me. And any- 
 way, I'm glad of it for your sake and for 
 Jules." 
 
 Jules had also arisen. 
 
 "Hilda," he said, "my good friend, M'sieur 
 Ferguson, does not have to worry about posi- 
 tions or means to get home. I can attend to 
 that." 
 
 "That is very good," said Hilda. Then she 
 glanced toward Jules and asked: 
 
 "Where do we go now?" 
 
 As she spoke she swayed and fell back. 
 Young Ferguson caught her. The girl's face 
 had gone pale. Her lips were trembling, her 
 eyes wavering. 
 
 "Hilda," said the youth with concern, "you 
 are all in." 
 
 272
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "You are very tired. Is it not so?" asked 
 Jules anxiously. 
 
 But the weakness had passed. The girl stood 
 again on her own footing. 
 
 "I don't know why I should be," she said 
 stoutly. "It hasn't been such a long walk 
 not so much walking. Why, it has really been 
 nothing. Many times I have done twice as 
 much. But," and again she trembled and 
 swayed, "I do feel weak, terribly weak." 
 
 "Well, you've been through a whole lot," 
 Ferguson said to her. "I think the best thing 
 you can do is to go right back there and stretch 
 out for a few minutes." He indicated the bed 
 of boughs under the rock. "Besides, Hilda," 
 we three fellows have a lot to talk about, and 
 it is only right that you should rest. This is a 
 serious situation. Eh, Jules?" 
 
 "Oh, not so very serious. But I think, too, 
 that Hilda should rest Oh, Ba'tiste!" 
 273
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Oui," said the faithful companion of the 
 man-hunt that was now drawing to its 
 close. 
 
 "Ba'tiste, you will bring some blankets from 
 the canoe and place them under that rock for 
 Mam'selle Hilda." 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 Ferguson and Jules took Hilda by the arms 
 and as Baptiste laid the blankets they led her 
 toward the couch. 
 
 Hilda withdrew her arms from their hands. 
 
 "Oh, please don't," she smiled. "I can go. 
 Please don't. It's no trouble for me. I'm not 
 as bad as that." 
 
 They permitted her to walk to the couch by 
 herself. When she assured them that she was 
 feeling comfortable, and already began to feel 
 new strength, they walked away from her, 
 Ferguson saying: 
 
 "Now you just pound your ear there for 
 274
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 about fifteen minutes and it will do you a lot 
 of good." 
 
 "Even if you do not sleep," added Jules, 
 "close your ears and your eyes, and I think you 
 will be rested." 
 
 As they turned away Ferguson's eye rested 
 on Baptiste as he knelt over the canoe arrang- 
 ing some of the supplies. Ferguson's boyish 
 grin began working his mouth again. 
 
 "What an intelligent fellow he is," he said 
 to Jules. "Some time when I have nothing 
 else to do I'm going to teach him to lie down, 
 roll over and eat out of my hand. I think, 
 Jules, there'd be money in showing a trained 
 bunch of French-Canucks like him." 
 
 "Ah, M'sieur Ferguson," interposed Jules, 
 "you must not make fun of Ba'tiste as you 
 have done of McTavish. Ba'tiste, it is true, 
 he has but little brains, but he has one great 
 big heart, M'sieur Ferguson." 
 275
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Oh, he's all right, but-" 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "He never put those clothes on." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "They must have dropped on him." 
 
 Jules smiled involuntarily at this description 
 of the stocky, clumsily attired Baptiste. He 
 called to his faithful comrade. 
 
 "Never mind about Ba'tiste's clothes," said 
 Jules, as his friend drew near, "we have now 
 some plans to discuss. Come here, Ba'tiste, and 
 you, my friend Ferguson," said Jules, taking 
 a seat on the moss-covered ground at some dis- 
 tance from Hilda. The other men followed suit. 
 
 "Listen to Jules Beaubien and his business: 
 and what he is to do and what you are to 
 do," he said. "There is serious business to dis- 
 cuss." 
 
 276
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE LAW OP THE WILDERNESS 
 
 "There is serious business ahead," Jules 
 said, impressively to Ferguson and Baptiste. 
 
 "Well, if you should ask me," observed Fer- 
 guson quickly, "there is a damn sight more seri- 
 ous business behind us MacDonald. But go 
 ahead." 
 
 "This is where we part," said Jules. 
 
 "Jules Beaubien," said Baptiste, stolidly, 
 looking at Ferguson, "he go back to keel." 
 
 "Yes, that is so," assented Jules quietly. 
 
 "I go lak you," growled Baptiste. 
 
 "No," said his comrade. 
 
 "Yes," said Baptiste, venturing for the first 
 time in all their companionship to question the 
 decision of Beaubien. "I go along. Eet is my 
 business; an' MacDonald he wait." 
 277
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Hold on," spoke up Ferguson, "if both you 
 fellows look for trouble with MacDonald you 
 can count me out. I'm going the other way 
 quick. I know MacDonald ; and if either of you 
 has got him doped for a coward well, get wise. 
 He is low down when it comes to women, but 
 there ain't a streak of yellow in his system 
 when it comes to the fight question." 
 
 Jules, with his eyes on young Ferguson, shook 
 his head slowly. 
 
 "M'sieur Ferguson, listen! It is good that 
 Mr. MacDonald is not afraid of me. It is good 
 that I am not afraid of Mr. MacDonald. The 
 time has come when one of us must die. 
 I have spoken these words and I mean 
 them." 
 
 "I've no doubt you do, Jules. But what's 
 the idea?" 
 
 "This, then, is the idea the thing of which 
 I would speak to you," said Jules, as he drew 
 278
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 a paper from his pocket. Yesterday morning, 
 when I found that MacDonald was the man who 
 killed who killed my little sister, Annette 
 and when I found out that Hilda, too, was in 
 danger, I knew this fight was coming; was 
 what you say? bound to come. And I could 
 not tell how soon or in what way. So here on 
 this paper I have written these words. Read 
 them, M'sieur Ferguson." 
 
 The young man took the paper, but he found 
 it very difficult to decipher the words on it, for 
 the twilight had begun to fall, and it fell very 
 rapidly. 
 
 The sun was entirely gone. The gray light 
 was so dimmed by the shadows of the big trees 
 around them that the paper was in Ferguson's 
 eyes a mere blur. 
 
 "Can't see," said Ferguson finally. "Some- 
 body stake me to a match." 
 
 Jules produced the light and held its small 
 279
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 flame over the paper. It did not take Ferguson 
 long to read what was written there. It was a 
 matter of only about fifty words. 
 
 While Ferguson read and Jules held the 
 match, Baptiste sat sturdily and steadily puffing 
 at his pipe. For all his dullness, he could 
 understand very well what the paper must be. 
 
 "I see," commented Ferguson, putting the 
 paper down while Jules blew out the little 
 flame, "your will." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Nice pleasant little document to hand a 
 fellow," observed the boy, with just the slight- 
 est sign of a shudder. 
 
 "Who knows?" answered Beaubien, practi- 
 cally. "It may be necessary. Have you read 
 it through?" 
 
 "No; but I guess it's all right. What is it?" 
 
 "This is my plan, my friend; I leave you 
 both here with Hilda. You will go down 
 
 280
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the river to its fork. You know where I 
 mean?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "You will wait there until to-morrow at noon. 
 If I do not come" he addressed Baptiste 
 "Listen, this is for you." 
 
 "I leesen." 
 
 "At noon, if Jules Beaubien does not join 
 you, you will come back to find Jules; and if 
 you find Jules if you find Jules dead, then, 
 Ba'tiste Le Grand, it is for you to kill Mac- 
 Donald." 
 
 "Oui. I t'ink I want to keel heem." 
 
 Ferguson was startled: these men talked so 
 calmly of killing another human being. He 
 did not fully understand the unwritten law of 
 the wild places that makes such deeds, under 
 certain circumstances, wholly up to a native 
 standard of justice. He was revolted. 
 
 "Well, right here," he broke in, "I want to 
 281
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 say that I don't want to be a party to this 
 killing business. However, it's your affair, not 
 mine. In my country a punch in the nose gen- 
 erally clears up these things, but you fellows 
 have got a dope altogether different. But you 
 know yourselves better than I know you." The 
 boy paused, and refilled his pipe with fingers 
 that shook slightly. "Only/' he added, "I hate 
 to see this come to MacDonald." 
 
 "It is my business," said Jules. 
 
 "Well, I knew he'd get it sooner or later; 
 but it's going to be tough damn tough. And, 
 besides, Jules, what are you going to do about 
 the law?" 
 
 "This law," said Jules calmly, "is the law 
 of the wilderness. It has always been this 
 way. And now again it will be this way." 
 
 "How about the Northwest Mounted Police? 
 Can you get away from them ?" 
 
 "This is a duty," said Beaubien decisively. "I 
 282
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 have promised. I do not fear the consequences." 
 
 "But, see here, Jules. Do you think Mac- 
 Donald is worth the trouble of going to jail 
 for? And, then, don't you forget something? 
 There's Hilda." 
 
 The men arose, Jules leading the movement. 
 
 "M'sieur Ferguson," said he, "there will be 
 no mounted police and there will be no jail. All 
 that Hilda has to fear is that maybe sometime I 
 will not come to her, and that is my affair. And 
 whether MacDonald goes home or I come to 
 Hilda, must rest with me; but there can be no 
 change of plan." 
 
 "Oh, all right," answered Ferguson. "That's 
 just one more reason why I'd like to get away 
 from this country and back to the United 
 States." 
 
 Baptiste joined in the talk. 
 
 "If you no come at noon, Jules Beaubien, 
 what den?" he inquired. 
 283
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "You will do what I told you to do, mon ami. 
 And you, M'sieur Ferguson you will take 
 Hilda finally to Montreal. You will go to the 
 bank in Montreal with this paper, and there 
 you will give Hilda all that I have, and you will 
 see that she is well taken care of all her life 
 by someone. Will you not do this for Jules 
 Beaubien if he is killed, my friend?" 
 
 "Sure, 111 do that all right," answered the 
 youth quickly. 
 
 "And you will take what money you need to 
 go where you will ; and you will always have the 
 gratitude of Jules Beaubien. And you will re- 
 member me kindly, and always you will take 
 care of Hilda." 
 
 Promptly young Ferguson took Beaubien's 
 hand. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, with his lad's smile, 
 "how I'll stack up as a guardian, but I'll do 
 284
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the best I can. But, on the level, I don't like 
 this business at all." 
 
 "Still, it is my business," said Jules. 
 
 "You love Hilda? Eh, Jules?" 
 
 "Yes; that is true." 
 
 "Does she love you?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Well, if you ask me I think she ought to, 
 after what you've gone through for her, and 
 I'll do my part, although I don't like it this 
 killing business. And I don't think it is neces- 
 sary." 
 
 "Well, M'sieur Ferguson, my friend that 
 is the way it must be." 
 
 "I just want to tell you besides, Jules I 
 just want to say well, you are going back to 
 MacDonald?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Don't be too sure that he won't come for 
 you. I've known him a good many years, and 
 285
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 while in this particular instance I think he is 
 all bad all the way through, you've got to give 
 him credit for not being a coward. You under- 
 stand, Jules, this is just a tip. Keep your 
 eyes peeled for MacDonald. He knows what's 
 coming to him, and he's an American. We 
 have a national characteristic of beating the 
 other fellow at his own game. That's what 
 made us a big people, with a big country. Just 
 keep your eyes peeled." 
 
 "Merci ! I shall always be ready, Ferguson, 
 my friend." 
 
 Ferguson knocked the ashes out of his pipe, 
 rammed it in his hip pocket and faced toward 
 the canoe. 
 
 "Well, I guess we all understand what the 
 programme is, and the sooner I get on my way 
 the better I'll feel. I'm mixed up in this argu- 
 ment, but I don't want any stray shots or other 
 little delicate missiles coming my way. The 
 286
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 farther I get away from the rumpus the more 
 comfortable I'll feel. Let's go." 
 
 "I want to speak to Hilda first," said Jules. 
 
 "I'm on. Alone, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes. Alone." 
 
 "Hey, you, Ba'tiste ! Let's beat it. But, no 
 you stay here, case of accidents, while Jules 
 is talking such an accident as somebody ap- 
 pearing suddenly, like I'm thinking every 
 minute MacDonald may do. You stay, Ba'tiste," 
 added Ferguson. "Nobody minds you. I even 
 think I could make love with you around just 
 as easy as if you were the family dog. I'll go 
 and wait in the canoe." 
 
 287
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 "I LOVE YOU" 
 
 With the thought in his mind that he might 
 be looking upon her face for the last time on 
 earth, Jules walked slowly to the improvised 
 cot beside the rock where Hilda was lying 
 with her eyes closed, and the beautiful yellow 
 hair that had caused her so much misery from 
 her father's sharp tongue somewhat in disarray 
 upon her sun-browned forehead. Ferguson and 
 Baptiste had disappeared. 
 
 "You are not asleep, Hilda," said Jules softly, 
 standing above the bed of boughs. 
 
 She opened her eyes slowly. 
 
 "No, I am not asleep," she said. 
 
 "But you feel better?" 
 
 "Oh, much better, Jules. I am quite strong 
 again. I do not know what was the matter, 
 288
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 except that, Jules, last night and to-day have 
 been a terrible night and day have they not?" 
 
 "They have been wonderful this night and 
 this day." 
 
 "Help me up, please," said Hilda, and he 
 caught her arm and drew her to a sitting po- 
 sition. 
 
 "Jules," she continued, "where are we going 
 from here?" 
 
 "You are going to Montreal." 
 
 "That is a long way," said the girl, a little 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "It is a long trail," he assented. 
 
 "When will we get there, Jules?" 
 
 "You will not be long. Soon you will be at 
 a railroad. You have never seen a railroad. 
 It is quite wonderful. You you will ride on 
 the railroad to Montreal?" 
 
 "And you, Jules?" she asked suddenly; 
 "where will you be?" 
 
 289
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Maybe I will be with you, Hilda." 
 
 "Maybe you will be with me? Somehow," 
 she brushed back her golden hair, "some- 
 how, I thought you would always be with 
 me." 
 
 "That is my wish, Hilda that I should al- 
 ways be with you. But, you see, no one knows 
 now." 
 
 "How soon will you know? And what will 
 you stay here for, Jules?" 
 
 "Soon I will know," he answered. He paused. 
 "And I cannot tell you why I stay here." 
 
 The girl spoke with sudden resolution: 
 
 "I cannot go without you, Jules. I shall stay 
 here, too." 
 
 "No, Hilda," he said, hastily. "It is not good 
 for you to stay. It is only good for Jules to 
 stay." 
 
 His voice had the soft patience of one who 
 talks to a loved child. 
 
 290
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Why do you stay?" she asked. "Please tell 
 me." 
 
 "I cannot tell you, but I must stay." 
 
 Hilda leaned forward and looked up squarely 
 into his face. 
 
 "I know why you stay. And I, too, shall 
 stay," she declared. 
 
 "Why do you want to stay?" he demanded. 
 
 "It is what you said this afternoon," she 
 said. 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 She arose and stepped up to him. 
 
 "The great desire, Jules; it is upon me," she 
 said frankly, "and I know now what it means. 
 I knew the moment you took me in your arms 
 when my father came for me, I knew what 
 this feeling meant this thing that has had hold 
 of me for two years ever since we met." 
 
 She drew back. Her voice lowered. 
 
 "But I do not know," she stammered, "I do 
 291
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 not know that it is good for me to tell you." 
 "I am your friend, Hilda, and have always 
 been. I think it would be good for you to tell 
 me anything now, for all that you say means 
 much to me. How do you feel ?" 
 
 "I have learned one thing one beautiful 
 thing to-day," she replied. 
 "Yes? And what may it be, Hilda?" 
 "Jules, I have learned that I love you. Is it 
 bad for me to say that I love you?" 
 
 "No. And I love you. And I always have 
 loved you. From the first day I came to your 
 house I saw you as you were. I did not always 
 know that I loved you, and I went away think- 
 ing that it was pity for you; but when I went 
 to the North and lived all winter in the ice and 
 the snow, with no one but my dogs and Ba'tiste, 
 then I knew that it was you. And always, 
 every year since then, I have been waiting the 
 time when I could tell you, and you would 
 292
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 understand. Do you understand now?" 
 
 "Yes, Jules, I understand, and I know, and I 
 feel, and I am happy !" 
 
 Her voice came with splendid vehemence. 
 
 "And, Jules, I never want you to go away 
 from me. You you are all I've ever loved. 
 Why, Jules, you have taught me what love 
 means." 
 
 Jules drew her head to his breast and 
 whispered : 
 
 "And I have always thought, too, that I 
 should come and get you, and every year I 
 knew it was my duty to come and care for you, 
 and every year I knew that if it was not then, 
 then it would be another year that I should take 
 you away, because I seemed to feel that that 
 was the way God meant it to be, and I loved 
 you. The great desire has been mine, and it is 
 yours, and it will be ours forever, Hilda. That 
 is good for me and it is good for you, and I 
 293
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 think it is just as it should be, and there will 
 never be any hardships, and there will never 
 be any more insults or complaints, but if I 
 live" 
 
 "If you live?" she cried, clutching at the arm 
 he had passed around her shoulder. "Why 
 should you not live?" 
 
 "You, Hilda," he said, with an effort, "you 
 must go with M'sieur Ferguson and Ba'tiste, 
 and I stay." 
 
 "You mean that" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No, no; you cannot stay here," she said. 
 "You have no right to leave me now. That 
 ah, that was only a foolish thing you said about 
 going back. I cannot let you go. If you do 
 go back I am going with you. I'm not going 
 to let you do all that not for me. It isn't right. 
 Besides, he did nothing. You stopped him. 
 Why do you have to go?" 
 294
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 "Hilda," said Jules, gravely. "Once I had a 
 sister." 
 
 "Annette?" 
 
 "Annette." 
 
 "And that is why you are going to go back 
 to him?" 
 
 "That is why, but not for Annette or for you, 
 alone, but for other Annettes and other Hildas 
 he has not seen and has not met, but if he lives 
 he will see and will meet. And with him, Hilda, 
 that is not good." 
 
 "It is a terrible thing to kill a man, Jules," 
 she said, gazing into the forest. 
 
 "It is worse, Hilda," answered Jules, "to do 
 what he does." 
 
 "Yes ; it is worse," she agreed. "But, Jules, 
 it is right that I should go, too. It is right 
 that if you die, I shall die. I cannot have it 
 any other way. I'll be frightened without you. 
 Where would I go? Who would help me?" 
 295
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Beaubien drew her very close to him. 
 
 "You will go with Ba'tiste and Ferguson," 
 he said gently, "and soon I think I will join 
 you. Something tells me, Hilda, that I shall 
 not come to harm. Something tells me that 
 we will be together. I cannot think that all 
 this has gone on so long to stop now. But 
 I said to MacDonald that I would come back, 
 and the word of Jules Beaubien cannot be 
 broken cannot be broken." 
 
 In this moment Beaubien felt a sudden har- 
 rowing grief take possession of him. He gently 
 put the girl away from him and walked off a 
 few paces. But the girl followed him, putting 
 a hand on his shoulder, looking eagerly into his 
 face. He made a great effort to control him- 
 self. 
 
 Young Ferguson, returning from his stroll, 
 saw them. He could understand the pain that 
 it was their lot in this moment to endure. The 
 296
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 boy turned his back as one unwilling to look 
 on such privacy. 
 
 "I cannot go," Hilda said. "I must always 
 stay with you. Let them go." 
 
 She motioned to Ferguson, and to Baptiste, 
 who was standing by the river bank, looking 
 up the stream a figure as motionless as if he 
 were made of bronze. 
 
 "Hilda, you must go," said Jules. "It is 
 hard for me to let you go now, but it must be 
 that way." 
 
 "No, Jules no no," the calmness was leav- 
 ing her voice. It was quavering. 
 
 "I love you, Hilda, I love you!" cried Jules, 
 and caught her in his arms and kissed her 
 mouth. "And, Hilda, I will see you again. But 
 you must go, and I must stay, for it is my word 
 and I have promised." 
 
 "No, Jules no no," she answered. 
 
 "To-morrow, at noon, Hilda, ma cherie, I 
 297
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 will meet you at the fork of the Little Bear 
 River with Ba'tiste and M'sieur Ferguson, and 
 there will be a priest, and there you will be my 
 wife. Wait till noon, and if to-morrow at noon, 
 at the fork of the Little Bear River, I, Jules 
 Beaubien, do not meet you remember I am 
 waiting for you on another river that has no 
 ending, where there is but one Father, who is 
 a kind Father, and where there are no Mac- 
 Donalds, and where there is no complaint, and 
 where there are thousands and thousands of 
 canoes and all of them filled with angels and 
 floating in the sunshine forever on the peaceful 
 waters of this river Always will I wait there, 
 and whenever you come I will be there to take 
 you in my arms. Au revoir au revoir, Hilda. 
 I love you. I love you." 
 
 And this time, as he would have caught the 
 girl up in his arms, her own arms were out 
 toward them, and they embraced, and in this 
 298
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 embrace they were motionless for many sec- 
 onds. Then Jules would have disengaged him- 
 self, but Hilda held him tenaciously. 
 
 "No, Jules no no no, Jules!" she sobbed. 
 
 He averted his eyes from her pleading face. 
 
 "Ba'tiste!" he called. "It is time." 
 
 The bronze image by the river bank moved. 
 He came slowly, with troubled eyes, looking on 
 the girl and his comrade. 
 
 "Come, Mam'selle," he said, with all the 
 gentleness that he could put into his gruff 
 voice. "Come, Mam'selle ; come." 
 
 He took her by the arm and drew her ii> 
 the direction of the canoe. Her emotion had 
 reached an agony. 
 
 "Jules Jules," she repeatedly sobbed. 
 
 And Jules did not dare look toward her. He 
 stood with his back turned to the canoe, his 
 hands covering his eyes. 
 
 Ferguson looked at him and started forward 
 299
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 to say a word of farewell, but the sight of the 
 man's great grief caused the lad to turn and join 
 Baptiste and Hilda without having spoken a 
 word to Jules. 
 
 With Hilda aboard, Baptiste motioned to Fer- 
 guson to embark, and then himself pushed the 
 canoe out into the stream, and with quick 
 strokes of the paddles the little boat shot away. 
 
 "Jules, my love my love," sobbed the child, 
 who had grown into womanhood with the find- 
 ing of the great desire. 
 
 The rippling sound of the paddle grew 
 fainter, and Jules, looking up into the darken- 
 ing sky, spoke. It was a prayer. 
 
 "Oh, good God, please let Jules Beaubien meet 
 Hilda at noon," he said. 
 
 For some minutes Jules remained in his 
 
 attitude of prayer. All the while, faintly and 
 
 more faintly, there came to his ears the dip of 
 
 Baptiste's paddle that bore Hilda away in the 
 
 300
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 canoe. And then no longer could he hear the 
 dip of the paddle. 
 
 The moonlight that had flooded the camp 
 darkened. Rift on rift of clouds piled in the 
 sky and flooded across the silver orb. Out of 
 the forest and along the river the winds grew 
 chill a little foretaste of the blizzards that 
 the winter months would bring. 
 
 It was not so much the winds that made Jules 
 shudder as the thought of the frightful task 
 that he had ahead. MacDonald must die. Jules 
 never doubted the righteousness of the purpose 
 he had conceived of slaying MacDonald. 
 
 As he had told Hilda, it was not only for the 
 sake of the betrayed Annette, who had died in 
 the torture of freezing and whose tender body 
 was rent asunder by the jaws of hungry wolves ; 
 it was not only that MacDonald should be pun- 
 ished for seeking to repeat with Hilda his crime 
 against Annette! but for the sake of unknown 
 301
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Annettes and Hildas, Jules asserted to his mind 
 and conscience that MacDonald deserved death. 
 
 He next pondered on MacDonald's present 
 whereabouts. Had he calmly remained behind, 
 content to have for a battleground the very 
 clearing in front of old McTavish's house, 
 where he had made false love to Hilda? 
 
 Or had he started in pursuit? If he had 
 Jules did not believe that there was much 
 chance of their meeting on this night. The 
 little tributary of the Massequan that he had 
 taken in order to reach this present retreat 
 had been used principally for the purpose of 
 baffling MacDonald, who followed. Yet he 
 knew that MacDonald was a shrewd man, who 
 might have reasoned that Jules had made such 
 a move. 
 
 But there had been two men at the paddles 
 against MacDonald alone, and Jules concluded 
 that if he started late at night and made his 
 302
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 way back to the Massequan he would be in line 
 to encounter MacDonald and take the life and 
 death issue with him at dawn of the next day. 
 
 Jules, therefore, decided on a few hours' re- 
 pose before starting on the return trip. Bodily 
 he was weary. The flight had been a hard 
 one. There had been a constant use of the 
 paddles; there had been the rough trip over 
 the country. 
 
 He busied himself gathering dry wood, and 
 a bright fire crackled. He thought to make 
 himself some coffee, and taking up a pannikin, 
 moved toward the brook that babbled amiably 
 and softly behind the big rock under which 
 Hilda had for a time made her bed. 
 
 The clouds gathered even more thickly. 
 There was only the light of the fire to guide the 
 steps of Jules. 
 
 Dipping the pannikin into the brook, he re- 
 turned with it dripping. For the moment he 
 303
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 was off guard. He had decided that MacDon- 
 ald could not possibly have caught the right 
 trail. 
 
 But Jules was wrong. MacDonald's shrewd- 
 ness had kept him in much closer pursuit than 
 even an experienced woodsman like Jules had 
 thought probable or even possible. And luck 
 had played in MacDonald's favor. 
 
 He had decided that Jules, Hilda, Ferguson 
 and Baptiste, in the little canoe, would seek to 
 turn off from the broad Massequan, whose 
 straight course and flat banks would have made 
 them visible to their pursuer for miles. He had 
 reasoned that they would turn up one of the 
 tributaries and then go overland to some port- 
 age that would bring them to the Little Bear 
 River, and make the journey to the Canadian 
 Pacific Railroad comparatively simple and easy. 
 
 His luck had been that he had chosen the 
 right tributary! 
 
 304
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE DEATH DUEL 
 
 And now, as Jules moved unsuspectingly 
 from the brook with his pannikin of water, a 
 little free play of the moonlight showed a man 
 at the top of the ascending pathway overlook- 
 ing his camp. 
 
 The man was moving stealthily, but as the 
 moonbeams played upon him he was startled 
 into a sudden backward motion in his effort 
 to secure concealment behind a tree. And in 
 this sudden movement a dry twig crackled under 
 his foot. 
 
 In the tense stillness of the forest the crack- 
 ling of the twig sounded sharply. Jules heard 
 it. His woodsman's instinct was swiftly 
 aroused. 
 
 Jules paused. He looked at the pan of water 
 305
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 in his hand, and, as if he had not secured as 
 milch water as he desired, he calmly returned 
 to the brook and refilled the pan. 
 
 But all the time he was listening listening 
 intently. 
 
 The man above moved forward again. He 
 was in the act of bringing his Winchester to 
 his shoulder, when again the crackling of a 
 twig under his foot caused him to dodge be- 
 hind a tree. 
 
 "MacDonald," whispered Jules. 
 
 Dismay came upon him for an '.istant. 
 
 Here was his deadly enemy behind the trees 
 his deadly enemy, who had sneaked upon 
 him, and who did not mean to make it a fair 
 fight, but evidently meant to shoot Jules down 
 from ambush. 
 
 And Beaubien's rifle was thirty feet away 
 from him, standing against a hemlock tree 
 near the camp fire. 
 
 306
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The fire itself was fully thirty feet away. 
 
 "He can see me," was the thought that 
 flashed across Jules's mind. "The fire he can 
 see me ! My rifle there by the tree ! He does 
 not mean to fight fair ! He will shoot me down 
 like a dog. At this very instant he is probably 
 aiming at my heart!" 
 
 Jules Beaubien was swift to recognize that 
 life or death for him depended now on his cun- 
 ning. If he betrayed the fact that he knew 
 MacDonald was up there behind the trees, wait- 
 ing to get a good shot at him, MacDonald 
 would not wait but would open fire instantly. 
 And with Beaubien unarmed there could only 
 be one end to such an attack. Jules would die, 
 and Hilda would wait in vain for the return 
 of her lover. 
 
 On the other hand, Jules reasoned that if 
 he acted quickly, and yet calmly, there was a 
 way out of his terrible danger. It was a won- 
 307
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 derful test of nerve that he put upon himself. 
 But he triumphed in the performance of it. 
 
 As if completely dismissing any alarm that 
 the crackling of the twigs may have given him 
 when the sounds made him halt, Jules strolled 
 easily toward the fire. He found himself able 
 even to make the assumption of feeling quite 
 secure and unsuspecting of the presence of his 
 foe by whistling a bit of song from the French 
 voyageurs. 
 
 Jules reasoned that MacDonald would wait 
 until the light from the camp fire shone fully 
 on him as he approached, thus making him an 
 easy mark for the deadly bullet that MacDon- 
 ald was most eager to send into his heart. 
 
 But just as Jules came into the radius of 
 this light, and just, indeed, as MacDonald had 
 lifted his Winchester and was aiming as 
 squarely and firmly as he could at the heart of 
 Jules, the young Frenchman's strategy won 
 308
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 him his life, for the time at least. For Jules 
 suddenly dashed the water from the pannikin 
 he carried upon the fire, and in an instant, 
 where there had been a bright flame, there was 
 only a clogged mass of soggy embers. 
 
 The clouds still played Beaubien fair, for 
 they absolutely obscured the moon. The black- 
 ness of the woods was absolute. 
 
 It was a terrible duel that had then to be 
 fought a duel in the dark. The wind had in- 
 creased, and it wailed through the trees as if 
 Nature were crying against the deadly charac- 
 ter of the fight that was to take place. 
 
 The cry of the wolves sounded again and 
 again. Beaubien shuddered slightly at the 
 thought that if MacDonald killed him his body 
 would meet the same horrible fate as had be- 
 fallen his little sister, Annette. 
 
 But he shook the thought off angrily. God 
 surely would permit the fight in the dark to 
 309
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 have but one result! And Jules' principal 
 emotion was that he was happy the hour of 
 vengeance had come. 
 
 He was not wholly savage. His own flesh 
 revolted at the thought of taking human life, 
 but his absolute belief in the justice of killing 
 MacDonald wiped away the protest of cultured 
 instinct. 
 
 In the inky blackness of the forest there was 
 an oppressive silence save for the winds and 
 the wolves, and these sounds came only in inter- 
 vals. For the most time MacDonald, slowly 
 stealing down the bluff, and Beaubien, trying 
 to locate by any sound that might be vouch- 
 safed the presence of his enemy, could each 
 almost imagine that he heard the heartbeats of 
 the other. 
 
 "MacDonald," called Jules Beaubien, "you 
 have cornel It is well. You will die." 
 
 MacDonald's first answer vas a shot aimed 
 810
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 in the direction from which Jules' voice had 
 sounded. Jules' rifle rang in response. 
 
 "Did you think I'd wait for you, you French 
 cur?" came the engineer's voice, tense and 
 thrilling with hatred. 
 
 It was Jules' rifle that rang out first this 
 time. But the bullet had not found his enemy, 
 for MacDonald's Winchester barked back al- 
 most instantly. 
 
 In the blackness the men stole softly, hesita- 
 tingly, hoping for another sound. 
 
 Jules decided that he himself must risk 
 speaking in order to locate, by MacDonald's 
 reply, the direction for the shot. Dangerous 
 as this was he took the chance. 
 
 "You have come, MacDonald, and you will 
 die!" he whispered. 
 
 MacDonald, beside himself with rage and 
 hatred against the man who had so far out- 
 generalled and defeated him defeated him and 
 311
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 the evil passions that ruled his life was moved 
 to cry out at the risk of his own. 
 
 "Die! Damn you, it's not in you to kill me! 
 Do you hear the wolves howling? You'll go 
 to them." 
 
 There was another exchange of shots in the 
 darkness, and then MacDonald's voice rose 
 again : 
 
 "111 hand you to the wolfpack. You will 
 be easy picking for them. I will send you to 
 that half-breed sister of yours. There is a 
 heaven for mongrels. That's where you'll go !" 
 
 It was evident to Jules that MacDonald 
 would not have risked speaking at such length 
 if he were not behind shelter. 
 
 "Remember what I say," cried Jules, "first 
 you go and see Annette and then you'll be sent 
 to hell!" 
 
 A bullet sang past his ear. 
 
 For a long time then neither man spoke. 
 312
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 Each could now hear the stealthy footsteps 
 of the other as they moved about. But still 
 the thick, black clouds were over the face of 
 the moon, and not even a gleam of light could 
 be discerned along the rifle barrels. 
 
 Then out of the darkness came two loud 
 cries exclamations that involuntarily came 
 out of the throats of Beaubien and MacDonald. 
 In their efforts to find each other they had 
 struck against each other. 
 
 The impact knocked their rifles from their 
 hands. There was no time for either to stoop 
 to regain his rifle. The hunting-knives were 
 whipped from their sheaths. 
 
 "I've got you," said MacDonald. "I'll cut 
 your heart out." 
 
 "Now, MacDonald, you will die. Jules Beau- 
 bien will kill you," retorted the young Cana- 
 dian. 
 
 The black cloud passed off the moon. The 
 313
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 silver light shone on Beaubien and MacDonald 
 in their death struggle. 
 
 They had gone to the ground, and MacDon- 
 ald was on top. But quick as they had fallen 
 Beaubien's hand had shot up and his lithe fin- 
 gers closed on MacDonald's throat. The en- 
 gineer was forced to give ground. Beaubien 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 The wind had died down. There was a single 
 wolf's cry, and in the quiet camp by the river 
 there could only be heard the heavy breathing 
 of men fighting for their lives. 
 
 Time and again each sought to bring a knife 
 thrust home, but each time a desperate hand 
 in the darkness seized the driving hand of the 
 foe. 
 
 For a time each clasped the wrist of his foe 
 
 the wrist of the hand that held the knife. For 
 
 several seconds they stood thus, their chests 
 
 heaving, the veins in their foreheads throbbing, 
 
 314
 
 'DAMN YOUR KNIFE I I'LL MAKE you EAT IT !" 
 
 Page 315.
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 and when the moonlight flared for an instant 
 it looked red to them because of their bloodshot 
 eyes. 
 
 "Damn your knife! I'll make you eat It!" 
 panted MacDonald. 
 
 As against the other man's strength, the 
 agility of Beaubien won the awful duel. With 
 a sudden, swift movement he drew his hand 
 free, and before MacDonald could recover him- 
 self the blade of Beaubien sank into his left 
 breast a knife fiercely driven to the very hilt. 
 
 For a second or more MacDonald merely 
 stood with eyes bare of all light great, stupid, 
 staring eyes; the moon now showed Beaubien. 
 The engineer sank at the feet of the brother of 
 Annette, the lover of Hilda. 
 
 Jules drew back. He had put his last 
 strength in tearing away from MacDonald and 
 dealing him his death blow. He was stagger- 
 ing and found himself sobbing. Then, as men 
 315
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 do commonplace things subconsciously immedi- 
 ately after they have faced great tragedies, 
 Beaubien leaned against a hemlock and rolled a 
 cigarette. 
 
 As he lighted a match, he glanced at the 
 flame. Perhaps MacDonald was not dead. Per- 
 haps he was only slightly wounded. 
 
 He knelt and passed the match flame over 
 the engineer's face. The glazed eyes and the 
 dropped jaw that were revealed to him by the 
 match's flare were all-convincing. And there, 
 on his knees beside the dead man, he lifted his 
 face to the sky. 
 
 "Oh, good God, forgive me that I have taken 
 a human life. Oh, good God Annette An- 
 nette, who was my little, unprotected sister." 
 
 And while he knelt knelt in a flood of 
 moonlight streaming from a cleared sky the 
 long-drawn howl of a wolf struck his ear. And 
 Jules stared back at the body. 
 316
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 The long howl was a call. The dreadful 
 creatures, ever watchful in their tragically 
 phantom-like way, seeking the scent of blood, 
 had found it. 
 
 Jules looked at the body for several seconds, 
 but his face grew hard. He got suddenly on 
 his feet. 
 
 "No ! No ! I will do nothing. He was a wolf 
 himself!" 
 
 317
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 FATHER SEBASTIAN 
 
 The thing was done and done as Jules de- 
 sired. He had fought MacDonald fairly. He 
 had killed MacDonald. 
 
 He was sure that he would never feel re- 
 morse. It would be a chapter in his life that 
 he would not like to remember, but it would 
 be only because he would never be able to do 
 so without thinking of Annette, the little sister 
 whom he had never seen, and of the sorrow and 
 shame and death that came to her the very 
 while he was seeking her to offer her protection, 
 comfort, even luxury. 
 
 Jules felt that his mind would be at peace. 
 Jules felt that God was not angry with him. 
 
 Solemnly these thoughts went through his 
 318
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 mind, and then he thought of Hilda. It had all 
 happened very soon after they had left. Indeed, 
 the rifle shots must have reached their ears. 
 
 He raised his rifle and shot into the air, and 
 then he lifted the low, carrying cry of the wood- 
 man. 
 
 "Oh, Ba'tiii iiiste!" he called. 
 
 And in a little while the silence was broken 
 by the dull, distant note of a rifle's report and 
 the faint reply: 
 
 "Oh, Ju - u u ules!" 
 
 It was the answer of Baptiste. 
 
 With swinging steps Jules made his way 
 along the river bank. Fatigue was no longer 
 on him. Hilda was there Hilda who loved 
 him Hilda to whom the rifle shot and his cry, 
 coming faintly, as it were a child's cry had 
 been a message of wonderful happiness. 
 
 She had clasped her hands upon her heart, 
 and sat frightened while the faint sound of 
 $19
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 shots was heard the shots that MacDonald 
 and Jules had exchanged. But then the single 
 rifle's shot and the faint call had given her full 
 reassurance. 
 
 "Jules, Mam'selle! Jules is safe," Baptiste 
 had said happily to her. 
 
 "Hooray!" cried young Ferguson. 
 
 "Oh, turn back, Ba'tiste, turn back," the girl 
 urged. "Let us go back to Jules." 
 
 The canoe was swung about, and so it came 
 that with Jules hurrying forward and the canoe 
 slipping silently back over the course it had 
 taken, there was very soon a meeting. 
 
 "You have met MacDonald?" demanded Fer- 
 guson from the canoe, as Jules stood on the 
 bank. 
 
 "MacDonald," answered Jules, quietly, "is 
 dead." 
 
 The canoe was beached and the party gath- 
 ered on the shore. Out of the woods came the 
 320
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 cries of wolves. Ferguson looked suddenly at 
 Jules. 
 
 "MacDonald of course, there has not been 
 time MacDonald is not buried." 
 
 "He left Annette to the wolves," said Beau- 
 bien, bitterly. 
 
 The cries of the wolves were repeated. Fer- 
 guson's face took on an expression of horror. 
 
 "Good God! I can't stand for that, Jules," 
 he said. "MacDonald after all well, Mac- 
 Donald was once my friend. I'll go back. 
 There's a spade in the outfit in the canoe, isn't 
 there? Jules, I helped you. Now you must 
 wait for me. I'm going back. I can't leave 
 MacDonald to the wolves." 
 
 "He leave Annette to the wolves," declared 
 Baptiste, fiercely. 
 
 But Jules shook his head at Baptiste. 
 
 "Our friend Ferguson is right. The soul 
 of MacDonald is before his God. It would be 
 321
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 savage to seek revenge on his dead body. 
 M'sieur Ferguson, I, Jules, will go with you and 
 help dig the grave of MacDonald, and you, 
 Baptiste, need not help dig the grave. But 
 you shall guard Hilda while we are away at 
 work/' 
 
 And thus the wolves were cheated of a horri- 
 ble feast that night, and MacDonald's eyes 
 were decently closed and his hands decently 
 folded upon his breast by Ferguson before the 
 earth was thrown upon his body. 
 
 Dawn found the little party of four before 
 the log cabin of Father Sebastian, a Christian 
 of the wilderness. And beside the cabin was 
 a rude log chapel, on whose little spire gleamed 
 a golden cross. 
 
 Father Sebastian, a little old man with a 
 
 child's pure eyes, greeted them. He heard the 
 
 whole story, as one would tell it man to man, 
 
 and then Jules followed him within the rude 
 
 322
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 church of the woods and there, kneeling, made 
 his spiritual confession and prayer for absolu- 
 tion. 
 
 And later it was agreed that Ferguson should 
 make the trip to the nearest headquarters of 
 the mounted police guard and tell all the facts. 
 Baptiste would accompany him. 
 
 And if the authorities demanded the arrest 
 of Jules Beaubien, he would surrender and 
 stand trial. 
 
 "But if this happens, my son/' advised the 
 old priest, "you have little to fear from your 
 fellow men no more, I think, than you have 
 to fear from the verdict of your God/' 
 
 "And you, Ba'tiste you will come with us 
 to Montreal when all is settled?" asked Jules 
 affectionately of his faithful comrade. But 
 Baptiste shook his head. 
 
 "I go back. To the North I go, Jules Beau- 
 bien. But you will come some time to hunt 
 323
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 and fish, and then you will again see Ba'tiste. 
 You, Jules Beaubien, have your love. I have 
 only the prayer to make, that when I die, then, 
 perhaps, I see Annette." 
 
 There was a perfunctory investigation by 
 the mounted police, and then Father Sebastian 
 performed a marriage ceremony. 
 
 Baptiste went back to the North woods and 
 Ferguson went back to the civilization whence 
 he had come. 
 
 One day a lonely, gaunt old man came out 
 of the woods an old man who averted his eyes 
 insanely at the sight of yellow hair and he 
 laboriously went up the gang plank of a steamer 
 bound for Scotland, his native land, for which 
 alone his warped old heart held a tithe of af- 
 fection. 
 
 The dismal old Beaubien mansion has wholly 
 changed its character and never in all its days 
 had it know so much happiness and content, 
 324
 
 THE WOLF 
 
 for Jules and Hilda with their little son, Bap- 
 tiste, and their baby daughter, Annette, have 
 taken up their abode there and the old servants 
 and the old neighbors smile among themselves 
 and say it is like old times again with the house 
 of Beaubien. Sunshine flits into all its rooms; 
 its hospitality is once more far-famed; Hilda 
 no longer knows loneliness and sorrow or dan- 
 ger and the cry of the wolf sounds no longer 
 in her ears. 
 
 THE END 
 
 325
 
 THE LION AND THE MOUSE 
 
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