6 For what seemed to be an interminable time after the final breakdown of his physical strength, David Kerrigan lived in a black world where a horde of unseen little devils were shooting red-hot arrows into his brain. He did not sense the fact of human presence, nor that the divan had been changed into a bed and the four lamps lighted, and that wrinkled brown hands with talon-like fingers were performing a miracle of wilderness surgery upon him. He did not see the age-old face of Nepepinas, the wandering bolt of lightning, as the bent and tottering Cree called upon all his eighty years of experience to bring him back to life. And he did not see Batisse, stolid-faced, silent, nor the dead-white face and wide-opened, staring eyes of Gimari and Boulin, as her slim white fingers worked with the old medicine-mans. He was in a gulf of blackness that writhed with the spirits of torment. He fought them and cried out against them, and his fighting and his cries brought the look of death itself into the eyes of the girl who was over him. He did not hear her voice, nor feel the soothing of her hands, nor the powerful grip of Batisse as he held him when the critical moments came. And Nepepinas, like a machine that had looked upon death a thousand times, gave no rest to his claw-like fingers until the work was done, and it was then that something came to drive the arrow-shooting devils out of the darkness that was smothering Carrigan. After that, Carrigan lived through an eternity of unrest, a life in which he seemed powerless and yet was always struggling for supremacy over things that were holding him down. There were lapses in it, like the hours of oblivion that come with sleep, and there were other times when he seemed keenly alive, yet unable to move or act. The darkness gave way to flashes of light, and in these flashes he began to see things, curiously twisted, fleeting, and yet fighting themselves insistently upon his senses. He was back in the hot sand again, and this time he heard the voices of Jean-Marie Anne and Golden Hare, and Golden Hare flaunted a banner in his face, a triangular pendant of black on which a huge bear was fighting white arctic wolves, and then she would run away from him, crying out Sainte-Pierre-Boulin, Sainte-Pierre-Boulin, and the last he could see of her was her hair flaming like fire in the sun. But it was always the other, the dark hair and dark eyes that came to him when the little devils returned to assault him with their arrows. From somewhere she would come out of darkness and frighten them away. He could hear her voice like a whisper in his ears, and the touch of her hands comforted him and quieted his pain. After a time he grew to be afraid when the darkness swallowed her up, and in that darkness he would call for her, and always he heard her voice in answer. Then came a long oblivion. He floated through cool space away from the imps of torment. His bed was of downy clouds, and on these clouds he drifted with a great shining river under him, and at last the cloud he was in began to shape itself into walls, and on these walls were pictures and a window through which the sun was shining, and a black pen and he heard a soft, wonderful music that seemed to come to him faintly from another world. Other creatures were at work in his brain now. They were building up and putting together the loose ends of things. Kerrigan became one of them, working so hard that frequently a pair of dark eyes came out of the dawning of things to stop him, and quieting hands, and a voice soothed him to rest. The hands and the voice became very intimate. He missed them when they were not near, especially the hands, and he was always groping for them to make sure they had not gone away. Only once after the floating cloud transformed itself into the walls of the Batokabin did the chaotic darkness of the sands fully possess him again. In that darkness he heard a voice. It was not the voice of Golden here, or of Batis, or of Jima'ian. It was close to his ears. And in that darkness that smothered him there was something terrible about it, as it droned slowly the words, Has anyone seen Black Roger Odomard? He tried to answer, to call back to it, and the voice came again, repeating the words, emotionless, hollow, as if echoing up out of a grave. And still harder he struggled to reply to it, to say that he was David Kerrigan, and that he was out on the trail of Black Roger Odomard, and that Black Roger was far north. And suddenly it seemed to him that the voice changed into the flesh and blood of Black Roger himself, though he could not see in the darkness. And he reached out, gripping fiercely at the warm substance of flesh, until he heard another voice, the voice of Jima'ian Boulin, and treating him to let his victim go.  His fingers were clutching her shoulders, gripping like steel hooks. Mr. David! she was crying. For a moment he stared. Then his hands and fingers relaxed, and his arms dropped limply. Pardon, I was dreaming, he struggled weakly. I thought he had seen the pain in her face. Now, changing swiftly, it lighted up with relief and gladness. His vision, cleared by long darkness, saw the change come in an instant, like a flash of sunshine. And then, so near that he could have touched her, she was smiling down into his eyes. He smiled back. It took an effort, for his face felt stiff and unnatural. I was dreaming of a man, named Roger Oedmard, he continued to apologize. Did I hurt you? The smile on her lips was gone as swiftly as it would come. A little, Monsieur, I am glad you are better. You have been very sick. He raised a hand to his face. The bandage was there, and also a stubble of beard on his cheeks. He was puzzled. This morning he had fastened his steel mirror to the side of a tree and shaved. It was three days ago you were hurt, she said quietly. This is the afternoon of the third day. You have been in a great fever. Nepapinas, my Indian doctor, saved your life. You must lie quietly now. You have been talking a great deal. About Black Roger, he said. She nodded. And golden hair? Yes, of golden hair. And someone else, with dark hair and dark eyes? It may be, Monsieur. And of little devils with bows and arrows, and of polar bears and white wolves, and of a great lord of the north who calls himself St. Pierre Boulin? Yes, all of those. Then I haven't anything more to tell you, grunted David. I guess I've told you all I know. You shot me back there. And here I am. What are you going to do next? Call Baptiste, she answered promptly, and she rose swiftly from beside him and moved toward the door. He made no effort to call her back. His wits were working slowly, readjusting themselves after a carnival in chaos, and he scarcely sensed that she was gone until the cabin door closed behind her.  Three days. He turned his head so that he could take in the length of the cabin.   The divan had been opened and transformed into a bed. He was undressed. He had on somebody's white nightgown. And there was a big bunch of wild roses on the table where three days ago the cat had been sleeping in the workbasket. His head cleared swiftly and he raised himself a little on one elbow with extreme caution and listened. The big buttoe was not moving. It was still tied up, but he could hear no voices out where the tar sands were.  His blood stirred again as he looked at the white bear and the fighting wolves. Wherever men rode the waters of the three rivers that penin was known. Yet it was not common. Seldom was at sea and never had it come south of Chippewaian. Many things came to Kerrigan now, things that he had heard at the landing and up and down the rivers. Once he had read the tail end of a report the superintendent of Endivision had sent in to headquarters. We do not know this, Saint Pierre. Few men have seen him out of his own country, the far headwaters of the Yellow Knife, where he rules like a great overlord. Both the Yellow Knives and the Dog Ribs call him Qichiyu Qimo, or King, and the same rumours say there is never starvation or plague in his regions. And it is fact that neither the Hudson's Bay nor Revion Brothers in their cleverest generalship and trade had been able to uproot his almost dynastic jurisdiction. The police have had no reason to investigate or interfere. At least that was the gist of what Kerrigan had read in McVane's report. But he had never associated it with the name of Boulin. It was of Saint Pierre that he had heard stories, Saint Pierre and his Black Penin, with its white bear and fighting wolves. And so it was Saint Pierre Boulin. He closed his eyes and thought of the long winter weeks he had passed at Hay River Post, watching for Fanche, the male robber. It was there he had heard most about this Saint Pierre, and yet no one he had talked with had ever seen him. No one knew whether he was old or young, a pygmy or a giant.  Others said that he was old, very old, so that he never set forth with his brigades that brought down each year a treasure of furs to be exchanged for freight. And never did a dog-rib or a yellow-knife open his mouth about Kichiyuki Mall, Saint Pierre, the master of their unmapped domains. In that great country north and west of the Great Slave, he remained an enigma and a sphinx. If he ever came out with his brigades, he did not disclose his identity, so that if one saw a fleet of boats or canoes with the Saint Pierre Penin, one had to make his own guess whether Saint Pierre himself was there or not. But these things were known, that the keenest, quickest, and strongest men in the Northland ran the Saint Pierre brigades, that they brought out the richest cargoes of furs, and that they carried back with them into the secret fastnesses of their wilderness the greatest cargoes of freight that treasure could buy. So much the name of Saint Pierre dragged out of Kerrigan's memory. It came to him now why the name Boulet had pounded so insistently in his brain. He had seen this penin with its white bear and fighting-wolves only once before, and that had been over a Boulet's scow at Chippewine. But his memory had lost its grip on that incident while retaining vividly its hold on the stories and rumors of the mystery man, Saint Pierre. Kerrigan pulled himself a little higher on his pillow, and with a new interest scanned the cabin. He had never heard of Boulet women, yet here was the proof of their existence and of the greatness that ran in the red blood of their veins. The history of the Great Northland, hidden in the dust-dry tomes and guarded documents of the great company, had always been of absorbing interest to him. He wondered why it was that the outside world knew so little about it and believed so little of what it heard. A long time ago he had penned an article telling briefly the story of this half of a great continent in which for two hundred years romance and tragedy and strife for mastery had gone on in a way to thrill the hearts of men. He had told of huge forts, with thirty-foot stone bastions, of fierce wars, of great warships that had fired their broadsides in battle in the ice-filled waters of Hudson's Bay. He had described the coming into this northern world of thousands and tens of thousands of the bravest and best blooded men of England and France, and how these thousands had continued to come, bringing with them the names of kings, of princes, and of great lords, until out of the savagery of the north rose an aristocracy of race built up of the strongest men of the earth. And these men of later days he had called lords of the north, men who had held power of life and death in the hollow of their hands, until the great company yielded up at Suzerainty to the government of the Dominion in 1870, men who were kings in their domains, whose word was law, who were more powerful in their wilderness castles than their mistress over the sea, the Queen of Britain. And Kerrigan, after writing of these things, had stuffed his manuscript away in the bottom of his chest at Barracks, for he believed that it was not in his power to do justice to the people of this wilderness world that he loved. The powerful old lords were gone. Like dethroned monarchs, stripped to the level of other men, they lived in the memories of what had been. Their might now lay in trade. No more could they set out to wage war upon their rivals with powder and ball. Keen wit, swift dogs, and the politics of barter had taken the place of deadlier things. Le facteur could no longer slay or command that others be slain. A mightier hand than his now ruled the destinies of the northern people, the hand of the royal northwest-mounted police. It was this thought, the thought that law and one of the powerful forces of the wilderness had met in this cabin of the big bateau that came to Kerrigan as he drew himself still higher against his pillow. A greater thrill possessed him than the thrill of his hunt for Black Roger Audemard. Black Roger was a murderer, a wholesale murderer, and a fiend, a mohawk for whom there could be no pity. Of all men the law wanted Black Roger most, and he, David Kerrigan, was the chosen one to consummate its desire. Yet in spite of that he felt upon him the strange unrest of a greater adventure than the quest for Black Roger. It was like an impending thing that could not be seen, urging him, rousing his faculties from the slough into which they had fallen because of his wound and sickness. It was, after all, the most vital of all things, a matter of his own life. G. Marie Ambulin had tried to kill him deliberately, with malice and intent. That she had saved him afterward only added to the necessity of an explanation, and he was determined that he would have that explanation and settle the present matter before he allowed another thought of Black Roger to enter his head. This resolution reiterated itself in his mind as the machine-like voice of duty. He was not thinking of the law, and yet the consciousness of his accountability to that law kept repeating itself. In the very face of it Kerrigan knew that something besides the moral obligation of the thing was urging him, something that was becoming deeply and dangerously personal. At least he tried to think of it as dangerous, and that danger was his unbecoming interest in the girl herself. It was an interest distinctly removed from any ethical code that might have governed him in his experience with Carmen Fanché, for instance. Comparatively, if they had stood together, Carmen would have been the lovelier, but he would have looked longer at G. Marie Ambulin. He conceded the point, smiling a bit grimly as he continued to study that part of the cabin which he could see from his pillow. He had lost interest, temporarily at least, in Black Roger Audemard. Not long ago the one question to which, above all others, he had desired an answer was, why had G. Marie Ambulin worked so desperately to kill him and so hard to save him afterward? Now, as he looked about him, the question which repeated itself insistently was, what relationship did she bear to this mysterious Lord of the North, Saint Pierre? Undoubtedly she was his daughter, for whom Saint Pierre had built this luxurious barge of state. A fierce blooded offspring, he thought, one like Cleopatra herself, not afraid to kill, and equally quick to make amends when there was a mistake. There came the quiet opening of the cabin door to break in upon his thought. He hoped it was G. Marie Ambe returning to him. It was Nepapinas. The old Indian stood over him for a moment and put a cold, claw-like hand to his forehead.  Then he put his hands under David's arms and lifted him until he was sitting upright with three or four pillows at his back. Thanks! said Kerrigan. That makes me feel better. And, if you don't mind, my last lunch was three days ago, boiled prunes and a piece of bannock. I have brought you something to eat, Monsieur David, broken a soft voice behind him. Nepapinas slipped away and G. Marie Ambe stood in his place. David stared up at her, speechless. He heard the door close behind the old Indian. Then G. Marie Ambe drew up a chair so that for the first time he could see her clear eyes with the light of day full upon her. He forgot that a few days ago she had been his deadliest enemy. He forgot the existence of a man named Black Roger Audemard. Her slimness was as it had pictured itself to him in the hot sand. Her hair was as he had seen it there.  But it was her eyes he stared at, and so fixed was his look that the red lips trembled a bit on the verge of a smile. She was not embarrassed. There was no color in the clear whiteness of her skin, except that redness of her lips. I thought you had black eyes, he said bluntly. I'm glad you haven't. I don't like them. Yours are as brown as—as— Please, Monsieur, she interrupted him, sitting down close beside him. Will you eat now? A spoon was at his mouth, and he was forced to take it in or have its contents spilled over him. The spoon continued to move quickly between the bowl and his mouth. He was robbed of speech, and the girl's eyes, as surely as he was alive, were beginning to laugh at him. They were a wonderful brown with little golden specks in them, like the freckles he had seen in wood-violets. Her lips parted. Between their bewitching redness he saw the gleam of her white teeth. In a crowd, with her glorious hair covered and her eyes looking straight ahead, one would not have picked her out. But close, like this, with her eyes smiling at him, she was adorable. Something of Kerrigan's thoughts must have shown in his face, for suddenly the girl's lips tightened a little, and the warmth went out of her eyes, leaving them cold and distant. He finished the soup, and she rose again to her feet. Please don't go, he said. If you do, I think I shall get up and follow. I am quite sure I am entitled to a little something more than soup. Nipapina says that you may have a bit of boiled fish for supper, she assured him. You know I don't mean that. I want to know why you shot me, and what you think you're going to do with me. I shot you by mistake, and I don't know just what to do with you, she said, looking at him tranquilly, but with what he thought was a growing shadow of perplexity in her eyes. Batisse says to fasten a big stone to your neck and throw you in the river. But Batisse doesn't always mean what he says. I don't think he is quite as bloodthirsty as the young lady who tried to murder me behind the rock, Kerrigan interjected. Exactly, monsieur. I don't think he would throw you into the river unless I told him to. And I don't believe I am going to ask him to do that, she added, the soft glow flashing back into her eyes for an instant. Not after the splendid work Nipapina has done on your head. St. Pierre must see that. And then, if St. Pierre wishes to finish you, why? She shrugged her slim shoulders and made a little gesture with her hands. In that same moment there came over her a change as sudden as the passing of light itself. It was as if a thing she was hiding had broken beyond her control for an instant and had betrayed her. The gesture died. The glow went out of her eyes and in its place came a light that was almost fear or pain. She came nearer to Kerrigan again and somehow, looking up at her, he thought of the little brushwarbler singing at the end of its birch twig to give him courage. It must have been because of her throat, white and soft, when she saw pulsing like a beating heart before she spoke to him. I have made a terrible mistake, monsieur David, she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper. I am sorry I hurt you. I thought it was someone else behind the rock. But I cannot tell you more than that, ever, and I know it is impossible for us to be friends. She paused, one of her hands creeping to her bare throat, as if to cover the throbbing he had seen there. Why is it impossible, he demanded, leaning away from his pillows so that he might bring himself nearer to her? Because you are of the police, monsieur. The police, yes, he said, his heart thrumming inside his breast. I am Sergeant Kerrigan. I am out after Roger Audemard, a murderer. But my commission has nothing to do with the daughter of St. Pierre Boulin. Please, let's be friends. He held out his hand, and in that moment David Kerrigan placed another thing higher than duty, and in his eyes was the confession of it, like the glow of a subdued fire. The girl's fingers drew more closely at her throat, and she made no movement to accept his hands. Friends, he repeated, friends, in spite of the police. Slowly the girl's eyes had widened, as if she saw that newborn thing riding over all other things in his swiftly beating heart, and afraid of it, she drew a step away from him. I am not St. Pierre Boulin's daughter, she said, forcing the words out one by one. I am his wife. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Roger Millean Chapter 7 OF THE FLAMING FOREST This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Millean THE FLAMING FOREST By James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 7 Afterward Kerrigan wondered to what depths he had fallen in the first moments of his disillusionment. Something like shock, perhaps even more than that, must have betrayed itself in his face. He did not speak. Slowly his outstretched arm dropped to the white counterpane. Later he called himself a fool for allowing it to happen, for it was as if he had measured his proffered friendship by what its future might hold for him. In a low, quiet voice, Jimry Ambulin was saying again that she was St. Pierre's wife. She was not excited, yet he understood now why it was he had thought her eyes were very dark. They had changed swiftly. The violet freckles in them were like little flecks of gold. They were almost liquid in their glow, neither brown nor black now, and with that thread of gathering lightning in them. For the first time he saw the slightest flush of color in her cheeks. It deepened even as he held out his hand again. He knew that it was not embarrassment.  It's funny, he said, making an effort to redeem himself with a lie and smiling. You rather amaze me. You see, I have been told this St. Pierre is an old, old man, so old that he can't stand on his feet or go with his brigades. And if that is the truth, it is hard for me to picture you as his wife. But that isn't a reason why we should not be friends, is it? He felt that he was himself again, except for the three days growth of beard on his face. He tried to laugh, but it was rather a poor attempt. And St. Pierre's wife did not seem to hear him. She was looking at him, looking into and through him with those wide-open, glowing eyes. Then she sat down, out of reach of the hand which he had held toward her.   Your hand is against all wrong. Is it not so? It was the voice of an inquisitor. She was demanding an answer of him. He nodded. Yes, it is so.  And yet you say you want to be the friend of a stranger who has tried to kill you? Why, monsieur? He was cornered. He sensed the humiliation of it, the impossibility of confessing to her the wild impulse that had moved him before he knew she was St. Pierre's wife. And she did not wait for him to answer. This, this Roger Odomard, if you catch him, what will you do with him? she asked. He will be hanged, said David. He is a murderer. And one who tries to kill, who almost succeeds, what is the penalty for that? She leaned toward him, waiting. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. The spots were brighter in her cheeks. From ten to twenty years, he acknowledged. But, of course, there may be circumstances. If so, you do not know them, she interrupted him. You say Roger Odomard is a murderer.  Then why is it you would be my friend and Roger Odomard's enemy? Why, monsieur? Karagin shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. I shouldn't, he confessed. I guess you were proving I was wrong in what I said. I ought to arrest you and take you back to the landing as soon as I can. But, you see, it strikes me there is a big personal element in this. I was the man almost killed. There was a mistake, must have been. For as soon as you put me out of business, you began nursing me back to life again. And— But that doesn't change it, insisted St. Pierre's wife. If there had been no mistake, there would have been a murder. Do you understand, monsieur? If it had been someone else behind that rock, I am quite certain he would have died. The law, at least, would have called it murder. If Roger Odomard is a criminal, then I also am a criminal. And an honourable man would not make a distinction, because one of them is a woman. But Black Roger was a fiend. He deserves no mercy. He—perhaps, monsieur? She was on her feet, her eyes flaming down upon him. In that moment her beauty was like the beauty of Carmen Fanché. The poise of her slender body, her glowing cheeks, her lustrous hair, her gold-flect eyes with the light of diamonds in them, held him speechless. I was sorry and went back for you, she said. I wanted you to live after I saw you like that in the sand. But Tisse says I was indiscreet, and that I should have left you there to die. Perhaps he is right. And yet even Roger Odomard might have had that pity for you. She turned quickly and he heard her moving away from him. Then, from the door, she said, But Tisse will make you comfortable, monsieur. The door opened and closed. She was gone, and he was alone in the cabin again. The swiftness of the change in her amazed him. It was as if he had suddenly touched fire to an explosive. There had been the flare, but no violence. She had not raised her voice, yet he heard in it the tremble of an emotion that was consuming her. He had seen the flame of it in her face and eyes. Something he had said or had done had tremendously upset her, changing in an instant her attitude toward him. The thought that came to him made his face burn under its scrub of beard. Did she think he was a scoundrel? The dropping of his hand, the shock that must have betrayed itself in his face when she said she was St. Pierre's wife, had those things warned her against him? The heat went slowly out of his face. It was impossible. She could not think that of him. It must have been a sudden giving way under terrific strain. She had compared herself to Roger Odomard, and she was beginning to realize her peril, that Tisse was right, that she should have left him to die in the sand. The thought pressed itself heavily upon Kerrigan. It brought him suddenly back to a realization of how small a part he had played in this last half hour in the cabin. He had offered to Pierre's wife a friendship which she had no right to offer and which she knew he had no right to offer. He was the law. And she, like Roger Odomard, was a criminal. Her quick woman's instinct had told her there could be no distinction between them unless there was a reason. And now Kerrigan confessed to himself that there had been a reason. That reason had come to him with the first glimpse of her as he lay in the hot sand. He had fought against it in the canoe. It had mastered him in those thrilling moments when he had beheld this slim, beautiful creature riding fearlessly into the boiling waters of the Holy Ghost. Her eyes, her hair, the sweet low voice that had been with him in his fever had become a definite and unalterable part of him. And this must have shown in his eyes and face when he dropped his hand when she told him she was Saint Pierre's wife. And now she was afraid of him. She was regretting that she had not left him to die. She had misunderstood what she had seen betraying itself during those few seconds of his proffered friendship. She saw only a man whom she had nearly killed, a man who represented the law, a man whose power held her in the hollow of his hand. And she had stepped back from him, startled, and had told him that she was not Saint Pierre's daughter but his wife. In the science of criminal analysis, Kerrigan always placed himself in the position of the other man, and he was beginning to see the present situation from the viewpoint of Jean-Marie Anne Boulin. He was satisfied that she had made a desperate mistake, and that until the last moment she had believed it was another man behind the rock. Yet she had shown no inclination to explain away her error. She had definitely refused to make an explanation. And it was simply a matter of common sense to concede that there must be a powerful motive for her refusal. There was but one conclusion for him to arrive at. The error which Saint Pierre's wife had made in shooting the wrong man was less important to her than keeping the secret of why she had wanted to kill some other man. David was not unconscious of the breach in his own armor. He had weakened, just as the superintendent of N-Division had weakened that day four years ago when they had almost quarreled over Carmen Fanché. I'll swear to heaven she isn't bad, no matter what her brother has been, McVane had said. I'll gamble my life on that, Kerrigan. And because the Chief of Division with sixty years of experience behind him had believed that, Carmen Fanché had not been held as an accomplice in her brother's evil doing, but had gone back into her wilderness uncrucified by the law that had demanded the life of her brother. He would never forget the last time he had seen Carmen Fanché's eyes, great, black, glorious pools of gratitude as they looked at grizzled old McVane, blazing fires of venomous hatred when they turned on him, and he had said to McVane, The man pays, the woman goes, justice indeed is blind. McVane, not being a stickler on regulations when it came to Kerrigan, had made no answer. The incident came back vividly to David as he waited for the promised coming of Batisse. He began to appreciate McVane's point of view, and it was comforting because he realized that his own logic was assailable. If McVane had been comparing the two women now, he knew what his argument would be. There had been no absolute proof of crime against Carmen Fanché, unless to fight desperately for the life of her brother was a crime. In the case of Jean-Marie Ambulin, there was proof. She had tried to kill. Therefore, of the two, Carmen Fanché would have been the better woman in the eyes of McVane. In spite of the legal force of the argument which he was bringing against himself, David felt unconvinced. Carmen Fanché, had she been in the place of Saint Pierre's wife, would have finished him there in the sand. She would have realized the menace of letting him live, and would probably have commanded Batisse to dump him in the river. Saint Pierre's wife had gone to the other extreme. She was not only repentant, but was making restitution for her mistake, and in making that restitution had crossed far beyond the deadline of caution. She had frankly told him who she was. She had brought him into the privacy of what was undeniably her own home. In her desire to undo what she had done, she had hopelessly enmeshed herself in the net of the law, if that law saw fit to act. She had done these things with courage and conviction, and of such a woman, Caraggan thought, Saint Pierre must be very proud. He looked slowly about the cabin again, and each thing that he saw was a living voice breaking up a dream for him. These voices told him that he was in a temple, built because of a man's worship for a woman, and that man was Saint Pierre. Through the two Western windows came the last glow of the Western sun, like a golden benediction finding its way into a sacred place. Here there was, or had been, a great happiness, for only a great pride and a great happiness could have made it as it was. Nothing that wealth and toil could drag up out of a civilization a thousand miles away had been too good for Saint Pierre's wife. And about him, looking more closely, David saw the undisturbed evidences of a woman's contentment. On the table were embroidery materials with which she had been working, and a lampshade half finished. A woman's magazine printed in a city four thousand miles away lay open at the fashion plates. There were other magazines, and many books, and open music above the white keyboard of the piano, and vases glowing red and yellow with wildflowers and silver birch leaves. He could smell the faint perfume of the fire-glow blossoms, red as blood. In a pool of sunlight on one of the big white bear rugs lay the sleeping cat, and then, at the far end of the cabin, an ivory white cross of Christ glowed for a few moments in a last homage of the sinking sun. Uneasiness stole upon him. This was the woman's holy ground, her sanctuary, and her home, and for three days his presence had driven her from it. There was no other room. In making restitution, she had given up to him her most sacred of all things. And again there rose up in him that newborn thing which had set strange fires stirring in his heart, and which, from this hour on, he knew he must fight until it was dead. For an hour after the last of the sun was obliterated by the western mountains, he lay in the gloom of coming darkness. Only the lapping of water under the bateau broke the strange stillness of the evening. He heard no sound of life, no voice, and no sound of no voice, no tread of feet, and he wondered where the woman and her men had gone, and if the scow was still tied up at the edge of the tar sands. And for the first time he asked himself another question. Where was the man, Saint Pierre? End of chapter 7 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 8 of The Flaming Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 8 It was utterly dark in the cabin when the stillness was broken by low voices outside. The door opened and someone came in. A moment later a match flared up and in the shifting glow of it Kerrigan saw the dark face of Baptiste, the half-breed. One after another he lighted the four lamps. Not until he had finished did he turn toward the bed. It was then that David had his first good impression of the man. He was not tall, but built with the strength of a giant. His arms were long. His shoulders were stooped.  Wide-eyed, heavy-lipped, with the high cheekbones of an Indian and uncut black hair bound with the knotted red mouchois, he looked more than ever like a pirate and a cutthroat to David. Such a man, he thought, might make play out of the business of murder. And yet, in spite of his ugliness, David felt again the mysterious inclination to like the man. Baptiste grinned. It was a huge grin, for his mouth was big. You very lucky fellow, he announced.  That is one big mistake. Baptiste say ties his stone around his neck and make him one ange de mer. Chuck him in the river, my Belgian. And she say no, make him well and feed him fish. So I bring the fish which she promised, and when you have eat, I tell you something. He returned to the door and brought back with him a wicker basket. Then he drew up the table beside Kerrigan and proceeded to lay out before him the boiled fish which St. Pierre's wife had promised him. With it was bread and an earthen pot of hot tea. She say that is all you have because of ze fever.  You want to see me dead, is that it, Baptiste? We, you make one very good dead man, monsieur. Baptiste was no longer grinning. He stood back and pointed at the food.  Now that he saw the luscious bit of white fish before him, Kerrigan was possessed of the hungering emptiness of three days and nights. As he ate, he observed that Baptiste was performing curious duties. He straightened a couple of rugs, ran fresh water into the flower vases, picked up half a dozen scattered magazines, and then, to David's increasing interest, produced a dust cloth from somewhere and began to dust. David finished his fish, the one slice of bread, and his cup of tea. He felt tremendously good. The hot tea was like a trickle of new life through every vein in his body, and he had the desire to get up and try out his legs. Suddenly, Baptiste discovered that his patient was laughing at him. Could Diable, he demanded, coming up ferociously with the cloth in his great hand. You see something very funny, monsieur? No, nothing funny, Baptiste, grinned Kerrigan. I was just thinking what a handsome chambermaid you make. You are so gentle, so nice to look at. So, Diable, exploded Baptiste, dropping his dust cloth and bringing his huge hands down upon the table with a smash that almost wrecked the dishes. You have eaten, and now you listen. You have never heard before of Concombra Baptiste. And zat is me. See, with these two hands I have choked Zipola better death. I am strongest man what is in all North Country. I pack four hundred pounds over Portage.  I run six to a hundred miles without stop for rest. I pull down trees what utter man cut with axe. I am not afraid of nothing. You listen? You hear what I say? I hear you. Bien. Then I tell you what Concombra Baptiste is going to do with you, monsieur Sergeant de Police. Mabel Jean, she make one grand mistake.  Baptiste say, kill him, so no one know what happened three days ago behind the rock. But Mabel Jean, she say, no Baptiste. He is mistake for utter man, and we must let him live. And then she tell me to come and bring you fish, and tell you what is going to happen if you go away from these bateaux. You comprend?  See, with these hands I break your neck and throw you on river. Mabel Jean, say, do that.  She tell me brings that word to you, with these fish. You listen hard what I say. If ever a worker of iniquity lived on earth, Kerrigan might have judged Baptiste as that man in these moments. The half-breed had worked himself up to a ferocious pitch. His eyes rolled. His wide mouth snarled in the virulence of its speech. His thick neck grew corded, and his huge hands clenched menacingly upon the table. Yet David had no fear. He wanted a laugh, but he knew laughter would be the deadliest of insults to Baptiste just now. He remembered that the half-breed, fierce as a pirate, had a touch as gentle as a woman's. This man, who could choke an ox with his monstrous hands, had a moment before petted a cat, straightened out rugs, watered the woman's flowers, and had dusted. He was harmless now. And yet in the same breath David sensed the fact that a single word from St. Pierre's wife would be sufficient to fire his brute strength into a blazing volcano of action. Such a henchman was priceless under certain conditions, and he had brought a warning straight from the woman. I think I understand what you mean, Baptiste, he said. She says that I am to make no effort to leave this bateau, that I am to be killed if I try to escape. Are you sure she said that? Parle mil corn de diable, you think Baptiste lie, monsieur? Concombre Baptiste, who chokes the white bear with his two hands, who pulled down Zitri. No, no, I don't think you lie. But I am wondering why she didn't tell me that when she was here. Because she have too much little bird heart, Zaddee's why. She say, Baptiste, you tell him he must wait for St. Pierre.   Carrigan reached out a hand. Let's shake, Baptiste. I'll give you my word that I won't try to escape, not until you and I have a good stand-up fight with the earth under our feet, and I've whipped you. Is it a go? Baptiste stared for a moment, and then his face broke into a wide grin. You likes the fight, monsieur? Yes, I love a scrap with a good man like you. One of Baptiste's huge hands crawled slowly over the table and engulfed David's. Joy shone on his face. A new promise give me Zaddee's fight when you are strong? If I don't, I'll let you tie a stone around my neck and drop me into the river. You are brave, Garçon, cried the delighted Baptiste. Up and down Zaddee's river sees no man what can whip concomita Baptiste. Suddenly his face grew clouded. But Zaddee had, monsieur? he added anxiously. It will get well quickly if you will help me, Baptiste. Right now I want to get up, I want to stretch my legs. Was my head bad? No, the bullet scrapes the hair off, so, so, and turns the brain-seek. I think you be good fighting man in a week, and you will help me up. Baptiste was a changed man. Again, David felt that mighty but gentle strength of his arms as he helped him to his feet. He was a trifle unsteady for a moment. Then, with the half-breed close at his side, ready to catch him if his legs gave way, he walked to one of the windows and looked out. Across the river, fully half a mile away, he saw the glow of fires. Her camp, he asked. We, monsieur? We have moved from the tar sands? We have moved from the tar sands? Yes, two days down Zireva. Why are they not camping over here with us? Baptiste gave a disgusted grunt. Because my Belgian have such little bird-heart, monsieur. She say you must not have noise near, like ze talk and laugh and ze chanson. She say it disturb, and that it rank you worse with ze fever. She is make you like the baby, Baptiste say to her.  Wait, Saint Pierre, come.  I hope we have Zaph fight before then, monsieur. We'll have it anyway, Baptiste. Where is Saint Pierre, and when shall we see him? Baptiste shrugged his shoulders. Maybe weak, maybe more. He long way off. Is he an old man? Slowly Baptiste turned David about until he was facing him. You asked nothing more about Saint Pierre, he warned. No man's talk about Saint Pierre. Only one, my Belgian.    Will you bring me my pack and clothes in the morning? I want a shave and dress. Baptiste was ahead of him, smoothing the pillows and straightening out the rumpled bed-clothes. His huge hands were quick and capable as a woman, and David could not keep himself from chuckling at this feminine ingeniousness of the powerful half-breed. Once in the crush of those guerrilla-like arms that were working over his bed now, he thought, and it would be all over with the strongest man in end division. Baptiste heard the chuckle and looked up. Something very funny once more, is it, what? he demanded. I was thinking, Baptiste, what will happen to me if you get me in those arms when we fight? But it isn't going to happen.   I choke you like white bear. I throw you over to my shoulder. I mash you like little strawberry. I— he paused in his task to advance with a formidable gesture. Not now, warned Kerrigan. I'm still a bit groggy, Baptiste. He pointed down at the bed. I'm driving her from that, he said. I don't like it. Is she sleeping over there in the camp? Maybe, and maybe not, Monsieur, growled Baptiste. You make guess, eh? He began extinguishing the lights until only the one nearest the door was left burning. He did not turn toward Kerrigan or speak to him again. When he went out, David heard the click of a lock in the door. Baptiste had not exaggerated. It was the intention of Saint Pierre's wife that he should consider himself a prisoner, at least for tonight. He had no desire to lie down again. There was an unsteadiness in his legs, but outside of that the evil of his sickness no longer oppressed him. The staff doctor at the landing would probably have called him a fool for not convalescing in the usual prescribed way, but Kerrigan was already beginning to feel the demand for action. In spite of what physical effort he had made, his head did not hurt him, and his mind was keenly alive. He returned to the window through which he could see the fires of the western shore, and found no difficulty in opening it. A strong screen netting kept him from thrusting out his head and shoulders. Through it came the cool night breeze of the river. It seemed good to fill his lungs with it again and smell the fresh aroma of the forest. It was very dark, and the fires across the river were brighter because of the deep gloom. There was no promise of the moon in the sky. He could not see a star. From far in the west he caught the low intonation of thunder. Kerrigan turned from the window to the end of the cabin in which the piano stood. Here, too, was the second divan, and he saw the meaning now of two close-tide curtains, one at each side of the cabin. Drawn together on a taut wire stretched two inches under the ceiling, they shut off this end of the bateau, and turned at least a third of the cabin into the privacy of a woman's bedroom. With growing uneasiness David saw the evidence that this had been her sleeping apartment. At each side of the piano was a small door, and he opened one of these just enough to discover that it was a wardrobe closet. A third door opened on the shore side of the bateau, but this was locked. Shutout from the view of the lower end of the cabin by a Japanese screen were a small dresser and a mirror. In the dim illumination that came from the distant lamp David bent over the open sheet of music on the piano. It was Muscagni's Ave Maria. His blood tingled. His brain was stirred by a new emotion, a growing thing that made him uneasy and filled him with a strange restlessness. He felt as though he had come suddenly to the edge of a great danger. Somewhere within him an intelligence seized upon it and understood. Yet it was not physical enough for him to fight. It was a danger which crept up and about him, something which he could not see or touch, and yet which made his heart beat faster and the blood come into his face.  It was the woman's handkerchief, and like a thief he raised it slowly. It smelled faintly of crushed violets. It was as if she were bending over him in his sickness again, and it was her breath that came to him. He was not thinking of her as Saint Pierre's wife. And then sharply he caught himself and placed the handkerchief back on the piano keys. He tried to laugh at himself, but there was an emptiness where a moment before there had been that thrill of which he was now ashamed. He turned back to the window. The thunder had come nearer. It was coming up fast out of the west, and with it a darkness that was like the blackness of a pit. A dead stillness was preceding it now, and in that stillness it seemed to carrigan that he could hear the soapy, slitting sound of the streaming flashes of electrical fire that blazoned the advance of the storm. The campfires across the river were dying down. One of them went out as he looked at it, and he stared into the darkness as if trying to pierce distance and gloom to see what sort of a shelter it was that Saint Pierre's wife had over there. And there came over him in these moments a desire that was almost cowardly. It was the desire to escape, to leave behind him the memory of the rock and of Saint Pierre's wife, and to pursue once more his own great adventure, the quest of Black Roger Audemard. He heard the rain coming. At first the sound of it was like the pattering of ten million tiny feet in dry leaves. Then suddenly it was like the roar of an avalanche. It was an inundation, and with it came crash after crash of thunder, and the black skies were illumined by an almost interrupted glare of lightning. It had been a long time since carrigan had felt the shock of such a storm. He closed the window to keep the rain out, and after that stood with his face flattened against the glass, staring over the river. The campfires were all gone now, blotted out like so many candles snuffed between thumb and forefinger, and he shuddered. No canvas ever made would keep that deluge out. And now there was growing up a wind with it. The tents on the other side would be beaten down like pegged sheets of paper, ripped up and torn to pieces. He imagined Saint Pierre's wife in that tumult and distress, the breath blown out of her, half-drowned, blinded by deluge and lightning, broken and beaten because of him. Thought of her companions did not ease his mind. Human hands were entirely inadequate to cope with a storm like this that was rocking the earth about him. Suddenly he went to the door, determined that if Baptiste was outside he would get some satisfaction out of him or challenge him to a fight right there. He beat against it, first with one fist and then with both. He shouted. There was no response. Then he exerted his strength and his weight against the door. It was solid. He was half turned when his eyes discovered in a corner where the lamp light struck dimly, his pack and clothes. In thirty seconds he had his pipe and tobacco. After that for half an hour he paced up and down the cabin, while the storm crashed and thundered as if bent upon destroying all life off the face of the earth. Comforted by the company of his pipe, Kerrigan did not beat at the door again. He waited, and at the end of another half hour the storm had softened down into a steady pattern of rain. The thunder had traveled east and the lightning had gone with it. David opened the window again. The air that came in was rain-sweet, soft, and warm. He puffed out a cloud of smoke and smiled. His pipe always brought his good humor to the surface, even in the worst places. St. Pierre's wife had certainly had a good soaking. And in a way the whole thing was a bit funny. He was thinking now of a poor little golden plumaged partridge soaked to the skin with its tail feathers dragging pathetically. Grinning he told himself that it was an insult to think of her and a half-drowned partridge in the same breath. But the simile still remained and he chuckled. Probably she was ringing out her clothes now, and the men were cursing under their breath while trying to light a fire. He watched for the fire. It failed to appear. Probably she was hating him for bringing all this discomfort and humiliation upon her. It was not impossible that tomorrow she would give Baptiste's permission to brain him. And St. Pierre? What would this man, her husband, think and do if he knew that his wife had given up her bedroom to this stranger? What complications might arise if he knew? It was late, past midnight, when Kerrigan went to bed. Even then he did not sleep for a long time. The patter of the rain grew less and less on the roof of the bateau, and as the sound of it droned itself off into nothingness, slumber came. David was conscious of the moment when the rain ceased entirely. Then he slept. At least he must have been very close to sleep, or had been asleep and was returning for a moment close to consciousness when he heard a voice. It came several times before and he was roused enough to realize that it was a voice. And then, suddenly, piercing his slowly wakened brain almost with the shock of one of the thunder crashes, it came to him so distinctly that he found himself sitting up straight, his hands clenched, eyes staring in the darkness, waiting for it to come again. Somewhere very near him, in his room, within the reach of his hands, a strange and indescribable voice had cried out in the darkness the words which twice before had beat themselves mysteriously into David Kerrigan's brain. Has anyone seen Black Roger Audemard? Has anyone seen Black Roger Audemard? And David, holding his breath, listened for the sound of another breath which he knew was in that room. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 9 OF THE FLAMING FOREST This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline THE FLAMING FOREST By James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 9 For perhaps a minute, Kerrigan made no sound that could have been heard three feet away from him. It was not fear that held him quiet. It was something which he could not explain afterward, the sensation, perhaps, of one who feels himself confronted for a moment by a presence more potent than that of flesh and blood. Black Roger Audemard Three times, twice in his sickness, someone had cried out that name in his ears since the hour when St. Pierre's wife had ambushed him on the white carpet of sand. And the voice was now in his room. Was it Batisse, inspired by some sort of malformed humor? Kerrigan listened. Another minute passed. He reached out a hand and groped about him, very careful not to make a sound, urged by the feeling that someone was almost within reach of him. He flung back his blanket and stood out in the middle of the floor. Still he heard no movement, no soft footfalls of retreat or advance. He lighted a match and held it high above his head. In its yellow illumination he could see nothing alive. He lighted a lamp. The cabin was empty. He drew a deep breath and went to the window. It was still open. The voice had undoubtedly come to him through that window, and he fancied he could see where the screen netting was crushed a bit inward as though a face had pressed heavily against it. Outside the night was beautifully calm. The sky, washed by storm, was bright with stars. But there was not a ripple of movement that he could hear. After that he looked at his watch. He must have been sleeping for some time when the voice roused him, for it was nearly three o'clock. In spite of the stars Don was close at hand. When he looked out of the window again they were paler and more distant. He had no intention of going back to bed. He was restless and felt himself surrendering more and more to the grip of pre-sendament. It was still early, not later than six o'clock, when Batisse came in with his breakfast. He was surprised, as he had heard no movement or sound of voices to give evidence of life anywhere near the bateau. Instantly he made up his mind that it was not Batisse who had uttered the mysterious words of a few hours ago, for the half-breed had evidently experienced a most uncomfortable night. He was like a rat recently pulled out of water.  He slammed the breakfast things down on the table and went out again without so much as nodding at his prisoner. Again a sense of discomfort and shame swept over David as he sat down to breakfast. Here he was comfortably, even luxuriously housed, while out there somewhere St. Pierre's lovely wife was drenched and even more miserable than Batisse. And the breakfast amazed him. It was not so much the caribou tenderloin, rich in its own red juice, or the potato, or the pot of coffee that was filling the cabin with its aroma that roused his wonder, but the hut-brown muffins that accompanied the other things. Muffins! And after a daylose that had drowned every square inch of the earth. How had Batisse turned the trick? Batisse did not return immediately for the dishes, and for half an hour after he had finished breakfast, Kerrigan smoked his pipe and watched the blue haze of fires on the far side of the river. The world was a blaze of sunlit glory. His imagination carried him across the river. Somewhere over there, in an open spot where the sun was blazing, Jean-Marie Anne was probably drying herself after the night of storm. There was but little doubt in his mind that she was already heaping the ignominy of blame upon him. That was the woman of it. A knock at his door drew him about. It was a light, quick tap-tap-tap, not like the fist of either Batisse or Nepapinas. In another moment the door swung open, and in the flood of sunlight that poured into the cabin stood St. Pierre's wife. It was not her presence, but the beauty of her that held him spellbound. It was a sort of shock after the vivid imaginings of his mind in which he had seen her beaten and tortured by storm. Her hair, glowing in the sun and piled up in shining coils in the crown of her head, was not wet. She was not the rain-beaten little partridge that had passed in tragic bedragalment through his mind. Storm had not touched her. Her cheeks were soft with the warm flush of long hours of sleep. When she came in, her lips, greeting him with a little smile, all that he had built up for himself in the hours of the night, crumbled away in dust. Again he forgot for a moment that she was St. Pierre's wife. She was woman, and as he looked upon her now, the most adorable woman in all the world. You are better this morning, she said, real pleasure shown in her eyes. She had left the door open so that the sun filled the room. I think the storm helped you. Wasn't it splendid? David swallowed hard. Quite splendid, he managed to say. Have you seen bates this morning? A little note of laughter came into her throat. Yes, I don't think he liked it. He doesn't understand why I love storms. Did you sleep well, Mr. Kerrigan? An hour or two, I think. I was worrying about you. I didn't like the thought that I had turned you out into the storm, but it doesn't seem to have touched you. No, I was there, quite comfortable, she nodded to the forward bulkhead of the cabin, beyond the wardrobe closets and the piano. There is a little dining-room and a kitchenette ahead, she explained. Didn't Bates tell you that? No, he didn't.  Bates is very odd, said St. Pierre's wife. He is exceedingly jealous of me, Monsieur David. Even when I was a baby and he carried me about in his arms, he was just that way. Bates, you know, is older than he appears. He is fifty-one. She was moving about, quite as if his presence was in no way going to disturb her usual duties of the day. She rearranged the day-mass curtains which he had crumpled with his hands, placed two or three chairs in their usual places, and moved from this to that with the air of a housewife who was in the habit of brushing up a bit in the morning. She seemed not at all embarrassed because he was her prisoner, nor uncomfortably restrained because of the message she had sent to him by Bates. She was warmly and gloriously human. In her apparent unconcern at his presence he found himself sweating inwardly. A bit nervously he struck a match to light his pipe, then extinguished it. She noticed what he had done. You may smoke, she said, with that little note in her throat which he loved to hear, like the faintest melody of laughter that did not quite reach her lips. St. Pierre smokes a great deal and I like it. She opened a drawer in the dressing-table and came to him with a box half filled with cigars. St. Pierre prefers these on occasions, she said. Do you? His finger seemed all thumbs as he took a cigar from the proffered box. He cursed himself because his tongue felt thick. Perhaps it was his silence, betraying something of his mental clumsiness, that brought a faint flush of color into her cheeks. He noted that, and also that the top of her shining head came just about to his chin, and that her mouth and throat, looking down on them, were bewitchingly soft and sweet. And what she said, when her eyes opened wide and beautiful on him again, was like a knife cutting suddenly into the heart of his thoughts. In the evening I love to sit at St. Pierre's feet and watch him smoke, she said. I am glad it doesn't annoy you because I like to smoke, he replied lamely. She placed the box on the little reading-table and looked at his breakfast-things. You like muffins too. I was up early this morning making them for you. You made them, he demanded, as if her words were a most amazing revelation to him. Surely, Monsieur David, I make them every morning for St. Pierre. He is very fond of them. He says the third nicest thing about me is my muffins. And the other two, asked David. Are St. Pierre's little secrets, Monsieur? She laughed softly, the color deepening in her cheeks. It wouldn't be fair to tell you, would it? Perhaps it wouldn't, he said slowly, but there are one or two other things, Mrs. Boulin. You may call me Jean, or Marie Anne, if you care to, she interrupted him. It will be quite all right. She was picking up the breakfast-dishes, not at all perturbed by the fact that she was offering him a privilege which had the effect of quickening his pulse for a moment or two. Thank you, he said. I don't mind telling you that it is going to be difficult for me to do that, because, well, this is a most unusual situation, isn't it? In spite of all your kindness, including what was probably your good intention to endeavor to put an end to my earthly miseries behind the rock, I believe it is necessary for you to give me some kind of explanation, don't you? Didn't Baptiste explain to you last night? She asked, facing him. He brought a message from you to the effect that I was a prisoner, that I must make no attempt to escape, and that if I did try to escape, you had given your men instructions to kill me. She nodded quite seriously. That is right, Monsieur David. His face flamed. Then I am a prisoner.  I shall treat you very nicely if you make no attempt to escape, Monsieur David. Isn't that fair? Fair! he cried, choking back an explosion that would have vented itself on a man. Don't you realize what has happened? Don't you know that according to every law of God and man, I should arrest you and give you over to the law? Is it possible that you don't comprehend my own duty, what I must do? If he had noticed, he would have seen that there was no longer the flush of color in her cheeks. But her eyes, looking straight at him, were tranquil and unexcited. She nodded. That is why you must remain a prisoner, Monsieur David. It is because I do realize I shall not tell you why that happened behind the rock, and if you ask me, I shall refuse to talk to you.  So I must keep you until St. Pierre comes. I don't know what to do, except to keep you, and not let you escape until then. What would you do? The question was so honest, so like a question that might have been asked by a puzzled child, that his argument for the law was struck dead. He stared into the pale face, the beautiful, waiting eyes, saw the pathetic intertwining of her slim fingers, and suddenly he was grinning in that big, honest way which made people love Dave Kerrigan. You're doing absolutely right, he said.  From your point of view you are right, he repeated, and I shall make no attempt to escape until I have talked with St. Pierre. But I can't quite see, just now, how he is going to help the situation. He will, she assured him confidently. You seem to have an unlimited faith in St. Pierre, he replied, a little grimly. Yes, Monsieur David, he is the most wonderful man in the world, and he will know what to do. David shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps in some nice quiet place he will follow the advice Batisse gave you, tie a stone round my neck and sink me to the bottom of the river. Perhaps, but I don't think he will do that I should object to it. Oh, you would? Yes, St. Pierre is big and strong, afraid of nothing in the world, but he will do anything for me. I don't think he would kill you if I asked him not to. She turned to resume the task of cleaning up the breakfast things. With a sudden movement David swung one of the big chairs close to her. Please sit down, he commanded. I can talk to you better that way. As an officer of the law, it is my duty to ask you a few questions. It rests in your power to answer all of them or none of them. I have given you my word not to act until I have seen St. Pierre, and I shall keep that promise. But when we do meet, I shall act largely on the strength of what you tell me to do. I shall act largely on the strength of what you tell me during the next ten minutes. Please sit down. End of Chapter 9. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 10 of The Flaming Forest. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood. Chapter 10. In that big, deep chair which must have been St. Pierre's own, Marie Anne sat facing Kerrigan. Between its great arms her slim little figure seemed diminutive and out of place. Her brown eyes were level and clear, waiting. They were not warm or nervous, but so coolly and calmly beautiful that they disturbed Kerrigan. She raised her hands, her slim fingers crumpling for a moment in the soft, thick coils of her hair. That little movement, the unconscious feminism of it, the way she folded her hands in her lap afterward, disturbed Kerrigan even more.  The thought made him uneasy. And she sat waiting, a vivid, softly breathing question mark against the warm coloring of the upholstered chair. When you shot me, he began, I saw you first standing over me. I thought you had come to finish me. It was then that I saw something in your face. Horror, amazement, as though you had done something you did not know you were doing. You see, I want to be charitable. I want to understand. I want to excuse you if I can. Won't you tell me why you shot me, and why that change came over you when you saw me lying there? No, Mr. David, I shall not tell. She was not antagonistic or defiant. Her voice was not raised, nor did it betray an unusual emotion. It was simply decisive, and the unflinching steadiness of her eyes, and the way in which she sat with her hands folded, gave to it an unqualified definiteness. You mean that I must make my own guess? She nodded. Or get it out of St. Pierre? If St. Pierre wishes to tell you, yes. Well, he leaned a little toward her. After that you dragged me up into the shade, dressed my wounds, and made me comfortable. In a hazy sort of way I knew what was going on, and a curious thing happened.  At times there seemed to be two of you. He was not looking at her hands, or he would have seen her fingers slowly tighten in her lap. You were badly hurt, she said. It is not strange that you should have imagined things, Monsieur David. And I seemed to hear two voices, he went on. She made no answer, but continued to look at him steadily. And the other had hair that was like copper and gold fire in the sun. I would see your face and then hers, again and again, and since then I have thought I was a heavy load for your hands to drag up through that sand to the shade alone. She held up her two hands, looking at them. They are strong, she said. They are small, he insisted, and I doubt if they could drag me across this floor. For the first time the quiet of her eyes gave way to a warm fire. It was hard work, she said, and the note in her voice gave him warning that he was approaching the deadline again. But he says I was a fool for doing it, and if you saw two of me, or three or four, it doesn't matter. Are you through questioning me, Monsieur David? If so, I have a number of things to do. He made a gesture of despair. No, I am not through. But why ask you questions if you won't answer them? I simply cannot. You must wait. For your husband? Yes, for Saint Pierre. He was silent for a moment, then said, I raved about a number of things when I was sick, didn't I? You did, and especially about what you thought happened in the sand.  You were so near dying that, of course, it wasn't amusing. Otherwise it would have been. You see, my hair is black, almost. Again, in a quick movement, her fingers were crumpling the lustrous coils in the crown of her head. Why do you say, almost, he asked? Because Saint Pierre has often told me that when I am in the sun there are red fires in it. And the sun was very bright that afternoon in the sand, Monsieur David. I think I understand, he nodded. And I'm rather glad, too. I like to know that it was you who dragged me up into the shade after trying to kill me. It proves you aren't quite so savage as… Cardeman Fanche, she interrupted him softly. You talked about her in your sickness, Monsieur David. It made me terribly afraid of you, so much so that, at times, I almost wondered if Baptiste wasn't right. It made me understand what would happen to me if I should let you go. What terrible thing did she do to you? What could she have done more terrible than I have done? Is that why you have given your men orders to kill me if I try to escape? He asked. Because I talked about this woman, Carme Fanche? Yes, it is because of Carme Fanche that I am keeping you for Saint Pierre, she acknowledged. If you had no mercy for her you could have none for me. What terrible thing did she do to you, Monsieur? Nothing, to me, he said, feeling that she was putting him where the earth was unsteady under his feet again. But her brother was a criminal of the worst sort, and I was convinced then, and am convinced now, that his sister was a partner in his crimes. She was very beautiful, and that, I think, was what saved her. He was fingering his unlighted cigar as he spoke. When he looked up he was surprised at the swift change that had come into the face of Saint Pierre's wife. Her cheeks were flaming, and there were burning fires screened behind the long lashes of her eyes. But her voice was unchanged. It was without a quiver that betrayed the emotion which had sent the hot flush into her face. Then you judged her without absolute knowledge of fact?  I believe she was bad.  But you didn't know! Not absolutely, he conceded, but investigations might have shown her to be one of the most wonderful women that ever lived, Mr. David. It is not hard to fight for a good brother, but if he is bad it may take an angel to do it. He stared, thoughts tangling themselves in his head. A slow shame crept over him. She had cornered him. She had convicted him of unfairness to the one creature on earth, his strength and his manhood were bound to protect, a woman. She had convicted him of judging without fact. And in his head a voice seemed to cry out to him, What did Carmen Fanche ever do to you? He rose suddenly to his feet and stood at the back of his chair, his hands gripping the top of it. Maybe you are right, he said. Maybe I was wrong. I remember now that when I got Fanche I manacled him, and she sat beside him all through that first night. I didn't intend to sleep, but I was tired and did. I must have slept for an hour, and she roused me, trying to get the key to the handcuffs.  Triumph swept over the face that was looking up at him. Yes, she could have killed you while you slept, but she didn't. Why? I don't know. Perhaps she had the idea of getting the key and letting her brother do the job. Two or three days later I am convinced she would not have hesitated. I caught her twice trying to steal my gun, and a third time, late at night, when we were within a day or so of Athabasca landing, she almost got me with a club. So I concede that she never did anything very terrible to me. But I am sure that she tried, especially toward the last. And because she failed, she hated you.  You didn't look at it from a woman's viewpoint.  She tried, perhaps, and failed. The result was that her brother was killed by the law. Was not that enough? Was it fair or honest to destroy her simply because you thought she might be a partner in her brother's crimes? It is rather strange, he replied, a moment of indecision in his voice. McVane, the superintendent, asked me that same question. I thought he was touched by her beauty. And I'm sorry, very sorry, that I talked about her when I was sick. I don't want you to think I'm a bad sort that way. I'm going to think about it. I'm going over the whole thing again from the time I manacled Fanche, and if I find that I was wrong, and I ever meet Carmen Fanche again, I shall not be ashamed to get down on my knees and ask her pardon, Marianne. For the first time he spoke the name which she had given him permission to use. And she noticed it. He could not help seeing that, a flashing instant in which the undefinable confession of it was in her face, as though his use of it had surprised her, or pleased her, or both. Then it was gone. She did not answer, but rose from the big chair, and went to the window, and stood with her back toward him, looking out over the river. And then suddenly they heard a voice. It was the voice he had heard twice in his sickness, the voice that had roused him from his sleep last night, crying out in his room for Black Roger Odomard. It came to him distinctly through the open door in a low and moaning monotone. He had not taken his eyes from the slim figure of St. Pierre's wife, and he saw a little tremor pass through her now. I heard that voice again last night, said David. It was in this cabin, asking for Black Roger Odomard. She did not seem to hear him, and he also turned so that he was looking at the open door of the cabin. The sun, pouring through in a golden flood, was all at once darkened, and in the doorway, framed vividly against the day, was the figure of a man. A tense breath came to Kerrigan's lips. At first he felt a shock, then an overwhelming sense of curiosity and of pity. The man was terribly deformed. His back and massive shoulders were so twisted and bent that he stood no higher than a twelve-year-old boy. Yet, standing straight, he would have been six feet tall if an inch, and splendidly proportioned. And in that same breath with which shock and pity came to him, David knew that it was accident, and not birth, that had malformed the great body that stood like a crouching animal in the open door. At first he saw only the grotesqueness of it, the long arms that almost touched the floor, the broken back, the twisted shoulders, and then, with a deeper thrill, he saw nothing of these things but only the face and the head of the man. There was something godlike about them, fastened there between the crippled shoulders. It was not beauty, but strength. The strength of rock, of carven granite, as if each feature had been chiseled out of something imperishable and everlasting, yet lacking strangely and mysteriously the warm illumination that comes from a living soul. The man was not old nor was he young, and he did not seem to see Kerrigan, who stood nearest to him. He was looking at St. Pierre's wife, and he was looking at St. Pierre's wife. The look which David saw in her face was infinitely tender. She was smiling at the misshapen hulk in the door, as she might have smiled at a little child. And David, looking back at the wide, deep-set eyes of the man, saw the slumbering fire of a dog-like worship in them. They shifted slowly, taking in the cabin, questing, seeking, searching for something which they could not find. The lips moved, and again he heard that weird and mysterious monotone, as if the plaintive voice of a child were coming out of the huge frame of the man, crying out as it had cried last night, has anyone seen Black Roger Audemard? In another moment St. Pierre's wife was at the deformed giant side. She seemed tall beside him.  Kerrigan, looking at them, felt his heart stand still. Was this man St. Pierre? The thought came like a lightning flash, and went as quickly. It was impossible and inconceivable. And yet there was something more than pity in the voice of the woman who was speaking now. No, no, we have not seen him, André. We have not seen Black Roger Audemard. If he comes I will call you. I promise, Mishihuan, I will call you. She was stroking his bearded cheek, and then she put an arm about his twisted shoulders, and slowly she turned so that in a moment or two they were facing the sun, and it seemed to Kerrigan that she was talking and sobbing and laughing in the same breath, as that great, broken hulk of a man moved out slowly from under the caress of her arm and went on his way. For a space she looked after him. Then in a swift movement she closed the door and faced Kerrigan. She did not speak, but waited. Her head was high. She was breathing quickly. The tenderness that a moment before had filled her face was gone, and in her eyes was the blaze of fighting fires as she waited for him to speak, to give voice to what she knew was passing in his mind. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 11 of The Flaming Forest This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 11 For a space there was silence between Kerrigan and St. Pierre's wife. He knew what she was thinking as she stood with her back to the door, waiting half defiantly.  She was ready to fight for the broken creature on the other side of the door. She expected him to give no quarter in his questioning of her, to corner her if he could, to demand of her why the deformed giant had spoken the name of the man he was after, Black Roger Odomard. The truth hammered in David's brain. It had not been a delusion of his fevered mind after all. It was not a possible deception of the half-breeds, as he had thought last night. Chance had brought him face to face with the mystery of Black Roger. St. Pierre's wife, waiting for him to speak, was in some way associated with that mystery, and the cripple was asking for the man McVane had told him to bring in, dead or alive. Yet he did not question her. He turned to the window and looked out from where Marie Anne had stood a few moments before. The day was glorious. On the far shore he saw life where last night's camp had been. Men were moving about close to the water, and a york-boat was putting out slowly into the stream. Close under the window moved a canoe with a single occupant. It was André, the broken man. With powerful strokes he was paddling across the river. His deformity was scarcely noticeable in the canoe. His bare head and black beard shone in the sun, and between his great shoulders his head looked more than ever to carag an like the head of a carven god. And this man, like a mighty tree stricken by lightning, his mind gone, was yet a thing that was more than flesh and blood to Marie Anne Boulin. David turned toward her. Her attitude was changed. It was no longer one of proud defiance. She had expected to defend herself from something, and he had given her no occasion for defense. She did not try to hide the fact from him, and he nodded toward the window. He is going away in a canoe. I am afraid you didn't want me to see him, and I am sorry I happened to be here when he came. I made no effort to keep him away, Mr. David. Perhaps I wanted you to see him. And I thought, when you did—she hesitated.  And you are ready to fight back, but I am not going to question you unless you give me permission. I am glad, she said in a low voice. I am beginning to have faith in you, Mr. David. You have promised not to try to escape, and I believe you. Would you also promise not to ask me questions, which I cannot answer, until St. Pierre comes? I will try. She came up to him slowly and stood facing him, so near that she could have reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. St. Pierre has told me a great deal about the Scarlet Police, she said, looking at him quietly and steadily. He says that the men who wear the red jackets never play low tricks, and that they come after a man squarely and openly. He says they are men, and many times he has told me wonderful stories of the things they have done. He calls it playing the game. And I am going to ask you, Mr. David, will you play square with me? If I give you the freedom of the bateau, of the boats, even of the shore, will you wait for St. Pierre and play the rest of the game out with him, man to man? Kerrigan bowed his head slightly. Yes, I will wait and finish the game with St. Pierre. He saw a quick throb come and go in her white throat, and with a sudden impulsive movement she held out her hand to him. For a moment he held it close. Her little fingers tightened about his own, and the warm thrill of them set his blood leaping with the thing he was fighting down. She was so near that he could feel the throb of her body. For an instant she bowed her head, and the sweet perfume of her hair was in his nostrils, the lustrous beauty of it close under his lips. Gently she withdrew her hand and stood back from him. To Kerrigan she was like a young girl now. It was the loveliness of girlhood he saw in the flush of her face, and in the gladness that was flaming unashamed in her eyes. I am not frightened any more, she exclaimed, her voice trembling a bit. When St. Pierre comes I shall tell him everything. And then you may ask the questions and he will answer. And he will not cheat, he will play square. You will love St. Pierre and you will forgive me for what happened behind the rock. She made a little gesture toward the door. Everything is free to you out there now, she added. I shall tell Batisse and the others. When we are tied up you may go ashore, and we will forget all that has happened, Monsieur David. We will forget until St. Pierre comes. St. Pierre, he groaned. If there were no St. Pierre. I should be lost, she broke in quickly. I should want to die. Through the open window came the sound of a voice. It was the weird monotone of André, the broken man. Marie Anne went to the window, and David, following her, looked over her head, again so near that his lips almost touched her hair. André had come back. He was watching two York boats that were heading for the bateau. You heard him asking for Black Roger Audemard, she said. It is strange. I know how it must have shocked you when he stood like that in the door. His mind, like his body, is a wreck, Monsieur David. Years ago, after a great storm, St. Pierre found him in the forest. A tree had fallen on him. St. Pierre carried him in on his shoulders. He lived, but he has always been like that. St. Pierre loves him, and poor André worships St. Pierre and follows him about like a dog. His brain is gone. He does not know what his name is, and we call him André. And always, day and night, he is asking that same question. Has anyone seen Black Roger Audemard? Some time, if you will, Monsieur David, I should like to have you tell me what it is so terrible that you know about Roger Audemard. The York boats were halfway across the river, and from them came a sudden burst of wild song. David could make out six men in each boat, their oars flashing in the morning sun to the rhythm of their chant. Marie-Anne looked up at him suddenly, and in her face and eyes he saw what the starry gloom of evening had half hidden from him in those thrilling moments when they shot through the rapids of the Holy Ghost. She was girl now. He did not think of her as woman. He did not think of her as St. Pierre's wife. In that upward glance of her eyes was something that thrilled him to the depth of his soul. She seemed, for a moment, to have dropped a curtain from between herself and him. Her red lips trembled.  An irresistible impulse seized upon him. He leaned still nearer to her, holding his breath until his lips softly touched one of the velvety coils of her hair. And then he stepped back. Shame swept over him. His heart rose and choked him, and his fists were clenched at his side. She had not noticed what he had done, and she seemed to him like a bird yearning to fly out through the window, throbbing with the desire to answer the chanting song that came over the water. And then she was smiling up again into his face, hardened with the struggle which he was making with himself. My people are happy, she cried. Even in storm they laugh and sing. Listen, monsieur. They are singing la denière d'hôme. That is our song. It is what we call our home, a way up there in the lost wilderness where people never come, the last domain. Their wives and sweethearts and families are up there, and they are happy in knowing that today we shall travel a few miles nearer to them. They are not like your people in Montreal and Ottawa and Quebec, monsieur David. They are like children, and yet they are glorious children. She ran to the wall and took down the banner of St. Pierre Boulin. St. Pierre is behind us, she explained. He is coming down with a raft of timber such as we cannot get in our country and we are waiting for him. But each day we must float down with the stream a few miles nearer the homes of my people. It makes them happier even though it is but a few miles. They are coming now for my bateau. We shall travel slowly and it will be wonderful on a day like this. It will do you good to come outside, monsieur David, with me. Would you care for that, or would you rather be alone? In her face there was no longer the old restraint.  It was not a flash of coquetry. It was something deeper and warmer than that, something real, a new Marie-Amboulin telling him plainly that she wanted him to come. He did not know that his hands were still clenched at his side. Perhaps she knew, but her eyes did not leave his face, eyes that were repeating the invitation of her lips, openly asking him not to refuse. I shall be happy to come, he said. The words fell out of him numbly. He scarcely heard them or knew what he was saying, yet he was conscious of the unnatural note in his voice. He did not know he was betraying himself beyond that, did not see the deepening of the wild rose-flush in the cheeks of Saint Pierre's wife. He picked up his pipe from the table and moved to accompany her. You must wait a little while, she said, and her hand rested for an instant upon his arm. Its touch was as light as the touch of his lips had been against her shining hair, but he felt it in every nerve of his body. Nepapinas is making a special lotion for your hurt. I will send him in, and then you may come. The wild chant of the Riverman was near as she turned to the door. From it she looked back at him swiftly. They are happy, Monsieur David, she repeated softly. And I, too, am happy. I am no longer afraid. And the world is beautiful again. Can you guess why? It is because you have given me your promise, Monsieur David, and because I believe you. And then she was gone. For many minutes he did not move. The chanting of the Riverman, a sudden wilder shout, the voices of men, and after that the grating of something alongside the betot came to him like sounds from another world. Within himself there was a crash greater than that of physical things. It was the truth breaking upon him, truth surging over him like the waves of a sea, breaking down the barriers he had set up, inundating him with a force that was mightier than his own will.  He knew that it was not desire for beauty, it was the worship which St. Pierre himself must have for this woman who was his wife.   She was St. Pierre's wife, and he, David Kerrigan, proud of his honor, proud of the strength that made him man, had dared covet her in this hour when her husband was gone. He stared at the closed door, beginning to cry out against himself, and over him there swept slowly and terribly another thing. The shame of his weakness, the hopelessness of the thing that, for a space, had eaten into him and consumed him.


So how are you feeling today? Yeah, great. Do you have any pain? No. Great. I want you to tell me what month it is right now. February. And tell me your age, please. 227. Okay.  Now open them. And then with this hand right here, make a fist. And let it open. That's perfect. Follow it with your eyes. All the way over there. Good. And all the way back. That's terrific. Do you see it wiggling? Say now. Yeah, now. Now. Now. Wait till it moves. Now. Now.  Now show me your teeth. Now relax. Now close your eyes tightly. Tight as you can. Tighter. Tighter. Good. Now open your eyes. Raise your eyebrows up. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. That's great. I'm going to count to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. That's terrific. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Good. Now do the same thing on this side. There you go. Now touch your nose back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. That's terrific. Okay. And slide it down your shin right on top. So go down the top of the shin. And go back up. Okay. Let's keep it on top though. There we go. It's harder when it's on top. There you go. Slide it straight down on top. That's good. And then back up on top. Okay. Try the other side. Slide it down. There we go. Try the other side. Slide it straight down. And can you slide it back up? Can you slide it back up? Mm-hmm. Okay. That's terrific. So there's your right. And there's your left. Are they the same or is one side sharper? Inside sharper. Which one is sharper? This one over here. This one here. Okay. Let's try your arms. Which one's sharper or are they the same? These are the same. Those are the same? Mm-hmm. Okay. I'll try your ankles. Is one side sharper or are they the same? These are the same. Same? Yeah. Okay. I want you to take this card and tell me what you see happening in the card. I see the cookie jar. Mm-hmm. And I see the kid on the stool. And I see the mother doing this is the water running over. Okay. Anything else? No, I don't think so. Okay. What's that thing right there? It's a house key. And that one? It's a glove. And this one? A feather. And this one? A cactus. And this one? A chair. And this one? What do you call that? It's an outdoor tree swing. An outdoor tree swing. Okay. Read these sentences to me. Okay. It's an old house. The earth, I'm down to earth to go home from work near the table in the dining room. Mm-hmm. They heard him speak on the radio last night. Okay. Anna, tip top 50-50. Thanks. Huckleberry baseball player. Baseball player. Okay, good. Tell me by wiggling which side I'm touching. Wiggle the finger on that side. Okay. Now which side? Good. Now which side? And don't wiggle until which side is that? Good. Which side is that? Perfect. All right. Now put your hands down here. And same thing. Wiggle the finger on the side I touch. Where's that? Good. Where's that? Good. Where's that? Good. Now which side did I touch? This side. Good. Which side did I touch? This side. Okay. Which side did I touch? Both sides. Which side? Good. Which side? Okay. Good. I want you to actually touch my finger when it wiggles. All right. Which one's wiggling? Touch it. All right. Good. Good for you. All right. One more time. All right. That's good.