CHAPTER XII. During the next quarter of an hour David was as silent as the old Indian doctor.  Before a fresh bandage was put on he looked at himself for a moment in the mirror. It was the first time he had seen his wound and he expected to find himself marked with a disfiguring scar. To his surprise there was no sign of his hurt except a slightly inflamed spot above his temple. He stared at Neppa Penis and there was no need of the question that was in his mind. The old Indian understood and his dried up face cracked and crinkled in a grin. "'Bullet hit a piece of rock, and rock, not bullet, hit him head,' he explained. "'Make skull, almost break, bend him in. But Neppa Penis straightened again with fingers, so so.' He shrugged his thin shoulders with a crackling laugh of pride as he worked his claw-like fingers to show how the operation had been done. David shook hands with him in silence. Then Neppa Penis put on the fresh bandage and after that went out, chuckling again in his weird way, as though he had played a great joke on the white man whom his wizardry had snatched out of the jaws of death. For some time there had been a subdued activity outside. The singing of the boatmen had ceased, a low voice was giving commands, and, looking through the window, David saw that the bateau was slowly swinging away from the shore. He turned from the window to the table and lighted the cigar St. Pierre's wife had given him. In spite of the mental struggle he had made during the presence of Neppa Penis, he had failed to get a grip on himself. For a time he had ceased to be David Kerrigan, the man-hunter. A few days ago his blood had run to that almost savage thrill of the great game of One Against One, the game in which law sat on one side of the board and lawlessness on the other, with the cards between. It was the great gamble. The cards meant life or death. There was never a checkmate, one or the other had to lose. Had someone told him then that soon he would meet the broken and twisted hulk of a man who had known Black Roger Audemard, every nerve in him would have thrilled an anticipation of that hour. He realized this as he paced back and forth over the thick rugs of the bateau floor. And he knew, even as he struggled to bring them back, that the old thrill and the old desire were gone. It was impossible to lie to himself. St. Pierre, in this moment, was of more importance to him than Roger Audemard. And St. Pierre's wife, Marie Anne, his eyes fell on the crumpled handkerchief on the piano keys. Again he was crushing it in the palm of his hand and again the flood of humiliation and shame swept over him. He dropped the handkerchief and the great law of his own life seemed to rise up in his face and taunt him. He was clean. That had been his greatest pride. He hated the man who was unclean.  And here, in the sacredness of St. Pierre's paradise, he found himself at last face to face with that greatest fight of all the ages. He faced the door. He threw back his shoulders until they snapped, and he laughed, as if at the thing that had risen up to point its finger at him. After all, it did not hurt a man to go through a bit of fire, if he came out of it unburned. And deep in his heart he knew it was not a sin to love, even as he loved, if he kept that love to himself. What he had done when Marie Anne stood at the window he could not undo. St. Pierre would probably have killed him for touching her hair with his lips, and he would not have blamed St. Pierre. But she had not felt that stolen caress. No one knew but himself. And he was happier because of it. It was a sort of sacred thing, even though it brought the heat of shame into his face. He went to the door, opened it, and stood out in the sunshine. It was good to feel the warmth of the sun in his face again, and the sweet air of the open day in his lungs. The bateau was free of the shore and drifting steadily towards mid-stream. Baptiste was at the great Birchwood rudder sweep, and to David's surprise he nodded in a friendly way, and his wide mouth broke into a grin. Ah! it is coming soon, that fight of ours, little coque de bruyère, he chuckled gloatingly. And the fight will be just like that, monsieur. Use the little fool, Hensrooster, the Partridge, and I, concombre Baptiste, the Eagle. The anticipation in the half-breed's eyes reflected itself for an instant in David's. He turned back into the cabin, bent over his pack, and found among his clothes two pairs of boxing gloves. He fondled them with the loving touch of a brother and comrade, and their velvety smoothness was more soothing to his nerves than the cigar he was smoking. His one passion above all others was boxing, and wherever he went, either on pleasure or adventure, the gloves went with him. In many a cabin and shack of the far hinterland, he had taught white men and Indians how to use them, so that he might have the pleasure of feeling the thrill of them on his hands. And now here was concombre Baptiste, inviting him on, waiting for him to get well. He went out and dangled the clumsy-looking mittens under the half-breed's nose. Baptiste looked at them curiously. "'Mittains,' he nodded. "'Does he little Partridge rooster keep his claws warm in those in ze winter?' "'They are clumsy, monsieur. I can make a better mitten of caribou skin.'" Putting on one of the gloves, David doubled up his fist. "'Do you see that, concombre Baptiste?' he asked. "'Well, I will tell you this, that they are not mittens to keep your hands warm. I am going to fight you in them when our time comes.  Why? Because I do not want to hurt you too badly, friend Baptiste. I do not want to break your face all to pieces, which I would surely do if I did not put on these soft mittens. Then, when you have really learned to fight, the bull-neck of concombre Baptiste looked as if we were about to burst. His eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets, and suddenly he let out a roar. "'What? You dare talk like that to concombre Baptiste? What, as great as fighting men in all three rivers?  Emotion choked him, and then, looking suddenly over Kerrigan's shoulder, he stopped. Something in his look made David turn. Three paces behind him stood Marie Anne, and he knew that from the corner of the cabin she had heard what had passed between them. She was biting her lips, and behind the flash of her eyes he saw laughter. "'You must not quarrel, children,' she said. "'Baptiste, you are steering badly!' She reached out her hands, and without a word David gave her the gloves. With her palm and fingers she caressed them softly, yet David saw little lines of doubt come into her white forehead. "'They are pretty and soft, Monsieur David. Surely they cannot hurt much. Someday when Saint Pierre comes, will you teach me how to use them?' "'Always it is when Saint Pierre comes,' he replied. "'Shall we be waiting long?' "'Two or three days. Perhaps a little longer. "'Are you coming with me to the proe, Monsieur?' She did not wait for his answer, but went ahead of him, dangling the two pairs of gloves at her side. David caught a last glimpse of the half-breed's face as he followed Marie-Anne around the end of the cabin. Baptiste was making a frightful grimace and shaking his huge fist, but scarcely were they out of sight on the narrow footway that ran between the cabin and the outer timbers of the scow when a huge roar of laughter followed them. Baptiste had not done laughing when they reached the proe, or bow-nest, a deck fully ten feet in length by eight in width, sheltered above by an awning, and comfortably arranged with chairs, several rugs, a small table, and to David's amazement a hammock. He had never seen anything like this on the three rivers, nor had he ever heard of a scow so large or so luxuriously appointed. Over his head, at the tip of a flagstaff attached to the forward end of the cabin, floated the black and white penant of St. Pierre-Boulin. And under this staff was a screen door which undoubtedly opened into the kitchenette which Marie-Anne had told him about. He made no effort to hide his surprise, but St. Pierre's wife seems not to notice it.  The tiny lines deepened as there came another wild roar of laughter from Baptise in the stern. Is it true that you have given your word to fight Baptise? she asked. It is true, Marie-Anne, and I feel that Baptise is looking ahead joyously to the occasion. He is, she affirmed. Last night he spread the news among all my people. Those who left to join St. Pierre this morning have taken the news with them, and there is a great deal of excitement and much betting. I am afraid you have made a bad promise. No man has offered to fight Baptise in three years, not even my great St. Pierre, who says that Concombre is more than a match for him. And yet they must have a little doubt, as there is betting, and it takes two to make a bet, chuckled David. The lines went out of Marie-Anne's forehead, and a half smile trembled on her red lips. Yes, there is betting, but those who are for you are offering next autumn's muskrat skins and frozen fish against Lynx and Fisher and Martin. The odds are about thirty to one against you, Monsieur David.  If only I had something to wager, he groaned. You must not fight. I shall forbid it. Then Baptise and I will steal off into the forest and have it out by ourselves. He will hurt you badly. He is terrible, like a great beast when he fights. He loves to fight, and is always asking if there is not someone who will stand up to him. I think he would desert even me for a good fight. But you, Monsieur David, I also love a fight, he admitted, unashamed. St. Pierre's wife studied him thoughtfully for a moment. With these, she asked them, holding up the gloves. Yes, with those. Baptise may use his fists, but I shall use those so that I shall not disfigure him permanently. His face is none too handsome as it is. For another flash her lips trembled on the edge of a smile. Then she gave him the gloves, a bit troubled, and nodded to a chair with a deep, cushioned seat and wide arms. Please make yourself comfortable, Monsieur David. I have something to do in the cabin and will return in a little while. He wondered if she had gone back to settle the matter with Baptise at once, for it was clear that she did not regard with favor the promised bout between himself and the half-breed. It was on the spur of a careless moment that he had promised to fight Baptise, and with little thought that it was likely to be carried out or that it would become a matter of importance with all of St. Pierre's brigade. He was evidently in for it, he told himself, and as a fighting man, it looked as though Concombre Baptise was at least the equal of his braggadocio. He was glad of that. He grinned as he watched the bending backs of St. Pierre's men. So they were betting thirty to one against him. Even St. Pierre might be induced to bet with him. And if he did, the whole the hot blood leaped for a moment in Kerrigan's veins. The thrill went to the tips of his fingers. He stared out over the river, unseeing as the possibilities of the thing that had come into his mind made him for a moment oblivious of the world. He possessed one thing against which St. Pierre and St. Pierre's wife would wager a half of all they owned in the world. And if he should gamble that one thing which had come to him like an inspiration and would whip Baptise, he began to pace back and forth over the narrow deck, no longer watching the roars or the shore. The thought grew and his mind was consumed by it. Thus far from the moment the first shot was fired at him from the ambush, he had been playing with adventure in the dark. But fate had at last dealt him a trump card. That something which he possessed was more precious than furs or gold to St. Pierre. And St. Pierre would not refuse the wager when it was offered. He would not dare refuse. More than that he would accept eagerly, strong in the faith that Baptise would whip him as he had whipped all other fighters who had come up against him along the three rivers. And when Marianne knew what that wager was to be, she too would pray for the gods of chance to be with concomer Baptise. He did not hear the light footsteps behind him, and when he turned suddenly in his pacing he found himself facing Marianne, who carried in her hands the little basket he had seen on the cabin table. She seated herself in the hammock and took from the basket a bit of lacework. For a moment he watched her fingers flashing in and out with the needles. Perhaps his thought went to her. He was almost frightened as he saw her cheeks coloring under the long, dark lashes. He faced the rivermen again, and while he gripped at his own weakness he tried to count the flashings of their oars. And behind him the beautiful eyes of St. Pierre's wife were looking at him with a strange glow in their depths. Do you know, he said, speaking slowly and still looking toward the flashing of the oars, something tells me that unexpected things are going to happen when St. Pierre returns? I am going to make a bet with him that I can whip Baptise. He will not refuse. He will accept. And St. Pierre will lose, because I shall whip Baptise. It is then that these unexpected things will begin to happen. And I am wondering, after they do happen, if you will care so very much. There was a moment of silence. And then, I don't want you to fight Baptise, she said. The needles were working swiftly when he turned toward her again.  End of Chapter 12 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 Of The Flaming Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 13 The morning passed like a dream to Kerrigan. He permitted himself to live and breathe it, as one who finds himself for a space in the heart of a golden mirage. He was sitting so near Marianne that now and then the faint perfume of her came to him like the delicate scent of a flower. It was a breath of crushed violets, sweet as the air he was breathing, violets gathered in the deep cool of the forest, a whisper of sweetness about her as if on her bosom she wore always the living flowers. He fancied her gathering the last bloom-time, a year ago, alone, her feet seeking out the damp mosses, her little fingers plucking the smiling and laughing faces of the violet flowers to be treasured away in fragrant sachets, as gentle as the woodthrush's note compared with the bottled aroma's fifteen hundred miles south. It seemed to be a physical part of her, a thing born of the glow in her cheeks, a living exhilaration of her soft red lips, and yet only when he was near, very near, did the life of it reach him. She did not know he was thinking these things. There was nothing in his voice he thought to betray him. He was sure she was unconscious of the fight he was making. Her eyes smiled and laughed with him, she counted her stitches, her fingers worked, and she talked to him as she might have talked to a friend of St. Pierre's. She told him how St. Pierre had made the barge, the largest that had ever been on the river, and that he had built an entirely of dry cedar so that it floated like a feather wherever there was water enough to run a yorkboat. She told him how St. Pierre had brought the piano down from Edmonton, and how he had saved it from pitching in the river by carrying the full weight of it on his shoulders when they met with an accident in running through a dangerous rapid bringing it down. St. Pierre was a very strong man, she said, a note of pride in her voice, and then she added, Sometimes when he picks me up in his arms I feel that he is going to squeeze the life out of me. Her words were like a sharp thrust into his heart. For an instant they painted a vision for him, a picture of that slim and adorable creature crushed close in the great arms of St. Pierre so close that she could not breathe. In that mad moment of his hurt it was almost a living, breathing reality for him there in the golden foredeck of the scow. He turned his face toward the far shore where the wilderness seemed to reach off into eternity. What a glory it was, the green seas of spruce and cedar and balsam, the ridges of poplar and birch rising like silvery spume above the darker billows, and a far off, mellowed in the sun-mists, the guardian crests of trout mountains, sentineling the country beyond. Into that mystery land on the farther side of the Wabashka waterways, Karrigan would have loved to set his foot four days ago. It was that mystery of the unpeopled places that he most desired, their silence, the comradeship of spaces untrod by the feet of man. And now what a fool he was. Through vast distances the forests he loved seemed to whisper it to him, and ahead of him the river seemed to look back, nodding over its shoulder, beckoning to him, telling him the word of the forests was true. It streamed on lazily, half a mile wide, as if resting for the splashing and roaring rush it would make among the rocks of the next rapids, and in its indolence it sang the low and everlasting song of deep and slowly passing water. In that song David heard the same whisper, that he was a fool, and the lure of the wilderness shores crept in on him and gripped him as of old. He looked at the rowers in the two York boats, and then his eyes came back to the end of the barge and to St. Pierre's wife. Her little toes were tapping the floor of the deck. She, too, was looking out over the wilderness, and again it seemed to him that she was like a bird that wanted to fly. I should like to go into those hills, she said without looking at him, away off yonder. And I should like to go with you. You love all that, monsieur? she asked. Yes, madame. Why, madame, when I have given you permission to call me Marianne, she demanded.  But you, you have not given me permission. Then I do now, he interrupted quickly. Merci. I have wondered why you did not return the courtesy. She laughed softly. I do not like the monsieur. I shall call you David. She rose out of the hammock suddenly and dropped her needles and lacework into the little basket. I have forgotten something.  So I must turn feed to cuisine for a little while. That is what St. Pierre sometimes calls me, because I love to play at cooking. I'm going to bake a pie. The dark-screen door of the kitchenette closed behind her and Kerrigan walked out from under the awning so that the sun beat down upon him. There was no longer a doubt in his mind.  He envied St. Pierre and he coveted that which St. Pierre possessed. And yet, before he would take what did not belong to him, he knew he would put a pistol to his head and blow his life out. He was confident of himself there. Yet he had fallen, and out of the mire into which he had sunk, he knew also that he must drag himself, and quickly, or be everlastingly lowered in his own esteem. He stripped himself naked and did not lie to that other and greater thing of life that was in him.  Only a coward would have touched the hair of St. Pierre's wife with his lips.  She was St. Pierre's wife, and he was anxious now for the quick homecoming of the Chief of the Belance. After that everything would happen quickly. He thanked God that the inspiration of the wager had come to him. After the fight, after he had won, then once more he would be the old Dave Kerrigan, holding the Trump hand in the thrilling game. Loud voices from the York boats ahead, and answering cries from Baptiste in the stern, drew him to the open deck. The bateau was close to shore, and the half-breed was working the long stern sweep as if the power of a steam engine was in his mighty arms. The York boats had shortened their tow line and were pulling at right angles within a few yards of a gravelly beach. A few strokes more, and men who were bare to the knees jumped out into the shallow water and began tugging at the tow rope with their hands. David looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. Never in his life had time passed so swiftly as that morning in the forward deck of the barge. And now they were tying up after a drop of six or eight miles down the river, and he wondered how swiftly Saint Pierre was overtaking them with his raft. He was filled with the desire to feel the soft crush of the earth under his feet again, and not wanting for the long plank that Baptiste was already swinging from the scow to the shore, he made a leap that put him on the sandy beach. Saint Pierre's wife had given him this permission, and he looked to see what effect his act had on the half-breed. The face of Concombre Baptiste was like sullen stone. Not a sound came from his thick lips, but in the eyes was a deep and dangerous fire as he looked at Kerrigan. There was no need for words. In them were suspicion, warning, the deadly threat of what would happen if he did not come back when it was time to return. David nodded. He understood. Even though Saint Pierre's wife had faith in him, Baptiste had not. He passed between the men and to a man their faces turned on him, and in their quiet and watchful eyes he saw again that warning and suspicion, the unspoken threat of what would happen if he forgot his promise to Marie Ambulance. Never in a single outfit had he seen such splendid men. They were not a mongrel assortment of the lower country. Slim, tall, clean cut, sinewy. They were stock of the old voyagers of a hundred years ago, and all of them were young. The older men had gone to Saint Pierre. The reason for this dawned upon Kerrigan, not one of these twelve, but could beat him in a race through the forest. Not one that could not outrun him and cut him off, though he had hours to start. Passing beyond them he paused and looked back at the bateau. On the forward deck stood Marie Anne, and she, too, was looking at him now. Even at that distance he saw that her face was quiet and troubled with anxiety. She did not smile when he lifted his hat to her, but gave only a little nod. Then he turned and buried himself in the green balsams that grew within fifty paces of the river. The old joy of life leaped into him as his feet crushed in the soft moss of the shaded places where the sun did not break through. He went on, passing through a vast and silent cathedral of spruce and cedar so dense that the sky was hidden, and came then to higher ground where the evergreen was sprinkled with birch and poplar. About him was an invisible choir of voices. The low twittering of timid little graybacks, the song of hidden warblers, the scolding of distant jays.  A porcupine crashed within a dozen feet of his trail, and then he came to a beaten path and other paths worn deep in the cool, damp earth by the hoofs of moose and caribou. Half a mile from the bateau he sat down on a rotting log and filled his pipe with fresh tobacco while he listened to catch the subdued voice of the life in this land that he loved. It was then that the curious feeling came over him that he was not alone, that other eyes than those of beast and bird were watching him. It was an impression that grew on him.  Within him the hound-like instincts of the man-hunter rose swiftly to the suspicion of invisible presence. He began to note the changes in the cries of certain birds. A hundred yards on his right, a jay, most talkative of all the forest things, was screeching with a new note in its voice. On the other side of him, in a dense pocket of poplar and sprues, a warbler suddenly brought its song to a jerky end. He heard the excited pee-wee, pee-wee, pee-wee of a startled little gray-back giving warning of an unwelcome intruder near its nest. And he rose to his feet, laughing softly as he thumbed down the tobacco in his pipe. Jean-Marie Amboulin might believe in him, but Baptise and her wary henchmen had ways of their own of strengthening their faith. It was close to noon when he turned back, and he did not return by the moose-path. Deliberately he struck out a hundred yards on either side of it, traveling where the moss grew thick and the earth was damp and soft. And five times he found the moccasin prince of men. Baptise, with his sleeves up, was scrubbing the deck of the bateau when David came over the plank. There are moose and caribou in there, but I fear I disturbed your hunters, said Kerrigan grinning at the half-breed. They are too clumsy to hunt well, so clumsy that even the birds give them away. I am afraid we shall go without fresh meat tomorrow. Concombre Baptise stared as if someone had stunned him with a blow, and he spoke no word as David went on to the forward deck. Marie Anne had come out under the awning.  I am glad you have come back, Monsieur David. So am I, Madame, he replied. I think the woods are unhealthful to travel in. Out of the earth he felt that a part of the old strength had returned to him. Alone they sat at dinner, and Marie Anne waited on him and called him David again, and he found it easier now to call her Marie Anne and look into her eyes without fear that he was betraying himself. A part of the afternoon he spent in her company, and it was not difficult for him to tell her something of his adventuring in the north, and how, body and soul, the Northland had claimed him, and that he hoped to die in it when his time came. Her eyes glowed at that. She told him of two years she had spent in Montreal and Quebec, of her homesickness, her joy when she returned to her forests. It seemed, for a time, that they had forgotten Saint Pierre. They did not speak of him. Twice they saw André, the broken man, but the name of Roger Audemard was not spoken. And a little at a time she told him of the hidden paradise of the Boulin, a way up in the unmapped wilderness of the Yellow Knife beyond the Great Bear and of the great logchateau that was her home. A part of the afternoon he spent on shore. He filled a moose-hide-bag full of sand and suspended it from little limb of a tree, and for three-quarters of an hour pummeled it with his fists, much to the curiosity and amusement of Saint Pierre's men, who could see nothing of man fighting in these antics. But the exercise assured David that he had lost but little of his strength and that he would be informed to meet Baptiste when the time came. Toward evening Marie-Anne joined him and they walked for half an hour up and down the beach. It was Baptiste who got supper, and after that Kerrigan sat with Marie-Anne on the foredeck of the barge and smoked another of Saint Pierre's cigars. The camp of the Rivermen was two hundred yards below the bateau, screened between by a finger of hardwood, so that except when they broke into a chorus of laughter or strengthened their throats with snatches of song, there was no sound of their voices. But Baptiste was in the stern, and Neppa Penis was forever flitting in and out among the shadows on the shore, like a shadow himself, and André, the broken man, hovered near as night came on. At last he sat down on the edge of the white sand of the beach, and there he remained, a silent and lonely figure as the twilight deepened. Over the world hovered a sleepy quiet. Out of the forest came the droning of the wood-cricots, the last twitterings of the daybirds, and the beginning of night sounds. A great shadow floated out over the river close to the bateau, the first of the questing, blood-seeking owls adventuring out like pirates from their hiding places of the day. One after another, as the darkness thickened, the different tribes of the people of the night answered the summons of the first stars. A mile down the river a loon gave its harsh love cry. Far out of the west came the faint trail song of a wolf. In the river the night-feeding trout splashed like the tails of beaver. Over the roof of the wilderness came the coughing, moaning challenge of a bull-mousse that yearned for battle. And over these same forest tops rose the moon, the stars grew thicker and brighter, and through the finger of hardwood glowed the fire of St. Pierre Boulin's men, while close beside them, silent in these hours of silence, David felt growing nearer and still nearer to him the presence of St. Pierre's wife. On the strip of sand André, the broken man, rose and stood like the stub of a misshapen tree, and then slowly he moved on and was swallowed up in the mellow glow of the night. It is at night that he seeks, said St. Pierre's wife, for it was as if David had spoken the thought that was in his mind. David, for a moment, was silent, and then he said, You asked me to tell you about Black Roger Audemard. I will, if you care to have me, do you? He saw the nodding of her head, though the moon and star mist veiled her face. Yes, what do the police say about Roger Audemard? He told her, and not once in the telling of the story did she speak or move. It was a terrible story at best, he thought, but he did not weaken it by smoothing over the details. This was his opportunity. He wanted her to know why he must possess the body of Roger Audemard, if not alive, then dead, and he wanted her to understand how important it was that he learned more about Andre, the broken man. He was a fiend to this Roger Audemard, he began. A devil in man-shape, afterward called Black Roger, because of the color of his soul. Then he went on. He described Hatchet River Post, where the tragedy had happened, then told of the fight that came about one day between Roger Audemard and the Factor of the Post and his two sons. It was an unfair fight, he conceded that, three to one was cowardly in a fight. But it could not excuse what happened afterward. Audemard was beaten. He crept off into the forest, almost dead. Then he came back one stormy night in the winter with three strange friends. Who the friends were the police never learned.  In spite of that one of the sons was killed. Then the terrible thing happened. The father and his remaining son were bound hand and foot and fastened in the ancient dungeon-room under the Post building. Then Black Roger set the building on fire and stood outside in the storm and laughed like a madman at the dying shrieks of his victims. It was the season when the trappers were on their lines and there were but few people at the Post. The company clerk and one other attempted to interfere and Black Roger killed them with his own hands. Five deaths that night, two of them horrible beyond description. Resting for a moment, Kerrigan went on to tell of the long years of unavailing search made by the police after that, how Black Roger was caught once and killed his captor. Then came the rumor that he was dead and rumor grew into official belief and the police no longer hunted for his trails. Then, not long ago, came the discovery that Black Roger was still living and he, Dave Kerrigan, was after him. For a time there was silence after he had finished. Then St. Pierre's wife rose to her feet. I wonder, she said in a low voice, what Roger Odomard's own story might be if he were here to tell it. She stepped out from under the awning and in the full radiance of the moon he saw the pale beauty of her face and the crowning luster of her hair. Good night, she whispered. Good night, said David. He listened until her retreating footsteps died away and for hours after that he had no thought of sleep. He had insisted that she take possession of her cabin again and Batisse had brought out a bundle of blankets. These he spread under the awning and when he drowsed off it was to dream of the lovely face he had seen last in the glow of the moon. It was in the afternoon of the fourth day that two things happened, one that he had prepared himself for, and another so unexpected that for a space it sent his world crashing out of its orbit. With St. Pierre's wife he had gone again to the ridgeline for flowers, half a mile back from the river. Returning a new way they came to a shallow stream and Marie Anne stood at the edge of it and there was laughter in her shining eyes as she looked to the other side of it. She had twined flowers into her hair. Her cheeks were rich with color, her slim figure was exquisite in its wild pulse of life.  You must carry me across, she said. He did not answer. He was a tremble as he drew near her. She raised her arms a little, waiting.  She was against his breast. Her two hands went to his shoulders as he waited into the stream. He slipped and they clung a little tighter. The soft note of laughter was in her throat when the current came to his knees out in the middle of the stream.  He came with her that way to the opposite shore and stood her on her feet again, standing back quickly so that she would not hear the pounding of his heart. Her face was radiantly beautiful and she did not look at David but away from him. Thank you, she said. And then suddenly they heard running feet behind them, and in another moment one of the brigade men came dashing through the stream. At the same time there came from the river a quarter of a mile away a thunderous burst of voice. It was not the voice of a dozen men, but of half a hundred, and Marie-Anne grew tense, listening. Her eyes on fire, even before the messenger could get the words out of his mouth. It is St. Pierre! he cried then. He has come with a great raft, and you must hurry if you would reach the bateau before he lands. In that moment it seemed to David that Marie-Anne forgot he was alive. A little cry came to her lips and then she left him, running swiftly, saying no word to him, flying with the speed of a fawn to St. Pierre-Boulin. And when David turned to the man who had come up behind them there was a strange smile on the lips of the lithe-limbed forest-runner as his eyes followed the hurrying figure of St. Pierre's wife. Until she was out of sight he stood in silence, and then he said, Come on, Monsieur, we also must meet St. Pierre. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 14 of The Flaming Forest This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 14 David moved slowly behind the brigade man. He had no desire to hurry. He did not wish to see what happened when Marie-Anne met St. Pierre-Boulin. Only a moment ago she had been in his arms. Her hair had smothered his face. Her hands had clung to his shoulders. Her flushed cheeks and long lashes had, for an instant, lain close against his breast. And now, swiftly, without a word of apology, she was running away from him to meet her husband. He almost spoke that word aloud as he saw the last of her slim figure among the silver birches. She was going to the man to whom she belonged, and there was no hesitation in the manner of her going. She was glad. And she was entirely forgetful of him, Dave Kerrigan, in that gladness. He quickened his steps, narrowing the distance between him and the hurrying brigade man. Only the diseased thoughts in his brain had made the happening in the creek anything but an accident. It was all an accident, he told himself. Marie-Anne had asked him to carry her across, just as she would have asked any one of her rivermen. It was his fault, and not hers, that he had slipped in midstream, and that his arms had closed tighter about her, and that her hair had brushed his face. He remembered she had laughed, when it seemed for a moment that they were going to fall into the stream together. Probably she would tell St. Pierre all about it. Surely she would never guess it had been nearer tragedy than comedy for him.  His business now was with St. Pierre, and the hour was at hand when the game had ceased to be a woman's game. He had looked ahead to this hour. He had prepared himself for it, and had promised himself action that would be both quick and decisive. And yet, as he went on, his heart was still thumping unsteadily, and in his arms and against his face remained still the sweet, warm thrill of his contact with Marie-Anne. He could not drive that from him. It would never completely go. As long as he lived, what had happened in the creek would live with him. He did not deny that crying voice inside him. It was easy for his mouth to make words. He could call himself a fool and a weakling, but those words were purely mechanical, hollow, meaningless. The truth remained. It was a blazing fire in his breast, a conflagration that might easily get the best of him, a thing which he might fight and triumph over for his own salvation. He did not think of danger for Marie-Anne, for such a thought was inconceivable. The tragedy was one-sided. It was his own folly, his own danger. For just as he loved Marie-Anne, so did she love her husband, St. Pierre. He came to the low ridge close to the river, and climbed up through the thick birches and poplars. At the top was a bald knob of sandstone over which the rivermen had already passed. David paused there and looked down on the broad sweep of the Athabasca. What he saw was like a picture, spread out on the great breast of the river and the white strip of shoreline.  On the Mackenzie, the Athabasca, the Saskatchewan, and the Peace, he had seen many rafts, but never a raft like this of St. Pierre Boulin. It was a hundred feet in width, and twice and a half times as long, and with the sun blazing down upon it from out of the cloudless sky, it looked to him like a little city swept up from out of some archaic and savage desert land to be transplanted to the river. It was dotted with tents and canvas shelters. Some of these were gray, and some were white, and two or three were striped with broad bands of yellow and red. Behind all these was a cabin, and over this there rose a slender staff from which floated the black and white pennant of St. Pierre. The raft was alive. Men were running between the tents. The long rudder sweeps were flashing in the sun.  And to David's ears came a deep monotone of human voices, the chanting of the men as they worked. Nearer to him a louder response suddenly made answer to it. A dozen steps carried him round a projecting thumb of brush, and he could see the open shore where the bateau was tied. Marie Anne had crossed the strip of sand, and Baptiste was helping her into a waiting york boat. Then Baptiste shoved it off, and the four men in it began to row. Two canoes were already halfway to the raft, and David recognized the occupant of one of them as André, the broken man. Then he saw Marie Anne rise in the york boat and wave something white in her hand. He looked again toward the raft. The current and the sweeps and the tugging boats were drying at steadily nearer. Standing at the very edge of it he saw now a solitary figure, and in the clear sunlight the man stood out clean cut as a carven statue. He was a giant in size. His head and arms were bare, and he was looking steadily toward the bateau and the approaching york boat. He raised an arm, and a moment later the movement was followed by a voice that rose above all other voices. It boomed over the river like the rumble of a gun. In response to it Marie Anne waved the white thing in her hand, and David thought he heard her voice in an answering cry. He stared again at the solitary figure of the man, seeing nothing else, hearing no other sound but the booming of the deep cry that came again over the river. His heart was thumping. In his eyes was a gathering fire. His body grew tense. For he knew that at last he was looking at Saint Pierre, chief of the Boulin, and husband of the woman he loved. As the significance of the situation grew upon him, a flash of his old humor returned. It was the same grim humor that had possessed him behind the rock when he had thought he was going to die. Fate had played him a dishonest turn then, and it was doing the same thing by him now. Unless he deliberately turned his face away, he was going to see the reunion of Marie Anne and the woman he loved. Yesterday he had strapped his binoculars to his belt. Today Marie Anne had looked through them a dozen times. They had been a source of pleasure and thrill to her. Now, David thought, they would be good medicine for him. He would see the whole thing through, and at close range. He would leave himself no room for doubt. He would leave himself no room for doubt. He had laughed behind the rock when bullets were zipping close to his head, and the same grim smile came to his lips now as he focused his glasses on the solitary figure at the head of the raft. The smile died away when he saw Saint Pierre. It was as if he could reach out and touch him with his hand. And never, he thought, had he seen such a man. A moment before, a moment before, a moment before, a moment before, a moment before, a moment before, he had seen such a man.  The multitude of colored tents, the half naked men, the great raft floating almost without perceptible motion in the placid breast of the river had stirred his imagination until he saw a strange picture. But there was nothing Arabic, nothing desert like in this man his binoculars brought within a few feet of his eyes. He was more like a viking pirate who had roved the sea a few centuries ago. One great bare arm was raised, as David looked, and his booming voice was rolling over the river again. His hair was shaggy and untrimmed and red. He wore a short beard that glistened in the sun. He was laughing as he waved and shouted to Marie Anne. A joyous, splendid giant of a man, who seemed almost on the point of leaping into the water in his eagerness to clasp in the naked arms the woman who was coming to him. David drew a deep breath, and there came an unconscious tightening at his heart as he turned his glasses upon Marie Anne. She was still standing in the bow of the York boat, and her back was toward him. He could see the glisten of the sun in her hair. She was waving her handkerchief, and the poise of her slim body told him that in her eagerness she would have darted from the bow of the boat had she possessed wings. Again, he looked at Saint Pierre, and this was the man who was no match for Concomber Bates. It was inconceivable. Yet he heard Marie Anne's voice repeating those very words in his ear. But she had surely been joking with him. She had been storing up this little surprise for him. She had wanted him to discover with his own eyes what a splendid man was this chief of the Boulans. And yet, as David stared, there came to him an unpleasant thought of the incongruity of this thing he was looking upon. It struck upon him like a clashing discord, the fact of matehood between these two, a condition inconsistent and out of tune with the beautiful things he had built up in his mind about the woman. In his soul he had enshrined her as a lovely wildflower, easily crushed, easily destroyed, a sweet treasure to be guarded from all that was rough and savage, a little violet goddess, as fragile as she was brave and loyal. And St. Pierre, standing there at the edge of his raft, looked as if he had come up out of the caves of a million years ago. There was something barbaric about him. He needed only a club and a shield and the skin of a beast about his loins to transform him into a prehistoric man. At least these were his first impressions, impressions roused by thought of Marie Anne's slim, beautiful body crushed close in the embrace of that laughing, powerful lung giant. Then the reaction swept over him. St. Pierre was not a monster, even though his disturbed mind unconsciously made an effort to conceive him as such. There were gladness and laughter in his face. There was the contagion of joy and good cheer in the voice that boomed over the water. The roar and shouts answered it from the shore. The rowers in Marie Anne's York boat burst into a wild and exultant snatch of song and made their oars fairly crack. There came a solitary yell from André, the broken man, who is close to the head of the raft now. And from the raft itself came a slowly swelling volume of sound, the urge and voice and exultation of red-blooded men, a thrill with the glory of this day and the wild freedom of their world. The truth came to David. St. Pierre Boullain was the beloved big brother of his people. He waited, his muscles tense, his jaws set tight. Good medicine, he called it again, a righteous sort of punishment set upon him for the moral cowardice he had betrayed in falling down in worship at the feet of another man's wife. The York boat was very close to the head of the raft now. He saw Marie Anne herself flinger-rope to St. Pierre. Then the boat swung alongside. In another moment St. Pierre had leaned over and Marie Anne was with him on the raft. For a space everything else in the world was obliterated for David. He saw St. Pierre's arms gather the slim form into their embrace. He saw Marie Anne's hands go up fondly to the bearded face. And then Carrigan cut the pitcher there. He turned his shoulder to the raft and snapped the binoculars in the case at his belt. Someone was coming in his direction from the buttoe. It was the Riverman who had brought to Marie Anne the news of St. Pierre's arrival. David went down to meet him. From the foot of the ridge he again turned his eyes in the direction of the raft. St. Pierre and Marie Anne were just about to enter the little cabin built in the center of the drifting mass of timber. End of Chapter 14. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 15. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood. Chapter 15. It was easy for Carrigan to guess why the Riverman had turned back for him. Men were busy about the buttoe and Concomber Bates stood in the stern, a long pole in his hands giving commands to the others. The buttoe was beginning to swing out into the stream when he leaped aboard. A wide grin spread over the half-breed's face. He eyed David keenly and laughed in his deep chest, an unmistakable suggestiveness in the note of it. You look seek, monsieur, he said in an undertone for David's ears alone.  What happened when you looked through the glass up there, eh? Or is it that you grow frightened because very soon you stand up and fight Concomber Bates? Eh, coque de bourrière? Is it that? A quick thought came to David. Is it true that Saint Pierre cannot whip you, Bates? Bates threw out his chest with a mighty intake of breath. Then he exploded. No man an all-tree river can whip Concomber Bates.  I measured him well through the glasses, Bates. It will be a great fight, but I shall whip you. He did not wait for the half-breed to reply, but went into the cabin and closed the door behind him. He did not like the taunting note of suggestiveness in the other's words. Was it possible that Bates suspected the true state of his mind, that he was in love with the wife of Saint Pierre, and that his heart was sick because of what he had seen aboard the raft? He flushed hotly. It made him uncomfortable to feel that even the half-breed might have guessed his humiliation. David looked through the window toward the raft. The bateau was drifting downstream, possibly a hundred feet from the shore, but it was quite evident that Concomber Bates was making no effort to bring it close to the floating mass of timber which had made no change in its course down the river. David's mind painted swiftly what was happening in the cabin into which Marie-Anne and Saint Pierre had disappeared. At this moment Marie-Anne was telling of him, of the adventure in the hot patch of sand. He fancied the suppressed excitement in her voice as she unburdened herself. He saw Saint Pierre's face darken, his muscles tighten, and crouching in silence he seemed to see the misshapen hulk of André, the broken man, listening to what was passing between the other two. And he heard again the mad monotone of André's voice, crying plaintively, Has anyone seen Black Roger Audemard? His blood ran a little faster, and his old craft was a dominantly living thing within him once more. Love had dulled both his ingenuity and his desire. For a space a thing had risen before him that was mightier than the majesty of the law, and he had tried to miss the bullseye because of his love for the wife of Saint Pierre Boulin. Now he shot squarely for it, and the bell rang in his brain. Two times two again made four. Facts assembled themselves like arguments in flesh and blood. Those facts would have convinced Superintendent McVane, and they now convinced David. He had set out to get Black Roger Audemard alive or dead. And Black Roger, wholesale murderer, a monster who had painted the blackest page of crime known in the history of Canadian law, was closely and vitally associated with Marie Anne and Saint Pierre Boulin. The thing was a shock, but Kerrigan no longer tried to evade the point. His business was no longer with a man supposed to be a thousand or fifteen hundred miles farther north. It was with Marie Anne, Saint Pierre, and André, the broken man, and also with Concombre-Batisse. He smiled a little grimly as he thought of his approaching battle with the half-breed. Saint Pierre would be astounded at the proposition he had in store for him, but he was sure that Saint Pierre would accept. And then, if he won the fight with Batisse, the smile faded from his lips. His face grew older as he looked slowly about the bateau cabin, with its sweet and lingering whispers of a woman's presence. It was a part of her. It breathed of her fragrance and her beauty. She seemed to be waiting for her, crying softly for her return. Yet once had there been another woman even lovelier than the wife of Saint Pierre. He had not hesitated then. Without great effort he had triumphed over the loveliness of Carmen-Fanché and had sent her brother to the hangman. And now, as he recalled those days, the truth came to him even in the darkest hour Carmen-Fanché had made not the slightest effort to buy him off with her beauty. She had not tried to lure him. She had fought proudly and defiantly. And had Marie Anne done that?  Would she tell Saint Pierre of the many hours they had spent together? Would she confess to him the secret of that precious moment when she had lain close against his breast, her arms about him, her face pressed to his? Would she speak to him of secret hours, of warm flushes that had come to her face, of glowing fires that at times had burned in her eyes when he had been very near to her? Would she reveal everything to Saint Pierre, her husband? He was powerless to combat the voice that told him no. Carmen-Fanché had fought him openly as an enemy and had not employed her beauty as a weapon. Marie Anne had put in his way a great temptation. What he was thinking seemed to him like a sacrilege, yet he knew there could be no discriminating distinctions between weapons, now that he was determined to play the game to the end, for the law. When Kerrigan went out on deck, the half-breed was sweating from his exertion at the stern sweep. He looked at the agent de police who was going to fight him, perhaps tomorrow or the next day. There was a change in Kerrigan. He was not the same man who had gone into the cab in an hour before, and the fact impressed itself upon Baptiste. There was something in his appearance that held back the loose at the end of Concomber's tongue. And so it was Kerrigan himself who spoke first. When will this man Saint Pierre come to see me? He demanded. If he doesn't come soon, I shall go to him. For an instant Concomber's face darkened. Then, as he bent over the sweep with his great back to David, he chuckled audibly and said, Would you go, monsieur? Ah, it is le malade d'amour over there in the cabin. Surely you would not break in upon their love-making. Baptiste did not look over his shoulder, and so he did not see the hot flush that gathered in David's face. But David was sure he knew it was there, and that Concomber had guessed the truth of matters. There was a sly note in his voice, as if he could not quite keep himself his exultation that beauty and bright eyes had played a clever trick on this man, who, if his own judgment had been followed, would now be resting peacefully at the bottom of the river. It was the final stab to Kerrigan. His muscles tensed.  He laid a hand on the half-breed shoulder, and Baptiste turned about slowly. He saw what was in the other's eyes. Until this moment I have not known what a great pleasure it will be to fight you, Baptiste, said David quietly. Make it tomorrow, in the morning, if you wish. Take word to Saint Pierre that I will make him a great wager that I win, a gamble so large that I think he will be afraid to cover it. For I don't think much of this Saint Pierre of yours, Baptiste. I believe him to be a big-winded bluff, like yourself, and also a coward. Mark my word. He will be so much afraid that he will not accept my wager. Baptiste did not answer. He was looking over David's shoulder. He seemed not to have heard what the other had said, yet there had come a sudden gleam of vexaltation in his eyes, and he replied, still gazing toward the raft. De entre monsieur, coctabrière, may keep the big word in his mouth. See, Saint Pierre, he is coming to answer for himself. Mon Dieu, I hope he does not wrings he little rooster's neck, for that would spoil one great grand fight to-morrow. David turned toward the big raft. At the distance which separated them he could make out the giant figure of Saint Pierre-Boulin getting into a canoe. The humped-up form already in that canoe he knew was the broken man. He could not see Marie-Anne. Very lightly Baptiste touched his arm. Monsieur will go into Zicabin, he suggested softly. If something happens, it is best, too many eyes do not see it. You understand, Monsieur agent de police? Caragann nodded. I understand, he said. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 16 of the Flaming Forest This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 16 In the cabin David waited. He did not look through the window to watch Saint Pierre's approach. He sat down and picked up a magazine from the table upon which Marie-Anne's work-basket lay. He was cool as ice now. Blood flowed evenly and his pulse beat unhurriedly. Never had he felt himself more his own master, more like grappling with a situation. Saint Pierre was coming to fight. He had no doubt of that. Perhaps not physically at first. But one way or another something dynamic was bound to happen in the Bateau cabin within the next half hour. Now that the impending drama was close at hand, Caragann's scheme of luring Saint Pierre into the making of a stupendous wager seemed to him rather ridiculous. With calculating coldness he was forced to concede that Saint Pierre would be somewhat of a fool to accept the wager he had in mind when he was so completely in Saint Pierre's power. For Marie-Anne and the chief of the Boulins, the bottom of the river would undoubtedly be the best and easiest solution, and the half-breed suggestion might be acted upon after all. As his mind charged itself for the approaching struggle, David found himself staring at a double page in the magazine, given up entirely to impossibly slim young creatures exhibiting certain bits of elusive and mysterious feminine apparel. Marie-Anne had expressed her approbation in the form of pencil notes under several of them. Under a cobwebby affair that wreathed one of the slim figures he read, Saint Pierre will love this. There were two exclamation points after that particular notation. David replaced the magazine in the table and looked toward the door. No, Saint Pierre would not hesitate to put him at the bottom of the river for her. Not if he, Dave Kerrigan, made the solution of the matter a necessity. There were times, he told himself, when it was confoundedly embarrassing to force the letter of the law. And this was one of them. He was not afraid of the river bottom. He was thinking again of Marie-Anne. The scraping of a canoe against the side of the bateau recalled him suddenly to the moment at hand. He heard low voices and one of them he knew was Saint Pierre's. For an interval the voices continued, frequently so low that he could not distinguish them at all. For ten minutes he waited impatiently. Then the door swung open and Saint Pierre came in. Slowly and coolly David rose to meet him and at the same moment the chief of the Boulins closed the door behind him. There was no greeting in Kerrigan's manner. He was the law, waiting, unexcited, sure of himself, impassive as a thing of steel. He was ready to fight. He expected to fight. It only remained for Saint Pierre to show what sort of fight it was to be. And he was amazed at Saint Pierre without betraying that amazement. In the vivid light that shot through the western windows the chief of the Boulins stood looking at David. He wore a grey flannel shirt open at the throat and it was a splendid throat David saw and a splendid head above it with its reddish beard and hair. But what he saw chiefly were Saint Pierre's eyes. They were the sort of eyes he disliked to find in an enemy, a bleakish, steely blue that reflected sunlight like polished flint. But there was no flash of battle-glow in them now. Saint Pierre was neither excited nor in a bad humor. Nor did Kerrigan's attitude appear to disturb him in the least. He was smiling. His eyes glowed with almost boyish curiosity as he stared appraisingly at David and then slowly a low chuckle of laughter rose in his deep chest and he advanced with an outstretched hand. I am Saint Pierre Boulin, he said. I have heard a great deal about you, Sergeant Kerrigan. You have had an unfortunate time. Had the man advanced menacingly David would have felt more comfortable. It was disturbing to have this giant come to him with an extended hand of apparent friendship when he had anticipated an entirely different sort of meeting. And Saint Pierre was laughing at him. There was no doubt of that. And he had the colossal nerve to tell him that he had been unfortunate as though being shot up by somebody's wife was a fairly decent joke. Kerrigan's attitude did not change. He did not reach out a hand to meet the other. There was no responsive glimmer of humor in his eyes or on his lips. And seeing these things, Saint Pierre turned his extended hand to the open box of cigars so that he stood for a moment with his back toward him. It's funny, he said, as if speaking to himself and with only a drawing note of the French patois in his voice. I come home, find my jean in a terrible mix-up, a stranger in her room, and the stranger refuses to let me laugh or shake hands with him. Till near I say it is funny. And my jean saved his life and made him muffins and gave him my own bed and walked with him in the forest. Ah, the ungrateful cochon! He turned, laughing openly, so that his deep voice filled the cabin. Vous avez de la corde de pendu, monsieur?  For only one other man in the world would my jean have done that. You are lucky because you are not ended behind the rock. You are lucky because you are not at the bottom of the river.  And now, after all our kindness and your good luck, you wait for me like an enemy, monsieur. Diable, I cannot understand. For the life of him Kerrigan could not, in these few moments, measure up his man. He had said nothing. He had let St. Pierre talk. And now St. Pierre stood there, one of the finest men he had ever looked upon, as if honestly overcome by a great wonder. And yet behind that apparent incredulity in his voice and manner David sensed the deep underflow of another thing. St. Pierre was all that Marie-Anne had claimed for him and more. She had given him assurance of her unlimited confidence that her husband could adjust any situation in the world, and Kerrigan conceded that St. Pierre measured up splendidly to that particular type of man. The smile had not left his face.  David smiled back at him coldly. He recognized the cleverness of the other's play. St. Pierre was a man who would smile like that, even as he fought, and Kerrigan loved a smiling fighter, even when he had to slip steel bracelets over his wrists. I am Sergeant Kerrigan of N-Division, Royal Northwest Mounted Police, he said, repeating the formula of the law. Sit down, St. Pierre, and I will tell you a few things that have happened. And then— No, no, it is not necessary, monsieur. I have already listened for an hour, and I do not like to hear a story twice. You are of the police. I love the police. They are brave men, and brave men are my brothers. You are out after Roger Odomard, the rascal. Is it not so? And you were shot at behind the rock back there. You were almost killed. Muffois, and it was my Jean who did the shooting. Yes, she thought you were another man. The chuckling, drum-like note of laughter came again out of St. Pierre's great chest. It was bad shooting. I have taught her better, but the sun was blinding there in the hot white sand. And after that I know everything that has happened. Baptiste was wrong. I shall scold him for wanting to put you at the bottom of the river—perhaps. Oui, s'occupe un vieux, Dieu le vieux, that is it. A woman must have her way. And my Jean's gentle heart was touched because you were a brave and handsome man, monsieur Carrigan. But I am not jealous. Jealousy is a worm that does not make friendship. And we shall be friends. Only as a friend could I take you to the Chateau Boulin, far up on the yellow knife. And we are going there. In spite of what might have been the entirely proper thing to do at this particular moment, Carrigan's face broke into a smile as he drew a second chair up close to the table. He was swift to readjust himself. It came suddenly back to him how he had grinned behind the rock when death seemed close at hand. And Saint Pierre was like that now. David measured him again as the chief of the Boulin sat down opposite him. Such a man could not be afraid of anything in the face of the earth, even of the law. The gleam that lay in his eyes told David that as they met his own over the table. We are smiling now because it happens to please us, David read in them. But in a moment, if it is necessary, we shall fight. Carrigan leaned a little over the table. You know we are not going to the Chateau Boulin, Saint Pierre, he said. We are going to stop at Fort McMurray, and there you and your wife must answer for a number of things that have happened. There is one way out, possibly. That is largely up to you.  And what did you know about Black Roger Audemard? Saint Pierre's eyes did not for an instant leave Carrigan's face. Slowly a change came into them, the smile faded, the blue went out, and up from behind seemed to come another pair of eyes that were hard as steel and cold as ice. Yet they were not eyes that threatened, nor eyes that betrayed excitement or passion. And Saint Pierre's voice, when he spoke, lacked the deep and vibrant note that had been in it. It was as if he had placed upon it the force of a mighty will, chaining it back just as something hidden and terrible lay chained behind his eyes. Why play like little children, Monsieur Carrigan? he asked. Why not come out squarely, honestly, like men? I know what has happened. Mon Dieu, it was bad. You were almost killed, and you heard that poor wreck Andre call for Roger Audemard. My Jean has told you about that, how I found him in the forest with his broken mind and body. And about my Jean, Saint Pierre's fists grew into knotted lumps on the table.   We are men, both of us. We are not afraid. And you, in my place, what would you do, Monsieur? In the moment's silence each man looked steadily at the other. I would fight, said David slowly. If it was for her, I am pretty sure I would fight. He believed that he was drawing the net in now, that it would catch Saint Pierre. He leaned a little farther over the table. And I, too, must fight, he added. You know our law, Saint Pierre.  And I would be stupid if I did not understand the situation here. It would be quite easy for you to get rid of me.  A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. And Marie-Anne, I beg your pardon, your wife, Saint Pierre interrupted him, it will please me to have you call her Marie-Anne. And it will please her also, Monsieur. Dear, if we only had eyes that could see what is in a woman's heart. Life is funny, Monsieur. It is a great joke. I swear it on my soul. He shrugged his shoulders, smiling again straight into David's eyes. See what has happened? You set out for a murderer. My gene makes a great mistake and shoots you.   No, her happiness is mine. Dead men tell no tales, Monsieur, but there are times when living men also keep tales to themselves. And that is what you are going to do, Monsieur Carrigan. You are going to keep to yourself the thing that happened behind the rock. You are going to keep to yourself the mumblings of our poor mad André. Never will they pass your lips. I know. I swear it. I stake my life on it. St. Pierre was talking slowly and unexcitedly. There was an immeasurable confidence in his deep voice. It did not imply a threat or a warning. He was sure of himself. And his eyes had deepened into blue again and were almost friendly.  You would do that? St. Pierre rose to his feet and looked about the cabin with a shining light in his eyes that was both pride and exultation. He moved toward the end of the room where the piano stood and for a moment his big fingers touched the keys. Then, seeing the lacy bit of handkerchief that lay there, he picked it up and placed it back again. Carrigan did not urge his question but waited. In spite of his effort to fight it down he found himself in the grip of a mysterious and growing thrill as he watched St. Pierre. Never had the presence of another man had the same effect upon him and strangely the thought came to him that he was matched, even over-matched. It was as if St. Pierre had brought with him into the cabin something more than the splendid strength of his body, a thing that reached out in the interval of silence between them, warning Carrigan that all the law in the world would not swerve the chief of the Boulin from what was already in his mind. For a moment the thought passed from David that fate had placed him up against the hazard of enmity with St. Pierre. His vision centered in the man alone. And as he, too, rose to his feet an unconscious smile came to his lips as he recalled the boastings of Batisse. I ask you, said he, if you would really stake your life in a matter such as that? Of course, if your words were merely accidental and meant nothing, if I had a dozen lives I would stake them, one on top of the other, as I have said, interrupted St. Pierre.  Mr. Carrigan, I have come to offer you just that test. We, I could kill you now. I could put you at the bottom of the river as Batisse thinks is right. Mondeur, how completely I could make you disappear. And then my Jean would be safe. She would not go behind prison bars. She would go on living and laughing and singing in the big forests where she belongs. And Black Roger Audemard, the rascal, would be safe for a time. But that would be like destroying a little child. You are so helpless now. So you are going on to the Chateau Boulin with us. And if at the end of the second month from today you do not willingly say I have won my wager, why, Monsieur, I will go with you into the forest and you may shoot out of me the life which is my end of the gamble. Is that not fair? Can you suggest a better way between men like you and me? I can at least suggest a way that has the virtue of saving time," replied David. First, however, I must understand my position here. I am, I take it, a prisoner? A guest, with certain restrictions placed upon you, Monsieur, corrected Saint Pierre. The eyes of the two men met on a dead level. Tomorrow morning I am going to fight Baptiste, said David. It is a little sporting event we have fixed up between us for the amusement of your men. I have heard that Baptiste is the best fighting man along the three rivers. And I, I do not like to have any other man claim that distinction when I am around. For the first time Saint Pierre's placidity seemed to leave him. His brow became clouded, a moment's frown grew in his face, and there was a certain disconsolate hopelessness in the shrug of his shoulders. It was as if Kerrigan's words had suddenly robbed the day of all its sunshine for the Chief of the Boulin. His voice, too, carried an unhappy and disappointed note as he made a gesture toward the window. Monsieur, on that raft out there, are many of my men, and they have scarcely rested or slept since word was brought to them that a stranger was to fight concombre Baptiste. It's on there they have gambled without ever seeing you until the clothes and their backs are in the hazard and they have cracked their muscles in labor to overtake you. They have prayed away their very souls that it would be a good fight and that Baptiste would not eat you up too quickly. It has been a long time since we have seen a good fight, a long time since the last man dared to stand up against the half-breed. Ugh, it tears out my heart to tell you that the fight cannot be. St. Pierre made no effort to suppress his emotion. He was like a huge, disappointed boy. He walked to the window, peered forth at the raft, and as he shrugged his big shoulders again, something like a groan came from him. The thrill of approaching triumph swept through David's blood. The flame of it was in his eyes when St. Pierre turned from the window. And you are disappointed, St. Pierre? You would like to see that fight? The blue steel in St. Pierre's eyes flashed back. If the price were a year of my life, I would give it if Baptiste did not eat you up too quickly. I love to look upon a good fight where there is no venom of hatred in the blows. Then you shall see a good fight, St. Pierre.  You are not big. You are not his match. I shall whip him, St. Pierre, whip him until he avows me his master. You do not know the half-breed, monsieur. Twice I have tried him in friendly combat myself and have been beaten. But I shall whip him, repeated Kerrigan. I will wager you anything, anything in the world, even life against life that I whip him. The gloom had faded from the face of St. Pierre Boulin, but in a moment it clouded again. My gene has made me promise that I will stop the fight," he said. And why? Why should she insist in a matter such as this, which properly should be settled among men? asked David. Again St. Pierre laughed. With an effort it seemed. She is gentle-hearted, monsieur. She laughed and thought it quite a joke when Baptiste humbled me. What! My great St. Pierre, with the blood of old France and his veins, beaten by a man who has been named after a vegetable, she cried. I tell you she was merry over it, monsieur. She laughed until the tears came into her eyes. But with you it is different. She was white when she entreated me not to let you fight Baptiste. Yes, she is afraid you will be badly hurt. And she does not want to see you hurt again. But I tell you that I am not jealous, monsieur. She does not try to hide things from me.  And so I am going to fight Baptiste, said David. He wondered if St. Pierre could hear the thumping of his heart, or if his face gave betrayal of the hot flood that was pumping through his body. Baptiste and I have pledged ourselves. We shall fight, unless you tie one of us hand and foot. And as for a wager... Yes, what have you to wager? demanded St. Pierre eagerly. You know the odds are great, temperized caragon. That I concede, monsieur. But a fight without a wager would be like a pipe without tobacco, St. Pierre. You speak truly, monsieur. David came nearer and laid a hand on the other's arm. St. Pierre, I hope you and your gene will understand what I am about to offer. It is this. If Baptiste whips me, I will disappear into the forests, and no word shall ever pass my lips of what has passed since that hour behind the rock and this. No whisper of it will ever reach the law. I will forget the attempted murder and the suspicious mumblings of your broken man. You will be safe. Your gene will be safe, if Baptiste whips me. He paused and waited. St. Pierre made no answer, but amazement came into his face, and after that a slow and burning fire in his eyes which told how deeply and vitally caragon's words had struck into its soul. And if I should happen to win, continued David, turning a bit carelessly toward the window, why I should expect as large a payment from you.  That is all. I am asking for no odds, though you concede the handicap is great. He did not look at St. Pierre. Behind him he heard the other's deep breathing. For a space neither spoke. Outside they could hear the soft swish of water, the low voices of men in the stern, and a shout and the barking of a dog coming from the raft far out on the river. For David the moment was one of suspense. He turned again, a bit carelessly, as if his proposition were a matter of but little significance to him. St. Pierre was not looking at him. He was staring toward the door, as if through it he could see the powerful form of bâtisse bending over the stern sweep, and Kerrigan could see that his face was flaming with a great desire and that the blood in his body was pounding to the mighty urge of it. Suddenly he faced Kerrigan. Monsieur, listen to me, he said. You are a brave man.  I do not blame you for loving her. No. You could not help that. You have fought well to keep it within yourself, and for that I honour you. How do I know? Mondeur, she has told me. A woman's heart understands, and a woman's ears are quick to hear, monsieur. When you were sick and your mind was wandering, you told her again and again that you loved her, and when she brought you back to life her eyes saw more than once the truth of what your lips had betrayed, though you tried to keep it to yourself. Even more, monsieur, she felt the touch of your lips on her hair that day. She understands. She has told me everything, openly, innocently, yet her heart thrills with that sympathy of a woman who knows she has loved. Monsieur, if you could have seen the light in her eyes and the glow in her cheeks as she told me these secrets. But I am not jealous. No. It is only because you are a brave man and one of honour that I tell you all this.  Yet it is necessary that I tell you, because if we make the big wager, we must drop my gene from the gamble. Do you comprehend me, monsieur? We are two men, strong men, fighting men. But I, Pierre Boulin, cannot feel the shame of jealousy where a woman's heart is pure and sweet and where a man has fought against love with honour as you have fought. And you, monsieur, David Kerrigan of the police, cannot strike with your hard man's hand that tender heart that is like a flower and which this moment is beating faster than it should with the fear that some harm is going to befall you. Is it not so, monsieur? We will make the wager, yes.  Never. Yet I swear I will tell you the other. If you win, I will tell you all I know about Roger Audemard, and that is considerable, monsieur. Do you agree? Slowly David held out a hand. Saint Pierre gripped it. The fingers of the two men met like bands of steel. Tomorrow you will fight, said Saint Pierre. You will fight and be beaten so terribly that you may always show the marks of it. I am sorry. Such a man as you I would rather have as a brother than an enemy. And she will never forgive me. She will always remember it. The thought will never die out of her heart that I was a beast to let you fight bâtisse. But it is best for all. And my men? Ah, diable, but it will be great sport for them, monsieur. His hand unclasped. He turned to the door. A moment later it closed behind him and David was alone. He had not spoken. He had not replied to the engulfing truths that had fallen quietly and without a betrayal of passion from Saint Pierre's lips. Inwardly he was crushed.  And then suddenly there came a sound from outside that sent the blood through his cold veins again. It was laughter, the great booming laughter of Saint Pierre. It was not the merriment of a man whose heart was bleeding or into whose life had come in an unexpected pain or grief. It was wild and free and filled with the joy of the sun-filled day. And David, listening to it, felt something that was more than admiration for this man growing within him. And unconsciously his lips repeated Saint Pierre's words. Tomorrow you will fight. End of chapter 16 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 17 of The Flaming Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 17 For many minutes David stood at the bateau window and watched the canoe that carried Saint Pierre Boulin and the broken man back to the raft. It moved slowly as if Saint Pierre was loitering with a purpose and was thinking deeply of what had passed. Kerrigan's fingers tightened and his face grew tense as he gazed out into the glow of the western sun. Now that the stress of nerve-breaking moments in the cabin was over, he no longer made an effort to preserve the veneer of coolness and decision with which he had encountered the chief of the Boulins. Deep in his soul he was crushed and humiliated. Every nerve in his body was bleeding. He had heard Saint Pierre's big laugh a moment before, but it must have been the laugh of a man who was stabbed to the heart. And he was going back to Marie Anne like that, drifting scarcely faster than the current that he might steal time to strengthen himself before he looked into her eyes again.  Without voice David cursed himself. In his egoism he had told himself that he had made a splendid fight in resisting the temptation of a great love for the wife of Saint Pierre. But what was his own struggle compared with this tragedy which Saint Pierre was now facing? He turned from the window and looked about the cabin room again, the woman's room and Saint Pierre's, and his face burned in its silent accusation. Like a living thing it painted another picture for him. For a space he lost his own identity. He saw himself in the place of Saint Pierre. He was the husband of Marie Anne, worshipping her even as Saint Pierre must worship her, and he came, as Saint Pierre had come, to find a stranger in his home.  And he heard her, as Saint Pierre had heard her, pleading with him to keep this man from harm. He heard her soft voice, telling of the things which had passed between them, and he saw in her eyes, with almost a cry he swept the thought and the picture from him. It was an atrocious thing to conceive, impossible of reality, and yet the truth would not go. What would he have done in Saint Pierre's place? He went to the window again. Yes, Saint Pierre was a bigger man than he. For Saint Pierre had come quietly and calmly, offering a hand of friendship, generous, smiling, keeping his hurt to himself, while he, Dave Kerrigan, would have come with the murder of man in his heart. His eyes passed from the canoe to the raft, and from the big raft to the hazy billows of green and golden forest that melted off into interminable miles of distance beyond the river. He knew that on the other side of him lay that same distance, north, east, south, and west, vast spaces in an unpeopled world, the same green and golden forests, ten thousand plains and rivers and lakes, a million hiding places where romance and tragedy might remain forever undisturbed. The thought came to him that it would not be difficult to slip out into that world and disappear. He almost owed it to Saint Pierre. It was the voice of Baptiste in a snatch of wild and discordant song that brought him back into grim reality. There was, after all, that embarrassing matter of justice and the accursed law. After a little he observed that the canoe was moving faster and that André's paddle was working steadily and with force. Saint Pierre no longer sat hunched in the bow. His head was erect and he was waving a hand in the direction of the raft. A figure had come from the cabin on the huge mass of floating timber. David got the shimmer of a woman's dress, something white fluttering over her head, waving back at Saint Pierre. It was Marie-Anne and he moved away from the window. He wondered what was passing between Saint Pierre and his wife in the hour that followed. The bateau kept abreast of the raft, moving neither faster nor slower than it did, and twice he surrendered to the desire to scan the deck of the floating timbers through his binoculars. But the cabin held Saint Pierre and Marie-Anne and he saw neither of them again until the sun was setting. Then Saint Pierre came out, alone. Even at that distance over the broad river he heard the booming voice of the chief of the belands. Life sprang up where there had been the drows of inactivity aboard the raft. A dozen more of the great sweeps were swiftly manned by men who appeared suddenly from the shadowed places of canvas shelters and striped tents. A murmur of voices rose over the water and then the murmur was broken by howls and shouts as the rivermen ran to their places at the command of Saint Pierre's voice and as the sweeps began to flash in the setting sun it gave way entirely to the evening chant of the paddling song. David gripped himself as he listened and watched the slowly drifting glory of the world that came down to the shores of the river. He could see Saint Pierre clearly, for the bateau had worked its way nearer. He could see the bare heads and naked arms of the rivermen at the sweeps. The sweet breath of the forests filled his lungs as that picture lay before him and there came into his soul a covetousness and a yearning where before there had been humiliation and the grim urge of duty. He could breathe the air of that world, he could look at its beauty, he could worship it and yet he knew that he was not a part of it as those others were a part of it. He envied the men at the sweeps. He felt his heart swelling at the exultation and joy in their song. They were going home, home down the big rivers, home to the heart of God's country where wives and sweethearts and happiness were waiting for them and their visions were his visions as he stared wide-eyed and motionless over the river. And yet he was irrevocably an alien. He was more than that, an enemy, a manhound sent out on a trail to destroy an agent of a powerful and merciless force that carried with it punishment and death. The crew of the bateau had joined in the evening song of the rivermen on the raft and over the ridges and hollows of the forest tops, red and green and gold in the last warm glory of the sun, echoed that chanting voice of men. David understood now what St. Pierre's command had been. The huge raft with its tented city of life was preparing to tie up for the night. A quarter of a mile ahead the river widened so that on the far side was a low, clean shore, toward which the efforts of the men at the sweeps were slowly edging the raft. York boat shot out on the shore side and dropped anchors that helped drag the big craft in. Two others tugged at tow lines fastened to the shore side bow, and within twenty minutes the first men were plunging up out of the water on the white strip of beach and were whipping the tie lines about the river's trees. David unconsciously was smiling in the thrill and triumph of these last moments, and not until they were over did he sense the fact that Bates and his crew were bringing the bateau into the opposite shore. Before the sun was quite down both raft and houseboat were anchored for the night. As the shadows of the distant forests deepened, Kerrigan felt impending at him an oppression of emptiness and loneliness which he had not experienced before. He was disappointed that the bateau had not tied up with the raft. Already he could see men building fires. Spirals of smoke began to rise from the shore, and he knew that the riverman's happiest of all hours, suppertime, was close at hand. He looked at his watch. It was after seven o'clock. Then he watched the fading away of the sun until only the red glow of it remained in the west, and against the still thicker shadows the fires of the rivermen threw up yellow flames. On his own side Bates and the bateau crew were preparing their meal. It was eight o'clock when a man he had not seen before brought in his supper. He ate, scarcely sensing the taste of his food, and half an hour later the man reappeared for the dishes. It was not quite dark when he returned to his window, but the far shore was only an indistinct blur of gloom. The fires were brighter. One of them built solely because of the riverman's inherent love of light and cheer through the blaze of its flaming logs twenty feet into the air. He wondered what Marianne was doing in this hour. Last night they had been together. He had marvelled at the witchery of the moonlight in her hair and eyes. He had told her of the beauty of it. She had smiled. She had laughed softly with him. For hours they had sat on the spell of the golden night and the glory of the river. And tonight, now, was she with St. Pierre waiting as they had waited last night for the rising of the moon? Had she forgotten? Or was she, as he thought St. Pierre had painfully tried to make him believe, innocent of all the thoughts and desires that had come to him as he sat worshiping her in their stolen hours? He could think of them only as stolen, for he did not believe Marianne had revealed to her husband all she might have told him. He was sure he would never see her again as he had seen her then, and something of bitterness rose in him as he thought of that. St. Pierre, could he have seen her face and eyes when he told her that her hair in the moonlight was lovelier than anything he had ever seen, would have throttled him with his naked hands in that meeting in the cabin. For St. Pierre's code would not have had her eyes droop under their long lashes, or her cheeks flushed so warmly at the words of another man, and he could not take vengeance on the woman herself. No, she had not told St. Pierre all she might have told. There were things which she must have kept to herself which she dared not reveal even to this great-hearted man who was her husband. Shame, if nothing more, had kept her silent. Did she feel that shame as he was feeling it? It was inconceivable to think otherwise. And for that reason, more than all others, he knew that she would not meet him face to face again, unless he forced that meeting. And there was little chance of that, for his pledge with St. Pierre had eliminated her from the aftermath of tomorrow's drama, his fight with Baptiste.  With the dull stab of a thing that of late had been growing inside him, he wondered what had happened to Carmen Fanche in the years that had gone since he had brought about the hanging of her brother. Last night, and the night before, strange dreams of her had come to him in restless slumber. It was disturbing to him that he should wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of her when he had gone to his bed with a mind filled to overflowing with the sweet presence of Marie-Anne Boulin. And now his mind reached out poignantly into mysterious darkness and doubt, even as the darkness of night spread itself in a thickening canopy over the river. Grey clouds had followed the sun of a faultless day, and the stars were veiled overhead. When David turned from the window it was so dark in the cabin that he could not see. He did not light the lamps, but made his way to St. Pierre's couch and sat down in the silence and gloom. Through the open windows came to him the cadence of the river and the forests. There was silence of human voice ashore, but under him he heard the lapping murmur of water as it rustled under the stern and side of the bateau, and from the deep timber came the never-ceasing whisper of the spruce and cedar tops and the subdued voice of creatures whose hours of activity had come with the dying out of the sun. For a long time he sat in this darkness, and then there came to him a sound that was different than the other sounds, a low monotone of voices, the dipping of a paddle, and a canoe passed close under his window and up the shore. He paid small attention to it until, a little later, the canoe returned and its occupants boarded the bateau. It would have roused little interest in him then had he not heard a voice that was thrillingly like the voice of a woman. He drew his hunched shoulders erect and stared through the darkness toward the door. A moment more and there was no doubt. It was almost shocked that sent the blood leaping suddenly through his veins. The inconceivable had happened. It was Marie Anne out there, talking in a low voice to bates. Then there came a heavy knock at his door and he heard the door open. Through it he saw the grayer gloom of the outside night partly shut out a heavy shadow. Monsieur called the voice of bates. I am here, said David. You have not gone to bed, Monsieur? No. The heavy shadow seemed to fade away and yet there still remained a shadow there. David's heart thumped as he noted the slenderness of it. For a space there was silence. And then, were you light the lamps, Monsieur David? A soft voice came to him. I want to come in and I am afraid of this terrible darkness. He rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket for matches. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Roger Maline


From the vault from the vault. So Let's do we got well first up thinking feather You got the trademark. I make the hardware. This is a bonnet And then we have a feather. So we're gonna be doing some more eating stuff But now under the feet think ink brand name So this is the feather wing the other side. It's got the SRAM and the output and the SD card kind of all Tucked in together speaking of Also, like oh, let's make an eating gizmo. I have to put the thinking logo on it, too Yeah, I think of it now that I think of it. This is the back of the Feather as team 32 f405. It's coming together. We're almost done testing it just a little bit more And this is the back silk screen that's going to go with featuring the teeny USB We wanted to highlight that teeny USB is driving the support for this feather and circuit Python and an Arduino as well soon and We also have a stem of relay because we wanted to have people be able to plug and play relay projects we've got plug-and-play stem a speaker and servo relays next and then This is like you that little 1.14 inch tft. Well, we turned it into a little raspberry pi add-on And we even have kernel driver support for it So you can have the console appear and you think like oh, that's really small screen But it's pretty high resolution. So you can actually do quite a bit of console work Right on that little display and two buttons edge badge. It's like a pie badge, but now has microphone input I gotta get that working And speaking of which here's a 3d printed. This is 3d printed. It looks like it's injection mold. That's not 3d printed Sweet case designed by Mike Dole for the pie badge Coming soon from Carter. We'll have a guide and have a video with past you Oh, yeah, okay. Well, let's make this video. What is this? This is me testing out the new USB C plus stemma powered FT 232 H breakout Carter just did a great guide on using this with the computers You can write Python on your computer and control hardware and in addition He just submitted a pull request to the neopixel library that'll let you drive neopixel and you're like How are you doing that? Well, we're taking advantage of the ultra high speed SPI port And we're sending just the right bit pattern to let it control neopixels But the code I'm learning is on my windows computer Pretty amazing command Boom Next up. This is something playing around with this is a pipe portal and this is a little triangular like piece of plastic that when you put it on top it looks like a Hologram to need effect their low cost and Trying to sample all of them to figure out which one would look best I think for especially young people to make their own images and make their own little holograms without you know All the things you need to make a real hologram. Yeah, it's such a cool It's like the peppers ghost thing, but it's yeah very effective