The girl’s denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice. For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down, leaving her worse distracted for its coming.

For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.

“Ah, you cannot–you cannot,” she went on hysterically. “I might have known, I did know.” A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking piteousness sounded in her voice. “Oh, why, why did you do this thing? Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And to think of it! A murderer!” Then the fierce anger became dominant once more. “But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have given to me.” She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had talked of “judge and jury.” Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed her.

Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw–that catch of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to such questions, and he read the answer aright.

“Prudence,” he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes riveted her attention, “I can prove my innocence of the crime you charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring you–lifelong regret.”

The girl made a sharp ejaculation. But she did not attempt to interrupt him.

“I can prove that I was not within three hundred miles of this place on the day of Leslie’s death,” the man went on. “That I was in a city to the west of here distributing”–bitterly–“my wares. I can prove all this–to you. And I intend that before you leave me to-day you shall be a witness to my innocence, even against all prejudice. But before judge and jury it will be different–very different.” He sighed. “There I cannot prove my innocence, for to do so would be to betray my comrades–those who have traded with me and trusted me–and send them to the penal servitude which also awaits me.” His eyes had become reflective. He seemed to be talking to himself now rather than to the woman before him. “No, I cannot save myself at such a cost. Even to escape the gallows I will not play the part of Judas.”

The woman made no reply. She stood staring at him with all that was best in her shining in her eyes. She was trying to follow his every word and to take his meaning, and the one thought which dominated her whole mind was his expressed ability to prove his innocence to her.

He seemed to awake from some melancholy reverie, and again his eyes sought hers.

“Do you wish me to prove my innocence?”

“Yes; you must–you shall!”

The girl moved from the table; and, for the first time during the interview, her hand was removed from the pocket in her skirt. Hope filled the heart in which but now the fires of hell had seemed to burn. She drank in his words with a soul-consuming thirst The proof! That was what she required.

Iredale went on with grave gentleness.

“The proof is in here.” He moved to the bookcase and opened a secret recess in the back of it, “In this cupboard.”

He produced a pile of books and brought them to the table. Picking out one he opened it at the date of Grey’s death. It was a diary. He read out the entries for the entire week, all of which bore out his testimony. Every one was dated at a different town or village, and related to his sales of opium. He then opened another book and showed the entries of his sales and the figures. He went through the whole pile, book after book, and all of them bore out his statement as to his whereabouts. Then he produced several contracts; these were deeds between himself and various traders, and were dated at the towns at which they were signed. Each book and paper he passed on to Prudence for her scrutiny, drawing her attention to the corroboration in the evidence. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of these facts, and the girl’s last shadowy doubts of his innocence evaporated before the overwhelming detail. The hope which had filled her heart was now replaced by a triumphant joy. This man had shown her, had convinced her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment.

She looked up into his face, hoping to see a reflection of her own happiness in it. But there was no happiness there. His face was calm, but the melancholy had deepened in his eyes. What she saw came like an icy douche to her, and the happy expression died upon her lips. She suddenly remembered that he had said he could not use this evidence to publicly declare his innocence.

“But–” she began.

He shook his head. He knew that she wished to protest. For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes. Then the woman, the weaker, broke down under the strain. Tears came to her eyes, and she poured out all the pent-up grief of her hours of misery.

“Oh, George,” she cried, “can you ever forgive my wickedness? I ought never to have believed. My heart told me that you were innocent; but the evidence–oh, the evidence. I could see no loophole. Everything pointed to you–you. And I, wretch that I am, I believed.” And the girl sobbed as though her heart would break. Iredale made no attempt to soothe her; he felt that it would be good for her to weep. She leant against the table, and after a while her sobs quietened. Then the man touched her upon the shoulder.

“Don’t cry, Prue; my heart bleeds for you when I listen to your sobs. You’re not to blame for believing me guilty. Twelve jurymen will shortly do the same, and who can blame them?” He shrugged. “I must face the ‘music’ and take my chance. And now, child,” he added, his hand still resting upon her shoulder, and smiling down upon her from his superior height, “give me that which you have concealed in your pocket. We will throw it away.”

Prudence sprang up and moved beyond his reach.

“No, no! I can’t! Don’t ask me. Spare me the shame of it. As you love me, George, don’t ask me for it.”

“As you will, dear; I merely wished to rid ourselves of an ugly presence. While we are together–and it may not be for long now–nothing should come between us, least of all that.”

The girl’s tears had dried. She looked over at her lover. His compelling influence was upon her. She paused irresolute; then she plunged her hand into her pocket and drew forth a large revolver.

“Here, take it. Take it, and do what you like with it” Then she laughed bitterly. “You know me as I am now. I brought that to shoot you with, and afterwards to shoot myself. You see, I am a murderess at heart.” And she smiled bitterly.

Iredale took the weapon and placed it in his bookcase. Then he came to the girl’s side and put his arm tenderly about her shoulders.

“Forget it, child; forget it as you would a hideous dream. Your feelings were forced upon you by–well, through my wretched doings. That which I have done to gain wealth has brought only what might have been expected in its train. No work of evil is without its sting, and, as is always the case, that sting seeks out the most sensitive part of its victim. The chastisement for my wrongdoing has been inflicted with cruel cunning, for you, Prue, have been made to suffer; thus is my punishment a hundredfold greater.”

He drew her to him as he spoke, and gently smoothed her dark hair. Under the influence of his touch and the sound of his voice, the girl calmed. She nestled close to his side, and for a moment abandoned herself to the delight of being with him. But her thoughts would not remain idle for long. Suddenly she released herself and moved to arm’s length from him.

“George,” she said, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, “they cannot try you for–for murder. You will tell them. You will show them all–these. For my sake, for the sake of all your friends, you will not let them–condemn you. Oh, you can’t allow it. Think,” she went on, more passionately; “no men would willingly let you be declared guilty when they know you to be innocent. It must not be.”

Iredale gave no outward sign. He had turned his face away and was gazing in the direction of the window. His reflective eyes looked out upon the valley, but his resolve was written plainly in them.

“Do not tempt me, Prue,” he said quietly. “Were I to do otherwise than I have resolved, and obtained an acquittal thereby, I should live a life of utter regret. I should despise myself; I should loathe my own shadow. Nothing could be more revolting to me than the man who plays the part of a traitor, and were I that man life would be impossible to me. Think of it only for one moment, sweetheart, and your own good heart will tell you how impossible is that which you ask me to do. It cannot be. All the world would despise me. But even so, its utmost execration would be nothing compared with my own feelings at the thought that I had saved myself by such methods.” He withdrew his hand from her embrace. “No, when the time comes and I am forced to stand my trial for Grey’s murder, I shall face it. Nor shall I betray my friends by one single word. And, too, when that time comes there will not remain one single trace of the traffic which has hitherto been part of my very existence. There shall be no possible chance of discovery for those who have trusted me. Your brother Hervey will never hold his hand. I know that. I realized that when he left me after seeking ‘blackmail.’ His vindictive nature will see this through. And perhaps I would rather have it so. It will then be settled once and for all. I may get off, but I fear that it will be otherwise.”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Prudence started, and the blood receded from her anxious face, leaving it ghastly in its pallor. She had forgotten that he was even now on his way to Winnipeg for the express purpose of denouncing Iredale. For one instant she shook like an aspen. Then she recovered herself. What was to be done? She tried to think. This matter of Hervey was of her doing. She had driven him to it; urged him to it. Now she realized the full horror of what her foolish credulity had led her into. It had been in her power to stay his hand, at least to draw his fangs. Now it was too late. Suddenly she turned upon her lover in one final appeal. At that moment it seemed the only chance of saving him.

“George, there is a way out of it all; one last resource if you will only listen to me. You love me even in spite of the way I have wronged you. You belong to me if only by reason of our love. You have no right to throw your life away when you are innocent. God knows I honour you for your decision not to betray your companions. If it were possible, I love you more than ever. But the sin would be as great to throw your life away for such a shadow as it would be to deliver your friends up to justice. You can save yourself; you must. The border is near. We are right on it. Surely the way you have brought the Chinese into the country should provide an exit for us. Oh, my poor love, will you not listen to me? Will you not give me the life I crave? George, let us go–together.”

Her words came passionately. She had stepped forward and placed her two brown hands upon his great shoulders, and her dark, earnest eyes gazed lovingly up into his.

The temptation was a sore one, and the man found it hard to resist. He experienced a sudden rush of blood to the brain. His body seemed to be on fire. He was pulsating with a mad passion. The thought of what she suggested came near to overthrowing his sternest resolve. To go with her. To have her evermore by his side. The thought was maddening. Surely he had never realized until that moment how dearly he loved this woman. But his strong nature came to his rescue in time. The passion had died down as swiftly as it had risen and left him cold and collected.

He gazed down into the brown eyes ever so kindly, ever so lovingly; and his answer came in a tone so gentle that the girl felt that whatever the future might hold for them, this moment had been worth living for.

“No, no, sweetheart. Not flight, even though you would be my companion. We love one another dearly, and for that very fact I could never allow myself to remain under this cloud. At all costs we will have the matter cleared. I owe it to you, to those at the farm, and to myself.”

The girl’s hands dropped to her sides and she turned away. Then all the agony of her soul found vent in one exclamation.

“Oh, God!” she cried. And with that last cry came the revealing flash which answered the question she had so repeatedly asked herself. She turned back to her lover, and the agonized expression of her face had changed, and in her eyes was the eager light of excitement. Iredale saw the change, but did not recognize its meaning. He felt that she must no longer remain there.

“Child, I want you to go back to the farm and tell them of the accusation that has been brought against me. Tell them all the circumstances of it. Tell them that I have clearly convinced you of my innocence; but, as you love me, I charge you not to reveal the manner in which it was done. Tell your mother that I shall come over to-morrow, and she shall hear the whole story from my own lips. I wish to do this that she may hear my version before she reads of what must happen in the papers. After that I shall go into Winnipeg and set the law in motion. I will clear myself or–otherwise. But on your honour you must promise that all I have shown you to-day remains a secret between us.”

Prudence listened intently to all he said, but a quiet look of resolve slowly crept into her eyes.

“I promise,” she said, and Iredale thanked her with a look.

There was the briefest of pauses; then she went on–

“On one condition.”

“What do you mean?”

Iredale looked his surprise.

“Now you must hear me, George,” she went on eagerly. “You have charged me with this thing. You must abide by my time. A day more or less can make little difference to you.”

“But I wish to give myself up before others can make the charge.”

“Just so. And in the meantime I want your promise not to come to the farm until the”–she paused to make a swift mental calculation–“day after to-morrow at four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Tell me your reason.”

“That is my own.” The girl was smiling now. Then she again became excited. “Promise, promise, promise! There is no time to lose. Even now I fear we are too late.”

Iredale looked dubiously at her. Suddenly he saw her face darken.

“Promise!” she demanded almost fiercely, “or I will not abide by my promise to you.”

“I promise.”

An expression of relief came into Prudence’s eyes, and she stepped towards him and looked up into his face.

“Good-bye, George, dearest.”

The man suddenly clasped her in a bear-like embrace and rained passionate, burning kisses on her upturned lips. Then quietly she released herself. She stood away from him holding one of his great hands in both of hers.

“Quick! Now my horse.”

Iredale departed, and Prudence was left alone. She stood looking after him thinking, thinking.

“Can I do it?” she asked herself.

Damside City was the nearest telegraph station. It lay nearly thirty-five miles due west of Owl Hoot It was merely a grain station for the district and in no sense a village. She must make that point and so intercept Hervey with a telegraphic message. It was her one chance. In spite of her lover she would buy Hervey’s silence, and trust to the future to set the rest straight. She was strong and her horse was good. She must reach the office before it was closed at six o’clock that evening. She calculated it up; she had just three hours in which to cover the distance. She looked out of the window. The wind was blowing from the east; that was good, it would ease the horse. She looked up at the sky, there were a few clouds scudding westwards.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” she said at last, “if it kills poor Kitty.”

A moment later Iredale returned with the mare. The girl waited not a second. Her lover assisted her into the saddle reluctantly. He did not approve this sudden activity on the part of the girl. When she had settled herself she bent down, and their lips met in one long, passionate kiss.

“Good-bye, George.”

The man waved his adieu. His heart was too full to speak. She swung her mare round and galloped down the valley to the north. Her object was to clear the valley and then turn off to the west on the almost disused trail to Damside.

Iredale looked after her until the sound of the mare’s hoofs died away in the distance. He was filled with wonder at her strange request and her hurried departure. But his speculations brought him to no definite conclusions, and he turned abruptly and called to his man, Chintz.

The man hurried from the stable.

“We have been a little delayed. Is everything ready?” Iredale looked up at the sky, then down at the grizzled face before him.

Chintz nodded.

“Good. Then get to work. Start the first fire directly beyond the graveyard to the east. The wind is getting up steadily. You are sure there are no farms to the west of us, between here and Rosy River?”

The man gave a negative shake of the head.

“That’s all right then. There will be no damage done. And the river will cut the fire off. This time to-morrow we shall be homeless wanderers, Chintz–you and I.” And the smuggler laughed bitterly.

Then his laugh died out.

“Well, to work. Set the fires going.”

CHAPTER XVIII
THE FOREST DEMON PURSUES

Prudence swung her mare out on to the overgrown trail to Damside City. Kitty was a trim-built little “broncho,” compact, well-ribbed, and with powerful shoulders and chest. She was just the animal to “stay” and travel fast. The road cut through the heart of the Owl Hoot bush, and ran in a diagonal direction, south-west towards the border. Then it converged with the border trail which skirted the great southern muskeg, and, passing through a broken, stony country, went on to Damside.

The wind was rapidly freshening, and the scudding clouds were quickly changing from white to grey, which, to the girl’s practised mind, indicated an immediate change of weather. But she thought little of the matter beyond being thankful that the wind was well behind her, she wished to travel fast, and a “fair” wind is as necessary to the horseman, under such circumstances, as it is to the mariner.

For a time the roughness of the road required her attention. Kitty was surefooted, but the outstanding roots with which her path was lined needed careful negotiation. Presently the trail became wider and its surface more even, and signs of recent usage became apparent. The roots were worn down and the projecting stones had been removed. Neither did it take the girl long to decide whose servants had done these things. On this obscure trail were to be seen many signs of the traffic upon which the owner of Lonely Ranch had been engaged. Now Prudence gave Kitty her head, and the mare travelled at a great pace.

The breeze had chastened the laden air of the pine world. The redolent woods no longer scented the air, which had in consequence become fresh and bracing. For the moment the emergency of her journey had dulled the girl’s sensibilities to her surroundings. She looked out upon the beautiful tinted world, but she heeded nothing of what her eyes beheld. Her mind was set upon the object of her journey, and her thoughts were centred round the players in the drama of her life.

How different her life seemed to have suddenly become from that which she had contemplated that morning. A great triumphant joy was with her since her lover had established his innocence to her. Her troubles and anxieties were still many, and the least thing might upset every hope she entertained, but there was always with her the remembrance that George Iredale was innocent, and in that thought she felt a wonderful security. That he was a smuggler was a matter of insignificance. She loved him too well to let such knowledge narrow her estimation of him. She was too essentially of the prairie to consider so trifling a matter. Half the farmers in the country were in the habit of breaking the Customs regulations by cutting wood and hay on Government lands without a permit, and even hauling these things from across the border when such a course suited them, and in every case it was “contraband”; but they were thought no less of by their friends. Iredale was no worse than they, in spite of the fact that his offence carried with it a vastly heavier sentence.

But for the dread that she might be too late to intercept her brother, Prudence would almost have been happy as she raced along that westward-bound trail. She knew her brother’s nature well. She knew that he was vindictive, and no doubt her own treatment of him had roused his ire and all the lower instincts of his malignant nature; but she also knew that he loved money–needed money. His greed for gold was a gluttonous madness which he was incapable of resisting, and he would sacrifice any personal feeling provided the inducement were sufficiently large. She meant that the inducement should be as large as even he could wish, and she knew that in this direction his ideas were extensive. Her one trouble, the one thought which alarmed her, was the question of time. If the office were closed when she arrived, her journey would have been in vain, for the operator lived in Ainsley and would have gone home; Hervey would have arrived in Winnipeg, and, by the time the office opened the following morning, the mischief would have been done.

She flicked her mare with the end of her reins and touched her flank with her heel. Kitty responded with a forward bound. The increased speed was all too slow for the rapid thought and deadly anxiety of the girl, but she was too good a horsewoman to press the willing beast beyond a rational gait.

The hardy mare “propped” jerkily as she passed down the sharp side of a dried-out slough. She plunged through a thicket of long grass, and a grey cloud of mosquitoes rose and enveloped horse and rider. The vicious insects settled like a grey cloth upon the heated mare, and Prudence’s soft flesh was punctured by hundreds of venomous needles at once. The girl swept the insects from neck and face, heedless of the torturing stings. The mare fretted and raced up the opposite slope, while the girl leant forward in her saddle and sought to relieve the staunch little creature’s agony by sweeping the poisonous insects from her steaming coat.

The mare pressed on. Suddenly she threw up her head and snorted violently. Prudence was startled. Something had distracted Kitty’s attention, and her wide-set ears were cocked in alarm. Her nose was held high, and again and again she snorted. In consequence her pace was slackened and became awkward. She no longer kept a straight line along the trail, but moved from side to side in evident agitation. Prudence was puzzled and endeavoured to steady the creature. But Kitty was not to be easily appeased. She rattled her bit and mouthed it determinedly, grabbing at the side-bar with an evident desire to secure it in her teeth. The girl kept a tight rein and attempted to soothe her with the tender caress of her hand; but her efforts were unavailing. The ears were now turned backwards, and had assumed that curiously vicious inclination which in a horse is indicative of bad temper or equine terror. Kitty had no vice in her, and Prudence quickly understood the nature of her mare’s feelings.

The failure of her soothing efforts alarmed the girl. She sat up and looked about her. In the dense forest there seemed to be no unusual appearance. The trees were waving and bending in the wind, and their groanings had a sadly mournful effect, upon the scene, but otherwise there was nothing strange to be observed. The sky had assumed a leaden hue, and in this direction the prospect was not alluring, but the clouds were fairly high and there was no suggestion of immediate storm.

Suddenly a couple of jack-rabbits darted across the road. The mare “propped,” reared, and swung round towards the trees. Prudence brought her up to her work sharply. Then she saw that the rabbits were racing on ahead, down the trail. For the moment her patience gave way, and she dug her heel hard against Kitty’s side and the mare plunged forward. But her gait remained unsteady, and in her agitation she kept changing her stride, and once even tripped and nearly fell.

A coyote followed by his mate and two young ones ran out on to the trail and raced along ahead of her. They did not even turn their heads to look at her. Further on a great timber-wolf appeared and trotted along the edge of the woods, every now and then turning its head furtively to glance back.

Then quite suddenly Prudence became conscious of something unusual. She raised her face to the grey vault of the sky and sniffed at the air. A pungent scent was borne upon the wind. The odour of resinous wood, so strong as to be sickly, came to her, and its pungency was not the ordinary scent of the forest about her.

Half-a-dozen kit-foxes dashed out on to the trail and joined in the race, and the “yowl” of the prairie dog warned her that other animals were about. The resinous odour grew stronger every moment, and at last Prudence detected the smell of smoke. She turned her head and looked back; and behind her, directly in her wake, she saw a thin grey haze which the wind was sweeping along above the trees.

She drew her mare up to a stand, and as she sat looking back, a deadly fear crept into her eyes. Kitty resented the delay and reared and plunged in protest The restraint maddened her. And all the time the girl saw that the smoke haze was thickening, and some strange distant sounds like the discharge of heavy ordnance reached her.

The sweet oval face wore a strained expression; her eyes were wide open and staring, and the fear which looked out of them was fear of no ordinary danger. She watched the dull haze as it thickened and rolled on towards her. She saw it rise like great steam-jets and wreath itself upwards as fresh volumes displayed the lower strata. She saw the dull brown tint creep into it as it densified, and she knew that it was smoke. The rest needed no explanation beyond the evidence of her senses. The sickly resinous smell told her what had happened. The forest was on fire!

The thought found vent in a muttered exclamation. Then came an afterthought–

“And the wind is blowing it straight along behind me.”

For a moment she gazed about her wildly. She looked to the right and left The forest walls were impassable. She looked back along the trail. The narrow ribbon-like space was filled with a fog of smoke which was even now enveloping her. What should she do? There was nothing for it but to go on. But the fire must be travelling apace in the high wind. Still she stood. It seemed as though for the moment her faculties were paralyzed with the horror of her discovery.

But at last she was moved to action. The mare became troublesome. The girl could no longer keep her still. The distracted animal humped her back and began to show signs of “bucking.” Then came a rush of animals along the trail; they came racing for dear life, and their numbers were augmented from the wooded depths which lined their route.

Antelope led the way; with heads thrown up and antlers pressed low down upon their backs they seemed to fly over the sandy soil. Then came the “loping” dogs, coyotes, prairie wolves. Birds of all sorts assembled in one long continuous flight. The animal kingdom of that region of forest seemed to have become united in their mutual terror–wolf and hare, coyote and jack-rabbit, hawks and blackbird, prairie chicken and grey-owl; all sworn enemies in time of calm prosperity, but now, in their terror, companions to the last. And all the time, in the growing twilight of smoke, came the distant booming as of the discharge of great cannon.

The girl leaned forward. She clapped her heel hard against the mare’s side, and with a silent prayer joined in the race for life.

She had no exact knowledge of how far these woods extended, or where the break would come which should cut off the fire. The wild beasts were speeding on down the trail, and, with the instinct of her prairie world, she reasoned that in this direction alone must lie safety.

The smoke grew denser and more choking. Her eyes became sore. Under her she felt the mare stretching herself to the utmost of her gait. She came up with many of the racing denizens of the forest, but they did not attempt to move off the trail at her approach. They were beyond the fear of human presence. A more terrible enemy was behind them, pursuing with gigantic strides which demolished space with incredible swiftness.

Every moment the air grew hotter in spite of the mare’s best efforts, and Prudence knew that the fire was gaining. Hill or dale made no difference now. It must be on–on, or the devouring monster would be upon them. Kitty never flagged, and with increasing speed her footing became even more sure. A loose line, with body bent well forward to ease the animal, Prudence did all she knew to assist her willing companion; but for every stride the faithful mare took, she knew that the fire was gaining many yards.

The booming had increased to a steady roar, in the midst of which the deep, thunderous detonations came like the peals of a raging storm; the wind rushed headlong forward, the fire bringing with it an almost cyclonic sweep of heated air. The mighty forest giants about her bent like reeds under the terrible force, and shrieked aloud their fears at the coming of the devouring demon.