Part 26 (2/2)

Ben took the bird on the extreme right, and again the bullet sped true.

The remainder of the flock had become uneasy now; and at the next shot all except one flew into the branches of the surrounding trees. This shot was equally successful, and with the fourth he knocked the remaining bird from the log.

Each of the four birds he had downed with a shot either through the head or the neck; and such shooting would have been marvelous indeed in the eyes of the tenderfoot. But both these two foresters knew that there was nothing exceptional about it. Pistol shooting is simply a matter of a sure eye and steady nerves, combined with a greater or less period of practice. Few were the trappers or woodsmen north of fifty-three that could not have done as much.

Ben turned his attention to the fowl on the lower tree limbs, hitting once but missing the second time. To correct this unpardonable proceeding, he knocked with his seventh a fat c.o.c.k, his spurs just starting, from almost the top of a young spruce.

”Here's one more,” Beatrice urged him. ”I'll need every one for the pie.”

But the gun was empty. The firing pin snapped harmlessly against the breach. They gathered the grouse and sped on down to the cavern.

Her heart seemingly leaped into her throat at every beat; but with steady hands and smiling face she went about the preparation of the meal. She fried the venison and baked the wocus bread, and with more than usual spirit and gaiety set the dishes at Ben's place at the table. ”Draw up your chair,” she told him. ”I'll have the tea in a minute.”

Ben peered with sudden interest into her face. ”What's troubling you, Bee?” he asked gently. ”You're pale as a ghost.”

”I'm not feeling overly well.” Her eyes dropped before his gaze. ”I'm not hungry--at all. But it's nothing to worry about--”

She saw by his eyes that he _was_ worrying; yet it was evident that he had not the slightest suspicion of the real cause of the sudden pallor in her cheeks. She saw his face cloud and his eyes darken; and again she heard that faint, small voice of remorse--whispering deep in her heart's heart. He was always so considerate of her, this jailer of hers. His concern was always so real and deep. Yet in a moment more the kindly sympathy would be gone from his face. He would be lying very still--and his face would be even more pale than hers.

Listlessly she walked to the door of the cave, procuring a handful of dried red-root leaves that she used for tea. Through the cavern opening he saw her drop them into the bucket that served as their teapot.

Then she came back for the oiled, cloth bag that contained the last of their sugar. This was always one of her little kindnesses,--to sweeten his tea for him before she brought it to him. He began to eat his steak.

In one glance the girl saw that he was wholly unsuspecting. He trusted her; in their weeks together he had lost all fear of treachery from her.

There he was, exulting over the frugal lunch she had prepared, with no inkling of the deadly peril that even now was upon him. She wished he did not trust her so completely; it would be easier for her if he was just a little wary, a little more on guard.

She felt cold all over. She could hardly keep from s.h.i.+vering. But this was the moment of trial; the thing would be done in a moment more. She mustn't give way yet to the growing weakness in her muscles. She walked to the vine where she had left the potion.

How much of it there was--it seemed to have doubled in quant.i.ty since she had left it. A handful of the black berries meant death--certain as the sunrise--but what did half a handful mean? The question came to her again. How did she know that half a handful did not mean death too,--not just hours of slumber, but relentless and irremediable death! Would that be the end of her day's work--to see this tall, friendly warden of hers lying dead before her gaze, the laughter gone from his lips and the light faded from his eyes? She would be free then to strip the sh.e.l.l belt from his waist. He would never waken to prevent her. She could escape too--back to her father's home--and leave him in the cave.

All that he had told her concerning his war with her father recurred to her in one vivid flash. Could it have been that he had told the truth--that her father and his followers had been the attackers in the beginning? She had never believed him fully; but could it be that he was in the right? His claim had been invaded, he said, and his one friend murdered in cold blood. Was this not cause enough, by the code of the North, for a war of reprisal?

But even as these thoughts came to her, she had walked boldly to the fire and emptied the contents of the cup into the boiling water in the teapot. Ben would have only had to look up to see her do it. Yet still he did not suspect.

She waited an instant, steadying herself for the ordeal to come. Then she took the pot off the fire and poured the hot contents into the cup that had just held the potion. She had been careful not to put enough water into the pot to weaken the drink. The cup brimmed; but none was left. She brought it steaming to Ben's side.

No kindly root tripped her feet as she entered, no merciful unsteadiness caused her to drop this cup of death and spill its contents.

”Thanks, Beatrice.” Ben looked up, smiling. ”I'm a brute to let you fix my tea when you are feeling so bad. But I sure am grateful, if that helps any--”

His voice sounded far away, like a voice in a nightmare. ”It's pretty strong, I'm afraid,” she told him. ”The leaves weren't very good, and I boiled them too long. I'm afraid you'll find it bitter.”

”I'll drink it, if it's bitter as gall,” he a.s.sured her, ”after your kindness to fix it.”

His hand reached and seized the handle of the cup. Even now--_now_--he was raising it to his lips. In an instant more he would be pouring it down his throat, too considerate of her to admit its unwholesome taste, drinking it down though it tasted the potion of death that it was! The hair seemed to start on her head.

Then she seemed to writhe as in a convulsion. Her voice rose in a piercing scream. ”Ben--_Ben_--_don't drink it_!” she cried. ”G.o.d have mercy on my soul!”

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