The Danger Trail | Page 3

seen civilization for three years,"
thought Howland, seating himself comfortably, with his feet on the
window-sill. Aloud he said, "The clerk tells me you are from Lac Bain.
That's a good distance north, isn't it?"
"Four hundred miles," replied the factor with quiet terseness. "We're on
the edge of the Barren Lands."
"Whew!" Howland shrugged his shoulders. Then he volunteered, "I'm
going north myself to-morrow."
"Post man?"
"No; engineer. I'm putting through the Hudson Bay Railroad."

He spoke the words quite clearly and as they fell from his lips the
half-breed, partly concealed in the gloom behind him, straightened with
the alert quickness of a cat. He leaned forward eagerly, his black eyes
gleaming, and then rose softly from his seat. His moccasined feet made
no sound as he came up behind Howland. It was the big huskie who
first gave a sign of his presence. For a moment the upturned eyes of the
young engineer met those of the half-breed. That look gave Howland a
glimpse of a face which he could never forget--a thin, dark, sensitive
face framed in shining, jet-black hair, and a pair of eyes that were the
most beautiful he had ever seen in a man. Sometimes a look decides
great friendship or bitter hatred between men. And something,
nameless, unaccountable, passed between these two. Not until the
half-breed had turned and was walking swiftly away did Howland
realize that he wanted to speak to him, to grip him by the hand, to know
him by name. He watched the slender form of the Northerner, as lithe
and as graceful in its movement as a wild thing of the forests, until it
passed from the door out into the night.
"Who was that?" he asked, turning to the factor.
"His name is Croisset. He comes from the Wholdaia country, beyond
Lac la Ronge."
"French?"
"Half French, half Cree."
The factor resumed his steady gaze out into the white distance of the
night, and Howland gave up his effort at conversation. After a little his
companion shoved back his chair and bade him good night. The Crees
and Chippewayan followed him, and a few minutes later the two white
hunters left the engineer alone before the windows.
"Mighty funny people," he said half aloud. "Wonder if they ever talk!"
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his face resting in his hands, and
stared to catch a sign of moving life outside. In him there was no desire
for sleep. Often he had called himself a night-bird, but seldom had he

been more wakeful than on this night. The elation of his triumph, of his
success, had not yet worn itself down to a normal and reasoning
satisfaction, and his chief longing was for the day, and the day after that,
and the next day, when he would take the place of Gregson and Thorne.
Every muscle in his body was vibrant in its desire for action. He looked
at his watch. It was only ten o'clock. Since supper he had smoked
almost ceaselessly. Now he lighted another cigar and stood up close to
one of the windows.
Faintly he caught the sound of a step on the board walk outside. It was
a light, quick step, and for an instant it hesitated, just out of his vision.
Then it approached, and suddenly the figure of a woman stopped in
front of the window. How she was dressed Howland could not have
told a moment later. All that he saw was the face, white in the white
night--a face on which the shimmering starlight fell as it was lifted to
his gaze, beautiful, as clear-cut as a cameo, with eyes that looked up at
him half-pleadingly, half-luringly, and lips parted, as if about to speak
to him. He stared, moveless in his astonishment, and in another breath
the face was gone.
With a hurried exclamation he ran across the empty room to the door
and looked down the starlit street. To go from the window to the door
took him but a few seconds, yet he found the street deserted--deserted
except for a solitary figure three blocks away and a dog that growled at
him as he thrust out his head and shoulders. He heard no sound of
footsteps, no opening or closing of a door. Only there came to him that
faint, hissing music of the northern skies, and once more, from the
black forest beyond the Saskatchewan, the infinite sadness of the
wolf-howl.
CHAPTER II
LIPS THAT SPEAK NOT
Howland was not a man easily susceptible to a pair of eyes and a pretty
face. The practical side of his nature was too much absorbed in its
devices and schemes for the building of material things to allow the

breaking in of romance. At least Howland had always