The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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* * * * *

Bull stared up at the house. He moved away and glanced over the windows.
Then his eyes turned to the valley below, and his gaze settled itself on
the great fires burning on the northern foreshore of the Cove.

For some moments he stood contemplating the thing he beheld. Then, at
last, he turned back to the locked door of his office. Without a word he
raised one foot, and, with all his force, crashed its sole against the
lock.

The lock gave and the door fell back into the pitch darkness beyond. He
passed within. After a while a light appeared in the office window. It
passed. Then it reappeared in each window of the building in succession.
Presently it remained stationary and fresh lights appeared in several of
the windows. Minutes later he reappeared in the doorway.

He stepped out into the snow and came over to the waiting dog train.

"It's a cold sort of welcome," he said quietly. "But--will you please
come right in, and I'll see how I can fix you up for comfort. I guess
things have happened since I've been away. They've turned off heat.
However--"

Nancy McDonald rose from her place in the sled. She flung back the
wealth of furs under which she had been well-nigh buried and stepped
out. She made no reply, but stood waiting while Bull gave orders to his
driver.

"Get those dogs fixed, Gouter," he said. "Then come right along back
here. You'll need to gather fuel and set those stoves going."

* * * * *

A great fire was roaring in the wood stove in the office. Nancy and Bull
were standing before it seeking to drive out the cold which seemed to
have eaten into their bones. Bull had drawn up his own rocker-chair for
the girl but she had not availed herself of it.

"You are not going to keep me here, prisoner in--your house?"

The girl spoke in a low, hushed tone. In the indifferent lamp-light she
looked ghastly pale and utterly weary-eyed. She had removed her furs,
revealing herself clad in the heavy clothing which alone could have
served on her desperate journey through the camps. It robbed her figure
of much of its usual grace.

"I'm afraid I am." Bull smiled gently, for all the decision of his
words. "You see, Nancy, we're still at war. Still fighting the battle
that others have forced on us."

Nancy inclined her head.

"I'd forgotten," she said almost humbly. "But you have no women folk
around you," she went on urgently a moment later. "Does war mean
that--that I must submit even--to that?"

It was the woman in her that had taken alarm. Her hands were pressed
together as she held them over the stove. The man understood. She moved
away to the window, over which the curtains had not been drawn, and Bull
watched her.

"Every respect will be paid you," he said. "You've nothing to fear. When
Gouter returns he'll get food, and we'll make the best preparations we
can. I've to consider others with more at stake than even I."

"Look!"

The girl had turned. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was pointing at
the window, and Bull hurried to her side.

A great fire was raging on the north shore of the Cove. It was the
recreation room, that room which Bat had so bitterly come to hate. It
was ablaze from end to end, and lit up its neighbourhood so that the
scene was of daylight clearness. A horde of human figures were gathered
about it, in a struggling, seething mass, and the man realised that a
battle was raging, a human battle, whilst the demon of fire was left to
work its will.

He stood there, held speechless by the thing he beheld.

"What is it? What does it mean?"

Panic drove the questions to the girl's lips. And she turned in an agony
of appeal to the man beside her.

"It means the work of the Skandinavia has been well and truly done."

CHAPTER XXII

DAWN

The hush of dawn was unbroken. The shadows of night receded slowly,
reluctantly renouncing their long reign in favour of the brief winter
daylight. The shores of the Cove lay hidden under a haze of fog.

There were no sounds of life. The world was desperately still. No cry of
wild fowl rose to greet the day. There was not even the doleful cry of
belated wolf, or the snapping bark of foraging coyote to indicate those
conditions of life which never change in the northern wilderness. It was
as if the world of snow and ice were waking to a day of complete
mourning, a day of bitter reckoning for the tumult of furious human
passions, which, under the cloak of night, had been loosed to work the
evil of men's will.

With the first gleam of the rising sun a breeze leapt out of the east.
It came with an edge like the keenest knife, and ripped the fog to
ribbons. It churned and tangled it. Then it flung it clear of its path,
leaving bare the scene of wreckage which the rage of battle had
produced.

It was a scene for pity and regret. Gone was the building which had
been set up for the workers' recreation. Only a smoking ruin remained in
its place. A dozen other buildings in the neighbourhood bore the scars
of fire, which they would doubtless carry for all time of their service.
The mill, however, was safe. The work of more than fifteen years
remaining intact. But it had been so near, so very near to complete
destruction.

With the passing of the fog further disaster was revealed. It was the
wreck of human life which the night had produced. Daylight had made it
possible to deal with the injured and those beyond all human aid. And
the work was going forward in the almost voiceless fashion which the
presence of death ever imposes on the living.

Viewed even from a distance there could be no mistaking the meaning, the
hideous significance of it all. And Nancy, gazing from a window in the
house on the hill, shrank in terror before that which she believed to be
the result of the cruel work to which she had lent herself.

It had been a dreary, heartbreaking night of sleepless watching and
poignant feeling. Nancy was alone in her prison, a beautiful apartment,
the best in the house. Bull Sternford had conducted her thither
personally, and, in doing so, had told her the thing he was doing, and
of his real desire to save her unnecessary distress.

"You see," he had explained, with a gentleness which Nancy felt she had
no right to expect, "there's just about the best of everything right
here. It's as it was left by the feller who designed and decorated it
for the woman he loved better than anything in life. No one's ever used
it since. I'd be glad for you to have it. We've only a Chink servant to
wait around on us, and a rough choreman, and I guess they don't know a
thing about fixing things for a woman. But they've kept it clean and
wholesome, and that's all I can say. Can you make out in it to-night?"

He smiled. Then his steady eyes had turned away to the window where the
light of the raging fire could be seen. And after a moment he went on.

"You're a prisoner. I can't help that. That's got to be. But no lock or
bolt will be set to keep you here. You're free to come and go as you
choose. You can make the doors of the room fast against intrusion, if
you feel that way. But there'll be none. To-night you'll just be dead
alone in the place. You see, I've got to get out and pull my weight down
there."

So he had left her. He had left her to a punishment more desperate than
anything he could have designed. Her windows looked out over the mill.
And a subtle force attracted her thereto, and held her sleepless and
despairing the whole night long. She had been forced to sit there
watching the tragedy being enacted. A tragedy with which she knew she
was connected, and for which, in her exaggerated self-condemnation, she
believed herself responsible.

The agony of that prolonged vigil would never be forgotten. Fascinated,
dreading, every act of it seared the girl's soul as with a red hot
brand. It was the Skandinavia's work. The agents of the Skandinavia. And
she knew that she, perhaps, was their principal agent. The rattle of
machine guns. The human slaughter. She had witnessed the terror of it
all in the fierce light of the conflagration which looked to be
devouring the whole world of the mills. She could never forget it. She
could never forgive herself her share in the ghastly plans for that
hideous destruction. But more than all she knew she could never forgive,
or again associate herself with those who had designed the inhuman work
of it all and plunged her into the maelstrom of its execution.

Now, in the daylight, she was still at the window. There was no relief.
On the contrary. With the smoke cleared from the smouldering ruins she
saw the full extent of the wreckage. It was sprawling everywhere, human
and material. An army of men, it seemed, was searching the battlefield.
It was searching and collecting amongst the ruins. And she watched the
bearing away on improvised stretchers, of still, helpless, human burdens
which none could mistake. She could bear no more of it. She shut out the
sight and fled from the window, covering her eyes with her hands.

But she was recalled almost instantly. The sound of men's rough voices
startled her. Whence came the sound she could not judge. But it seemed
to her it was from somewhere outside. So she stealthily peered out. It
was a small group of fur-clad figures. They were approaching the house
over the snowy trail that came up from the mill.

New terror leapt. They were supporting a prone, human body! They were
bringing it up to the house! Who--who could they be bringing up to that
house, which was the home and the office of the master of the mill? In
that supreme moment all that which had gone before was completely
forgotten. She stood clutching at the window casing, in a desperate
effort to steady herself.

She knew. Oh, yes, it could be no other. It must be Bull Sternford they
were bringing up. Bull Sternford--the man who--The agents of the
Skandinavia had done him to death! The agents of the Skandinavia!

* * * * *

Bat Harker was standing at the window of the office on the hill. His
hard, grey eyes were searching the distance below, and his square jaws
were busy on their usual occupation. Bull was sitting in a rocker-chair.
He was leaning forward, gazing down at the thickly carpeted floor, and
his hands were clasped between his outspread knees. Both men were
dishevelled. Their clothing was stained, and their hands and faces were
begrimed as a result of the fierce work of the night.

Bat suddenly turned from his silent scrutiny.

"He'll pull around? You think so?" he demanded.

There was an appeal in his harsh voice such as Bull had never heard in
it before, and he looked up with a start.

"That's how Jason reckoned," he said.

"Oh, to hell with Jason!" Bat's retort was fiercely uncompromising.
"Who's Jason anyway? A medical student who hadn't the guts for his job.
Leastways he got on the crook. It's the thing you reckon I want to
know."

"I reckon he'll pull around," Bull returned quietly. Then he stirred
wearily. "But you're hard on young Jason, Bat. He's bright enough. I
like the way he handles his job. And anyway he's the only feller around
this layout with any knowledge of a sick man. He's qualified you know.
He wasn't just a student. He practised before he went down and out and
took to the forests. We've got to rely on him till we get a man up from
Montreal, which won't be for weeks. He'll be through along from fixing
him in a while. Then we can hear the thing he's got to say. Maybe we'll
be able to judge better then."

"I wired Montreal," Bat said sharply.

"Good."

The lumberman turned again to his window, and Bull continued to regard
the carpet which had no interest for him. Both were weary, utterly weary
in body as well as mind.

It was full, broad daylight now, with the low, northern sun gleaming
athwart the scene which these men had so recently left. They were
conscious of the victory gained. They rejoiced in the complete defeat of
an enemy who had come so near to defeating all their plans. But the cost
appalled them. They had both faced the play of machine guns. They had
seen their men fall to the scythe-like mowing of a cruel weapon of
which its victims had no understanding. Then, when the machine guns had
been silenced, they had witnessed the rage with which these hard-living
jacks had meted out their ideas of just punishment upon the murderers of
their comrades.

The wanton inhumanity of the whole thing had sickened them both. Both
knew and were indifferent to the roughness of the fierce northland. But
the ordeal through which they had passed was something far beyond the
darkest vision of conflict they had ever contemplated.

Neither had been present to witness the shooting of Father Adam. But
both had been there within minutes of the beginning of the battle which
it had started. From the power house Bat had discovered the thing
happening, just as Bull had seen from the window of his office the
leaping flames which had threatened the mill. It had been largely due to
their timely leadership that ultimate victory had been snatched. But the
work of it had been terrible.

Now they had returned to their quarters, their night's work completed.
Down below comrade was attending to comrade in such fashion as lay to
hand, and those beyond earthly aid were being disposed to their last
rest. Thus these men had been left free to succour the wounded creature
whose timely lead had made possible the defeat that had been inflicted.

Bat had but one concern just now. Father Adam. The man whose secret he
held. The man who counted for everything in his rugged life. He raised
his blood-shot eyes to his companion's face.

"If--Father Adam--passes, I'm done with Sachigo, Bull," he declared
almost desperately. "It 'ud break me to death. You can't know the thing
that feller means to me. You know him for the sort of missioner all
these folks guess he is. That's how he'd have you know him. And it goes
with me all the time. But I know him just as he is."

Bull nodded. He made no reply. He knew the lumberman was well-nigh
beside himself, and he gazed back into the hot eyes and wondered.

But Bat had nothing more to say. He even felt he had said more than he
had any right to say. So he turned again to the window.

A few moments later the door communicating with the house was
unceremoniously thrust open. The two men looked round. It was a youngish
man dressed in the overalls of an engineer who hurried in. He was alert
and full of business; a condition which he seemed to appreciate.

"It's all right, boss," he cried cheerfully, addressing himself to Bat.
"Guess the good Father'll get away with it. He's out of his dope an'
smiling plenty. I jerked that darn plug that holed him right out, an'
it's a soft-nosed swine. I left it back there for you to see. The feller
who dropped him deserves rat poison. I hope to God they got him. Anyway
I got the wound cleaned up and fixed things. Now we just got to keep it
clean and open, and watch his temperature. Then we don't need to worry a
thing. I'll do that. But someone'll have to sit around and nurse him.
I'll have to get along down. There's nigh a hundred needin' me. Gee I
An' after all these years, too. It makes me wonder."

There was a smile of keen appreciation in the eyes that looked into
those of the lumberman. And the look deepened when Bat thrust out a
large and dirty hand at him.

"Thanks, boy," he said, in obvious relief. "I'm goin' to nurse that pore
feller. Maybe I ain't much in that line. But I'll promise he don't lack
a thing I can hand him. Here, shake. You'll be along to fix him again?"

"Right on time," was the quick rejoinder.

Jason had readily enough gripped the outstretched hand. Then he hurried
away. And neither of the men begrudged him the obvious vanity which his
momentary importance had inflamed.

With the man's going Bull passed a hand back over his ample hair.

"God!" he exclaimed wearily. "It's been a tough night."

"Tough?"

Bat's response spoke a whole world of feeling. He moved from his window
and flung himself into a chair.

"He saved us," he went on. "Father Adam. He saved the whole of our darn
outfit. How he did it I don't just know. Maybe I'll never know. He don't
talk a lot. I gathered something of it from the boys. But there wasn't
time for talk." He shook his grizzled head. "You see, I didn't even know
he was around. And you never told me it was him brought you word from
the camps. He must have been at work around from the start. He must have
got hold of a bunch of the boys he knew. And when he got 'em right,
why--Say, I'd have given a thousand dollars to have heard him fire his
dope at that lousy gang. It must have been pretty. But they got him. And
I guess that was the craziest thing they did. The fool man who could
shoot up Father Adam in face of the forest-boys could only be fit for
the bughouse."

He sighed. It was not for the man's madness in shooting, but for the
hurt inflicted. Then a grim, vengeful smile lit his eyes.

"Why, I guess there ain't a single agent of the Skandinavia down there
left with a puff of wind in his rotten carcase. The boys were plumb
crazed for their blood an' got right up to their necks in it. I'm glad.
I'm--"

"Oh, forget it, man." Bull spoke sharply. "There's things we can take a
joy in remembering. But this isn't one of 'em. No. The thing for us now
is work. Plenty of work. The mill needs to be in full work inside a
week. We haven't an hour to lose, with young Birchall coming along
over. Skert's promised us power in twenty-four hours. He's at it right
now. The camps on the river'll be working full, and making up lost time.
The rest's up to us right here. But--but," he added, passing a hand
nervously across his forehead, "I've got to get sleep or I'll go stark
crazy."

Bat eyed the younger man seriously. It was the first time he had
realised his condition. His sympathy found the rough expression of a
nod.

"You had a hell of a time up there," he said.

Bull laughed. There was no mirth in his laugh.

"It was tough all right. I wonder if you'd guess how tough." He shook
his head. "No. You wouldn't. You reckon Father Adam's a pretty good man,
but I tell you right here you don't know how good, or the thing he did
for us single-handed. I know--now. He set me wise to it all, and didn't
leave me a thing to do but make the trail he'd set for me. It was an
easy play dealing with the fool forest-jacks who'd swallowed the
Skandinavia's dope. Yes. That was easy," he added thoughtfully. "But
that was just the start of the game. Father Adam had located the trail
of the outfit the Skandinavia had sent and it was my job to come right
up with 'em and silence 'em."

He broke off and sat staring straight in front of him. His fine eyes
were half smiling for all the weariness he complained of. He yawned.

"Well, I hit that trail," he went on presently. "I hit it, and hung to
it like a she-wolf out for offal. I just never quit. It was that way I
forgot sleep. It wasn't till between No. 10 and 11 Camps we got sight.
We were out in the open, up on the high land. We'd a run of fifty mile
ahead of the dogs. When we got sight that boy Gouter was after 'em like
a red-hot devil. Drive? Gee, how he drove!"

Again came the man's mirthless laugh.

"There's things in life seem mighty queer at times. It was that way
then. There was a man I wanted to kill once bad. Guess I've never quit
wanting to kill him, though I'm glad Father Adam saved me from doing it.
He was Laval--Arden Laval, one of the Skandinavia's camp-bosses. Well, I
saw him killed on that trip, and I helped bury him in the snow. Gouter
drew on him on the dead run at fifty yards. He dropped him cold, and
wrecked the outfit the feller was driving. There were two in the bunch
that the Skandinavia sent there to raise trouble for us. Laval and
another. Laval's dead, and the other we brought right along as prisoner.
That other's here in this--"

A light knock interrupted the story. Bull turned with a start. Then he
sprang to his feet, every sign of weariness gone. He stood for a moment
as though in doubt. And the lumberman, watching him, remarked the
complete transformation that had taken place. He was smiling. His
straining eyes had softened to a tenderness the onlooker failed to
understand.

He moved swiftly across the room and flung open the door.

"Will you come right in?"

The lumberman heard the invitation. The tone was deep with a gentleness
he had never before discovered in it. And in his wonder he craned to see
who it was who had inspired it.

Bull moved aside.

It was then that Bat started up from his chair, and a sharp ejaculation
broke from him. Nancy McDonald was standing framed in the doorway.

CHAPTER XXIII

NANCY

Bat was hurrying down the woodland trail. For once in his hard life he
knew the meaning of rank cowardice. The sight of Nancy McDonald had
completely robbed him of the last vestige of courage. The atmosphere of
the office, that room so crowded with absorbing memories for him, had
suddenly seemed to threaten suffocation. He felt he must get out. He
must seek the cold, crisp air of the world he knew and understood. So he
had fled.

Now he was alone with a riot of thought that was almost chaotic. There
was only one thing that stood out clearly, definitely, in his mind. It
was the Nemesis of the thing that had happened. It was Nemesis with a
vengeance.

His busy jaws worked furiously under his emotion. He spat, and spat
again, into the soft white snow. Once he stopped abruptly and gazed back
over the circuitous trail. It was as though he must look again upon the
thing that had so deeply stirred him, as though he must look upon it to
reassure himself that he was not dreaming. That the thing had driven him
headlong was real, and not some troublesome hallucination.

Nancy McDonald! The beautiful stepdaughter of Leslie Standing, with her
red hair and pretty eyes, was the agent of the Skandinavia, paid to
wreck the great work he and Leslie had set up. She was paid to achieve
the destruction at--any cost.

It was amazing. It was overwhelming. It was even--terrible.

He pursued his way with hurried steps. And as he went his mind leapt
back to the time when he had made his great appeal for the poor,
deserted child shut up in the coldly correct halls of Marypoint College.
What an irony it all seemed now. Then he remembered her first coming to
Sachigo, and the mystery of the letter from Father Adam heralding her
arrival. He had understood the moment Nancy had announced her name to
him on the quay. He had understood the thought, the hope which had
inspired the letter.

In his rugged heart he had welcomed the letter which Father Adam had
written. He had welcomed the girl's first coming to the place he felt
should be her inheritance. He had seen in those things the promise of
the belated justice for which years ago he had appealed. Father Adam had
asked Bull to receive her well. Why? There was only one answer to that
in the lumberman's mind. Father Adam had seen her. He understood her
beauty, and had fallen for it. What more reasonable then that Bull
should do the same.

But that was all past and done with now. All the things he had dreamed
of, and so ardently desired, had been lost through a mischievous Fate.
The neglected stepdaughter of Leslie Standing was body and soul part of
their enemy's armament of offence. It was all too crazy. It was all too
devilish for calm contemplation.

The sight of the girl's pathetic eyes, so weary, so troubled, had been
sufficient. Bat could not have remained in that room another minute. No.
Down at the mill were the things he understood. They were the things he
was bred to, and could deal with. These others were something that left
him hopeless and helpless. So he went, determined to lay the ghost of
the thing behind him in the tremendous effort the necessities of the
mill demanded he should put forth.

* * * * *

Bull's emotions were deeply stirred. He gazed into the tired eyes of the
girl, so beautiful for all their complete dejection. He marked the cold
pallor of her cheeks, and realised the dishevelled condition of her
glorious masses of hair. An intense pity left him gravely troubled.

As Nancy stood gazing up at the man, complete hopelessness oppressed
her. She remembered well enough the declaration of war between them. She
remembered, too, that it had meant nothing personal when it was made. At
the time she had had no inkling of the terrible thing it could mean, or
how nearly it could bring them into real, personal conflict.

She had been wholly unprepared for the demand that had been thrust upon
her by the man, Peterman. It had frightened her at first. She had shrunk
from it. Then, finally, she had accepted it as her duty, under pressure.
Peterman had made it appear so trifling. A journey, a trying journey,
perhaps, but one to be made with all the comfort he could provide. And
then to preach to those ignorant forest-men the disaster towards which
their employers were heading. As Peterman had put it, it had almost
seemed a legitimate thing to do. Convinced as she had been of the
disaster about to fall on Sachigo, it had seemed as if she were even
doing them a service.

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