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McGill
by
“I tried to quit,” cried the wife. “I tried to, but I couldn’t.”
“And what’s the rottenest of all”–McGill’s voice was ugly again–“you made him best man at the wedding, or just the same. He stood up with us. Didn’t you, Barclay?”
The wife flung herself into the breach once more with a self-sacrifice that wrenched her husband’s heart. “He didn’t want to, but I made him. I thought you had money, and I was mad at him for letting me go, so I tried to hurt him. I wanted him to marry me, but he wouldn’t, and I took you. When it was over and I saw the kind of man you are I tried to love you–honestly I did, but I couldn’t. You’re so–I–I couldn’t do it, that’s all.” She broke into a torrent of tears, holding herself on her feet by an effort. Her wretched sobbing was the only sound in the cabin for a time, then Barclay inquired:
“Well, what are you going to do?”
McGill turned to his wife, ignoring Barclay. “I guess I understand things pretty well now, and I’m beginning to see your side. Of course I never aimed to hurt you, Alice–I couldn’t; but I aimed to kill this man, and I will if he stays here.” Over his shoulder he flung out, quickly: “Oh, the gun won’t help you none. You’ve got to go, Barclay.”
“I’ll go with him,” cried Mrs. McGill, desperately. “If he goes, I’ll go, too.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve got to do. You can’t stay here now, neither of you. If he ain’t able to take care of you, why, I will as long as I live, but you’ve both got to go.”
“It’s the best course under the circumstances,” Barclay agreed, with relief. “We’ll take the first boat–“
“You’ll go to-day, now,” said the husband, grimly, “before I have time to think it over.”
“But where?”
“To hell! That’s where you’re headed.”
“We can’t go afoot,” the woman cried in a panic.
“I’ve got dogs! And don’t argue or I’ll weaken. I’m letting him go because you seem to need him, Alice. Only remember one thing, both of you–there ain’t no town big enough to hold all three of us. Now go, quick, before I change my mind, for if the sun ever goes down on Barclay and me together, so help me God! it won’t rise on both of us. There ain’t no place in the world that’s big enough for him and me, no place in the world.”
McGill stood on the river-bank and watched them vanish into the ghostly curtain that sifted slowly down from the heavens, and when they were finally lost to view he turned back to his empty cabin. Before entering he paused as usual to note the weather–it was a habit. He saw that the sky was strangely leaden and low, and in spite of the fact that the “quick” was falling rapidly, the air was lifeless and close. If McGill was any judge, that squall had been but a warning, and foretold more to follow. He sighed miserably at the thought of the night his wife would have to face.
He cooked his supper mechanically, then sat for hours staring at it. The wind rattling at his door finally roused him to the knowledge that his fire was out and the room chilly. Being unable longer to bear the silence and the mute evidences of her occupation that looked at him from every side, he slipped into his parka and went down to Hopper’s place, where there were life and human voices at least.
The night was yelling with a million voices when he stepped out. The bitter wind snapped his fur garment as if to rend it to ribbons, the whirling particles of snow rasped his face like the dry grains from a sand-blast. Boreas had loosed his demons, and they were lashing the night into chaos. McGill felt a sudden tender concern for the woman, a concern so great as almost to destroy his bitterness, but he reflected that he had seen to loading the sled himself, and among the other paraphernalia had included a tent and a stove. Unless Barclay was a fool, therefore, Alice was perfectly safe. There was wood aplenty, and the spruce forests offered shelter from the gale. The thought awakened a memory of those night camps he had made on that dreamlike wedding-journey and brought forth a groan. How old and spiritless he had become; he could scarcely stand against the wind!