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Signal Processing Toolbox™
User's Guide
R2020a
How to Contact MathWorks
Phone: 508-647-7000
Delay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-25
v
Filter Design and Implementation
2
Filter Requirements and Specification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2-2
vi Contents
Designing a Filter in the Filter Builder GUI
4
Filter Builder Design Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-2
Introduction to Filter Builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-2
Design a Filter Using Filter Builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-2
Select a Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-2
Select a Specification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-4
Select an Algorithm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-5
Customize the Algorithm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-5
Analyze the Design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-6
Realize or Apply the Filter to Input Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-7
vii
Importing a Filter Design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5-21
Import Filter Panel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5-21
Filter Structures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5-21
viii Contents
Selected Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-39
Special Topics
8
Windows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-2
Why Use Windows? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-2
Available Window Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-2
Graphical User Interface Tools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-2
Basic Shapes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-3
Resampling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-24
resample Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-24
decimate and interp Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-25
upfirdn Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-25
spline Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-25
ix
Voltage Controlled Oscillator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-49
Deconvolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-51
x Contents
Exporting Signals, Filters, and Spectra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-19
Opening the Export Dialog Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-19
Exporting a Filter to the MATLAB Workspace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-19
xi
Convolution and Correlation
11
Linear and Circular Convolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-2
Spectral Analysis
13
Power Spectral Density Estimates Using FFT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13-2
xii Contents
Frequency Estimation by Subspace Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13-25
Time-Frequency Analysis
14
Time-Frequency Gallery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-2
Short-Time Fourier Transform (Spectrogram) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-3
Continuous Wavelet Transform (Scalogram) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-7
Wigner-Ville Distribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-9
Reassignment and Synchrosqueezing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-11
Constant-Q Gabor Transform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-17
Empirical Mode Decomposition and Hilbert-Huang Transform . . . . . . . 14-18
Linear Prediction
15
Prediction Polynomial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-2
Transforms
16
Complex Cepstrum — Fundamental Frequency Estimation . . . . . . . . . . . 16-2
xiii
Detect Closely Spaced Sinusoids . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16-25
Signal Generation
17
Display Time-Domain Data in Signal Browser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-2
Import and Display Signals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-2
Configure the Signal Browser Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-5
Modify the Signal Browser Display . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-7
Inspect Your Data (Scaling the Axes and Zooming) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-8
Signal Measurement
18
RMS Value of Periodic Waveforms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-2
Prominence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-22
xiv Contents
Welch MSSPECTRUM Object to Function Replacement Syntax . . . . . . . . 19-5
Multitaper PSD Object to Function Replacement Syntax . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19-7
Vibration Analysis
20
Modal Parameters of MIMO System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20-2
xv
Zoom and Pan Through Signals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-22
Edit Time Information and Link Displays in Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-22
Measure Signal, Spectrum, and Time-Frequency Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-23
Extract Signal Regions of Interest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-24
Previous Step . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-24
Next Step . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-24
xvi Contents
Spectrum Computation in Signal Analyzer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-117
Spectral Windowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-117
Parameter and Algorithm Selection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-118
Zooming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21-119
Signal Labeler
22
Using Signal Labeler App . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22-2
App Workflow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22-2
Example: Label Points and Regions of Interest in Signal . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22-2
xvii
Delete Label or Sublabel Definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22-12
Label QRS Complexes and R Peaks of ECG Signals Using Deep Network
........................................................ 22-42
Common Applications
23
Create Uniform and Nonuniform Time Vectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23-2
xviii Contents
Find a Signal in a Measurement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23-37
xix
1
Filter Implementation
In this section...
“Convolution and Filtering” on page 1-2
“Filters and Transfer Functions” on page 1-2
“Filtering with the filter Function” on page 1-3
∞
y(k) = ∑ h(l) x(k − l) .
l= −∞
If the input signal is also of finite length, you can implement the filtering operation using the
MATLAB® conv function. For example, to filter a five-sample random vector with a third-order
averaging filter, you can store x(k) in a vector x, h(k) in a vector h, and convolve the two:
x = randn(5,1);
h = [1 1 1 1]/4; % A third-order filter has length 4
y = conv(h,x)
y =
-0.3375
0.4213
0.6026
0.5868
1.1030
0.3443
0.1629
0.1787
The length of y is one less than the sum of the lengths of x and h.
The polynomial coefficients h(1), h(2), …, h(n + 1) correspond to the coefficients of the impulse
response of an nth-order filter.
Note The filter coefficient indices run from 1 to (n + 1), rather than from 0 to n. This reflects the
standard indexing scheme used for MATLAB vectors.
1-2
Filter Implementation
FIR filters are also called all-zero, nonrecursive, or moving-average (MA) filters.
For an infinite impulse response (IIR) filter, the transfer function is not a polynomial, but a rational
function. The Z-transforms of the input and output signals are related by
where b(i) and a(i) are the filter coefficients. In this case, the order of the filter is the maximum of n
and m. IIR filters with n = 0 are also called all-pole, recursive, or autoregressive (AR) filters. IIR
filters with both n and m greater than zero are also called pole-zero, recursive, or autoregressive
moving-average (ARMA) filters. The acronyms AR, MA, and ARMA are usually applied to filters
associated with filtered stochastic processes.
y(k) + a(2) y(k − 1) + … + a(m + 1) y(k − m) = b(1) x(k) + b(2) x(k − 1) + ⋯ + b(n + 1) x(k − n) .
y(k) = b(1) x(k) + b(2) x(k − 1) + ⋯ + b(n + 1) x(k − n) − a(2) y(k − 1) − ⋯ − a(m + 1) y(k − m),
which is the standard time-domain representation of a digital filter. Starting with y(1) and assuming a
causal system with zero initial conditions, the representation is equivalent to
To implement this filtering operation, you can use the MATLAB filter function. filter stores the
coefficients in two row vectors, one for the numerator and one for the denominator. For example, to
solve the difference equation
1
y(n) − 0.9y(n − 1) = x(n) Y(z) = X(z) = H(z) X(z),
1 − 0.9 z−1
b = 1;
a = [1 -0.9];
y = filter(b,a,x);
filter gives you as many output samples as there are input samples, that is, the length of y is the
same as the length of x. If the first element of a is not 1, then filter divides the coefficients by a(1)
before implementing the difference equation.
1-3
1 Filtering, Linear Systems and Transforms Overview
See Also
Apps
Filter Designer
Functions
conv | designfilt | filter
1-4
The filter Function
In its most basic form, filter initializes the delay outputs zi(1), i = 1, ..., n-1 to 0. This is equivalent
to assuming both past inputs and outputs are zero. Set the initial delay outputs using a fourth input
parameter to filter, or access the final delay outputs using a second output parameter:
[y,zf] = filter(b,a,x,zi)
Access to initial and final conditions is useful for filtering data in sections, especially if memory
limitations are a consideration. Suppose you have collected data in two segments of 5000 points each:
Perhaps the first sequence, x1, corresponds to the first 10 minutes of data and the second, x2, to an
additional 10 minutes. The whole sequence is x = [x1;x2]. If there is not sufficient memory to hold
the combined sequence, filter the subsequences x1 and x2 one at a time. To ensure continuity of the
filtered sequences, use the final conditions from x1 as initial conditions to filter x2:
[y1,zf] = filter(b,a,x1);
y2 = filter(b,a,x2,zf);
The filtic function generates initial conditions for filter. filtic computes the delay vector to
make the behavior of the filter reflect past inputs and outputs that you specify. To obtain the same
output delay values zf as above using filtic, use
zf = filtic(b,a,flipud(y1),flipud(x1));
This can be useful when filtering short data sequences, as appropriate initial conditions help reduce
transient startup effects.
1-5
1 Filtering, Linear Systems and Transforms Overview
For example, to change the sample rate of a signal from 44.1 kHz to 48 kHz, we first find the smallest
integer conversion ratio p/q. Set
d = gcd(48000,44100);
p = 48000/d;
q = 44100/d;
In this example, p = 160 and q = 147. Sample rate conversion is then accomplished by typing
y = upfirdn(x,h,p,q)
Filter banks may be implemented using upfirdn by allowing the filter h to be a matrix, with one FIR
filter per column. A signal vector is passed independently through each FIR filter, resulting in a
matrix of output signals.
Other functions that perform multirate filtering (with fixed filter) include resample, interp, and
decimate.
1-6
Frequency Domain Filter Implementation
To implement general IIR filtering in the frequency domain, multiply the discrete Fourier transform
(DFT) of the input sequence with the quotient of the DFT of the filter:
n = length(x);
y = ifft(fft(x).*fft(b,n)./fft(a,n));
This computes results that are identical to filter, but with different startup transients (edge
effects). For long sequences, this computation is very inefficient because of the large zero-padded
FFT operations on the filter coefficients, and because the FFT algorithm becomes less efficient as the
number of points n increases.
For FIR filters, however, it is possible to break longer sequences into shorter, computationally
efficient FFT lengths. The function
y = fftfilt(b,x)
uses the overlap add method to filter a long sequence with multiple medium-length FFTs. Its output is
equivalent to filter(b,1,x).
1-7
1 Filtering, Linear Systems and Transforms Overview
To see how filtfilt does this, recall that if the Z-transform of a real sequence x(n) is X(z), then the
Z-transform of the time-reversed sequence x( − n) is X(z−1). Consider the following processing
scheme:
2
When z = 1, that is z = e jω, the output reduces to X(e jω) H(e jω) . Given all the samples of the
sequence x(n), a doubly filtered version of x that has zero-phase distortion is possible.
For example, a 1-second duration signal sampled at 100 Hz, composed of two sinusoidal components
at 3 Hz and 40 Hz, is
fs = 100;
t = 0:1/fs:1;
x = sin(2*pi*t*3)+.25*sin(2*pi*t*40);
Now create a 6th-order Butterworth lowpass filter to filter out the high-frequency sinusoid. Filter x
using both filter and filtfilt for comparison:
[b,a] = butter(6,20/(fs/2));
y = filtfilt(b,a,x);
yy = filter(b,a,x);
plot(t,x,t,y,t,yy)
legend('Original','filtfilt','filter')
1-8
Anti-Causal, Zero-Phase Filter Implementation
Both filtered versions eliminate the 40 Hz sinusoid evident in the original signal. The plot also shows
how filter and filtfilt differ. The filtfilt line is in phase with the original 3 Hz sinusoid,
while the filter line is delayed. The filter line shows a transient at early times. filtfilt
reduces filter startup transients by carefully choosing initial conditions, and by prepending onto the
input sequence a short, reflected piece of the input sequence.
For best results, make sure the sequence you are filtering has length at least three times the filter
order and tapers to zero on both edges.
See Also
conv | filter | filtfilt
1-9
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
He didn’t talk; and evidently the young woman had nothing to
say. After a silent mile he halted, and let his load slide gently to the
snow at his heels. They rested side by side. He lit a cigarette.
“It’s easy,” he said. “We’ll make it handily.”
“You are very strong,” she said. “And the stronger a man is, the
kinder he should be. You are strong enough, and you should be kind
enough, to let kindness overrule your pride.”
“Pride? I don’t know what you mean by that, upon my word!”
“You are not proud?”
“Certainly not. What of?”
“I’m glad. Then you’ll go away to-morrow, back to New York.”
“But I explained all that!”
“Nothing is keeping you here but your silly pride. You are too
proud to allow people like the Danglers, or a little thing like a threat
of death, to change your plans.”
“You are wrong. I don’t want to go away, that’s all. I want a
horse, and I’m interested in—in the country. And I can’t believe that
the Danglers would dare to go as far as that even if they were able.”
“They will think of a way—a safe way. I mean it. I beg you to go
away to-morrow! Think of what life means to you—and those who
love you! This isn’t a war. There would be nothing glorious in death
here.”
“I believe you.”
“And think of your wife!”
“I haven’t any—but it would be rough on my mother, I’ll admit.”
“Rough on her? It would break her heart! And the woman you
love—who loves you—who is waiting for you. Consider her feelings.
Doesn’t her happiness mean anything to you? As much as your
pride?”
Van scratched his chin.
“I believe there’s a great deal in what you say, but what about
your ankle?”
“Please don’t be silly. I—this is serious—so serious that—I want
to cry.”
“Not that, for heaven’s sake! I’ll be sensible. I’ll go away to-
morrow. I’ll eat my pride and all that sort of thing and beat it.”
“Thank God!”
“Yes, I see that it is the best thing for me to do—from the point
of view of the people who love me so distractedly. I’ll run away to-
morrow—on one condition. You must promise to keep me in touch
with your ankle.”
“That is—mean—unworthy of a—man—like you. Making fun.
Cheating. I’m not—joking. I want to—save you—and you think—I’m
a fool.”
“No, no! I’m the fool. I’m not joking. I’ll go away and save my life
if you will promise to let me know about your ankle. How it’s
recovering day by day and that sort of thing. That’s not asking a
great deal—in return for my eating my pride and permitting you to
save my life. Now I am serious. I mean that.”
“Will you give me your word of honor to go to-morrow if I
promise to—to put your anxiety at rest about my ankle?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have my promise.”
“Good! Please accept my word of honor that I’ll skip out to-
morrow. Now we had better be toddling on our way again. Climb
on.”
“But this isn’t fair—making you carry me. No, it isn’t! It is
cheating. I have your promise—so I’ll keep my promise now. I—my
—there isn’t anything wrong with it.”
“With what? Your promise? Of course not. Mine is all right too.”
“I mean—I mean my ankle. There isn’t anything—the matter with
my ankle. I was—only pretending.”
“Ah! Pretending? I see. At least that is to say I hope to get an
eye on it in a minute. I seem to be unusually dull to-night—this
morning. You didn’t hurt your ankle. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. I didn’t hurt it. I didn’t even fall down.”
“It’s exceedingly amusing—as far as I can see. You got a free
ride; and if you don’t mind, I don’t. But it seems hardly enough to
be so amazingly clever and deep about. The ride is all you gained by
it, so far as I can see.”
“And your promise.”
“But what had that to do with—well——”
“We must hurry.”
He fastened on her snowshoes and led the way. She kept up with
him easily. He turned his head now and again, as if to speak, only to
face front again in silence. At last she came up beside him and
touched his elbow and asked if he were angry.
“No,” he answered. “I am doing my best, but I don’t believe you
have done anything for me to be angry about.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t be. I played a trick on you—but it was for
your own good.”
“To get me to make you a promise?”
“Yes.”
“So tricking me into toting you on my back was part of that
scheme?”
“Yes. I—knew I had to—interest you in myself—so that you
would pay attention to my arguments. I thought that the more
trouble I was to you—well, I had to do something—to——”
“You did it. I am not angry, but pleased. Do you mind if I ask if
you have always lived in the country around here?”
“I was away at school for a few years.”
She dropped behind and silence was resumed. It was maintained
for nearly half an hour; and then she came abreast of him again and
halted him with a hand on his arm.
“Here we are,” she whispered. “Just through there. Not thirty
yards away. Good night. And you will go to-morrow. So it is good-
by.”
He took both her mittened hands in his and stared hard at her
upturned face, trying to find something there for the discernment of
which the light was insufficient.
“Good night,” he said in guarded tones. “And good morning; and,
as I must go away to-morrow, to-day, good-by.”
“Good-by.”
“But I shall soon be back—for that horse. I promised a horse of
that strain—to a girl. That’s the only thing I’ve ever offered her that
she has accepted—so I can’t fall down on that. But I’ll take
precautions.”
“Please go, and stay away. They won’t sell you a horse. They will
kill you. Good-by.”
“I’ll chance it—in the hope that you will save my life again.”
“But I won’t, if you do anything so crazy. Don’t be a fool!”
She snatched her hands out of his and turned and vanished in
the blackness of crowded firs.
Vane looked straight up between the black spires of the forest
and saw that the stars were misty. He saw this, but he gave no heed
to it. He wasn’t worrying about the stars. He turned and stepped
along on the track which Joe’s webs had already beaten twice and
his once. It was deep enough to follow easily, heedlessly, despite the
gloom. He felt exalted and exultant. Even his anxiety, which was
entirely for the girl, thrilled him deliciously—such was his faith in
himself, and his scorn of the Danglers. The thought of going away
on the morrow did not depress him. He would soon be back.
In this high and somewhat muddled mood he might easily have
passed an elephant in the blackness of the wood without sensing it.
As it was, he passed nothing more alarming or unusual than poor
Pete Sledge. Pete did nothing to attract the other’s notice, and took
to the shadows behind him with no more sound than the padded
paws of a hunting lynx.
This was a little game that had grown dear to Pete’s heart of late
years. Natural talent and much practice had made him amazingly
proficient at it. What he did not know of the bodily activities of
Robert Vane and Joe Hinch during the past few hours was not much;
and it may be that he suspected something of what was going on in
their heads and hearts. He had wanted to chuckle, had been on the
very verge of it, at the sight of the stranger carrying the artful young
woman on his back—for he had known that there was nothing
wrong with her ankle.
Vane had covered more than half of the homeward journey at a
moderate rate of speed when he became conscious of the light
touch of a snowflake on his face. He was not particularly interested,
but for lack of something better to do he halted and looked straight
up again. The high stars were veiled. Large, moist flakes fell slowly.
He produced a cigarette and lit it, considering the effect of a heavy
snowfall on his plans for the immediate future. The effect was nil, so
far as he could see. Which shows how little he knew about his
immediate future.
He resumed his journey at a slightly better pace, planning the
morrow’s departure to the nearest town and the best manner of his
quickest possible return. He would take precautions of the Danglers,
as he had promised, but he must avoid involving the law if he could
think of a way. Why not bring a bodyguard back with him, and thus
supported, beard the—! Hell! * * * He pitched forward at the
blow, fumbling for an inner pocket even as he fell. But he hadn’t a
chance. He was jumped, pounded deep in the snow, bound at wrists
and ankles, gagged and blindfolded. He was yanked out roughly and
turned over; and that was all for a few minutes. He heard a shrill
whistle from close at hand, and the softened answer; and then, for a
little while, he was left undisturbed on his back. His nose and chin
were exposed, and on these he felt the snowflakes falling faster and
faster. He was slightly dizzy and slightly nauseated, but his mind was
clear. His thick fur cap had saved him from a knockout. He was not
in pain, though his discomfort was considerable; and he was angry
enough to bite. The Danglers had him, he knew—and here was just
and sufficient cause for rage. The Danglers had tricked him—and
here was cause for shame. He had been guilty of military error as
old as warfare: he had underrated the enemy. He was a fool! No
wonder the girl had been afraid for him.
Presently he felt a fumbling at the thongs of his snowshoes. The
snowshoes were removed. He felt a pair of hands under his
shoulders, another pair at his knees, and he was lifted and carried.
He strained his ears to catch a voice, but in vain. He was roughly
handled—bumped and dragged. It was quite evident to him that his
captors were in a hurry to get him to some particular spot, but it
seemed that they were utterly indifferent as to his condition upon
arrival. They carried him feet first; and frequently the leader got
completely away from the other and his head and shoulders were
dropped with a smothering thump.
Brief rests were frequent. Where the underbrush was awkwardly
dense, he was simply dragged along by the feet. Now and then he
caught a whiff of strong tobacco smoke; and later he caught a whiff
of ardent spirits. After many minutes of this, or perhaps an hour—for
with so many bumps and thumps he found it useless to attempt the
reckoning of the passage of time—and after a less brief halt than
usual, his webs were replaced and his ankles were freed, and he
was stood upon his feet. For a moment he contemplated the
advisability of delivering a few blind kicks—but before he had arrived
at a decision he was pushed from the rear and flanks. He staggered
forward to save himself from falling on his face; and before that
initial stagger was completed another well-timed and well-placed
thrust sent him staggering again; and then another—and thus the
journey was continued.
Vane found walking, even with tied hands and bandaged eyes,
pleasanter than being carried like a sack of oats. But this did not
improve his temper. The gag hurt him, and that nerve-racking
experience of advancing blindly against underbrush without any
protection for the face maddened him more and more desperately at
every step. And to be forced to it! To be thumped and thrust along
from behind! An unusually violent poke with something exceedingly
hard—the butt of a rifle, most likely—put the last straw on the over-
strained back of his discretion. He turned with his right leg drawn up
and shot out his right foot with every ounce that was in him,
snowshoe and all. The blind blow landed. A yowl went up and
someone went down. He jumped and landed on his mark, stamped
twice with all his weight, then turned and jumped away. He missed
his objective, the other Dangler, by a few inches that time, and
received a bang on the ear for his trouble. But he tried again—and
again—and once more. He fought furiously. He was blindfolded and
his hands were tied behind him, but he came within an ace of
victory. Despite the odds against him, four minutes transpired
between his first jump and his last.
When he recovered consciousness he was again being carried
and dragged. After a long time and many drops he was stood on his
feet again and hustled along. After as much of that as he could
stand up to, he fell and refused to arise. From that to the finish he
was dragged, with an occasional lift over a blow-down or some other
natural obstruction too high to take in an straight pull. He lost
consciousness again before the end of that desperate and
humiliating journey.
When he came to himself the second time it was to find the gag
gone from his mouth, the bandage gone from his eyes, and his
hands tied before him instead of behind him. He was on a floor of
poles beneath a broken roof of poles and bark. Flashing snowflakes
and a flood of desolate gray light fell through the hole in the roof.
There was a hillock of snow beneath the rent, and there were little
drifts of it elsewhere blown under and past the warped door. The
door was shut; and nothing was to be seen of the men who had
brought him here, and he could catch no sound of them from
without, and there was no sign of them within except the tracks of
rackets on the snowy floor. He wondered dully at the meaning of
these things. He was dizzy, faint, and parched with thirst. He sat up
painfully and rested his shoulders against the wall.
The door opened and a snow-whitened figure entered on snow-
weighted rackets. He halted and peered around at the gloomy
corners of the hut. It was Joe Hinch, but Vane didn’t believe his
eyes. So he closed his eyes and made an effort of will toward the
clearing and steadying of his brain, and wrenched desperately at the
cords with which his wrists were bound. The cords loosened easily.
His right hand came free and then his left. But still he kept his eyes
closed.
His idea was that what he had seen was either a vision created
by his own battered head or a reality transformed by his aching
eyes. If it were nothing but a vision, well and good. If it should
prove to be a reality, then the chances were that it was one of his
enemies, in which case he would sit perfectly motionless until the
last moment, and then—well, his hands were free now! He didn’t
feel up to a fight—but, by the Lord, he would put up a fight! So he
kept his eyes closed and his ears open.
He heard a low cry, a sob, a quick pad and clatter of rackets on
the snow-streaked floor, a movement close beside him and quick,
half-choked breathing. He felt a hand on his face, light and
searching and tender. It was a small hand. An arm slipped behind
him and his head was drawn to the hollow of a snowy shoulder. But
it was a soft shoulder. Then he opened his eyes. His eyes had been
right the first time. He could not see her face now, for it was pressed
against his cheek. He could see only a strand of dark, snow-
powdered hair like a veil close across his vision. He no longer
doubted.
She was praying—whispering a prayer against his cheek.
“Don’t die,” she whispered. “Dear God, don’t let him die! Don’t let
him die!”
He trembled slightly. His arms were free though benumbed. He
slipped one around her. He attempted to speak, but could not
articulate a single word. He managed nothing better than a faint
sigh. She drew gently back from him, still crouched and kneeling and
not quite out of the embrace of his numbed arm, and looked into his
face. She looked into his eyes. There were tears on her cheeks—
tears and melted snowflakes.
“Thank God!” she whispered; and then she moved back from him
and stood up and turned away. She raised both hands to her face.
Vane moistened his dry lips.
“They bagged me,” he said. “But what’s their game? And where
are we? And how did you get here?”
She came back to him and knelt again, smiling tremulously and
dabbing at her eyes with wet fingers.
“I tried to overtake you,” she said. “I didn’t go home—only to the
door—and then I turned back. I felt that—I had been—rude. And I
was afraid. But I couldn’t catch up to you before—you were
attacked. They were carrying you when I got near. I followed them
all the way, and hid until they went away from here. I knew they
wouldn’t kill you. I knew they would leave you to die—lost—helpless
—starved. See these!”
She lifted his snowshoes from the floor for his inspection. The
tough webbing was torn hopelessly from both frames.
CHAPTER VIII
THE RAID
The sun was up when Pete Sledge knocked on the kitchen door
of Moosehead House. The door was locked. He knocked with his
knuckles, then with a stick of stove-wood. It was Jard who at last
unlocked and yanked open the door, but Miss Hassock wasn’t far
behind him.
“What the devil?” cried Jard; and then, in milder tones, “So it’s
yourself, Pete! Glad to see you, but what’s your hurry so early in the
mornin’?”
“They got ’im!” exclaimed Pete. “They’ve got the stranger—them
Danglers. I seen it, so I come a-jumpin’.”
“What’s that? Who? What stranger? Come along in here an’ set
down an’ tell it right.”
“The sport. The lad with the trick pants. The feller who drug Joe
Hinch out of bed the night of the fire. That’s who. I seen it.”
“Vane? Yer crazy! He’s in bed in this house, or if he ain’t he’d
ought to be.”
“You’d better go see,” said Miss Hassock, turning to the stove and
setting a match to the kindlings.
Jard ran. Pete sat down. Jard returned at top speed.
“He ain’t there!” he cried. “What was that you said, Pete? When
did it happen? What did they do with him?”
“They picked him up, but I didn’t wait. Reckon they’re totin’ him
back to Goose Crick this very minute. That’s where they’ll hide him—
till they think up some slick way of losin’ him in the woods.”
“Say, Pete, you got this all straight now, have you? You ain’t been
dreamin’ or nothin’ like that?”
“Don’t be a fool, Jard Hassock!” exclaimed Liza. “You got to do
something now—simply got to—you and every man in this village. If
you don’t, there’ll be murder done. Go tell the McPhees, and the
Joneses and the Browns and the Wickets and the Haywards and the
McKims and old man Pike—the whole bunch. Get your guns and
pistols and light out for the Crick with a couple of teams quick’s the
Lord’ll let you! But send Charlie McPhee, or some other lad with a
fast horse, to Jim Bell’s to fetch him along too—and tell him to tell
Jim to telephone over to Lover’s Glen for the deputy-sheriff. I’ll have
coffee ready when you get back, Pete, you go too and help Jard stir
’em up. It’s got to be done this time, Jard—done and done for good
and all—so it’s no use you scratchin’ your nose about it.”
“Reckon ye’re right, Liza,” admitted Jard reluctantly, “if Pete ain’t
mistaken. But durn that Vane! Out runnin’ the woods all night, hey!
Couldn’t he wait? Couldn’t he keep still till I’d thought out a way?
Why the hell couldn’t he’ve let sleepin’ dogs lay?”
“Get out!” cried Liza. “Tell us that to-night. I’ll load your gun
while you’re gone to scare up the men. Scare’s right.”
Half an hour later, Charlie McPhee set out in a red pung, behind a
sorrel mare, for Jim Bell’s place a few miles below the village. Mr.
Bell was the nearest constable. Half an hour after that again, two
sleds set out for the Dangler settlement on Goose Creek. Each sled
was drawn by a pair of horses, and crowded with men armed with
many kinds and patterns of explosive weapons in their pockets and
their hands. Snow was falling thick and soft and steady. There was
not a breath of wind. The bells had been removed from the harness
of both teams. The men whispered together, and peered nervously
ahead and around into the glimmering, blinding veils of the snow.
They spoke with lowered voices before the top of the hill was
reached, as if those dangerous Danglers could hear their usual
conversational tone across a distance of seven miles. They were not
keen on their errand, not even the most daring and independent of
them—but Liza Hassock had driven them to it. Liza had talked of
murder, disgrace, and cowardice. She had threatened the most
reluctant with ridicule, the law and even physical violence. She had
sneered and jeered.
“I know your reasons for hanging back,” she had cried. “I know
what’s at the bottom of all this ‘live and let live’ slush you’ve been
handing out. One’s a reason of the heart—and that’s saying you’re
afraid of the Danglers, that you’re cowards! An t’other is a reason of
the gullet. Oh, I know! Now I’ll tell you men straight what’s going to
happen if you don’t all crowd up to Goose Crick and save Mr. Vane.
I’ll go to Fredricton, and if that’s not far enough I’ll go to Ottawa,
and I’ll put such a crimp into that gin-mill up to Goose Crick that
you’ll all be back to drinking lemon extract again, including Deacon
Wicket. That’s what will happen! That will fix the moonshining
Danglers, and then you’ll have to go farther and pay more for your
liquor. That’ll fix ’em!—the whole b’ilin’ of them; murderers and
moonshiners and bootleggers and all!”
Liza had won. Even Deacon Wicket had joined the rescue party
with a double-barrelled shotgun.
Jard Hassock drove the leading team. The big, mild horses
jogged along without a suspicion of the significance of their errand.
Perhaps they wondered mildly why so numerous a company rode
each ample sled—but it isn’t likely. Certain it is that they did not so
much as guess that they were taking part in an historic event,
lending their slow muscles and big feet to the breaking of a century-
old tyranny, bumping forward through the obscuring snow to the
tragedy that was to flash the modest names of Forkville and Goose
Creek before the eyes of the world. Well, what they didn’t know, or
even suspect, didn’t hurt them. Perhaps they missed the cheery
jangle of their bells, and so sensed something unusual in their
morning’s task—but if so they showed no sign of it.
The leading team drew up at the nearest Dangler farmhouse and
the second team passed on silently toward the second house. Jard
opened the kitchen door, and beheld Jerry Dangler and his wife and
children at table eating buckwheat pancakes.
“Seen anything of a stranger round here named Vane?” asked
Jard.
“Nope,” replied Jerry. “Never heard tell of him. What’s he done?”
“He’s got himself in a nasty mess, an’ there’s a bunch of us out a-
lookin’ for him. He’s been hit on the head an’ drug away
somewheres. We got to hunt through your house an’ barn, Jerry.”
“Go to it. You won’t find no stranger here. I’ll show you round
the barns.”
“You set right there an’ go ahead with your breakfast, Jerry.
Sammy, you keep an eye on him, and see that he don’t disturb
himself. Hold your gun like this. That’s right. But don’t shoot onless
you got to. Hunt around, boys. Four of you out to the barn. Upstairs,
some of you.”
Pete Sledge was not in evidence among the searchers. He had
slipped from the sled and vanished into the murk of snowfall, all
unnoticed, just before the house had been reached.
The first farmstead was searched without success. The men of
the second team drew a blank at the second house. Jard and his
crew drove on to the third house of the settlement. There he found
a Dangler with two grownup sons and a hang-over; and but for his
firmness there would have been a fight.
“We got you cold, boys,” said Jard. “We mean business. Set still
an’ be good or there’ll maybe be a funeral you ain’t figgerin’ on.”
The retort of the householders sounded bad, but there was
nothing else to it. Young McPhee and the constable drove up at
about this time. The snow was still spinning down moist and thick
through the windless air. The searchers went from house to house,
appearing suddenly out of the blind gray and white weather at the
very door, as unexpected as unwelcome. No warning passed ahead
of them. Even old Luke Dangler was caught in his sock-feet, smoking
beside the kitchen stove, all unbraced and unready. When he
realized the nature of Jard’s visit and the futility of physical
resistance, the swift darkening of his eyes and the graying pucker of
his mouth were daunting things to behold. He denied all knowledge
of the whereabouts or fate of the stranger. He denied it with curses
which caused profound uneasiness to the spirits of several of
Forkville’s substantial citizens. Doubts assailed them as to the
soundness of Miss Hassock’s judgment and the wisdom of their
course. They wondered if the life of any one stranger could possibly
be worth the risk they were taking. They and their fathers had put
up with the habits and customs of the Danglers of Goose Creek for
over one hundred years. This attitude had acquired the dignity of a
tradition. Was it wise to break with tradition now on the question of
whether or not a stranger in trick pants and a fancy mackinaw were
dead or alive?
Nothing of Vane was discovered on or about old Luke’s premises.
Then the deputy sheriff of the county appeared suddenly in the
midst of the searchers. He drew Jard Hassock aside and asked for a
description of the missing stranger. Jard complied; and the official
nodded his head alertly.
“That’s him, for sure,” he said. “The gent from Ottawa. I’ve been
kinder expectin’ him down this way a long time. Big man. One of the
biggest. We got to find him, Jard—an’ what he come lookin’ for, too.
This is serious. Old Luke Dangler guessed right.”
“Not on your life he didn’t! I know Vane. He’s half New York an’
half London. He come to buy a horse of the old Eclipse strain of
blood.”
“Say, you’re easy! You don’t know the big fellers, Jard. Maybe’s
he’s from New York and London, but that don’t say he ain’t from
Ottawa, too. This outfit’s been picked to be made a horrible example
of, that’s what—so I reckon it’s about time for me to start in doin’ my
duty.”
So the deputy sheriff, fired with professional zeal which burned
all the more fiercely now for having so long lain dormant, searched
for more than the missing stranger, while the constable and the men
of Forkville stood guard over the men of Goose Creek. The hog-
house had only one chimney—but the deputy sheriff discovered a
secret door, and a second lead running into that chimney, and a
distillery at the foot of the second lead. Not content with that, he
went ahead and found whisky from Quebec in the haymows.
Old Luke Dangler was handcuffed. His tough old heart came
within an ace of clicking off with rage at the indignity of it. The
firearms from all the houses of the settlement were confiscated. The
men were counted and the tally was found to be two short. Henry
Dangler and his son Steve were missing. Everyone denied all
knowledge of their whereabouts. More than this, the young woman
called Joe could not be found. When old Luke was questioned about
her, he answered with inarticulate snarls of his gray lips and a flicker
of derision and hate from his darkened eyes.
The leaders were in old Luke’s house, and the crowd stood in
front of it, with sentries posted all around it. Amos Dangler stood in
the door, jeering. Snow continued to spin down from the low gray
clouds.
“We got to find Vane,” said Jard Hassock. “They’ve drug him back
somewhere—to lose him. That’s your old game, Amos. I don’t give a
damn about this rum, but we got to find the stranger.”
“My game!” sneered Amos. “You say so now, do you—an’ scart to
open yer mouth for nigh onto twenty years!”
“And what about Joe,” queried one of the McPhees. “I reckon
she’s the one we’re worryin’ about.”
“She’s run back to old Dave Hinch, that’s what she’s done,” said
Jard. “Nobody’s tryin’ to lose her. But it’s good night to Vane if we
don’t find him before dark. We’d best scatter an’ hunt the woods. I
know their dirty, sneakin’ tricks.”
“What do you know, Jard Hassock?” asked Amos, stepping from
the doorway and advancing slowly upon the proprietor of
Moosehead House. “You’ve found yer tongue all of a suddent, hey?
Well, it’s a dirty tongue—an’ I don’t like it—an’ I’m a-goin’ to knock it
down yer dirty throat, along with yer teeth.”
“Now that’s fightin’ talk,” said Jard.
“There’ll be no fightin’ here, Amos Dangler!” exclaimed the
constable. “You git back there into the house, Amos—an’ you keep
quiet, Jard. The law’ll do all the fightin’ that’s got to be done.”
Men closed in upon the angry voices, hoping that Amos and Jard
might clash with fists and teeth despite the professional attitude of
the constable. They wanted to see a fight. They saw more than
enough of that sort of thing to last them a lifetime.
Pete Sledge appeared from the obscurity of the weaving snow.
He had been forgotten by all. He jumped in between Jard Hassock
and Amos Dangler. He had an axe in his hands. Amos retreated a
step.
“My God! Didn’t I kill you once, long ago?” cried Pete.
“In yer eye,” sneered Amos, fumbling at the front of his coat with
an unmittened hand. “It’s daytime, you poor nut! Run home to bed.”
“But I killed you!”
“Maybe—in yer mind.”
Pete’s arms twitched even as Amos Dangler’s right hand came
away from the front of his coat. The axe flew even as the automatic
pistol spat a red jab of flame. The axe struck and the pistol spat
again in the same instant of time. Dangler staggered backward and
screamed before he fell, but poor Pete Sledge dropped without a
sound. That was the end of that old trouble—unless it has been
continued elsewhere, beyond the field of vision of Forkville and
Goose Creek.
CHAPTER IX
THE WAY OUT
Far away in the broken hut in the snow-blinded forest, Robert
Vane gazed in perplexity at the useless webs which Joe held up for
his inspection.
“How did I do that?” he asked. “I don’t remember anything of
that sort.”
“You didn’t do it,” she answered. “It was done by the Danglers—
my relatives.”
“But I don’t understand. And why did they leave me here—with
the cord at my wrists so loose that I slipped my hands free? Why
didn’t they do me in for keeps, if they feel that way about me?”
The girl let her snowshoes fall with a clatter.
“They did for you,” she said. “They knew nothing about me.
When they tore the webbing they killed you as surely as if they had
cut your throat—as far as they knew. You have no compass, no food,
no matches, no blankets, no snowshoes—nothing. You are weak—for
they have hurt you. You are lost—and the snow is deep and still
falling. You are lost. They lost you.”
“I see. You have saved my life.”
“I know the way out; and I have matches, but nothing to eat—
and nothing to mend your rackets with.”
“How far is it?”
“About seven miles to the nearest clearing—by the right way. By
any other way—hundreds of miles! But I know the right one.”
“Seven miles. That’s not far. Two hours—or so. When shall we
start? But you must be tired out. Of course you are!”
“I don’t believe I’d know the marks in this storm. It will thin up in
a few hours, I think. Are you feeling better?”
“Right as rain,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He staggered a
step, stood swaying and propped an arm to the nearest wall for
support. He misjudged the distance, or the length of his arm, and
would have fallen but for her. She sprang to him, embraced him and
eased him to the floor. “But still a trifle dizzy,” he added.
She crouched beside him, with a shoulder to steady him, but with
her face averted.
“Any chance of their returning to see how I am doing?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They are too clever for that,” she replied.
“They will go to the village, and then home. People will see them
and talk to them. They have traveled away from here as fast as they
could, and left everything to—to nature.”
“But a man doesn’t starve to death in a few hours, nor in a few
days. Suppose I simply sat here until a search-party found me?”
“Alone? As they intended. Without fire? You would freeze to
death before a search-party was thought of.”
He felt in all his pockets. “That’s right,” he said. “All my matches
are gone, and my pistol and ammunition—but they’ve left my
cigarettes. Without a single match, confound them! But what if I had
struck right out and happened on the right way? That would have
upset their calculations, I imagine.”
“The snow is deep; to your hips, in places—and deeper. Even if
you happened on the right way, and happened to keep it in this
storm—which could not be—you would have no chance. Weak, and
without help, and without a fire to rest by! You could not travel half
of seven miles. But I have matches; and I know the way. I can help
you.”
“I need help, heaven knows!” he said. “And I’m glad it is you.”
After a silence of several seconds she replied, “I’m glad, too.”
She left him, gathered some old boughs from a bunk, tore strips
of bark from the logs of the wall and made a fire on the rough
hearth. She tore poles from the fallen patch of roof, broke the
smaller of them, and fed them to the fire. She helped him over to a
corner near the hearth and gave him a match for his cigarette. She
had plenty of matches, a large jack-knife and hairpins in her pockets.
“I can stand a lot of this,” said Vane. “The men who thought they
could kill me this way are fools.”
Joe searched about the hut, found a rusty tin kettle at last and
went out into the spinning snow. Vane felt a chill, whether physical
or spiritual he did not know, the moment the warped door closed
between them. He got to his feet, moved unsteadily and painfully to
the door and pulled it open. He saw her through the veils of the
snow descending the cleared slope before the hut and watched the
slender figure until it melted into a dark screen of alders. His legs
and arms ached; his ribs and head were sore; and his throat ached
and his lips were parched; but his heart was elated.
She returned with the kettle full of chips of ice which she had
hacked from the surface of the brook with her knife. She melted this
at the fire and cooled it in the heap of snow under the break in the
roof. They drank it together, turn and turn about. Vane felt much
better for it.
“It’s queer to think that you wasted all that game with your
ankle,” he said. “All that effort to make me promise to run away—all
that successful effort—thrown away!”
“And worse than thrown away,” she answered. “If I hadn’t done
that perhaps you would not have been ambushed.”
“I am glad you tricked me into carrying you on my back,” he
returned gravely. “I don’t regret the ambush, the bump on the head,
the thumps and kicks—anything. The fact is——”
“I wonder if you promised a horse to that young lady?” she
interrupted.
“I did. How did you guess? And her brother bet a thousand
dollars I wouldn’t find anything of the blood of Eclipse in these
woods. But all that doesn’t matter. It all seems rather idiotic to me
now. The real meaning of all this—of my coming to this country—is
—well, I struck town just in time to pull you out of a fire, didn’t? And
I didn’t even stop to take a look at what I had saved! Good Lord!
And now you are saving my life; and even horses of the blood of
Eclipse don’t seem so important to me now. It can’t be just chance
that——”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“No fear! I haven’t forgotten a word you have said, nor a single
——”
“But your mother—and the woman you promised the horse to!”
“I shall give her the horse, if I get it. But it doesn’t matter much,
either way.”
“You asked her to be your wife.”
“Twice, I believe—but she said she wouldn’t.”
“She wouldn’t! Why?”
“Why should she? I’m poor.”
“Poor? And yet you wagered one thousand dollars that you’d find
a horse of a certain strain of blood up here in these woods!”
“A sporting bet; and I have a thousand.”
“But you love her.”
“You are wrong. I thought I did, once or twice—or thought I
thought I did. It was all a matter of thinking, as I see it now. But it
doesn’t matter. Do you—are you—do you love someone?”
“What?”
“Do you love somebody?”
“I think—yes.”
“Think? Don’t you know?”
“Yes—I know.”
“Are you happy about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it wise?”
“I—I don’t think so. I’m sure it is not.”
“Good God! That fellow who came to see me! That—that——”
“What do you mean?”
“Steve Dangler.”
“Do you mean that? Do you think I love Steve Dangler?”
“But haven’t you just said so?”
She shook her head and turned her face away.
“Forgive me, please,” he whispered. “It’s your duty to forgive me,
don’t you know—for I saved your life and you are saving mine. Joe,
please look at me. It is your own fault that I—well, why did you
pretend to hurt your ankle? Is it fair to walk miles and miles after a
man in the woods at night, to save his life, and then to be angry
with him for—for telling you the truth?”
“What truth have you told me?” she asked unsteadily, still with
averted face.
“You are the dearest person in the world! You are the——”
She got swiftly and lightly to her feet, crossed to the door and
opened it, then stood looking out. Vane sighed. Presently the girl
turned, but she did not look at him.
“It is thinning,” she said. “I think we had better make a start
now. It is clear enough for me to see the landmarks.”
She fastened on her rackets, and picked up the rusty kettle. Vane
buttoned his outer coat, drew on his mittens, pulled his cap down
about his ears and hoisted himself to his feet. “I’m ready,” he said.
The girl stepped out into the thinning snowfall, glanced back,
glanced around, then moved off slowly. Vane followed. He stepped
from the threshold and sank to his knees. His next step sank deeper.
He plunged ahead, conscious of a protest from every bone in his
body. But that did not dismay him. He had lifted his feet before
against protests. His head felt clear now, and that was a great thing;
and his heart felt like a strong engine in perfect running order. As for
his bones, he was sure that none of them was broken. So he plowed
forward in the tracks of the girl’s narrow webs.
They descended the little clearing, and entered the screen of
alders along the brook. The snow took him to the hips there, and
deeper. He plunged, stuck, plunged again and plowed through. The
girl turned and watched his efforts for a few seconds with veiled
eyes, then turned to her front again, and passed across the brook.
Vane staggered in the shallower snow of the brook, fell to his hands
and knees and came up again in a flash. He set his teeth and
struggled forward. Halfway up the opposite bank he stuck fast. He
struggled without a word. It was no use; so he rested, without a
word. Joe came back to him and, without looking at him, took his
hands and pulled him forward. He seconded her efforts ably, and
was soon through that drift. She withdrew one hand from his grasp,
but he kept hold of the other.
“I was afraid you had changed your mind,” he said.
“So I have,” she answered coolly.
“Surely not! You came back and pulled me out. You still mean to
save my life, evidently.”
“Oh, that! Yes, I’ll save your life”—and she snatched her hand
away.
Vane followed again. His heart didn’t feel so high now. In fact, it
felt far worse than his knees and shoulders and ribs. He thought
back and wondered at his dear companion of the hut as if at some
beautiful experience of his childhood. He made one hundred yards,
two hundred, two-fifty, before striking another drift. He struggled
with the drift in a desperate silence. He got halfway through. She
turned and came back to him.
“I’m all right,” he said. “With you in two ticks.”
She searched for his hands, but his were not extended in
response. She came closer and pulled at his shoulders.
“I can manage it, thanks all the same,” he said.
“But you know you can’t!” she cried.
He squirmed free of her hands and clear of the drift, leaving her
behind him. But her tracks were still in front for a distance of twenty
yards or more; so he plowed his way onward without a backward
glance. She ran past him and again led the way. He followed—but he
fell at last, all in. He felt her arms, her hands. She was trying to raise
him from the smothering snow. He pulled himself to his knees.
“I can do it—thanks,” he said. “I must rest—a minute.”
He didn’t look at her.
“Now take my hands,” she said, after a few minutes of silence
and inaction.
“I can manage it, thanks all the same,” he said.
“But you can’t! You must let me help you!”
“No, thanks.”
“But—what else can you do?”
“The other thing—whatever it is.”
“Don’t be a fool!”
“Why not?”
“Then I shall light a fire.”
“I’m warm enough, thank you, but if you’ll give me a few of your
matches I’ll be tremendously obliged.”
She gave him matches without a glance, and then went away. He
lit a cigarette. Presently she reappeared, carrying bark and dry
brush. She dug a hole in the snow and lit a fire at the bottom of it.
Using a racket for a shovel, she enlarged the hole around the fire
into a considerable hollow.
“It is turning colder,” she said. “You must come in here until you
are rested.”
He obeyed slowly, painfully. She placed a few green fir boughs
for him to sit on, and a few beside him for herself.
“It has almost stopped snowing,” she said. “If a wind comes up it
will drift frightfully, and that will be worse than the snowfall.”
“How far have we come?” he asked.
“Nearly a mile,” she answered.
“I wish you would go on alone,” he said. “Without me you’d do it
before the wind rises; and then, if you should happen to see Jard
Hassock or someone who wouldn’t mind coming back for me, he’d
find me waiting right here—if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Trouble!” she cried, turning a stricken, outraged look at him; and
then she hid her face in her hands and shook with sobs.
He slipped an arm around her.
“Why did you turn on me?” he asked. “In the hut you were—very
kind. Why did you change—and treat me like a dog?”
She continued to hide her face and sob. His arm tightened.
“I said you were the dearest person in the world,” he continued.
“You are—to me. You are the dearest person in the world.”
“You—have no right—to say that.”
“Then whoever has a right to stop me had better make haste. I
love you, Joe! Make the worst of that. I love you! Now run away and
leave me sticking here in the snow.”
“But—the woman who sent you—after a horse?”
“Bless her for that! She was kinder to me than she intended to
be. Look at me, Joe.”
She looked at him.
CHAPTER X
DEEP TRAILS
They put a mile and a half between that fire and the next. Vane
was no longer weakening. He was strengthening in heart, muscles
and spirit gradually but steadily, despite the drag of the snow on his
legs and a decided sense of neglect under his belt. He was working
back to the pink of condition, throwing off at every forward step
something of the effects of his difficult journey with the Danglers. He
was recovering by those very efforts which his enemies had
reckoned on to work his undoing. But the young woman was tiring.
It was Vane who gathered fuel and cleared away the snow and built
the third fire. They rested there for twenty minutes, seated close
together. She snuggled her head against his shoulder and slept a
little.
The snowfall had ceased by that time, the close gray blanket of
cloud had thinned everywhere, had been lifted from the horizon at
one corner, and now a desolate and subdued illumination seeped
across the white and black world. The air, still motionless, was now
dry and bitterly cold.
During the third stage of their homeward journey, Joe dragged
her snowshoes heavily, and her pulls on Vane’s hands became
feebler at every drift. She was sleepy, bone-tired and weak with
hunger. Backwoods girl though she was, she was not seasoned to
hardship as was her companion. But she continued to recognize the
landmarks of the right way.
Their halts and little fires fell more and more frequently and
closer and closer together. At last a bitter lash of wind struck and
sent a thin wisp of snow glinting and running like spray. They came
upon a narrow wood road well beaten by hoofs and bob-sled shoes
beneath the four-inch skim of new snow.
“Which way?” asked Vane.
She pointed. “Straight to Larry Dent’s place,” she said.
Then he removed her webs, crouched and hitched her up on his
back. She made no protest. “This is how I save your life,” she said,
and instantly closed her eyes in sleep. Her arms were about his
neck. They clung tight even in her sleep. Her cheek was against his
ear. He staggered several times, but he hadn’t far to go. As he
reached the kitchen door—the only door—of Larry Dent’s little gray
habitation, an icy wind swooped down from the shuddering treetops
and filled the whole world with a white suffocation of snow. He
pushed open the door, staggered across the threshold, and stumbled
to his knees at the large feet of the dumbfounded Mrs. Dent, with
his precious burden still secure and asleep on his back.
“See what’s blew in,” said Larry, who was seated beside the stove
smoking his pipe. “Shet the door,” he added.
Joe awoke and slipped from Vane’s shoulders. Vane remained on
hands and knees, breathing deep. Mrs. Dent pulled herself together,
went over, and shut the door against the flying drift. Larry shook the
ashes from his pipe, and said. “Glad to see you, Miss Hinch; an’ also
yer friend—or is he a hoss?”
Then Joe began to laugh and cry; and, still laughing and crying,
she ran to Vane and helped him into a rocking chair, and kissed him
again and again right there in front of the Dents.
Having left the stranger in the hut with the broken roof, bruised
and unconscious and fatigued, without food or water or blankets or
matches or snowshoes, in complete ignorance of the one right way
of a hundred wrong ones of escape from that place, Henry Dangler
and his big son Steve made straight for Forkville. The snow blotted
out their tracks behind them. They visited half a dozen places in the
village, including two stores, the forge and the hotel, and were
puzzled to encounter only women and children. They asked where
the men had gone to, and were puzzled by the answers of the
women and children.
“There’s somethin’ wrong,” said Hen.
“It sure looks like it,” agreed Steve. “That dang old Hassock
woman had a mean slant to her eye.”
They headed for the settlement on Goose Creek with a growing
uneasiness in their tough breasts. They took the road, for it was the
shortest way. The new snow had filled up the tracks of the sleds and
also of the pung in which young McPhee had brought the constable.
They hadn’t gone far before they were startled by a jangle of silvery
bells close behind them, sounding suddenly out of the muffling now.
They leapt aside into the underbrush and crouched and turned. They
saw a large man, white as wool, slip by in a pung behind a long-
gaited nag. He was there and past in a dozen seconds. He had sat
hunched forward as if bowed by the weight of snow on him. He had
not looked to the right or the left.
“The deputy sheriff,” whispered Henry to his son.
“Hell!” whispered Steve.
“Guess we were too late.”
“Guess so. What’ll we do now?”
“Reckon I’ll go along an’ see what’s happened. Maybe the old
man will trick ’em yet.”
“You best come back with me, pa. I jist thought of somethin’
that’ll maybe work out all right.”
“Back where to? What you thought of, Steve?”
“Back to where we left that feller, an’ save his blasted life! He
ain’t seen us, nor heard our voices. He don’t know who beaned ’im
and drug ’im around. Let’s go back an’ save his damn life and git in
right with him.”
“No use, Steve! He’d be lost an’ froze dead before we could git
there—even if we could find him. He’s the kind will bust right out of
the hut the minute he gits his wits back—right out into the storm on
his busted rackets—an’ git to runnin’ around in a circle inside ten
minutes. That’s his kind. Mind how he jumped us, an’ him tied an’
blindfolded? A fightin’ fool! When he sticks in a drift he’ll tear the
woods to pieces—an’ himself. We’d be too late, Steve. Reckon we
best forgit all about that business. Reckon we’re in for trouble
enough without goin’ back an’ foolin’ around that section of the
woods.”
“I guess he won’t—I guess he’s tougher’n you figger on. I’m goin’
back, anyhow.”
So Steve headed back for the hut with the broken roof by the
shortest way through the blinding curtains of moist snow. Steve was
a smart woodsman under normal conditions—but now the conditions
were not normal. Never before had he traveled far in so thick a fall
of snow. Never before had he undertaken a journey alone with panic
in his heart and doubt in his mind. He had gone a mile before being
conscious of the panic and the doubt. After that, they grew with
devilish rapidity.
Steve didn’t find the hut wherein he and his father had left the
stranger. He didn’t come within miles of it. At last the snow ceased
to fall; and soon after that—or was it an hour after?—he came upon
a hole in the snow and the ashes and black sticks of a spent fire in
the bottom of the hole. The ashes were still warm. These things
puzzled and frightened him. He gave up all thought of finding the
hut. He walked for a long time, walked meaningless miles, beneath a
clearing sky, looking for familiar landmarks. Suddenly a bitter wind
swooped down and filled earth and sky with flying snow.
Mrs. Dent put Joe to bed. The girl fell into a deep sleep—but she
woke up a little later for long enough to drink and eat from a
bountiful tray and answer a few of Mrs. Dent’s eager and
illuminating questions. Robert Vane took a few snatches of sleep in
the rocking chair, and talked and smoked and drank tea between
naps. He answered questions as they came, without thought or care.
He felt fine. He loved the whole world, but this part of it more than
the rest of it. And when supper was ready he pulled his chair up to
the table, and drank coffee as if he had never heard of tea, and ate
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