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Title: The Luck of the Kid
Author: Cullum, Ridgwell
Language: English
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THE LUCK OF THE KID
by
RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of
“The Heart of Unaga,” “The Man in the Twilight,” etc.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York & London
The Knickerbocker Press
1923
Copyright, 1923
by
Ridgwell Cullum
Made in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In Happy Recollection
Of
OUR EARLY BOYHOOD
THIS, MY TWENTY-FIRST BOOK, IS DEDICATED
IN DEEPEST AFFECTION TO
MY BROTHERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PART I
I North of “Sixty”
II The Holocaust
III The Planning of Le Gros
IV Two Men of the North
V The Luck of the Kid
VI The Euralians
VII The Vengeance of Usak
VIII The Valley of the Fire Hills
PART II
I Placer City
II The Cheechakos
III Reindeer Farm
IV Within the Circle
V The House in the Valley of the Fire Hills
VI The Eyes in the Night
VII The Dream Hill
VIII Bill Wilder Re-appears
IX The Great Savage
X Days of Promise
XI Children of the North
XII Youth Supreme
XIII A Whiteman’s Purpose
XIV A Whiteman’s Word
XV The Irony of Fate
XVI The End of the Long Trail
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LUCK OF THE KID
PART I
CHAPTER I
NORTH OF “SIXTY”
The sub-Arctic summer was at its height. The swelter of heat was of
almost tropical intensity. No wisp of cloud marred the perfect purity of
the steely blue sky, and no breath of wind relieved the intemperate
scorch of the blazing sun.
The two men on the river bank gave no heed to the oppressive heat. For
the moment they seemed concerned with nothing but their ease, and the
swarming flies, and the voracious attacks of the mosquitoes from which
the smoke of their camp fire did its best to protect them. Down below
them, a few yards away, their walrus-hide kyak lay moored to the bank of
the river, whose sluggish, oily-moving waters flowed gently northward
towards the far-off fields of eternal ice. It was noon, and a rough
midday meal had been prepared and disposed of. Now they were smoking
away a leisurely hour before resuming their journey.
The younger of the two flung away the end of a cigarette with a movement
that was almost violent in its impatience. He turned a pair of narrow
black eyes upon his companion, and their sparkle of resentment shone
fiercely in sharp contrast against the dusky skin of their setting.
“It’s no use blinding ourselves, sir,” he said, speaking rapidly in the
tongue of the whiteman, with only the faintest suspicion of native
halting. “It’s here. But we’ve missed it. And another’s found it.”
He was a youthful creature something short of the completion of his
second decade. But that which he lacked in years he made up for in the
alertness of purpose that looked out of his keen eyes. He was
dark-skinned, its hue something between yellow and olive. He had
prominent, broad cheek bones like those of all the natives of Canada’s
extreme north. Yet his face differed from the general low type of the
Eskimo. There was refinement in every detail of it. There was something
that suggested a race quite foreign, but curiously akin.
“Marty Le Gros? Yes?”
The older man stirred. He had been lounging full length on the ground so
that the smoke of the camp fire rolled heavily across him, and kept him
safe from the torment of winged insects. Now he sat up like the other,
and crossing his legs tucked his booted feet under him.
He was older than his companion by more than twenty years. But the
likeness between them was profound. He, too, was dusky. He, too, had the
broad, high cheek bones. He was of similar stature, short and broad.
Then, too, his hair was black and cut short like the other’s, so short,
indeed, that it bristled crisply over the crown of his bare head with
the effect of a wire brush. He, too, was clad in the rough buckskin of
the trail with no detail that could have distinguished him from the
native. The only difference between the two was in age, and the colour
of their eyes. The older man’s eyes were a sheer anachronism. They were
a curious gleaming yellow, whose tawny depths shone with a subtle
reflection of the brilliant sunshine.
“Tell me of it again, Sate,” he went on, knocking out the red clay pipe
he had been smoking, and re-filling it from a beaded buckskin pouch.
But the youth was impatient, and the quick flash of his black eyes was
full of scorn for the unruffled composure of the other.
“He’s beaten us, father,” he cried. “He has it. I have seen.” He spread
out his hands in an expressive gesture. And they were lean, delicate
hands that were almost womanish. “This priest-man with his say-so of
religion. He search all the time. It is the only thing he think of.
Gold! Well, he get it.”
He finished up with a laugh that only expressed fierce chagrin.
“And he get it here on this Loon Creek, that you make us waste three
months’ search on, son?”
The father shook his head. And his eyes were cold, and the whole
expression of his set features mask-like. The youth flung out his hands.
“I go down for trade to Fort Cupar. This missionary, Marty Le Gros, is
there. He show this thing. Two great nuggets, clear yellow gold. Big?
They must be one hundred ounces each. No. Much more. And he tell the
story to McLeod, who drinks so much, that he find them on Loon Creek. I
hear him tell. I listen all the time. They don’t know me. They think I
am a fool Eskimo. I let them think. Well? Where is it on Loon Creek? We
go up. We come down. There is no sign anywhere. No work. The man lies,
for all his religion. Or we are the fools we do not think we are.”
Sate turned his searching eyes on the northern distance, where the broad
stream merged itself into the purple of low, far-off hills.
It was a scene common enough to the lower lands of Canada’s extreme
north. There was nothing of barren desolation. There were no great
hills, no great primordial forests along the broad valley of Loon Creek.
But it was a widespread park land of woodland bluffs of hardy conifers
dotting a brilliant-hued carpet of myriads of Arctic flowers, and long
sun-forced grasses, and lichens of every shade of green. It was Nature’s
own secret flower garden, far out of the common human track, where,
throughout the ages, she had spent her efforts in enriching the soil,
till, under an almost tropical summer heat, it yielded a display of
vivid colour such as could never have been matched in any wilderness
under southern skies.
The older man observed him keenly.
“Sate, my son,” he said at last, “you are discontented. Why? This man
has a secret. He has gold. Gold is the thing we look for. Not all the
time, but between our trade which makes us rich, and our people rich. We
are masters of the north country. It is ours by right of the thing we
do. It must be ours. And all its secrets. This man’s secret. We must
have it, too.”
The man spoke quietly. He spoke without a smile, without emotion. His
tawny eyes were expressionless, for all the blaze of light the sun
reflected in them.
“You are right to be discontented,” he went on, after the briefest
pause. “But I look no longer on Loon Creek or any other creek. We get
this secret from Marty Le Gros. I promise that.”
“How?”
The youth’s quick eyes were searching his father’s face. He had listened
to the thing he had hoped to hear. And now he was stirred to a keen
expectancy that was without impatience.
The other shrugged his powerful shoulders.
“He will tell it to us—himself.”
The black eyes of the youth abruptly shifted their gaze. Something in
the curious eyes of his parent communicated the purpose lying behind his
words. But it was insufficient to satisfy his headlong impulse.
“He? He tell his secret to—us?”
There was derision in the challenge.
“Yes. He will tell—when I ask him.”
“But it is far south and west. It is beyond—our territory. It is within
the reach of the northern police. There is big risk for you to ask him
the—question.”
Again the man with the yellow eyes shook his head.
“Your mother looked for you to be a girl. Maybe her wish had certain
effect. Risk? There is no risk. I see none. It is simple. I bend this
man to my will. If he will not bend I break him. Yes. He is white. That
is as it should be. Someday—sometime the whites of this country will
bend, or break before us. They know that. They fear that. The thing they
do not yet know is that they bend now. This man, Le Gros, we will see to
him without delay.”
He rose from his cross-legged position almost without an effort. He
stood up erect, a short, broad-shouldered, virile specimen of manhood in
his hard trail clothing. Then he moved swiftly down towards the light
canoe at the water’s edge.
The youth, Sate, was slow to follow him. He watched the sturdy figure
with unsmiling eyes. He resented the imputation upon his courage. He
resented the taunt his father had flung. But his feelings carried
nothing deeper than the natural resentment of a war-like, high-strung
spirit.
He understood his father. He knew him for a creature of iron nerve, and
a will that drove him without mercy. More than that he admitted the
man’s right to say the thing he chose to his son. His attitude was one
of curious filial submission whatever the hurt he suffered. He may have
been inspired by affection, or it may simply have been an expression of
the filial obedience and subservience native to the race from which he
sprang. But the taunt hurt him sorely. And he jumped to a decision as
violent as it was impulsive.
He leapt to his feet, slight, active as a panther, and hastily descended
to the water’s edge and joined his parent.
“You think me like a woman, father? You think that?” he demanded hotly.
The other turned eyes that gained nothing of gentleness from their
smile.
“No,” he said, and bent again to his work of hauling the little craft
clear of the drift-wood that had accumulated about it.
The youth breathed a deep sigh. It was an expression of relief.
“We put that question to this Le Gros soon? Yes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Sate nodded, and a great light shone in his black eyes. They were fierce
with exultation.
“Then we must waste no time. The way is long. There are many miles to
Fox Bluff.” He laughed. “Le Gros,” he went on. “It is a French name, and
it means—Tcha!” he exclaimed with all the impetuous feeling which drove
him like a whirlwind. “We show him what it means.”
The man with the tawny eyes looked up from his work. For one moment he
gazed searchingly into the dark face of his son. Then he returned again
to his work without a word.
CHAPTER II
THE HOLOCAUST
“Man, I’d sooner they’d put out my eyes, or cut out my tongue. I’d
sooner they’d set my body to everlasting torture. Look! Look there! Yes,
and there! Oh, God! It’s everywhere the same.” A shaking hand was
outthrust. “Dead! Mutilated! Old men! Old women! And poor little bits of
life that had only just begun. The barbarity! The monstrousness!”
Marty Le Gros, the missionary of the Hekor River, spoke in a tone that
was almost choking with grief. His eyes, so dark and wide, were full of
the horror upon which they gazed. His Gallic temperament was stirred to
its depths. The heart of the man was overflowing with pity and grief,
and outraged parental affection.
Usak, the Indian, his servant, stood beside him. He offered no verbal
comment. His only reply to the white-man was a low, fierce, inarticulate
grunt, which was like the growl of some savage beast.
The men were standing at the entrance to a wide clearing. The great
Hekor River flowed behind them, where the canoe they had just left swung
to the stream, moored at the crude landing stage of native manufacture.
They were gazing upon the setting of a little Eskimo encampment. It was
one of the far flung Missions which claimed the spiritual service of Le
Gros. He had only just arrived from his headquarters at Fox Bluff, on
the river, near by to Fort Cupar the trading post, on his monthly visit,
and the hideous destruction he had discovered left him completely
staggered and helpless.
The devastation of the settlement was complete. Dotted about the
clearing, grimly silhouetted against a background of dull green woods,
stood the charred remains of a dozen and more log shanties. Broken and
burnt timbers littered the open ground, and filled the room spaces where
the roofs had fallen. Every habitation was burnt out stark. Not even the
crude household goods had been spared.
But this was the least of the horror the two men gazed upon. The human
aspect of the destruction was a thousand-fold more appalling. The ground
was littered with mutilated dead. As the missionary had said, there were
old men, old women, and babes torn from their mothers’ arms. Silent and
still, death reigned everywhere. The young men? The young women? There
was no sign of these. And therein lay a further horror which the
onlookers were swift to appreciate.
The hideous fascination of the scene held them. But at last it was Usak
who broke from under its spell.
“Euralians!” he cried fiercely. And again in his voice rang that note
which sounded like the goaded fury of some creature of the forest.
The Euralians!
To the mind of every far northwestern man, in that territory which lies
hundreds of miles beyond the efficient protection of the northern
police, the name of this people was sufficient to set stirring a chill
of unvoiced terror that was something superstitious. Who they were? It
was almost impossible to say. It was still a problem in the minds of
even the farthest travelled trail men and fur hunters. But they were
known to all as a scourge of the far flung border which divides Alaska
from the extreme north of Yukon Territory.
The threat they imposed on the region was constantly growing. It had
grown lately from the marauding of mere seal ground and fur poachers,
who came down out of the iron fastnesses beyond the Arctic fringes of
Alaska, where they lived hidden in security beyond the reach of the
strong arm of the United States law, into a murder scourge threatening
all human life and property within reach of their ruthless operations.
Hitherto, Le Gros had only known them from the tales told by the native
pelt hunters, the men who came down to trade at Fort Cupar. He knew no
more and no less than the rest of the handful of white folks who peopled
the region. The stories he had had to listen to, for all their
corroborative nature, were, he knew, for the most part founded upon
hearsay. He had listened to them. He always listened to these
adventurers. But somehow his gentle, philosophic mind had left him
missing something of the awe and dread which beset the hearts of the men
whose lurid stories took vivid colour from the stirring emotions which
inspired them.
But now, now he was wide awake to the reality of the terror he had so
largely attributed to superstitious exaggeration. Now he knew that no
story he had ever listened to could compare with the reality. He was
gazing upon a scene of hideous murder and wanton, savage destruction
that utterly beggared description.
His feelings were torn to shreds, and his heart cried out in agony of
helpless pity.
These poor benighted folk, these simple, peaceful Eskimo, amiable,
industrious, yearning only for the betterment he was able by his simple
ministrations to bring into their lives. What were they to claim such
barbarity from a savage horde? What had they? What had they done?
Nothing. Simply nothing. They were fisher-folk who spent their lives in
the hunt, asking only to be left in peace to work out the years of their
desperately hard-lived lives. Now—now they were utterly wiped out, a
pitiful sacrifice to the insensate lust of this mysterious scourge.
Le Gros thrust his cap from his broad forehead. It was a gesture of
impotent despair.
“God in Heaven!” he cried, and the words seemed to be literally wrung
from him.
“It no use to call Him.”
The Indian’s retort came on the instant. And his tone was harshly
ironical.
“What I tell you plenty time,” he went on sharply. “The great God. He
look down. He see this thing. He do nothing. No. It this way. Man do
this. Yes. Man do this. Man must punish this dam Euralian. I know.”
The missionary turned from the slaughter ground. He searched the
Indian’s broad, dusky face. It was a striking face, high-boned and full
of the eagle keenness of the man’s Sioux Indian forbears. He was a
creature of enormous stature, lean, spare and of tremendous muscle. For
all he was civilized, for all he was educated, this devoted servant
lacked nothing of the savage which belonged to his red-skinned
ancestors.
Servant and master these two comrades in a common cause stood in sharp
contrast. Usak was a savage and nothing could make him otherwise. Usak
was a man of fierce, hot passions. The other, the whiteman, except for
his great stature, was in direct antithesis. The missionary was moulded
in the gentlest form. He was no priest. He represented no set
denomination of religion. He was a simple man of compassionate heart who
had devoted his life to the service of his less fortunate fellow
creatures where such service might help them towards enlightenment and
bodily and spiritual comfort.
He had been five years on his present mission at Fox Bluff. He had come
there of his own choice supported by the staunch devotion of a young
wife who was no less prepared to sacrifice herself. But now he stood
almost alone, but not quite. For though death had swiftly robbed him of
a wife’s devotion, it had left him with the priceless possession they
had both so ardently yearned. The motherless Felice was at home now in
the care of Pri-loo, the childless wife of Usak, who had gladly mothered
the motherless babe.
Even as he gazed into the Indian’s furious eyes Le Gros’ mind had leaped
back to his home at Fox Bluff. A sudden fear was clutching at his heart.
Oh, he knew that Fox Bluff was far away to the east and south. He knew
that the journey thither from the spot where they stood was a full seven
days’ of hard paddling on the great river behind them. But Pri-loo and
his infant child were alone in his home. They were utterly without
protection except for the folk at the near-by Fort. And these Euralians,
if they so desired, what was to stop them with the broad highway of the
river which was open to all?
He shook his head endeavouring to stifle the fears that had suddenly
beset him.
“You’re wrong, Usak,” he said quietly. “God sees all. He will punish—in
his own good time.”
Usak’s fierce eyes snapped.
“You say that? Oh, yes. You say that all the time, boss,” he cried. “I
tell you—no. You my good boss. You mak me man to know everything so as a
whiteman knows. You show me all thing. You teach me. You mak me build
big reindeer farm so I live good, an’ Pri-loo eat plenty all time. Oh
yes. I read. I write. I mak figgers. You mak me do this thing. You, my
good boss. I mak for you all the time. I big heart for you. That so. But
no. I tell you—No! The great God not know this thing. He not know this
Euralian wher’ he come from. No. Not no more as you he know this thing.
But I know. I—Usak. I know ’em all, everything.”
At another time the missionary would have listened to the man’s quaint
egoism with partly shocked amusement. His final statement, however,
startled him out of every other feeling.
“You know the hiding-place of these—fiends?” he demanded sharply.
Usak nodded. A curious vanity was shining in the dark eyes which looked
straight into the whiteman’s.
“I know him—yes,” he said.
“You’ve never told a thing of this before?”
There was doubt in the missionary’s tone, and in the regard of his brown
eyes.
“I know him,” Usak returned shortly. Then, in a moment, he flung out his
great hands in a vehement gesture. “I say I know him—an’ we go kill ’em
all up.”
All doubt was swept from the missionary’s mind. He understood the
passionate savagery underlying the Indian’s veneer of civilization. The
man was in desperate earnest.
“No.” Le Gros’ denial came sharply. Then his gaze drifted back to the
scene of destruction, and a deep sigh escaped him. “No,” he reiterated
simply. “This is not for us. It is for the police. If you know the
hiding-place of these—”
“No good, boss. No,” Usak cried, in fierce disappointment. “The p’lice?
No. They so far.” He held up one hand with two fingers thrusting
upwards. “One—two p’lice by Placer. An’ Placer many days far off. No
good.” He shrugged his great shoulders. “Us mans all dead. Yes. Pri-loo
all dead. Felice dead, too. All mans dead when p’lice come. I know. You
not know. You good man. You not think this thing. Usak bad man Indian.
He think this thing all time. Listen. I tell you, boss, my good boss. I
say the thing in my mind. The thing I know.”
He broke off and glanced in the direction of the river, and his eyes
dwelt on the gently rocking canoe. He turned again, and his thoughtful
eyes came once more to the scene of horror that infuriated his savage
heart. He was like a man preparing to face something of desperate
consequence. Something that might grievously disturb the relations in
which he stood to the man to whom he believed himself to owe everything
he now treasured in life. At last his hands stirred. They were raised,
and moved automatically under emotions which no words of his were
adequate to express.
“I big trail man,” he began. “I travel far. I go by the big ice, by the
big hills, by the big water. I mak trade with all mans Eskimo. I mak big
reindeer trade with him Eskimo, same as you show me, boss. So I go far,
far all time. So I know this Euralian better as ’em all. I not say. Oh,
no. It not good. Now I say. This mans Euralian look all time for all
thing. Furs? Yes. They steal ’em furs, an’ kill ’em up all Eskimo. So
Eskimo all big scare. Gold? Yes. They look for him all same, too. Oil?
Yes. Coal? Yes. All this thing they look, look for all time. Him mans
not Eskimo. They not Indian. They not whiteman. No. They damn foreign
devil so as I not know. Him all mans live in whiteman house all time.
Big house. I know. I find him house.”
The man’s unease had passed. He was absorbed in the thing he had to
tell. Suddenly after a moment’s pause, he raised a hand pointing so that
his wondering companion turned again to the spectacle he would gladly
have avoided.
“Boss, you mak ’em this thing! You mak ’em kill all up! You!”
“I?”
Le Gros’ horrified gaze swept back to the face of the accusing man. The
Indian was fiercely smiling. He nodded.
“You mak ’em this, but you not know. You not know nothing,” he said in a
tone that was almost gentle. “Oh, I say ’em this way, but I not mean you
kill ’em all up. You? No. Listen, boss,” he went on, coming close up and
lowering his harsh tones. “You kill ’em all up because you tell all the
mans you mak big find gold on Loon Creek. Boss, you tell the mans. You
think all mans good like so as you. So you not hide this thing. You tell
’em, an’ you show big piece gold—two. Now you know how you kill ’em all
up.”
Usak waited. The amazement in the eyes of the missionary gave place to a
grave look of understanding.
“You mean that my story of the discovery of gold I made has
caused—this?” He shook his head, and the question in his mild eyes was
urgent. “How? Tell me, Usak, and tell it quick.”
The Indian nodded.
“Oh, it easy. Yes. You tell the story. It go far. It go quick. All mans
know it. Gold! The good boss, Le Gros, find gold! Him Euralian. Ears,
eyes, they all time everywhere. Him hear, too. Maybe him _see_, too. I
not say. Him mak big think. Him say: ‘This man, this good boss, him find
gold! How we get it? How we rob him, an’ steal ’em all up gold! Euralian
think. It easy. Le Gros good man. Us go. Us kill ’em all up him Mission.
One Mission. Two Mission. All Mission. Then us go kill up all mans at
Fort Cupar. Kill up Marty Le Gros an’ Usak. Then we get ’em all this
gold.’”
There was fierce conviction in every word the man said. For all the
crudeness of his argument, if argument it could be called, the force of
his convictions carried weight even with a man who was normally devoid
of suspicion. Then, too, there was still the horror of the spectacle in
the clearing to yield its effect. But greater than all the other’s
conviction or argument, greater than all else, was the missionary’s
surge of terror for the safety of his little baby daughter with her
nurse back there in his home.
Le Gros breathed deeply. His dark eyes were full of the gravest anxiety.
For the moment he had forgotten everything but the personal danger he
had suddenly realised to be threatening.
Usak was watching him. He understood the thing that was stirring behind
the whiteman’s troubled eyes. He had driven home his conviction and he
was satisfied. Now he awaited agreement with his desire that they should
themselves go and deal with these fierce marauders. He saw no reason for
hesitation. He saw nothing in his desire that could make it impossible,
hopeless. But then he was a savage and only applied calm reason when
passion left him undisturbed. The only thing to satisfy his present mood
was to go, even singlehanded if necessary, and retaliate slaughter for
slaughter.
Finally it was he again who broke the silence. The spirit driving him
would not permit of long restraint.
“Us go, boss?” he urged.
Marty Le Gros suddenly bestirred himself. He shook his head.
“No,” he said. Then he pointed at the scene in front of them.
“We do this thing. The poor dead things must be hidden up. They were
Christians, and we must give them Christian burial. After that we go. We
go back home. There is my little Felice. There is your Pri-loo. They
must be made safe.”
The man’s decision was irrevocable. The Indian recognised the tone and
understood. But his disappointment was intense.
“Us not go?” he cried. His words were accompanied by a sound that was
like a laugh, a harsh, derisive laugh. “So,” he said. “We bury ’em all
these people. Yes. The good boss say so. Then we go home, an’ mak safe
Felice. We mak safe Pri-loo. Then us all get kill up—sure.”
CHAPTER III
THE PLANNING OF LE GROS
It was still broad daylight for all the lateness of the hour. At this
time of year darkness was unknown on the Hekor River. The sky was
brilliant, with its cloudless summer blue shining with midday splendour.
Marty Le Gros was standing in the doorway of his log-built home, a home
of considerable dimensions and comfort for his own hands, and those
gentle hands of his dead wife, had erected every carefully trimmed log
of it. He had only that day returned, sick at heart with the hideous
recollection of the tragedy of his far-off Mission.
He was gazing out over the bosom of the sluggish river, so broad, so
peacefully smiling as it stole gently away on its never-ending task of
feeding the distant lake whose demands upon it seemed quite insatiable.
His mind was gravely troubled, and it was planning the thing which had
so suddenly become imperative. In a moment it seemed all the peace, all
the quiet delight of his years of ardent labour amongst the Eskimo had
been utterly rent and dispelled. He had been caught up in the tide of
Usak’s savage understanding of the position of imminent danger in which
he and all his belongings were standing. The thing he contemplated must
be done, and done at once.
The evening hour, for all its midday brilliance, was no less peaceful
than the hours of sundown in lower latitudes. He had learned to love
every mood of this far northern world from its bitter storms of winter
to the tropical heat of its fly and mosquito-ridden summer. It was the
appeal of the remote silence of it all; it was the breadth of that wide
northern world so far beyond the sheer pretences of civilization; it was
the freedom, the sense of manhood it inspired. Its appeal had never once
failed him even though it had robbed him of that tender companionship of
the woman whose only thought in the world had been for him and his
self-sacrificing labours.
At another time, with the perfect content of a mind at ease, he would
have stood there smoking his well-charred pipe contemplating the beauty
of this world he had made his own. But all that was changed now. The
beauty, the calm of it all, only aggravated his moody unease.
Beyond the mile-wide river the western hills rose up to dizzy,
snow-capped heights. Their far off slopes were buried under the torn
beds of ages-old glacial fields, or lay hidden behind the dark
forest-belts of primordial growth. The sight of them urged him with
added alarm. He was facing the west, searching beyond the Alaskan
border, and somewhere out there, hidden within those scarce trodden
fastnesses lay the pulsing heart of the thing he had suddenly come to
fear. Usak had warned him. Usak had convinced him on the seven day
paddle down the river. So it was that those far-off ramparts, with their
towering serrated crowns lost in the heavy mists enshrouding them, no
longer appealed in their beauty. Their appeal had changed to one of
serious dread.
He avoided them deliberately. His gaze came back to the nearer distance
of the river, and just beyond it where the old fur-trading post, which
gave its name to the region, stood out dark and staunch as it had stood
for more than a century. A heavy stockade of logs, which the storms of
the years had failed to destroy, encompassed it. The sight of the
stockade filled him with a satisfaction it had never inspired before. He
drew a deep breath. Yes, he was glad because of it. He felt that those
old pelt hunters had built well and with great wisdom.
Then the wide river slipping away so gently southward. It was the road
highway of man in these remotenesses, passing along just here between
low foreshores of attenuated grasses and lichen-covered boulders, lit by
the blaze of colour from myriads of tiny Arctic flowers. It was very,
very beautiful. But its beauty was of less concern now than another
thought. Just as it was a possible approach for the danger he knew to be
threatening, so it was the broad highway of escape should necessity
demand.
For the time Le Gros was no longer the missionary. He was no less a
simple adventurer than those others who peopled the region. Spiritual
things had no longer place in his thought. Temporal matters held him.
His motherless child was there behind him in his home in the care of the
faithful Pri-loo.
Gold! He wondered. What was the curse that clung to the dull yellow
creation of those fierce terrestrial fires? A painful trepidation took
possession of him as he thought of the tremendous richness of the
discovery which the merest chance had flung into his hands. It had
seemed absurd, curiously absurd, even at the time. He had had no desire
for any of it. He had not yielded himself to the hardship and
self-sacrifice of the life of a sub-Arctic missionary and retained any
desire for the things which gold would yield him. Perhaps for this very
reason an ironical fate had forced her favours upon him.
He had been well-nigh staggered at the wealth of his discovery, and he
had laughed in sheer amazed amusement that of all people such should
fall to his lot. The discovery had been his alone. Not even Usak had
shared in it. There had been no reason for secrecy, so he had been
prepared to give the story of it broadcast to the world.
He had shown his specimens, and he had enjoyed the mystery with which he
had enshrouded his discovery when he displayed them to Jim McLeod, the
factor at Fort Cupar, and a small gathering of trailmen. This had been
at first. And chance alone had saved him from revealing the locality of
his discovery. It came in a flash when he had witnessed the staggering
effect which the two great nuggets he offered for inspection had had
upon his audience. In that moment he had realised something of the
potentiality of the thing that was his.
Instantly re-action set in. Instantly he was himself transformed. The
missionary fell from him. He remembered his baby girl, and became at
once a plain adventurer and—father. Someday Felice would grow to
womanhood. Someday he would no longer be there to tend and care for her.
What could he give her that she might be freed from the hardships
waiting upon a lonely girl in a world that had so little of comfort and
sympathy to bestow upon the weak? Nothing. So, when they pressed him for
the locality whence came his discovery, he—deliberately lied.
More than ever now was he concerned for his secret. More than ever was
he concerned for the thing which the savage understanding of Usak had
instilled into his simple mind. His secret must be safeguarded at once.
Whatever the future might have in store for him personally he must make
safe this thing for—little Felice.
A sound came to him from within the house. It was the movement of the
moccasined feet of Usak’s woman, Pri-loo. He spoke over his shoulder
without leaving the doorway.
“Does she sleep, Pri-loo?” he inquired in a low voice. The answer came
in the woman’s deep, velvet tones.
“She sleep, boss.”
The man bestirred himself. He turned about, and the woman’s dusky beauty
came under his urgent gaze.
“Then I go,” he said. “I’m going right over to see Jim McLeod, at the
Fort. You just sit around till Usak comes back from the farm. You won’t
quit this doorway till he comes along. That so? I’ll be back in a while,
anyway. Felice’ll be all right? You’ll see to it?”
“Oh, yes. Sure. Felice all right. Pri-loo not quit. No.”
There was smiling confidence and assurance in the woman’s wide eyes, so
dark and gentle, yet so full of the savage she really was.
“Good.” Marty Le Gros reached out his hand and patted the woman’s
rounded shoulder under the elaborately beaded buckskin tunic she had
never abandoned for the less serviceable raiment of the whitewoman.
“Then I go.”
The missionary nodded and passed out. And the squaw stood in his place
in the doorway gazing after him as he hurried down to the canoe which
lay moored at the river bank.
* * * * *
The scene about the Fort was one of leisurely activity. The day’s work
was nearly completed for all the sun was high in the heavens. The smoke
of camp fires was lolling upon the still evening air, and the smell of
cooking food pervaded the entire neighbourhood.
Now the store had emptied of its human, bartering freight, and with the
close of the day’s trading, Jim McLeod and his young wife, like all the
rest, were about to retire to their evening meal.
The man was leaning on the long counter contemplating the narrow day
book in which he recorded his transactions with the Eskimo, and those
other trailmen who were regular customers. His wife, Hesther, young,
slight and almost pretty, was standing in the open doorway regarding the
simple camp scenes going on within the walls of the great stockade which
surrounded their home. She was simply clad in a waist and skirt of some
rough plaid material. Her soft brown eyes were alight and smiling, and
their colour closely matched the wealth of brown hair coiled neatly
about her head.
“Nearly through, Jim?” she inquired after awhile.
The man at the counter looked up.
“It ain’t so bad as it’s been,” he said. “But it’s short. A hell of a
piece short of what it should be.” He moved out from behind his counter
and came to the woman’s side. “You know, Hes, I went into things last
night. We’re three hundred seals down on the year and I’d hate to tell
you the number of foxes we’re short. We’re gettin’ the left-overs.
That’s it. Those darn Euralians skin the pore fools of Eskimo out of the
best, an’ we get the stuff they ain’t no use for. It’s a God’s shame,
gal. If it goes on ther’s jest one thing in sight. We’ll be beatin’ it
back to civilization, an’ chasing up a grub stake. The company’ll shut
this post right down—sure.”
The man glanced uneasily about him. His pale blue eyes were troubled as
he surveyed the shelves laden with gaudy trading truck, and finally came
to rest on the small pile of furs baled behind the counter ready for the
storeroom. He understood his position well enough. He held it by
results. The Fur Valley Trading Company was no philanthropic
institution. If Fort Cupar showed no profit then Fort Cupar, so far as
their enterprise was concerned, would be closed down.
He was worried. He knew that a time was coming in the comparatively near
future when Hesther would need all the comfort and ease that he could
afford her. If the Company closed down as it had been threatening him,
it would, he felt, be something in the nature of a tragedy to them.
The woman smiled round into his somewhat fat face.
“Don’t you feel sore, Jim,” she said in her cheerful inspiriting way.
“Maybe the Good God hands us folk out our trials, but I guess He’s
mighty good in passing us compensations. Our compensation’s coming
along, boy. An’ I’m looking forward to that time so I don’t hardly know
how to wait for it.”
Jim’s blue eyes wavered before the steadfast encouragement in his wife’s
confident, slightly self-conscious smile.
“Yes,” he said, and turned away again to the inadequate pile of furs
that troubled him.
Nature had been less than kind to Jim McLeod. His body was ungainly with
fat for all his youth. His face was puffy and almost gross, which the
habit of clean shaving left painfully evident. In reality the man was
keen and purposeful. He was kindly and intensely honest. His one serious
weakness, the thing that had driven him to join up with the hard life of
the northern adventurers was an unfortunate and wholly irresistible
addiction to alcohol. In civilization he had failed utterly for that
reason alone, and so, with his young wife, he had fled from temptation
whither he hoped and believed his curse would be unable to follow him.
“You see, Jim,” Hesther went on reassuringly, “if they close us down,
what then? I guess we’ll be only little worse off. They’ve got to see us
down to our home town, and we can try again. We—”
The man interrupted her with a quick shake of the head.
“I don’t quit this north country,” he said definitely. “Ther’s things
here if we can only hit ’em. And besides it’s my only chance. An’, Hes,
it’s your only chance—with me. You know what I mean, dear.” He nodded.
“Sure you do, gal. It means drink an’ hell—down there. It means—”
The girl laughed happily.
“Have you escaped it here, Jim?” She shook her head. “But I don’t worry
so I have you. You’re mine. You’re my husband,” she went on softly. “God
gave you to me, an’ whatever you are, or do, why I guess I’d rather have
you than any good angel man who lived on tea and pie-talk. Please God
you’ll quit the drink someday. You can’t go on trying like you do
without making good in the end. But even if you didn’t—well, you’re just
mine anyway.”
Jim smiled tenderly into his wife’s up-turned face. And he stooped and
kissed the pretty, ready lips. And somehow half his trouble seemed to
vanish with the thought of the beautiful mother heart that would so soon
be called upon to exercise its natural functions. This frail,
warm-hearted, courageous creature was his staunch rock of support. And
her simple inspiriting philosophy was the hope which always urged him
on.
“That’s fine, my dear,” he said. “You’re the best in the world, but you
can’t conjure furs so we can keep this darn old ship afloat. But it
don’t do to think that way. We’ll jest think of that baby of ours that’s
comin’ an’ do our best, an’—Say!” He broke off pointing through the
doorway and beyond the gateway of the great stockade in the direction of
the river. “Ther’s Marty comin’ along up from the river—and—he’s in one
hell of a hurry.”
The girl turned at once, her gaze following the pointing finger. The
great figure of the missionary was hastily approaching. The sight of his
hurry was sufficiently unusual to impress them both.
“I didn’t know he’d got back.” Hesther’s tone was thoughtful.
Jim shook his head.
“He wasn’t due back for two weeks.”
“Is there—? Do you think—?”
“I guess ther’s something worrying sure. He don’t—”
The man broke off and placed an arm about the woman’s shoulder.
“Say best run along, Hes, an’ see about food. I’ll ask him to eat with
us.”
The wife needed no second bidding. She understood. She nodded smilingly
and hurried away.
* * * * *
The two men were standing beside the counter. Jim McLeod had his broad
back turned to it, and his fat hands, stretched out on either side of
him, were gripping the over-hanging edge of it. His pale eyes were
gazing abstractedly out through the doorway searching the brilliant
distance beyond the river, while a surge of vivid thought was speeding
through his brain.
Marty Le Gros was intent upon his friend. His dark eyes were riveted
upon the fleshy features of the man upon whom he knew he must depend.
There was a silence between them now. It was the silence which falls and
endures only under the profoundest pre-occupation. The store in which
they stood, the simple frame structure set up on the ruins of the
old-time Fort, which it had displaced, was forgotten. The lavish stock
of trading truck, the diminished pile of furs. Neither had cognizance of
the things about them. They were concerned only with the thing which
Marty had told of. The desperate slaughter, the destruction of his
Mission, seven days higher up the river.
After awhile Jim stirred. His gaze came back to the surroundings in
which they stood. He glanced over the big room with its boarded walls,
adorned here and there with fierce, highly-coloured showcards which he
had fastened up to entertain his simple customers. His wavering eyes
paused at the great iron stove which in winter made life possible. They
passed on and finally rested on the simple modern doorway through which
his young wife had not long passed on her way to prepare food. Here they
remained, for he was thinking of her and of their baby so soon to be
born. Finally he yielded his hold on the counter and turned on the man
who had told of the horror he had so recently witnessed.
“It’s bad, Marty,” he said in a low tone. “It’s so bad it’s got me
scared. Why? Why? Say, it don’t leave me guessing. Does it you?”
He looked searchingly into the steady, dark eyes of the man he had come
to regard above all others.
“No,” he went on emphatically. “You’re not guessing. They’ve heard of
your gold—these cursed Euralians. This is their way of doin’ things
sure. They’ll be along down on us—next.”
The door opened at the far end of the store. Hesther stood for a moment
framed in the opening. She gazed quickly at the two men, and realised
something of the urgency under which they were labouring. In a moment
she forced a smile to her eyes.
“Supper’s fixed, Jim,” she said quietly. “Marty’ll join us—sure. Will
you both come right along?”
CHAPTER IV
TWO MEN OF THE NORTH
“Guess we got an hour to talk, Marty. Hesther won’t be through her
chores in an hour.”
Le Gros nodded.
“Your Hesther’s a good soul, and I’d hate to scare her.”
“Sure. That’s how I feel. I make it you’ve a heap of trouble back of
your head.”
“Yes.”
The missionary settled himself more comfortably in the hard chair he had
turned from the supper table. He had set it in the shade of the printed
cotton curtain that adorned the parlor window.
Jim McLeod was less concerned for the glaring evening sunlight. He sat
facing it, bulking clumsily on a chair a size too small for him. His
pale blue eyes gazed out of the window which was closely barred with
mosquito-netting.
The last of the supper things had been cleared from the table, and the
sounds penetrating the thin, boarded walls of the room told of the
labours of the busy housewife going on in the lean-to kitchen beyond.
There was no need for these added labours which Hesther inflicted upon
herself. There were native women who worked about the store quite
capable of relieving her. But Hesther understood that the men wanted to
talk in private.
Besides, it was her happy philosophy that God made woman to care for the
creature comforts of her man, and to relegate that duty, all those
duties connected therewith, would be an offence which nothing could
condone.
Le Gros removed his pipe from his mouth. His eyes were full of
reflective unease.
“Yes,” he reiterated, “and I guess it’s trouble enough to scare more
than a woman.”
He thrust a hand into a pocket of his coat. He pulled out a little
canvas bag and unfastened the string about its top. He peered at the
yellow fragmentary contents. It was of several ounces of gold dust, that
wonderful alluvial dust ranging in size from sheer dust to nuggets the
size of a schoolboy’s marbles.
He passed the bag across to the trader.
“Get a look at that,” he said. “It’s the wash-up of a single panning.
Just one. I only showed you the two big nuggets before—when I—lied to
you where I made the ‘strike.’”
“Lied? You didn’t get it on Loon Creek?”
“No.”
Jim took possession of the bag of dust. He peered into its golden
depths. And the man observing him noted the keen lighting of his eyes,
and the instant, absorbed interest that took possession of him. After a
moment the trader looked up.
“One panning?” he demanded incredulously.
“One panning.”
Jim drew a deep breath. It was an expression of that curious covetous
thrill at the sight of unmeasured wealth which is so human. He weighed
the bag in his hand.
“Ther’s more than three ounces of stuff here,” he said, gazing into the
dark eyes opposite him. “Guess it’s nearer four.” Again he breathed
deeply. “One panning!” he exclaimed. Then followed an ejaculation which
said far more than any words.
Marty Le Gros nodded.
“You reckon it’s this bringing them down—our way,” he said. “That’s what
Usak reckons, too. Maybe I feel you’re both right—now. I was a fool to
give my yarn out. I should have held it tight, and just let you know
quietly. Yes, I see it now. You see, I didn’t think. I guess I didn’t
understand the temptation of it. When I lit on that ‘strike’ it scarcely
interested me a thing, and I didn’t see why it should worry anybody
else. I forgot human nature. No, it wasn’t till the gold spirit suddenly
hit me that I realised anything. And when it did it made me lie—even to
you.”
Jim twisted up the neck of the bag and re-set the lashings about it.
Then, with a regretful sigh, he passed the coveted treasure back to its
owner.
“Let’s see. How long is it since you handed out your yarn? It’s more’n
two months. Two months,” he repeated thoughtfully. “They’ve had two
months on Loon Creek, an’ they’ve drawn blank. There—Yes, I see. They’re
coming back on you. They started by way of your Mission, an’ they mean
you to git a grip on their way of handlin’ the thing. Man, it sets my
blood red hot. They’ve cleaned this region out of furs, an’ every other
old trade, so I’m sittin’ around waitin’ for my people to close us down,
and now—this. Is there no help? Ain’t ther’ a thing we can do? God! It
makes me hot.”
The blue eyes were fiercely alight. There was no wavering in them now.
Passionate desire to fight was stirring in the trader. And somehow his
emotion seemed to rob his body of its appearance of physical
ungainliness.
The missionary seemed less disturbed as he set the bag back in his
pocket. He had passed through his bad time. Now his decision was taken.
Now he was no longer the missionary but a simple man of single purpose
which he intended to put through in such way as lay within his power,
aided by the friendship of Jim McLeod.
A shadowy smile lit his eyes.
“Yes. It’s the gold now,” he said, with an expressive gesture. “But,” he
went on, with a shake of the head, “for the life of me I can’t get
behind the minds of these mysterious northern—devils. Why, why in the
name of all that’s sane and human should these Euralians descend on a
pitiful bunch of poor, simple fisher-folk, and butcher and burn them off
the face of the earth? It’s senseless, inhuman barbarity. Nothing else.
If they want my secret, if they want the truth I denied to you as well
as the rest, it’s here, in my head,” he said, tapping his broad forehead
with a forefinger. “Not out there with those poor dead creatures who
never harmed a soul on God’s earth. If they want it they must come to
me. And when they come they—won’t get it.”
The man was transformed. Not for a moment had he raised his voice to any
tone of bravado or defiance. Cold decision was shining in his eyes and
displayed itself in the clip of his jaws as he returned his pipe to his
mouth. Jim waited. His moment of passionate protest had passed. He was
absorbed in that which he felt was yet to come.
“Here, listen, Jim,” Le Gros went on, after the briefest pause, with a
sharp intake of breath which revealed something of the reality of the
emotions he was labouring under. “You’re my good friend, and I want to
tell you things right here and now, to-night. That’s why I came over in
a hurry. You’ve always known me as a missionary. The man in me was kind
of lost. That’s so. But now you’ve got to know me as a man. You were the
first I told of my ‘strike.’ You were the first I showed those nuggets
to. And you guessed they were worth five thousand dollars between ’em.”
“All o’ that. Maybe ten thousand dollars.”
Jim’s fleshy lips fondled the words.
“When I showed you that stuff I was the missionary. The thing began to
fall off when I watched you looking at them. But it wasn’t till some of
the trailmen, and even the Indians, heard the story, and showed their
amazing lust for the thing I’d discovered, that I got a full grip on all
that yellow stuff meant. Then I forgot to be a missionary and was just a
man the same as they were. I was startled, shocked. I was half scared. I
saw at a glance I’d made a bad break in telling my story, and so, when
you all asked me the whereabouts of the strike, I—lied.”
He paused, passing a hand over his forehead, and smoothed back his ample
black hair.
“An’ it wasn’t Loon Creek?”
Jim smiled as he put his question.
“I’m glad,” he added as the other shook his head.
“You’re glad?”
“I surely am.” Jim spread out his hands. “Here, Marty,” he cried, “I was
sick to death hearing you hand out your yarn to the boys. I kind of saw
a rush for Loon Creek comin’ along and beating you—an’ me—right out of
everything. Knowing you I thought it was truth. But I’m mighty glad
you—lied.”
Le Gros sat back in his chair. His eyes turned from the man before him.
“Knowing me?” he said, with a gentle smile of irony. “I wonder.” He
shook his head. “I didn’t know myself. No, you didn’t know me. I’m
different now. Quite different. And it’s that gold changed me. Do you
know how—why? No.” He shook his head. “I guess you don’t. I’ll tell you.
It’s Felice. My little Felice. And that’s why I came right over to see
you, and tell you the things in my mind.”
Jim shifted his chair as the other paused. He leant forward with his
forearms resting on his knees. The thought of the gold was deep in his
mind. There was personal, selfish interest in him as well as interest
for that which the other had to tell him about his baby, Felice.
Marty drew a deep breath. His eyes turned from the man before him. The
intensity of Jim’s regard left him with an added realisation of the
power that gold exercises over the simplest, the best of humanity.
“If I live, Jim, I’m going to let you into this ‘strike.’ Maybe it’ll
help you, and leave you free of your Company,” he said gently. “You
shall be in it what you folk call ‘fifty-fifty.’ If I die you shall be
in it the same way, only it’ll be with my baby girl. And for that I want
to set an obligation on you. Can you stand for an obligation?”
“Anything for you, Marty,” Jim replied at once, and earnestly. “Anything
for you,” he repeated. “And I’ll put it through with the last breath of
life.”
“Good.” The missionary’s gaze came back to the trader’s face, and a
smiling relief shone in his eyes. He nodded. “You see, with these
wretched Euralians on the war path, and with me standing around in their
path, you can never tell. Maybe I’ll live. Maybe I won’t. If I live
you’ll be up to your neck in this ‘strike’ anyway. If I die you’ll work
it for Felice, and hand her her ‘fifty’ of it when the time comes. Is it
good?”
“It’s so good I can’t tell you.”
“Will you swear to do this, Jim? Will you swear on—on the thing you hold
most sacred?”
“I’ll swear it on the little life that’s just goin’ to be born to
Hesther an’ me. If a thing happens to you, Marty, so you lose the
daylight, your little Felice shall be seen right, and all you can wish
for her shall be done, though you never tell me a thing of this
‘strike.’”
The simple honesty looking out of Jim’s eyes eased the troubled heart of
the older man. He nodded.
“I knew it would be that way. I’m glad,” he said. “I’m not passing you
thanks. No thanks could tell you the thing you’ve made me feel, Jim.” He
laughed shortly. “Thanks? I guess it would be an insult when a boy like
you is ready to set himself to carrying the whole of another feller’s
burden.”
Again he passed a hand over his hair.
“This is how I’ve planned, Jim,” he went on, after a moment. “I’m going
right back home now, and I’m going to pass some hours drawing out the
plan and general map of the ‘strike.’ I’ll write it out in the last
detail. Then I’ll set it in a sealed packet and hand it to you. You’ll
have it, and keep it, and you won’t open it while I’m alive. It’s just
so the thing shan’t be lost if they kill me up. See? If I live we’ll
work this thing together at ‘fifty-fifty.’ That way there won’t be need
for you to open up those plans. Do you get it? The whole thing is just a
precaution for you and my little Felice. You see, if I pass over I’ve
nothing else to hand that poor little kiddie. It’s her bit of luck.”
Jim sat back in his chair and began to refill his pipe which had gone
out. For some moments his stirring emotions prevented speech, while the
smiling eyes of the missionary watched his busy, clumsy fingers. At
last, however, he looked up. And as he did so he thrust the tobacco hard
into the bowl of his pipe, and the force of his action was no less than
the headlong rush of words that surged to his lips.
“Oh, it’s Hell! Simple Hell!” he cried passionately. “What have we done
that we should be cursed by these murdering Euralians. They’re not going
to get you, Marty. We’ve got to fix that. Come right over here. Quit
your shanty, an’ bring Felice, an’ Pri-loo, an’ Usak right over here.
It’s no sort of swell place, this old frame house the Company’s set up
for me. But the stockade outside it stands firm twelve feet high right
around. And I’ve guns an’ things plenty to defend it. I can corral
plenty trailmen who’d be glad enough to scrap these folk, and we could
fight ’em an’ beat ’em, till we get help from Placer where the p’lice
can collect a posse of ‘specials.’ We’re not goin’ to sit down under
this thing. It’s not my way. An’ it’s not goin’ to be your way. We’ll
fight. Come right over to-morrow, Marty. We’ll just be crazy for you to
come, and—”
Le Gros interrupted him with a gesture.
“That’s all right boy,” he said. “I know just how you feel and I’m glad.
But you don’t know the thing you’re trying to bring on your Hesther, and
your unborn baby. You haven’t seen the thing I’ve seen. You haven’t seen
old men and women, butchered and mutilated, lying stark on the ground.
You haven’t seen babes scattered around legless, armless, headless. And
the young men and young women—gone.” He shook his head, and the horror
of recollection was in his eyes. “No. You haven’t seen those things, and
you haven’t remembered that I carry this curse about with me. Sheltering
here I bring it to your door. To you, and your Hesther, and your babe.
With me across the river there you’re free and safe. No. I stand or fall
by my wits, my luck, my own efforts. You are doing for me the only thing
I ask in safeguarding my secret and caring for little Felice. That’s
what I ask. And you’ve promised me. That’s all, Jim, my friend, and now
I’ll get along back and fix those plans.”
He rose from his chair, tall, strong and completely calm. And the trader
rose, too, and gazed up into the other’s face.
“I’ll take all those chances, Marty,” he said deliberately.
“And Hesther?”
“And my unborn baby. Yes.”
Marty Le Gros thrust out his hand and the two men gripped.
“You’re a good friend, Jim. But my mind’s made up. While I’ve life I’ll
fight my own fight. When I’m dead please God you’ll do—what I can’t. So
long Jim,” he added wringing the fleshy hand he was still gripping.
“I’ll be along over with those plans before you eat your breakfast.”
CHAPTER V
THE LUCK OF THE KID
The brilliant June night was like a midsummer day. The deathless sun
knew no rest for all the Arctic world was wrapt in slumber. The
stillness of it all, the perfect quiet; it was a world of serene
solitude, with only the sounds which came from unseen creatures, and the
rustle of stirred vegetation caught on a gentle zephyr, to whisper of
the life prevailing.
Marty Le Gros was back in his own home. He was at the little table which
served him for such writing as his work as missionary entailed. It was a
simple apartment characteristic of the habitation he had set up. The
walls were plastered with a dun-coloured mud smoothed down but retaining
all its crudeness which nothing could disguise. The room was of
considerable extent. Its furnishing was no less primitive than its
walls, but also no less robust. Every article was of his own design and
manufacture, and that which it lacked in refinement it made up in
substance. Chairs were rawhide-strung, square and solid. The table had
legs of saplings, and a top that was made from packing cases obtained
from Jim McLeod. The ceiling above his head was of cotton. So were the
two windows which were flung open to admit air through the mosquito
netting beyond them.
Yes, it was all very crude. Nevertheless it lost nothing of its sense of
home. The floor was strewn with sun-dried furs, and there were shelves
of well-read books. The man’s simple sleeping bunk was curtained off in
one corner near by to the doorway which communicated with a lesser room
where slept his motherless child. And there was still another doorway
which led to a third room. It was the kitchen place where Usak and
Pri-loo slept, and where the latter prepared such food as was needed.
There was no sound in the place but that of the man’s occasional
movements and the scratching of the pen with which he was working.
Felice was asleep in the next room in the cot which he and his dead wife
had long since fashioned and adorned. Pri-loo, awaiting the return of
her man from the reindeer farm, which was his work, had finally yielded
her vigil and retired to her blankets in the kitchen. It was the calving
season down at the farm, and as likely as not Usak would not return to
her for many hours.
The missionary had applied himself to his task with that close
concentration which betokened the urgency of his desire. He had been at
work for over an hour. Now he sat with his great body hunched over the
table, and, with poised pen, was at last regarding his completed work.
The large sheet of paper stared back at his darkly brooding eyes, and
the careful tracery on its surface spread from one end of it to the
other. It was the drawing of a wide, winding river. And along its entire
course was dotted every detail of natural formation which his keen
memory supplied him with. Hills were carefully drawn. Woodland bluffs
were marked with due regard to their extent. Everything that could serve
to guide the explorer was there set out. Every title for each natural
feature was inscribed, and one wide stretch of river foreshore was
outlined in red ink and inscribed with the words “mouth of creek.”
It was complete. It was complete with that care and consideration which
spoke of the tremendous anxiety lying behind the man’s purpose.
At last he abandoned his scrutiny and a deep sigh escaped him. Then he
leisurely picked up his tobacco bag and began to fill his pipe. Leaning
back in his chair his gaze sought the daylight beyond the window, and in
a moment he became absorbed in profound, wakeful dreaming and his pipe
remained forgotten.
He had reached another great crisis in his simple life. He knew it. He
understood to the last detail the ominous significance of the thing he
had just completed. His thought began by searching ahead, but swiftly it
was caught and flung back into the deep channels of memory such as never
fail to claim when the heart of man is deeply stirred.
A wide panorama of the past swept into his view. It began, as everything
seemed to begin with him now, at that time when he and his young wife
had taken their final decision to move northwards where their spiritual
desires could find expression in the wilderness of untamed Nature. He
remembered, how keenly he remembered, the surge of thrilling
anticipation with which they had embarked on their mission. The bitter
hardships they had had to endure, and the merciless labours that had
been theirs to make even their simple lives possible here on the Hekor
River, which followed so nearly the course of the Arctic Circle. He
remembered the selfless kindness of Jim McLeod and his gentle wife. How
they had helped him with everything that lay in their power. Yes, it was
a happy memory which eased the strain of the thing besetting him now.
Then had come that first great happiness and finally disaster. Jim was
looking forward now to just the same moment in his life. That first-born
child. It was an ineffaceable landmark in the life of any man.
He sighed. He was contemplating again the tragedy which had followed
hard in the wake of his overwhelming happiness. Poor little Jean. Poor,
poor little woman.
Her happiness was short enough lived, and his— In his simple, earnest
fashion he prayed God that Jim and Hesther should never know a similar
disaster. He wondered if little Jean knew of the thing he was doing now.
And if she would have approved had she been there to witness it. Yes.
Somehow he felt that her full approval would have been his. It was for
Felice. He desired nothing for himself but to be permitted to carry on
the labours of his Mission. But for Felice—
He stirred uneasily. The scene of his devastated Mission lit again
before his mental gaze and tortured him. And suddenly he sat up and
carefully folded the annotated map he had prepared. He finally enclosed
it in a piece of American cloth, tied it up securely, and sealed it with
the fragment of wax he had discovered for that purpose. Then he stood up
and gazed about him. His dark eyes took in every happy detail of the
home which had served him so long. And presently the man of peace found
himself contemplating the cartridge belt, with its two great revolvers
protruding from their holsters, which was hanging from its nail on the
log wall.
For some moments he regarded it without any change of expression. Then
of a sudden he stirred and moved quickly over to it. He removed first
one gun from its holster, then the other. He examined them. They were
old-fashioned, and their chambers were empty. Very deliberately, almost
reluctantly, he loaded them in each chamber. Then with another sigh he
returned them to the holsters where they belonged.
He turned away quickly. It was as though he detested the thing he had
just done and was anxious to rid himself of the memory of it. So he
passed into the room which he had always shared with his wife, but which
now was given up to the atom of humanity which was the priceless
treasure of his life.
* * * * *
The man was sitting on the stool set beside the simple bedcot. It was
the stool which Pri-loo was wont to occupy when watching over the
slumbers of the child she had taken to her mother heart. He was gazing
down upon the sleeping babe as she lay there under the coloured blankets
and patch-work quilt which was the daintiest covering with which he had
been able to provide her.
Fair-haired and sweetly cherubic the child lay breathing in that calm,
almost imperceptible fashion so sure an indication of perfect health.
Her colouring was exquisite. A subtle tracery of blue veins was plainly
visible beneath the delicate, fair skin. She was sweetly pretty, and her
brief four years of life had afforded her a generous development
sufficient to satisfy the most exacting parent.
The man’s dark eyes were infinitely tender as he regarded the sleeping
child. Gold? There was no treasure in the world comparable with that,
which, with her dying effort, his well-loved wife had presented him.
Felice—little Felice. The smiling, prattling creature, the thought of
whose wide blue eyes was unfailing in lightening even the darkest
shadows which the cares of her father’s life imposed upon him.
He feasted himself now on the beauty which was so like to that of the
mother who had given up her life for his desire. And as he gazed a surge
of deep, tender feeling recalled a hundred happy memories. And so for
awhile he was filled with smiling thought.
But it passed. It passed with a suddenness that left a cold dew of fear
upon his brow for all the warmth of the Arctic summer night. For even as
memory had transported him to the days wherein his life had known no
shadow, so it had brought him again to the recollection of the scene of
mutilation he had witnessed at his Mission. There he had seen children,
younger even than Felice, lying upon the ground limbless, headless,
almost unrecognisable trunks.
An unconscious movement stirred him, and he shook his head as though in
denial of his thought. Then he gazed down upon the sealed packet he was
carrying in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, and then, of a
sudden, his eyes came back to the face of the sleeping babe, and words
came in a low, tender whisper.
“No, kiddie,” he murmured, “not while I have life. My poor Jean gave you
to me, little bit. And you’re just mine. All I am in the world will
defend you from harm such—such as—God! No. Not that. Psha! No, it
couldn’t be.” He wiped his forehead with a hand that was unsteady. Then
he forced a smile to his eyes just as he forced his fears back and
strove to think of the thing he had spent so many hours preparing. He
held up the packet in his hand before the child’s closed eyes. “This
wasn’t sent my way for nothing,” he whispered. “It’s your luck, little
kid. Yours. It’s for you, half of it. And—and if I should fail—well,
there’s others’ll see you get it. My little kiddie. My little—”
He broke off. The man’s tender admonition died on his lips which closed
almost with a snap. His whole attitude underwent a change. He sat rigid
and listening, and his dark eyes were turned as though seeking to peer
over his shoulder.
It was a sound. A sound that came from beyond the outer room. It was not
from the direction of the kitchen place where Usak might be returning
home. No. It came from beyond the front door of the shanty which was not
the way Usak would come.
The missionary made no movement. Every sense was straining, every
faculty was alert. Sounds came in the night. It was a common enough
thing. But he had that in his mind now which gave to any sound in the
night the possibility of a new interpretation.
The moments passed. The tension eased. And again the fathers eyes came
back to the face of the sleeping child. But it was only for an instant.
Of a sudden he dropped the sealed packet into the child’s cot and leapt
to his feet.
Headlong he ran for the open doorway, and the purpose in his mind was
obvious. He passed it, and ran for the loaded guns hanging upon the wall
of his room. But he failed to reach them. A shot rang out and he
stumbled. Putting forth a superhuman effort he sought to recover
himself. But his legs gave under him and he crashed to the floor with
the first tearful cry of his wakened child ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER VI
THE EURALIANS
Marty Le Gros lay sprawled on the ground. He had scarcely moved from the
position in which he had fallen. Pri-loo, her handsome eyes aflame with
fierce anger, was standing just within the doorway leading to the
kitchen place. A man stood guard over her, a small dark-skinned creature
whose eyes slanted with a suggestion of Mongol obliqueness. It was
obvious that she was only held silent under threat of the gun that her
guard held ready. Two other dark-skinned strangers moved about the
living room clearly searching, and a third stood looking on, propped
against the table which served the missionary for writing. Beyond the
movements of the searching men, and such disturbance as the process of
their work entailed, and the insistent cries of the child Felice in the
adjoining room, an ominous silence prevailed.
The expression of the almost yellow eyes of the man at the table was
intense with cold, deliberate purpose. It was without one gleam of pity
for the fallen missionary. It was without concern for the angry woman
held silent in the doorway. He was regarding only the movements of the
men acting under his orders. He, like the man in charge of Pri-loo, was
clad in the ordinary garb customary to whitemen of the northern trail.
But the others, the searchers, had no such pretensions. They were in the
rough clothing native to the Eskimo when Arctic summer prevails.
After awhile the terrified cries of the suddenly awakened Felice died
down to the intermittent sobs which so surely claim the sympathies of
the mother-heart. Even Pri-loo’s fierce native anger yielded before
their appeal. Distress stirred her, and only the threatening gun held
her from rushing to comfort the helpless babe who was her treasured
charge.
The great prone figure of the missionary on the ground stirred. It was
the preliminary to returning consciousness. Quite abruptly his head was
raised. Then, by a great effort, he propped himself on to his elbow and
gazed about him. Finally his dark, troubled eyes came to rest on the
face of the still figure of the man who stood regarding him.
There was a searching pause while eye met eye. Then the missionary
sought to moisten his lips with a tongue little less parched.
“Well?” he demanded in the low, husky voice of a man whose strength is
rapidly waning.
The man at the table turned to the searchers whose task seemed complete.
“Nothing?” he said. And his tone was almost without question.
One of the searchers offered a negative gesture. There was no verbal
reply.
“So.”
The man at the table inclined his dark, close-cropped head and turned
again to the man on the ground.
“You’re going to tell us of that gold ‘strike,’ Le Gros,” he said
simply, without the slightest sign of foreign or native accent. “You’re
going to tell us right away. Because if you don’t we’ve a way of making
you. Do you get that? You’d better get it. It’ll be easier for you and
for those belonging to you. We’ve come many miles to hear about that
‘strike,’ and we aren’t returning empty-handed. Do you fancy handing
your story? Or—”
“You’ll get nothing from me.”
Marty Le Gros’ voice had suddenly become harsh and furious. All his
ebbing strength was flung into his retort.
The man with the cold eyes shook his head.
“I shall,” he said, with calm decision. “I’m not here to ask twice.
You’ve seen the—remains—of your Mission, ’way up the river. Doesn’t that
tell you about things? It should—if you have sense.”
The man’s threat was the more deeply sinister for the frigidity of his
tone.
The missionary’s eyes lit. For all his growing weakness, for all the
suffering the wound in his side was causing him, a tinge of hot colour
mounted to his pallid cheeks.
“I tell you you’ll get nothing from me,” he said, and the strength of
his voice had ominously lessened. He raised his body till he was
supporting himself on one hand which rested in the pool of his own
life-blood staining the earthen floor. His dark eyes were fiercely
defiant as they gazed up at the other.
The Euralian leader nodded.
“We’ll see.” Then he pointed at Pri-loo standing in the doorway watching
the pitiful duel, hardly realising the full meaning of what she beheld.
“You see her? Watch!”
There was a sign. It was given on the instant. And the dying man gasped
in horror.
“Your woman, eh?” The Euralian went on. “Well, she won’t be any longer.
Are you going to—speak?”
“She’s not my woman. She’s the wife of Usak. If—if you harm her
it’s—it’s sheer, wanton—”
The words died on the missionary’s lips. There was a sharp report. It
was the gun of the man guarding Pri-loo fired at close range. It rang
out tremendously in the narrow confines of the room. The foster-mother
of Felice was shot through the head, which was completely shattered. The
poor dead creature dropped where she stood, without a sound, without a
cry. To the last moment of her staunch life her angry eyes had defied
her captors.
The dying missionary reeled. He would have fallen again to the ground.
But the searchers were beside him, and they seized and held him lest he
should miss a single detail of that which was intended for his
infliction.
“Are you going to—say about it?”
The Euralian’s eyes lit as he made his taunting demand. The tearful
cries of the terrified Felice were again raised in response to the
deafening report of the gun that had slain her foster-mother.
But Marty Le Gros’ strength was oozing through the wound that had laid
him low. The shock of the hideous massacre of the helpless Pri-loo was
overwhelming. Consciousness was nearing its extremity.
“Not a word.”
The retort was whispered. The missionary had no strength for more.
The man at the table bestirred himself. Perhaps he realised that
opportunity was slipping away from him. A swift, imperative sign to the
youth who had slain Pri-loo, and the next moment he had passed into the
room whence came the redoubled cries of the distracted Felice.
The closing eyes of the dying man widened on the instant. A surge of
hopeless terror stared out of their dark depths. His lolling head was
lifted erect and it turned in the direction of the door through which
the Euralian had vanished. In supreme anguish he realised the thing
contemplated. His child! Felice! In a spasm of recollection he saw again
the headless trunks of the children of his Mission. The man at the table
was forgotten. His own sufferings. Even he had forgotten the thing he
was trying to safeguard. Felice! His babe! They—
“If the woman wasn’t yours, Le Gros, the child is,” the man at the table
taunted. “Well? Will you—talk?”
The terrible yellow eyes were irresistible. There was no escape from
them. And Marty Le Gros forgot everything but the anguish which the
taunt inspired.
“Not her! Not that!” he cried. “Yes,” he went on urgently. “You can have
it. For God’s sake spare—”
He gasped and his head lolled helplessly. But again he rallied.
“The plans? The plans you made to-night? Where are they? Quick!”
The man at the table had moved. He had approached his victim. His voice
was fiercely urgent for he realised the thing that was happening.
“They’re—there,” Marty Le Gros gasped. “They’re—in—her—”
It was his supreme effort, and it remained uncompleted. His words died
away in a gasping jumble of sounds that rattled in his throat. For one
brief spasm his arms struggled with the men supporting him. Then his
head lolled forward again, and his body limpened. A moment later the
supporting hands were removed and Marty Le Gros fell back on the
ground—dead.
* * * * *
The yellow eyes of the leader were turned on the young man who had just
re-entered the room bearing in his arms the screaming Felice.
“Too late,” he said coldly. “You’ve blundered, Sate. It was that clumsy
shot of yours. Maybe you’ll learn someday. Tcha!”
Sate dropped the screaming child roughly to the ground. His black eyes
sparkled. There was triumph as well as resentment in them.
“That so? Oh, yes. Well, here are the plans. He sealed them when they
were finished. We saw that. Eh?”
He held out the packet he had found in Felice’s cot, and the older man
accepted it without a sign. In a moment he withdrew a sheath knife and
severed the fastenings. Flinging off the outer cover he unfolded the
contents. A glance was sufficient and he looked up without a smile.
“Set fire to the place,” he ordered coldly.
Then he glanced down at the dead man. Felice had crawled up close to the
body of her father. Her baby arms were thrust about his neck as though
clinging to him for protection. Or maybe it was only in that fond baby
fashion she had long since learned. Her cries had wholly ceased. Even in
death the comfort of her father’s presence and proximity were all
sufficient to banish her every terror.
“Take her out,” he ordered, without a shadow of softening. “Set her
somewhere near by in the bluff. Maybe the folk across the river will
come along and find her when they see the fire. If they don’t, well,
maybe the—wolves will.”
* * * * *
Usak gazed about him in a hopeless amazement. He was standing before the
smoking remains of Marty Le Gros’ Mission. He had hastened home from the
farm which lay several miles away to the east. In the midst of his work
amongst his herd of reindeer he had suddenly observed the smoke cloud
lolling heavily upon the near horizon, and without a moment’s hesitation
he had abandoned the new-born fawn he was attending to ascertain its
cause.
He had been filled with alarm at the sight. There was nothing he knew of
in the neighbourhood to fire but the bluff that sheltered the Mission
and the house itself. So he had come at once at a speed that only he
could have achieved.
His worst fears were realised. It was not the sheltering bluff. That was
still standing. It was the house itself, that home which had been his
shelter as well as that of those others.
For some moments he contemplated the scene without any attempt at active
investigation. It almost seemed as if his keen wit had somehow become
dulled under the shock of his discovery. Just at first it was the fire
itself that pre-occupied. Somehow he did not associate it with disaster
to the occupants. That did not occur to him. Doubtless at the back of
his mind lay the conviction that the missionary, and Pri-loo, and little
Felice had crossed the river and gone to McLeod’s store for shelter.
That was at first.
A light breeze drifted the smoke down upon him. For a moment he was
enveloped in it. Then it passed. A fresh current of wind—a cross
current—drifted it back whence it came, and the man which the passing of
the smoke revealed had somehow been transformed.
Amazement was no longer in his black eyes. They were alight and burning
with a passion of anxiety. That cloud of smoke had borne upon his
sensitive nostrils the smell of burning flesh.
Usak moved up to the charred walls. They were hot and smoking. Most of
them were in a state of wreckage, for the roof had fallen and many of
the logs had crashed from the tops of the walls. He passed round them, a
swift-moving, silent figure seeking access where the smouldering fire
would permit. The back door of the kitchen-place was impossible. Flames
were still devouring that which remained. The windows were surrounded
with hot, fiery timbers. The front door giving on to the sitting room
alone seemed possible. But here again was fire, though it had almost
burnt out.
But the man’s mood was not such as to leave him standing before
obstacles. In his half savage heart was a native terror of fire. But
just now all that was completely overborne by emotions that were
irresistible. The smell of burning flesh was strong in his nostrils, he
even fancied he could taste something of it on his lips.
Just for one instant he paused before the doorway measuring the chances
of it all. Then he leapt forward and vanished into the smoking ruin.
* * * * *
Jim McLeod was standing in the doorway of his store. He had been roused
from sleep by a furious hammering on the door. He had flung on a heavy
skin coat over his night clothes and hastily thrust a gun in each pocket
of it. Then he had cautiously proceeded to investigate, for the memory
of his long talk with Marty Le Gros was still with him.
But his apprehensions had been swiftly allayed, or at least changed, for
the harsh deep tones of Usak had replied to his challenge through the
barred door.
Now he was listening to the thing the Indian had to say and the horror
of the story he listened to found reflection in his pale blue eyes.
“They’ve killed ’em an’ burnt ’em out?” he cried incredulously as the
furious man broke off the torrent of the first rush of his story.
Usak’s black eyes were aflame with a light that was bordering on frenzy.
The infant Felice, wrapped in a blanket, was in his arms and clinging to
him with her tiny arms about the man’s trunk-like neck, silent,
wide-eyed, but content with a presence understood and loved.
“Here I tell you. I tell you quick so no time is lost. I work by the
farm all night. So. It is the season when I work that way. The young
deer need me. Oh, yes. So I work. Then I mak look up in the corral.
There is smoke to the west. Smoke. I look some more, an’ I think quick.
Smoke? Fire? What burns that way? Two things, maybe. The bluff. The
house of Marty Le Gros. So I mak quick getaway. Oh, yes. Very quick.
Then I come by the house. It all burn. Yes. No house. Only burning logs
all break up. So I stand an’ think. An’ while I stand I smell. So. I
smell the cooking of meat. Meat. First I have think Marty an’ Pri-loo
mak big getaway to here. Then, when I smell this thing, I think—no. Not
getaway.”
“They were—burnt?”
Jim’s horror added fuel to the fire of Usak’s surging frenzy. He nodded.
“Yes. They burn. They burn all up. But not so they die. Oh, no.” The
Indian shook his head, and the brooding light in his black eyes suddenly
blazed up afresh. “Listen,” he cried, in his fierce way. “I tell you.
I—Usak. I see him all. I go mad. Oh, yes. I think of Pri-loo. I think of
little Felice. I think of the good Marty. So I go into the house just
wher’ I can. I go by the door which him burn right out. Then I find ’em.
Then I find ’em all dead. An’ the fire cook ’em lak—meat.”
The great rough creature thrust the greasy fur cap back from his
forehead. There was sweat on his low brow. But it was the sweat inspired
by his fierce emotions.
He turned away in desperation, and so his black eyes were hidden from
the search of the trader’s. A curious feeling of helplessness in the
midst of the storm of rage besetting him threatened overwhelming. There
was a moment even when the soft arms about his neck seemed to be
stifling him. But his weakness passed in a flash. The next moment the
furious onslaught of the savage in him held sway.
“But the fire not kill him,” he cried, his tone lowered to something
like a snarl of savagery. “I look. I find ’em, Pri-loo. My woman. I find
her, yes, an’ I think I go crazy sure. They kill her—my woman. My good
woman. They shoot her by the head. It all break up. Oh, yes. My woman.
They kill her—dead.” His voice died out and his black eyes were turned
away again to hide that which looked out of them. But in a moment he
went on. “Then I find him. The good boss, Marty. Him belly all shoot to
pieces. Oh, yes. They kill him all up dead, too. Then I look for Felice.
Little Felice.” His arms tightened about the child nestling against his
shoulder. “No Felice. She all gone. I think maybe they eat her. I think.
I look. No. No Felice. So I go out an’ think some more. I stand by
bluff. Then I find ’em. She mak big cry out. She by the bluff. So I find
her. They throw her in the bush in the blanket of my woman, Pri-loo.”
The man paused again and a deep breath said far more of the thing he was
enduring than his words told. After a moment he nodded his head, and his
lank, black hair brushed the fair face of the child in his arms.
“So I bring her, an’ you tak her. You, an’ your good whitewoman tak her
like your own. I go. I find this Euralian mans. I know ’em wher’ they
camp. Oh, yes. Usak big hunter. Shoot plenty much good. I kill ’em all
up dead. They kill ’em my woman, Pri-loo. My good woman. They kill ’em
my good boss, Marty. So I kill ’em, too. Now I go. You tak Felice.
Bimeby I come back when all Euralian kill dead. Then I tak Felice. I
raise her like the good boss, by the farm. It for her. Yes. That farm.
Marty love little Felice all the time. He mak all good thing for Felice.
So I mak same all good thing, too. That so.”
Jim McLeod made no attempt to reply. Somehow it seemed impossible even
to offer comment in face of the terrible story the man had brought to
him, and the simple irrevocable purpose in his spoken determination. He
held out his arms to receive the murdered man’s child, and Usak, with
infinite gentleness, released himself from the clinging arms so
reluctant to part from him.
“You tak ’em. Yes,” he said as he passed the babe over. “Bimeby I come
back. Sure.”
Jim folded the child to his broad bosom in clumsy, unaccustomed fashion.
He was hardly conscious of the thing he did. His horrified imagination
was absorbed by the terrible scene he was witnessing through the eyes of
the Indian. Quite suddenly his mind leapt back to the thing Marty had
intended and had been at such pains to discuss with him, and his
question came on the instant.
“Everything? Everything was burnt out? There was nothing left? Books?
Papers?”
“Him all burn up. Oh yes.”
Felice began to cry. In a moment her little chubby hands were beating
her protest against the broad bosom of the trader. The sight of her
rebellion somehow had a softening effect on the coloured man, and he
spoke in a manner and in a tone of gentleness which must have seemed
impossible in him a moment before.
But even his encouragement was without effect. The child’s cries rose to
a fierce, healthly pitch of screaming which promptly called forth
protest from the trail dogs about the camps within the stockade. For
some moments pandemonium reigned, and in the midst of it the voice of
Hesther, who had hurried from her bed, brought comfort to her helpless
husband.
“For goodness’ sake!” she cried at the sight of the terrified child in
her husband’s arms. “Are you crazy, Jim, havin’ that pore baby
gal—Felice? Little Felice? Say, what—? Here, pass her to me.”
The trader made no demur. In a moment the distracted child was exchanged
into his wife’s outstretched arms which tenderly embraced and snuggled
her close to her soft motherly bosom.
The men looked on held silent by Hesther’s presence.
The child’s cries were quickly hushed, and the dogs abandoned their
savage, responsive chorus. Hesther looked searchingly up into Jim’s
troubled face. Then her gentle, inquiring eyes passed on to scrutinize
the face of the Indian.
“Tell me,” she demanded. And her words were addressed to Usak, as she
rocked the child to and fro in her arms.
But Usak was reluctant. He averted his gaze while the whiteman became
pre-occupied with the broad expanse of the river beyond the gateway of
the stockade.
“Something’s happened,” she went on urgently. “What is it? I’ve got to
know. I shall know it later, anyhow, Jim!”
The trader shook his head. But it was different with the Indian. His
eyes came back to the woman’s face and he nodded.
“Sure. You know him bimeby,” he said quietly. “Maybe your man tell him
all now. I tell him. He know this thing. Yes. Now I go. I go hunt all
him Euralian mans. I find ’em. I kill ’em all up dead, same lak him kill
up Pri-loo, an’ my good boss, Marty. I go now. Bimeby I come back, an’ I
mak all good thing for little Felice. I not come back, then you mak
raise ’em Felice lak your child. That so.”
CHAPTER VII
THE VENGEANCE OF USAK
The towering Alaskan hills overshadowed the broad waterway of the Hekor
River. From the level of the water the shores rose up monstrously. There
were precipitate, sterile, encompassing walls of granite that rose
hundreds of feet without a break. And back of them, mounting by dizzy
slopes, the great hills raised their snow-crowned crests till the misty
cloud line enveloped them. The world was grey, and dark, and something
overwhelming towards the headwaters of the great river. It was a
territory barren of everything but the tattered clothing of scattered
primordial forest bluffs clinging to sheer slopes, or safely engulfed in
the shelter of deep, shadowed ravines. It was a scene of crude grandeur
in which Nature had designed no place for man.
Yet man refused Her denial. Man with his simple skill and profound
daring. No rampart set up by Nature was sufficient to bar the way.
A small kyak was driving against the stream of waters surging at its
prow. It was driven with irresistible skill and power, for the man at
the paddle was consuming with passionate desire and purpose. For days
and days he had driven on up against a stream that was growing in speed
with every passing mile. He knew the thing confronting him. He knew
every inch of the great waterway’s rugged course. Every shoal, every
rapid was an open book to him. So, too, were the shelters and easements
where the stream yielded its strength. The man behind the paddle faced
his task with the supreme confidence of knowledge and conscious power.
And so he neared the canyon of the Grand Falls without the smallest
perturbation.
A mere speck in the immensity of its surrounding the kyak glided on.
Here it rocked on a ruffled surface, there it passed, perfectly poised,
a ghostly shadow upon a smooth mirror-like surface. The dip of the man’s
paddle was precise and rhythmic. Every ounce of strength was in every
stroke, and every stroke yielded its full of propulsion. For Usak was a
master of river craft, and understood the needs of the journey that
still lay ahead of him.
His goal was still far off. It was less than a day since he had crossed
the unmarked border which opened the gates of Alaska to him. He knew
there must be more than another nightless day pass before he reached the
toilsome portage where stood the mighty Falls which emptied themselves
from the summit of the barrier which he had yet to scale. The goal he
sought lay hidden away up amidst those high lands where the drainings of
the snow-clad hills foregathered before hurling themselves to feed the
river below. But time mattered nothing to his Indian mind. He asked
nothing of the great world about him. He sought no favours or clemency.
The spur of his savage heart drove him, and death alone could deny him.
As he had already driven throughout the endless Arctic days so he would
continue to drive until his task was accomplished.
The man’s dark face was hard bitten by his mood. Fierce resolve looked
out of eyes that brooded as he gazed alertly over the waters. The soul
of the man was afire with the instincts and desires of centuries of
savage forbears, just as his mental faculties were similarly keyed for
their achievement.
Not a detail of the world about him that might affect his labours
escaped the eagle vision of his wide eyes, and his swift understanding
taught him how to avail himself of every clemency which the scheme of
Nature vouchsafed.
So the kyak progressed seemingly with inadequate speed, but in reality
little less swiftly than the speed of the avenging creature’s desire. It
gained incredible way against the surge of water that split upon its
prow. And as the shadows of the mighty walls enveloped it, and grew ever
more and more threatening, the man at the paddle laboured on without
pause or hesitation, certain of the course, certain of his powers,
certain that no earthly barrier was staunch enough to seriously obstruct
him.
* * * * *
The kyak was hauled out of the water. It lay there on a shelving
foreshore strewn with grey, broken granite, a graceful thing, so small
and light as to look utterly inadequate in face of the terrific race of
troubled waters that was speeding by. It was set ready for the portage.
The man’s simple outfit was securely lashed amidships, and his precious
rifle, long old-fashioned, but well cared for, was made fast to the
struts that held the frail craft to its shape.
The Indian was standing at the water’s edge. He was gazing up-river
where its course was a dead straight canyon several miles in length. It
was wide, tremendously wide. But so high were its sides that its breadth
became dwarfed. It was a gloomy, threatening passage of black, broken
water, whose rushing torrent no canoe could face.
But the awe of the scene left Usak untouched. It was not the sheer
cliffs that concerned him. It was not the swirling race of water
blackened by the shadows. It was neither the might of the great river,
nor the vastness of the hill country about it that pre-occupied him. It
was the far-off white wall of mist and spray at the head of the passage,
and the dull distant thunder of the Falls, the Grand Falls, the picture
of whose might had lain hidden from the eyes of man throughout the
centuries.
He stood for long contemplating the mysterious far-off. His object was
uncertain. Perhaps the wonder of it had power to stir him. Perhaps he
was not insensible to the might of the things about him for all the
absorbing passion that filled him. Perhaps he was contemplating with a
sense of triumph this last barrier which still remained to be
surmounted.
At last he turned away. He came back to the burden which he knew he had
to shoulder. He measured the little vessel, and the stowage of his
outfit, with a keen eye for the necessity of his work. And that which
had been done left him completely satisfied.
He bent down. He gripped the gunwale of the little craft and tilted it.
Then with a swift, twisting movement he lifted, and, rearing his great
body erect again, the vessel was safely set where his muscular neck
checked it to a perfect balance.
* * * * *
It was the wide smooth waters of a high perched mountain lake. Its
expanse was dwarfed by the great hills on every hand. Its surface shone
like a mirror in the brilliant sunshine, yet it was without one single
grace to temper the fierce austerity of its tremendous setting. On the
hillsides there were dark veins which suggested the tattered remnants of
Nature’s effort to clothe their naked sides. There were low fringes of
attenuated vegetation marking the line where land and water met. But the
main aspect was one of barren hills crowned about their lofty summits
with eternal snow, and the grey fields of glacial ice that never
entirely yielded up possession of the earth they held prisoned.
Usak’s kyak was hugging the southern shore. Now his paddle dipped
leisurely, for he had no stream with which to battle and his eyes were
searching every yard of the dishevelled scrub which screened the shore.
Slowly the little craft crept on. There was no uncertainty in its
progress. It was simply that the man sought for the thing he knew he
would find and had no desire to waste a single moment of precious time
through careless oversight.
He was rounding a headland. The fringe of scrub had faded out, leaving
only the grey rock that sank sheer into the depths of the water. In a
moment he flung power into the dip of his paddle and the kyak shot
ahead. There was current here. Swift, crossing current that strove to
head his craft put for the bosom of the lake. The man counted with
prompt skill, and a savage satisfaction shone in his eyes.
Passing the headland he gazed upon the thing he had been searching. It
was a narrow inlet debouching from a wide rift in the rampart of hills.
In a moment his vessel shot head on to the current. Then, swiftly, it
passed from view of the open lake between the sheltered banks which were
heavily overgrown by unbroken stretches of dense pine-wood bluffs.
* * * * *
An amazing transformation left the sterile setting of the mountain lake
forgotten. Farther and farther, deeper and deeper into the hills the
country seemed to change as by magic. East and west of the valley the
hills rose up sheltering the gracious vegetation that looked to belong
to latitudes hundreds of miles to the south, and a heat prevailed that
was even greater than the intemperate Arctic summer.
Usak needed no explanation of the phenomenon. He knew that he was in the
region of the great Fire Hills of the North. Hills that were always
burning, whether in the depths of winter or the height of summer. And
the heat of the earthly fires transformed the countryside into an oasis
of verdant charm, a jewel of Nature set in the cold iron of the North.
* * * * *
A large habitation stood in the heart of a wide clearing in the forest.
It was deep hidden from the waterway which split up the length of the
valley. Nearly a mile of narrow roadway cut through the forest alone
gave access to the river. And the course of the roadway was winding, and
its debouchment on the river was left screened with trees. The object of
the latter must have been clear to the simplest mind. A perfect secrecy
had been achieved, and the great house lay hidden within the forest.
It was a remarkable building whose only relation to the country in which
it stood was the material of its construction. Its two lofty stories
were built of lateral, rough-hewn green logs. It was of logs carefully
dovetailed, from the ground to the summit of a central tower which rose
to the height of the forest trees about it. Its walls rambled over a
wide extent of ground, and dotted about its main building were a number
of lesser buildings, both habitations and accommodation for material. It
was rather like a log-built feudal fortress surrounded by, and
protecting, the homes of its workers and dependents.
A figure was moving cautiously through the woods beyond the clearing.
The moccasined feet gave out no sound as it passed from tree to tree or
sought the shelter of such dense clumps of undergrowth as presented
themselves. The buckskin-clad creature crouched low as he moved, and the
colour of his garments seemed to merge itself into the general hue about
him. Now and again he paused for long contemplative moments. And in
these he searched closely with keen, purposeful black eyes that nothing
escaped.
He was seeking every sign of life the place might afford. And so far he
had discovered none. There were one or two prowling dogs, great husky,
trail dogs, searching leisurely for that offal which seems to be the
sole purpose of their resting moments, but that was all.
He was gazing upon the main frontage of the building which faced the
south with a long, deep, heavily constructed verandah running its entire
length. The several windows which gave on to it, covered with mosquito
netting, were wide open to admit such cooling breeze as might chance in
the heat of the day. But the rich curtains hung limply over them
undisturbed by the slightest movement. It was the same with the windows
of the upper story. They, too, were wide open, but again the curtains
were unmoving. The searcher’s eyes passed over the lounging chairs on
the verandah. None were occupied, yet each and all looked to be standing
ready.
He passed on. Making a wide detour within the shelter of the woods he
passed round to the western side of the building. Here there were other
habitations. Many were mere log shanties, cabins such as the searcher
knew by heart. The cabin of whiteman or coloured in a country where
makeshift ruled.
Again there was no sign of life. There was not even a dog prowling loose
in this direction. Maybe those who peopled these cabins were resting in
the heat. Maybe—but the searching man was concerned with no such
speculation. The thing was largely as he had expected to find it, but he
desired to re-assure himself. He moved on rapidly. From every point of
the compass his searching eyes surveyed the scene, and finally he came
back to the spot where his prolonged search had started. He was
satisfied.
He stood for a moment while he made his final preparations. They were
simple, savagely simple. He moved the belt about his waist, and the two
long hunting knives thrusting from their sheaths were brought to the
front where they remained ready to each hand. Then he thrust one hand
into a voluminous pocket in his buckskin and withdrew a heavy pistol. It
was a modern pistol, such as one would hardly expect to find in the
dark-skinned hands of the native bred. This he examined with care and
deliberation. Then he thrust it back whence it came, and moved swiftly
out into the open.
The quick eyes of a scavenging dog discovered him and a low snarl
accompanied the canine discovery. Instantly a well-aimed stone silenced
the creature and sent it slinking to cover.
The point the man had selected for his approach had been deliberately
chosen. It was a door that stood ajar on the north side of the house. It
obviously admitted to the kitchen place of the building.
With the vanishing of the man through the doorway the lifelessness of
the place which had been momentarily broken descended upon it again. The
still air hummed with the somnolent drone of myriads of winged insects.
The hush of the surrounding forest seemed to crowd down upon it. The
very breathlessness of the day seemed to suggest the utter impossibility
of stirring life.
After a moment, the deathly silence was broken. A sound came hard in the
wake of the passing man. It was a curious, half-stifled cry, and it came
from the direction of the open doorway. It was low, inarticulate, but it
was human. It suggested much and betrayed nothing. Then as it died out
the engulfing silence descended once more and it remained unbroken.
* * * * *
The wide central hall was unlit by any visible window, yet the light was
perfectly distributed and ample. Furthermore it was the light of day
without one gleam of the dazzling sunshine.
It was a spacious apartment, lofty and square. Its walls were covered
with rich hangings of simple eastern design. They were unusually
tasteful and delicate, and obviously the handiwork of home manufacture.
The floor of the room was of polished yellow pine littered with a wealth
of natural furs without any mountings. Every skin was native to the
north of Alaska, and the variety was extensive. In the centre of the
room stood a large, open, log fire set up on a built hearth, above which
rose a chimney passing straight up through the timbered ceiling in the
fashion of an inverted funnel. For all the summer heat the fire was
alight, smouldering pleasantly, a heap of white wood ash yielding a
delightful aroma as the thin spiral of smoke drifted leisurely up into
the mouth of the funnel above it.
About the walls stood several low couches. They were loaded with silken
cushions adorned in a fashion similar to the hangings upon the wall with
a lavish display of the representations of brilliant-hued flowers, and
birds, amongst which chrysanthemum, wistaria, and longbilled,
long-legged storks were very prominent.
The only other furnishings in the place were a magnificent pair of
oriental vases standing on carved wood plinths, a large bookcase that
was also a desk with an armchair before it, and two great, manifold
wooden screens with elaborate, incised designs decorating their panels.
In the shelter of one of the latter a small woman was seated on a couch
surrounded by the materials of the delicate embroidery she was engaged
upon. She was seated with her feet tucked under her, and a book lay in
her lap. But she was neither reading nor sewing now. Her dark eyes were
raised alertly. They were gazing steadily at an angle of the room where
a curtain hung in heavy folds over what was clearly a doorway.
The solitary occupant of the room was not young. She was nearing middle
life, yet she bore small enough traces of her years. She was pretty for
all the large tortoise-shell rimmed glasses she was wearing. Her jet
black hair, dressed closely to her shapely head, bore not a trace of
greying, and the small mouth and softly tinted cheeks were as fresh and
delicate as a young girl’s.
At the moment a keen look of enquiry was revealed through her large
glasses as she regarded the covered doorway. Nor was her look without a
suggestion of unease. For a sound had reached her a moment before,
which, in the silence of the house about her, had suggested a cry—a cry
of pain. Even a call for help.
Apparently, however, she dismissed the idea. For she presently bent over
the work she had laid aside in the interest of the book she had been
reading.
She was not easily disturbed. She was accustomed to long periods of
almost complete solitude. There were two servants in the house. She knew
that. Men who were fully capable of safeguarding the place, even though
the rest of the folk were abroad on their labours. No. A long life in
the remote fastnesses of the northern Alaskan hills had taught her many
things, and amongst the things she had learnt was that perfect immunity
from intrusion was vouchsafed to the home which had been provided for
her. There were times, even, when she felt that her lot resembled that
of a closely guarded prisoner.
She plied her needle with the skill and rapidity of long practice. The
chrysanthemum she was working was rapidly developing its full beauty
under her delicate hands. Then suddenly she dropped her hands into her
lap and raised her eyes again to the doorway.
There was no mistaking her expression now. A voiceless alarm gazed out
through her glasses. There was a sound of hurried approach. Someone was
running beyond the doorway. They were approaching—
The curtain was abruptly dragged aside. A man lurched into the room. He
was a smallish, elderly man, dark-skinned and eastern-looking. He was
clad in the ordinary garments of civilization, and wore a short apron
about his waist. He stood for a moment clinging to the curtain for
support. Agony looked out of his black eyes, and his lined face was
distorted. He sought to make a gesture with one hand and nearly fell.
Then a sound broke from his lips. It was one word. Only one. And that
barely articulate.
“Es—cape!” he cried.
With a last gasping effort his hand released its hold on the curtain and
he crashed to the floor. And as he fell a stream of blood trickled on to
the immaculate woodwork from somewhere in the region of his neck.
The woman was on her feet. A wild panic shone in the eyes behind her
glasses. She stood there a pretty, pathetic, helpless little figure.
Escape!
The word was ringing in her ears as she gazed in horror upon the still,
fallen figure of the man who had brought her warning as the last
faithful act of his life.
Escape! What did it mean? What could it mean?
She abruptly turned away. She bent down and gathered up her sewing and
her book. Then she passed rapidly behind the screen which sheltered her
couch. Only for one instant did she pause before passing out of view. It
was to regard again, with a gaze that was filled with horror and terror,
the poor thing that had brought her warning.
* * * * *
Usak was standing in the middle of the great room. He was gazing about
him. His dark eyes were aflame with furious desire. His great body
bulked enormously and his rough clothing left him a sinister figure in a
place of such lavish refinement.
He took in every detail of the place, and at last his fierce eyes came
to rest on the dead creature lying just within the doorway. He stared at
it without pity or remorse. Without a sign of added emotion. His thin
lips were shut tight and the muscles of his jaws stood out with the
intensity of their grip. That was all.
After awhile he moved away. He passed over to the couch sheltered by the
screen. He bent over it searching closely, and from among the cushions
drew some fragments of sewing silk and cuttings of material. He gazed at
them. But he was not thinking of them. He was thinking of another woman,
a woman whose hands had been accustomed to ply a needle, and to cut out
material. But the material was different. It was less refined, rougher.
In Usak’s mind Pri-loo’s sewing was mostly to do with the buckskin and
beads so dear to the Indian heart.
He flung the things aside. Then he hurried from the room, passing again
the doorway through which he had followed the man he had slain.
CHAPTER VIII
THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS
The sun blazed down on a silent world. The glare was merciless, and the
heat, by reason of the weight of moisture saturating the atmosphere of
the valley, was almost a torture.
The stillness of the world was awesome. The hum of insect life
accentuated it, and so, too, with the murmur of summer waters, which is
the real music of the silent places. The breathlessness of it all
suggested suspense, threat. So it is always in the great hill countries.
The sense of threat is ever present to the human mind, driving men to
seek companionship, even if it be only association with the creatures
who are there to bear his burdens.
Threat was stirring acutely now. It was in the profound quiet, in the
saturating heat; it was in the portentous silence wrapt about the hidden
habitation which the man at the water’s edge had just left behind him.
Leaning on his old-fashioned rifle the Indian, Usak, was gazing out
northwards over the winding course of the river. His dark eyes were
alert, fiercely alert. No detail of the scene escaped his searching gaze
as he followed the little water-course on its way to the mountain lake
beyond. He searched it closely right up to the great bend where stood
the three isolated fire hills. His Indian mind was calculating; it was
seeking answers to doubts and questions besetting him. For he knew that
on the result of his right thinking now depended the achievement he had
marked out for himself.
Quite motionless he stood for many minutes. Yet for all his great height
and the physical strength of his muscular body his presence was without
effect upon the immense solitude of the world about him. It had no more
impression than had one single creature amongst the myriads of flies and
mosquitoes swarming hungrily about his dark head.
The house in the woods behind him was no longer of any concern. There,
as he had set out to do, he had already worked his fierce will. It was
sufficient. That which was yet to be accomplished he knew to lie on the
waterway approach, and his mind was focussed upon the three black,
smoking hills which he had passed on his way from the distant lake.
He stirred out of his deep contemplation. He raised his rifle and slung
it upon his buckskin-clad shoulder. Then he turned about, and raised one
lean, brown hand. It was an expressive gesture. There was something in
it similar to the shoulder-shrug of callous indifference. He passed on
down the river.
* * * * *
The canoe was making its leisurely way up the river. The dip of the
paddles was easy; it was rhythmic and full of the music so perfectly in
tune with Nature in her gentler mood. The vessel was long and low, and
built for rapid, heavy transport where the waters were not always at
rest, and the battle with the elements was fierce and unrelenting. It
was the hide-built craft native to the Eskimo, whose life is spent in
the Polar hunt.
The vessel was served by eight paddles. But there were two other
occupants lounging amidships against the rolls of blankets and furs
which were part of their camp outfit. These two were talking in low
voices while the men at the paddles, stripped to the waist, squat,
powerful, yellow-skinned creatures whose muscles rippled in response to
their efforts under a skin that shone like satin, remained concerned
only for their labours.
“There will be a big noise—later.”
The snapping eyes of the younger man were half smiling as he
contemplated the shimmering waters of the river ahead. The man beside
him stirred. His curious eyes lit with a gleam of irony as he withdrew
his gaze from the distant smoke cloud which lolled ponderously on the
still air.
“Oh, yes. There will be a big noise,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter.
Maybe p’lice will come.” He laughed coldly. “An’ when they come—what?
Later they go away. Later it is forgotten. Winter comes and everything
is forgotten. It is the way of this far-north country. Only is this
country for the man who lives in it. Not for those who mark it on a map,
and say—‘it is mine.’ No. It is for us, Sate. It is ours. We make the
law which says the thing we desire must be ours. Le Gros was a big fool.
But it would have been useless to have his secret and leave him living.
One word, and they would have flooded the country with white trash from
every corner of the earth. It will not be that way now. We wait for the
p’lice to come. We wait for them to go. Then this thing is ours, the
same as all the rest.”
Sate turned his dark eyes upon the strong profile of his father.
“Yes,” he agreed, while his eyes questioned.
There was usually a question in his eyes when regarding his parent; a
question in his hot impulsive mind when he listened to the cold tone of
authority that was always addressed to him. The filial attitude of the
youth was no more than skin deep.
“You have the plans safe?” he inquired presently, while he watched the
brown fingers of the other filling the familiar red-clay pipe. “You have
not passed them for me to read?”
The tone was a complaint, and it brought the curious regard of the tawny
eyes to the discontented face. For a moment Sate confronted them boldly.
Then he yielded, and his gaze was turned upon the scenes of the river.
“You will see them when—it is necessary.”
A dark fire was burning behind the boy’s pre-occupied gaze. Nor was it
likely that the father failed to understand the mood his denial had
aroused. He watched the lowering of the black brows, the savage setting
of the youthful jaws, and a shadowy smile that had nothing pleasant in
it made its way to his cold eyes.
For all his surge of feeling Sate continued to regard the surrounding
mountains through which they were passing. There was not a detail of the
course of this little, hidden river that held even a passing interest
for the youth. His whole life had been lived within the Valley of the
Fire Hills and its beauty, the mystery of it affected him no more
congenially than might a prisoner be affected by the bare walls and iron
bars of his cell. His heart and mind were in fierce rebellion. He was
chafing impotently. But he was held silent, for he dared not pit himself
against the iron will, the inhuman cruelty which he knew to lie behind
the cold eyes which, in his brief twenty years of life, he had only
learned to obey through fear.
The man beside him had lit his pipe without a shadow of concern, and now
he sat smoking it like any native, with its stem supported by his strong
jaws thrust in the centre of his hard mouth. He held the little bowl in
both hands.
The vessel passed out of the shadow of the canyon, and the welcome shade
gave place to the blazing heat of full sunlight. The sky was without a
cloud except for the overhanging smoke patch. The great hills had
suddenly leapt back and the world had become radiant with a hundred
verdant hues, and the soft purple of the distance.
It was the arena of the Fire Hills. They stood up in the heart of it,
three of them. Three comparatively low, expansive hummocks dwarfed by
the tremendous altitude of the surrounding mountain ring. Standing
widely separated on the low flat, about which the shrunken summer river
skirted, they stood ominous, black and smoking. They were bare to the
basaltic rock which was their whole structure, burnt black by the
centuries of fire contained within their troubled hearts. They were
stark, hideous, like malevolent dwarfs, monstrous and threatening,
frowning down upon a world made gracious the year round by reason of
their own involuntary beneficence.
The man removed his pipe from between his lips and inclined his head in
the direction of the smoking hills.
“An hour more,” he said.
Sate’s reply came without glancing round.
“Yes,” he said.
His eyes, too, were on the three hills. It would have been impossible
for it to have been otherwise. Their great ugly shoulders rose high
above the belt of forest trees which lined the left bank of the river,
and the smoke cloud hung heavily over the summits, till their appearance
was like that of giant mushrooms. The smoke was motionless, dense,
threatening.
“It’s thick,” the father observed reflectively. “We need a wind to carry
it away. If the weather changes it’ll come down in a fog. They’re
queer—those hills. Someday they’ll—”
The sharp crack of a rifle rang out. The man in the prow of the vessel
jerked forward in the act of dipping his paddle, and sprawled with his
body lolling over the vessel’s side.
The man with the yellow eyes scrambled to his feet and Sate sat up. For
one tense moment every eye was turned upon the belt of trees that lined
the shore masking the base of the Fire Hills. The shot had come from
that direction, but there was nothing, no sign of any sort to give a
clue to the whereabouts of the man who had fired with such murderous
accuracy.
The man standing amidships gave a sharp order. His crew had quit
paddling in the complete confusion into which the attack had flung them.
And, in a moment, the paddles dipped again, but only seven of them.
Sate passed forward to the wounded man, and his father waited, still
standing, for the result of his investigations. It was some time before
the youth gave a sign. But at last he dragged the fallen body into the
boat and laid it out in the bottom of it.
“Well?”
The demand came sharply. But the tawny eyes were still steadily
searching the wood-clad bank of the river.
“Dead.”
Sate’s reply was no less sharp.
“Drop him overboard. We’ve no room for dead men. Take the paddle
yourself, Sate.” After delivering his order the man amidships turned
about and spoke in a foreign tongue to the man in the stern. Instantly
the prow of the vessel swung towards the shore.
Again a shot rang out. This time it was the man whose paddle had changed
the vessel’s course who was the victim. He lolled forward like a tired
man at the finish of the stroke of his paddle. Then he crumpled,
collapsing against the man in front of him, shot through the heart.
* * * * *
The dusky figure was moving rapidly down the shadowed aisles of leafless
tree-trunks. Its movements were almost without sound. They were the
stealthy, swift movements of the Indian in pursuit of a wary quarry.
Every now and again Usak paused in the shelter of a great forest bole,
and his fierce eyes searched for opening in the barrier of undergrowth
that hid the waters of the river beyond. His patience seemed
inexhaustible. Effort was unrelaxing. He was spurred by a lust that was
all-consuming.
So he kept pace with the moving vessel that was behind him on the river.
His object was to keep ever ahead of it, not remaining a second longer
at any given point than his purpose demanded. On, and on, with the
swift, silent gait of the hunter, he passed from tree to tree but never
did he permit himself to pass out of gunshot of his quarry.
He paused at a fallen tree. To the right of him, looking down the river,
was a narrow break in the tangle of undergrowth. He rested his queer,
long rifle and searched over the sights, holding a definite spot on the
shining waters covered. The man was deadly in his deliberation. Twice he
re-adjusted his sights. Then at last, apparently satisfied, stretched
prone on the ground under cover of the protecting tree trunk, he waited
with the weapon pressed hard into his shoulder, his lean tenacious
finger on the trigger, and an eye, that displayed no shadow of mercy,
glancing over his sights.
The moments passed in deathly silence. The trees above him creaked in
the super-heated twilight. But none of the forest sounds distracted him.
His keen ears were listening for one familiar sound. His searching eyes
were waiting for one vision in the narrow opening of the undergrowth.
The sound came. And into the open flashed the prow of the approaching
canoe. It was more than two hundred yards from the man’s place of
concealment, but the distance had been calculated to a fraction with the
skill of a great hunter. The finger pressed the trigger.
The hidden man leaped to his feet, a grim look of satisfaction shining
in his eyes. He had witnessed the thing he desired. He had seen the man
at the vessel’s prow fall forward. And he knew it was the man who had
taken the place of an earlier victim.
He was off on the run as an answering shot rang out, and he heard the
spat of a bullet strike one of the tree trunks somewhere behind him.
There was another shot, and another. But each shot found its home in the
upstanding tree-trunks far in the rear of him, and left him grimly
unconcerned. It was a battle to the death in a fashion of which he was
absolutely master. It mattered not to him if the canoe continued on its
course, or retreated, or if the enemy abandoned the river and sought to
continue the fight in the twilight of the forests. He knew he held him
at his mercy on this great bend of the river. For the far bank was
walled by the granite of the great hills which closed in the arena of
the Fire Hills. There was no escape.
After awhile he paused again at the foot of a tree that had been rudely
storm-blasted. Its crown was shorn and lay a vast tangle on the ground
beside it. In a moment, with rifle slung, he had swarmed the broken
trunk and lodged himself in the lower branches which still remained. He
gazed out over the top of the undergrowth, and a great length of the
sweep of the river was spread out before his hungry eyes. The canoe was
just entering his field of vision. He settled himself with his back to
the tree-trunk, and his knees were bent in a squatting posture with his
feet supported on a projecting limb which also helped to screen him from
those on the river. He adjusted his sights and prepared to hurl death
from his hiding-place.
Slowly he pressed the trigger and his ancient weapon faithfully
responded. The ivory sights were unfailing to an eye behind which burned
so fierce a desire. He saw the result even with the rifle still pressed
to his shoulder, and unconsciously he pronounced the triumphant thought
in his mind.
“Four!”
He re-loaded. The canoe was in full view now, and the temptation was
irresistible. Again he pressed the trigger, and another life had passed.
He lowered his weapon and watched. The short man amidships was about to
answer. He saw a rifle raised. The shot echoed against the granite walls
behind it. And something like a smile lit the hunter’s eyes, for the man
had fired into the forest far below where he was securely seated.
Instantly he re-loaded, and, a moment later, a sixth victim fell to his
lethal weapon.
He dropped from his “crow’s nest” and ran on through the dark aisles
that hid him so well. Every foot of the way was mapped in his mind. He
had laid his trail with the skill of a man who, knowing his craft, will
not yield one fraction of his advantage. So he passed on to where the
forest narrowed down by reason of the Fire Hill, whose ponderous slopes
came down almost to the river bank.
He passed from the forest and began the ascent of the hill. Here there
was no cover but the rough, protruding boulders on the blackened slopes.
But he had reached a point of calculated recklessness when he knew he
must court greater chances for the success he desired. There had been
ten men in the canoe when first he had welcomed the sight of it upon the
river. Ten men, all of whom had participated in the wanton destruction
of everything in the world that had meant life, and hope, and home to
him. Now there were only four.
The canoe was within a mile of its destination, and he had decided
before that destination was reached only one single man of its
complement must remain alive. His purpose was implacable. Vengeance
consumed the man. And it was the vengeance that only the savage heart of
a creature of his ancestry could have contemplated.
He passed on up the slope with the speed of some swiftfooted forest
creature. And the smoke haze rising from the summit partially obscured
the drab of his clothing against the blackened ground. Up towards the
belching crown he moved, but ever with a glance flung backward lest the
increasing density of the smoke cloud should mar his view of the things
below.
At last he came to a halt. The point had been reached when he dared
proceed no farther. The haze, in the brilliant air, was sufficient to
screen him without obscuring his vision of the river. So he took up a
position behind a boulder, and leant upon it with his rifle supported
for steadiness on its clean-cut surface. For some moments he watched the
fierce efforts of the remainder of the crew of the canoe to make the
shelter of the house something less than a mile away to his left.
Yes, there were four of them only. And all four were paddling literally
for their lives. He watched them closely, a devilish smile lighting his
satisfied eyes. And he saw that the rhythm of their stroke had been
lost, and the speed of the vessel was infinitely slow. Oh, yes, he
understood. Panic had done its work. The panic inspired by complete
impotence. They were there a target for just so long as they were in the
open of the river. There was no shelter for them anywhere. The granite
of the far wall of the river cut off escape, and the forest on the
hither side contained the deadly, unseen danger. So there was nothing
left them but to race on, zigzagging a course down the river in the hope
of escape from the deadly fire.
He re-adjusted the sights of his rifle and judged his distance. Slowly
and very deliberately he pressed the trigger. The shot passed over the
canoe. He re-loaded without concern, and his second shot left only three
paddles dipping. The man in the bow of the boat squatted drooping and
clutching for support.
He waited for the final result of his shot, and it came as the man
yielded his hold and dropped helplessly into the bottom of the boat.
Again he laid his weapon. Two more shots rang out from the smoke shroud
of the burning hill. Then, after a brief interval, two more carried
their deadly burden. The man re-loaded again and again till a pile of
empty shells lay close beside him. Then, at last, he rose from his
crouching position and stretched his cramping limbs. He slung his hot
rifle upon his shoulder, and stood gazing down upon the slowly moving
boat as it laboured over the water. He was completely satisfied. Now
there was left but one man to drive the heavy vessel to the haven which
should mean shelter from his murderous sniping.
* * * * *
The man with the yellow eyes drove hard with his paddle and the nose of
the vessel thrust deep into the mud of the landing. For a moment he
remained kneeling, supported against the strut where he had laboured. He
made no attempt to leave his post. Only he gazed along down the river
bank at the screen of bush which lined it. There was no emotion visible
in his mask-like face. There was nothing in his eyes to tell of the
swift, urgent thought behind them.
After awhile his gaze was withdrawn to the grim freight of his vessel.
Then he stood up quickly and moved forward. Four bodies were lying
huddled in the bottom of the canoe. With three of them he was completely
unconcerned. But with the fourth it was different. He stood for a moment
gazing down unemotionally at the dead body of the youthful Sate. Then he
stooped, and, gathering it in his powerful arms, carried it quickly
ashore. He laid it gently down on a vivid bed of Arctic wild flowers and
stood over it in silent contemplation.
His pre-occupation was intense. But he gave no sign. Such emotions as
were his were his alone. They were stirring in a heart deep hidden. And
his tawny eyes masked no less surely now than was always their habit.
A sound disturbed him at last, and he turned like a panther ready for
anything it might portend. But the flash of alertness died out of his
eyes at the sight of a woman’s small figure as it broke its way through
the bush in the direction of the house which was his home.
The pretty face the man was looking into was drawn and haggard. The
slanting eyes were full of a terror that even the long awaited return of
her man could not banish. The woman had run to him with little, hurried
strides and hands outstretched in piteous appeal.
“Hela!” she cried. And into the pronunciation of the man’s name, and in
the pitch of her voice she contrived to fling a world of woman’s
terrified despair.
For once the man’s eyes revealed something of that which was passing
behind them.
“Tell me, Crysa,” he demanded urgently. “Tell me quick.”
The distraught woman stood clinging to the arm which made no effort to
yield her support. She broke at once into hysterical speech in a foreign
tongue.
“They have killed them all. Even the dogs. There is not one left.
All—all are killed. Myso, Oto, Lalman. Oh, they murder them with the
knife. I hid in the secret place. It was Oto who gave me warning with
his dying words. He was dead—all dead in a moment. I can see the blood
on the floor now. Devils came to the house. An army of them. They—Oh!”
she cried breaking off the torrent of her disjointed story in a spasm of
new horror.
Her gaze had fallen on the still, prone figure at her man’s feet. Her
hands dropped from his arm. She moved a step from him, and bending
forward, peered down.
“Dead, too,” she said, in a low hushed voice. “Dead!”
Then she recognized the dark features of the boy who was her son.
Suddenly a piercing cry broke the silence of the woods about them, and
echoed against the far walls that shut in the river.
“Sate!” she cried. “Our Sate!” And in a moment she had flung her frail
body upon the still figure stretched upon its bed of wild flowers.
The man looked on. He watched the delicate hands as they beat the ground
in his wife’s paroxysm of grief. He listened to her demented shrieks of
lamentation. But he gave no sign; he offered no comfort. Maybe he found
himself simply helpless. Maybe in his hard, unyielding mood he felt it
best that the woman’s storm of grief should spend itself. Perhaps, even,
the disaster of his journey home had left him indifferent to everything
else. Certainly his cruel eyes were without any softening, without any
expression but that which was usual to them.
The woman’s lamentations died down to heart-racked sobs, and the man
turned away. He passed slowly down to the boat, so deeply nosed into the
mud, and the lessening cries of the distracted mother pursued him. But
he no longer gave heed to them.
He laid hold of the canoe and set to hauling it clear of the water.
Once, twice, thrice he heaved with all the strength of his powerful
body. The boat was half way up the bank. Then, as he lay to the work
again, a cry that was something like a snarl broke from him. Some great
body had leapt on him from behind. His hold was torn loose from his
task, and he was flung bodily, with terrific force, sprawling amidst the
radiant flowers that littered the river bank. The dark, avenging figure
of the Indian, Usak, stood over him.
For one brief instant eye searched eye. No word passed the lips of
either. It was a moment of furious challenge, a moment of murderous
purpose. It passed. And its passing came with the lunging of the Indian
as he precipitated himself upon his victim.
They lay writhing, and twisting, and struggling on the ground. No vocal
sound, no sound but the sound of furious movement came in the struggle.
The Indian was uppermost, as he had intended to be from the moment and
the method of his attack. He had one object, and one object only.
The Indian’s great size and strength were overwhelming with the other
caught at a disadvantage. Then the man with the yellow eyes was fully
two decades older. Usak was lithe, active as a wild cat, with all the
bulk of a greater forest beast. Then there was his simple, terrible
purpose.
It was done, finished in a few awful moments. A sound broke from the man
underneath the Indian’s body. It was a half-stifled choking cry. It was
inarticulate except that it was a cry of pain and suffering for which
there could be no other expression. And instantly all struggling ceased.
The arms of the man underneath fell away. Usak leapt to his feet and his
savage eyes glowered down on the writhing body on the ground. For a
moment he watched the tortured creature, effortless except for the
physical contortions of unspeakable suffering. And presently he heard
the thing he had awaited. It was a faint, low moaning forced at last
from between the blinded man’s stubbornly pressed lips.
Fierce, harsh words leapt in answer to the sound, and the Indian spoke
out of the original savagery that was his.
“So! Euralian Chief!” he cried exultantly. “You not know all this you
mak, or you not mak it so. No. I tell you this—I, Usak. You come kill my
woman, Pri-loo. You kill my good boss, Marty Le Gros. You come to steal.
But you not steal. Only you kill my woman, Pri-loo, an’ my good boss. So
I, Usak, come. I kill up all the mans, everything. But not so I kill
your woman. Not so I kill you. Oh, no. That for bimeby. Now I tak out
your eyes. If I kill up your woman you die. No good. No. So I leave you
your woman. She lie there by your son. She look this way now to see the
thing I do. Bimeby she come. She forget the son I shoot all up. She
remember only her man who will live in darkness. It good. It just how I
think. Bimeby she come. She mak you live. She, your woman. She lead you
by the hand. She feed you. She mak you see through her eyes. So you know
the hell you show to me. Oh, yes. It black hell for you. No light no
more. Your folk come. They find you. You not see them. Nothing. Then
they go leave you. An’ so you live—in hell. Bimeby I come. Big long time
I come. An’ when I come I kill you. I kill you an’ your woman all up
dead, same as you kill my woman, Pri-loo. Now I go. I go an’ think,
think, how I mak kill you—sometime.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART II
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
CHAPTER I
PLACER CITY
Bill Wilder smiled in an abstracted, wry sort of fashion as he strode
down the boarded sidewalk, which was no more than sufficient for its
original purpose of saving pedestrians from wallowing in the mire and
stagnant water of the unmade main throughfare of Placer City.
He was on his way to his office from his house. His house was built well
beyond the tattered city’s limits with a view to escape from the sordid
atmosphere of the northern gold city, which in the long years of
acquaintance he had learned to detest.
Bill Wilder was the wealthiest gold man in a city of extreme wealth. Ten
years of abounding success had transformed a youth of barely eighteen,
lean, large, angular, yearning with every wholesome human desire, into a
man of twenty-eight, glutted and overburdened with a fortune and mining
interests the extent of which even he found it well nigh impossible to
estimate. In ten years, under the driving force of inflexible resolve,
backed by amazing good fortune, he had achieved at an age when the
generality of men are only approaching the threshold of affairs that
really matter.
But somehow his success had brought him little enough joy. It had
brought him labour that was incessant. It had made it possible that
every whim of his could be satisfied by the stroke of the pen. But
instead of satisfaction, he reminded himself that somehow his life had
become completely and utterly empty, and he yearned to set the clock
back to those long, arduous, struggling days, when hope and resolve had
been able to drive him to greater and greater exertions, with a
pocket-book that was almost as lean and hungry as his stomach.
His smile now was inspired by the memory of a brief interview he had
just had on his way down, in the hall of the McKinley Hotel, with a
Hebrew acquaintance, a wealthy and influential saloon-proprietor. A.
Feldman had spent half-an-hour in endeavouring to get him to join forces
in the erection of a new dance hall that was intended to eclipse
anything of the kind in the country in size, splendour, and profits. His
reply had been curt. It had been harsh in its bitter condemnation. And
the memory of the Jew’s hopeless stare of amazement was with him now.
“Not on your life, Feldman,” he had said in conclusion. “I’m a gold man.
No better and no worse. I’m not a brothel keeper.”
His smile passed, and he gazed about him at the moving traffic surging
along the miserable highway under the dazzling sunlight of a perfect
spring day. He had no particular claim to good looks. His face was
strong, and his expression open. There was a certain angularity about
his clean-shaven features, and a simple directness in his clear-gazing
grey eyes. He looked a typical gold man without pretence or display, and
from the careless roughness of his tweed clothing no one would have
taken him for a man who counted his wealth in millions of dollars.
But that was the man. Achievement was the sole purpose of his life. And
it must be the achievement of a great body and muscles rather than the
subtle scheming of the acute commercial mind which he by no means
lacked.
The life of this mushroom northern city only stirred him to repugnance.
He was no prude. He had tasted of the life in the fevered moments of
youth. But he knew, he had strong reason to know, there was nothing in
it that money could not buy, from the governing corporation to the women
and gunmen who haunted the dance halls, except the Mounted Police
detachment. And somehow the knowledge had become completely hateful to
him.
He had migrated to the place during one of its early “rushes,” when it
was only a few degrees removed from a mining camp. A whirlwind rush of
humanity had swept down upon it bearing him on its tide. And he had
remained to witness its leaping development into an established city of
wealth and wanton freedom. Later he had participated in an attempt at
real government by the saner element of its people, and the making safe
of life and property. With them he had hoped. He had looked on at the
mushroom growth of great hotels and offices, and greater and more
elaborate halls of public entertainment. Then, with those others, he had
watched the wreckage of the new authority under pressure of vested
interests, and witnessed the passing of the moment or moral uplift. The
falling back into a mire of corruption had been literally headlong.
The city had grown up in the wide valley of the Hekor River at the point
where the first alluvial strike had been made. It was at a point where
the river widened out before dispersing its northern waters into a great
lake surrounded by the lofty range of hills which had created it. It
followed the usual lines of all these improvised northern places of
habitation. It was designed in a rectangular fashion based on one
interminable main thoroughfare, which was the centre of haphazard
development. The road had sidewalks, but for the rest it remained
unconstructed. Vehicular traffic wallowed in mire during the spring,
jolted and bumped over a broken, dusty surface in summer, and, in
winter, enjoyed a foundation of snow on which to travel that frequently
stood five and six feet in depth.
The whole place was hopelessly straggling and unkempt. Lofty seven- and
eight-storied buildings looked down on the log shanties and frame
hutments grovelling at their feet in that incongruous fashion which
never seems to disturb the human sense of fitness. There were even men
amongst its cosmopolitan people who found joy in the disparity. But
these were mainly the folk who owned or had designed the greater
structures.
Throughout the long winter night the place was ablaze with electric
light, a never-ending source of joy to the crude pioneering mind. Arc
lamps lit the main thoroughfare, while a multitude of winking signs
served to guide the unwary to those accommodating dens waiting to
unloose inflated bank rolls. During the six months of summer daylight
this service was unnecessary. And only the cold light standards, and the
hideous framing of the signs, and the tawdry decorations of the places
of entertainment were left to replace the winter splendour.
Bill Wilder knew it all by heart, from the elaborate Elysee, down to the
meanest cabaret from which a drunken miner would be fortunate to escape
with nothing worse than a vanished store of “dust.” He hated it. The
knowledge of the life that went on every hour of the twenty-four
sickened and bored him. He longed for the free, wholesome, hard-living
life of the outworld beyond the sordid prison bars which his fortune had
set up about him.
It was always the same now. Month in, month out, there was nothing but
the solitude of his home and the work of the office in the great
commercial block he had built, or the pastimes of the dance hall and
gambling hell.
He wanted none of it. His great body was rusting with disuse, while the
mental effort of the administration of his affairs was fast robbing his
sober senses of all joy of life. He yearned for the open with all its
privations. He wanted the canoe nosing into the secret places of the far
world. The burden of the battle against Nature in her fiercest mood was
something to be desired. And so, too, with the howl of the deadly
blizzard beyond the flap door of a flimsy tent. At this moment Placer
City and all its alleged attractions were anathema to the man on the
sidewalk.
He came to an abrupt halt. His grey eyes were turned on the elaborate
entrance doors of the Elysee on the opposite side of the road. It was
disgorging its freight into the smiling spring sunlight, a throng of men
and painted women who had spent the daylit night drinking, and dancing,
and gambling. He watched them out of sheer disgust. Here at something
like ten in the morning, when the sidewalks were thronged with business
traffic, they were just about to seek their homes for that brief
sufficiency of rest which would enable them to return to another night
of loose pleasure. For all he was on the youthful side of thirty, for
all he was inured to the life of the city, for all his blood was no less
warm, and rich, and swift flowing, the sight mingled pity with disgust
and left him depressed and even saddened. The terrible falseness of it;
the price that must be ultimately paid. The bill of interest that would
be presented by an outraged Nature later on would mean overwhelming
bankruptcy for the majority. He turned away and collided with an officer
of the police.
Superintendent Raymes stepped clear and laughed.
“Bill Wilder gawking at the Elysee’s throw-outs? Guess you aren’t
yearning to join that bunch?”
“No.”
Bill replied without any responsive laugh. Superintendent Raymes was his
oldest friend in Placer City. A brisk, dapper man of medium height he
was almost dwarfed by Wilder’s great size. He was approaching middle
life, and already a slight greying tinged the dark hair below his smart
forage cap. He was wearing a black-braided patrol jacket, and the
yellow-striped breeches and top-boots so familiar in the regions under
the control of the Mounted Police.
Raymes shook his head.
“No. That’s only for the sharks and darn fools that life seems to set
around like the sands on the sea shore. Can you beat it? Look at ’em
piling into the rigs. They’re sick and mighty weary, and they’ll be at
it again in a few hours. It beats me the way those poor women keep
going. As for the boys—God help ’em when those vultures have wrung them
dry. Where are you making?”
“Just the office.”
Again Raymes laughed.
“Sounds like the cemetery.”
A smile returned to the eyes of the gold man.
“That’s how it seems to me,” he said, as they walked on together. “The
cemetery of all that’s worth while. It’s tough, Raymes. I’m sick to
death counting dollars and looking at that sort of stuff.” He jerked his
head in the direction of the Elysee. “I tell you I’m going to make a
break. I’ve just got to. It’s that or go crazy. I guess I love this
Northland to death for all the flies, and skitters, and the other
things, but I can’t face its cities any longer without qualifying for
the bughouse.”
The policeman remained silent in face of the man’s desperate,
half-laughing earnestness. He knew Wilder’s moods. He understood that
tremendous fighting spirit which was consuming all his peace of mind.
They passed on down the sidewalk.
It was not a little curious how these two men had come together in
intimate friendship. It had begun when Raymes was only an Inspector and
Wilder was only beginning to realise the burden of a wealth that grew
like a snowball. They had found themselves in deadly opposition as a
result of a desperate outbreak of lawlessness on a big new “strike” for
which the gold man had been responsible. The position had been gravely
threatening. There had been murder, and claim jumping, and the whole
camp was on edge and threatening something like civil warfare. In the
absence of police there was no authority to control the camp. Realising
the seriousness of the position Wilder had jumped in. Organizing his
men, and collecting others who could be relied on, he armed them for the
task, and forthwith launched his forces against the marauding gunmen who
had established a reign of terror. There was no mercy and only summary
justice. Every offender was dealt with on the spot, and, in the end, the
camp was swept clean.
When it was all over the gold man found the consequences of his action
were far more serious than his logic had suggested. He had to face the
tribunal of Placer City and render a complete accounting, with Inspector
Raymes, keenly jealous of the law of which he was guardian, in deadly
opposition. It had been a bitter fight. But Wilder’s downright honesty,
his frank sincerity had finally broken down the police officer’s case
and left him victor in a battle that had been fought out mainly on
technicalities. And in the end, in place of the bitter antagonism which
might well have arisen between them, a bond of great friendship was
founded, based on a deep, mutual admiration for the purpose by which
both were inspired.
All this had taken place about five years earlier. And since that time
their regard for each other had ripened to an intimacy that had never
known set-back.
Raymes was deeply concerned for his friend’s outburst.
“Yes, Bill,” he said presently. “It’s tough on a boy like you. You
collected your dust too quick. You haven’t the temper of a millionaire.
You aren’t the man to sit around spinning every darn dollar into two,
and grousing because you can’t make three of it.” He laughed. “You’re
the kind of hoss built for the race track of life. You weren’t made to
stand around in the barn waiting to haul a swell buggy by way of
exercise. That break away is the thing for you, only I’ll hate to lose
you out of this darn sink.”
Bill nodded and smiled, and the whole of his boyish face lighted up.
“That’s the best I’ve listened to in months,” he said. “I guessed you’d
say I was all sorts of a darn fool not fancying stopping round and
counting my dollars. But this ‘sink’ as you rightly call it. I’m a bit
of a kid to you. Maybe I’m a long-headed kid in a way. But a sink don’t
count much on that. If you live in a sink at my age there’s a mighty big
chance you’ll sooner or later join up with the sort of muck you mostly
find in a sink. And the thought scares me.”
The policeman glanced round with twinkling eyes.
“You can always sit around on top. You can breathe good air that way and
enjoy the sunlight.”
The other shrugged.
“An’ risk falling in when it gets you—well asleep. No, George. You were
right first time. I’ll make the break an’ get out of the way of any
chance of—mishap.”
They had reached the square frame building of the police post and paused
at the door.
“There mustn’t be any mishap,” Raymes said smiling up into the earnest
face of the man for whom he felt some sort of responsibility. “Are you
yearning for that office of yours? Or do you feel like wasting an hour
while I talk.”
Bill looked keenly down into the other’s twinkling eyes.
“What’s the game?” he asked with a directness that was almost brusque.
Then he laughed. “But there, I guess I’m mostly ready to listen when
George Raymes fancies talking. It isn’t every oyster that’s full of
pearls. Sure. I’ll be glad of the excuse to dodge the office.”
The superintendent shook his head and his smile passed, leaving his face
set and purposeful.
“Typhoid’s a deal more prevalent in oysters than pearls,” he said
grimly. “Come right in.”
* * * * *
It was a bare, comfortless office, clean scrubbed and dusted but quite
without anything in its furnishing to indicate the superior rank of the
man who used it. It was characteristic, however, of the men whose
ceaseless activities alone contrive that the northern outlands shall
escape the worst riot of human temper. The boarded walls were hung with
files. A small iron safe stood in one corner of the room, and a large
woodstove occupied another. There was a roll-top desk near by the one
window that lit the room, and a plain wooden cupboard stood against the
wall directly behind the chair which Superintendent Raymes occupied.
There were two or three Windsor chairs about the walls, and the only
luxury the room afforded was a large rocker-chair into which Bill Wilder
had sprawled his great body.
On the desk in front of the officer was a musty-looking file of papers.
It was unopened at the moment for the man was contemplating one of
several letters that lay beside it. He was leaning back in his revolving
chair, and a curious, thoughtful look was in his reflective eyes. Bill
Wilder was removing the paper band from the cigar the other had forced
upon him.
Raymes looked up after awhile and sat regarding the man with the cigar.
“So you’re going to sell out, Bill,” he said quietly. “You’re going to
sell out everything, all your interests, and—quit?”
“And make some sort of use of a life that’s creaking with rust in every
blamed joint.”
Bill thrust the cigar into his mouth and prepared to light it.
The other shook his head.
“We mustn’t lose you, Bill. You’re the only feller in this muck hole we
can’t do without. I’m not thinking of Placer City only. I’m thinking of
this great old north country to which—you belong.”
The policeman watched the cloud of smoke which the gold man’s powerful
lungs exhaled. He saw the match extinguish, and followed its flight as
it was flung into the cuspidor which stood beside the stove. He was
thinking hard and wondering. He was not quite sure how best to deal with
the thing he had in his mind.
Bill smiled.
“That’s like you, George,” he said. “If I listened to you, and took you
seriously, I’d guess I’m some feller—with dollars or without. But you’re
right when you say I belong to this old north country. I’d hate quitting
it. I’d hate it bad. If I could locate a real use for myself in it I’d
sooner serve it than any other. And the tougher the service the better
it would make me feel. Gee! I’m soft and flabby like some darn fish
that’s been stewing in the sun.”
“I know.” The policeman forced a laugh. He had made up his mind. “Here,
I’ve a mighty interesting letter come along. It’s from the Fur Valley
Corporation. Do you know ’em? They’ve a big range of trading posts up
an’ down the country. They’ve got one on the Hekor, away up north on the
edge of the Arctic. It’s mainly been a seal trading post, and they
collect sable and fox up that way. This letter says they’re closing it
down. There’s a reason. And they fancied handing it on to me. Do you
feel like taking a read of it? It’s quite short. These folk are business
people without a big imagination so they keep to plain facts.”
Bill reached out and took the proffered letter. It was dated Seattle,
and was clearly from the head office of the company. He glanced at the
signature to it and noted the paper heading. Then he read slowly and
carefully, for he knew that George Raymes had serious reason for handing
it to him.
Dear Sir,
In the ordinary course of business we should not think of
troubling you, a distinguished officer of the incomparable force
to which you belong, with the contents of this letter. Although
it is merely to notify our intention of closing down our trading
post, Fort Cupar, at Fox Bluff, on the Hekor River, which is
within one hundred miles of the Alaskan boundary, there are
reasons lying behind the simple fact such as we feel you, in
your official capacity, will be interested to hear.
Put as briefly as possible these are the reasons.
Fort Cupar at Fox Bluff has been one of our fur-trading posts,
yielding us a very fair harvest of Beaver, Fox, Sable, Seal. Up
to some eighteen years ago we had reason to consider it our most
profitable post. Then came a slump. This came suddenly. And,
according to our factor’s interpretation, it was simply, and
solely due to the appearance of a large band of foreign
poachers, who, without scruple for humanity, or international
honesty, terrorized the Eskimo into passing them their trade at
starvation values, or, if they refused, robbed them with the
utmost violence.
These reports at the time were duly passed on to the
headquarters of the police, and were, I believe, carefully
looked into. But for reasons of which we have no cognizance,
possibly the far inaccessibility of the country, possibly
because these poachers were located on the United States side of
the Alaskan border, possibly under pressure of work in the
various gold regions, which is the primary duty of your
officers, these poachers were permitted to continue their
depredations, which, as far as we can ascertain, involved
amongst other crimes that of almost wholesale murder.
Our concern now is to tell you that for the last fifteen to
eighteen years we have struggled to carry on our post in this
region in the hope that things would ultimately straighten
themselves out, and our trade return to its normal prosperity.
But this has not been the case. Apparently, from our factor’s
reports, the methods of these poachers, who seem to be a race of
Alaskan Eskimo, who are known as the Euralians, have changed
only in process but not in effect. Now they seem to be divided
up into lone bands of marauders, frequently at war with each
other. There seems to be no controlling chief as there was in
years gone by. They operate within the Arctic Circle, and only
amongst the Eskimo of that region. And the one time descents
upon the more southern communities of whites and natives no
longer take place. Meanwhile, however, all trade in the furs we
desire is at an end. Therefore we are reluctantly forced to
close down, and thus another serious blow to the Canadian fur
trade is involved.
I am, Sir,
Yours truly,
For The Fur Valley Corporation
James Steely
General Manager.
Bill looked up from his reading and encountered the searching gaze of
his friend.
“There’s a nasty bite in that ‘brief’,” the policeman smiled.
The gold man nodded seriously.
“Not more than I’d have put in it if I’d been general manager of that
corporation.”
“No. And you’d have been right. That letter’s mighty reasonable, and I’m
with the feller who wrote it.”
Superintendent Raymes turned to his desk and opened the rusty-looking
file that was lying in front of him.
“You know, Bill, that letter got me right away. But I was a bit
helpless. Here, now, you sit right there and smoke that cheap cigar I
pushed at you while I do a talk. I’ve got a yarn to hand you that’ll
maybe set you thinking hard.”
He sat back tilting his chair, and the rusty file lay open on his lap.
The papers it held had lost their pristine whiteness. There were
distinct signs of age in their hues.
“You know I’ve only had charge of Placer City for something like seven
years, and things have been so darned busy since I first got around I
haven’t had a great chance of looking into the remoter things my
predecessor left behind him. Eighteen years of police life is liable to
accumulate a bunch of stories it would take a lifetime reading.
“However,” he went, glancing down at the file, “when I received that
letter I got tremendously busy hunting up old records, and, after nearly
a day’s work I came to the conclusion that I’d opened up one of the
worst stories, and one of the most important, that I’d found in years. I
found story after story of these Euralians. They mostly came from Fort
Cupar at Fox Bluff, but they also came from simple, uneducated trappers,
and from whitemen who adventured northward of here after gold. They came
from all sorts of folk, and one and all corroborated all that that
letter contains besides presenting many lurid pictures of the doings of
these toughs which that letter only hints at.”
He removed several sheets of discoloured foolscap from the file. They
were pinned together.
“I’ve selected this report which is dated fifteen years ago. It comes
from a man named Jim McLeod, and he was factor for the Fur Valley
Corporation at Fort Cupar at that time. It’s one of several reports he
sent down from time to time pointing the conditions of his district, and
giving pretty red-hot accounts of the terror which these Euralians had
created there. But I’m not going to worry you with all that stuff. I’ll
simply tell you that the terror of these folk was very real. That these
marauders were undoubtedly at that time a large well-organised outfit
who had completely succeeded in cleaning up the furs of that region and
were passing them over the Alaskan border into foreign hands.
“This is a long report and I’m not going to read it to you. I’m just
going to hand it you in my own words. It’s a bad story, but it’s full of
an interest that’ll appeal to you. Fifteen years ago there was a swell
sort of missionary feller up at Fox Bluff, a great friend of the man who
wrote this report. His name was Marty Le Gros. He wasn’t a real
churchman, but just a good sort of boy who was yearning to hand help to
the Eskimo and Indians. I gather, at the time this story occurred, he
was a widower with a baby girl of about four years. He also had an
Indian called Usak, and his squaw, working for him about his house. The
squaw was kind of foster-mother to the kid. Well, this report tells how
in chasing over the country visiting his Missions this Le Gros happened
on a most amazing gold ‘strike.’ It doesn’t say how or just where. But
it says that the missionary showed this factor man two chunks of pure
gold, and a bunch of dust that well nigh paralysed him. Le Gros being a
simple sort of feller didn’t worry to keep his news to himself, but
blurted his story broadcast, and I gather the only thing he didn’t tell
about it was the actual whereabouts of the ‘strike.’ Apparently he let
it be understood that Loon Creek was the locality without giving any
exact particulars. This man gives such a brief sketch of this gold
business I sort of feel he wasn’t anxious to say too much. The reason’s
a bit obvious. And anyway I haven’t ever heard of a rush in that
direction. So the news never got around down here. But it seems to have
got to the ears of these Euralian poachers and set them crazy to jump in
on him with both feet.
“Now this is what happened,” Raymes went on, after a brief reflective
pause, while Bill sat still, absorbed in the interest which the magic of
a gold discovery had for him. His cigar had gone out. “Up to that time
the Euralians and their doings were well enough known to these people,
but only by hearsay. These ruffians had never operated as far south-east
as Fox Bluff and Fort Cupar. Well, the missionary was out on the trail
on a visit to some of his Missions with his man, Usak. He arrived at one
of them on the Hekor. It was a settlement of fishing Indians. The whole
camp was burned out, and the old men, and women, and infants had been
butchered to death. Further, from their complete absence, it is supposed
the young men and women had been carried off into captivity for slavery
and harlotry. There was no doubt of its being the work of these
Euralians. The whole thing was characteristic of every known story of
them. Le Gros returned home in a panic.
“He came to McLeod and told him the story of it, and together they
realised that it was merely prelude to something further. They got it
into their heads that it was the Euralian method of embarking on a
campaign to get the secret of Le Gros’ gold discovery. You see? Terror.
They meant to terrorize Le Gros, and I gather they succeeded. But he
meant to fight. You see, he reckoned this ‘strike’ was for his child. He
wanted it for her. Well, these two made it up between them to outwit
these folk. The missionary crossed the river to his home to prepare a
map of his discovery which he was to place in McLeod’s hands for the
benefit of his child and McLeod, in half shares, should anything happen
to him, Le Gros. Something did happen. It happened the same night.
Apparently before the map could be drawn. Sure enough the Euralians
descended on the missionary’s house. They killed Le Gros, and they
killed the squaw foster-mother. The Indian, Usak, was away from home and
so escaped. The child was left alive, flung into an adjacent bluff, and
the whole place was burned to the ground. That’s the story in brief. I
daresay there’s a heap more to it, but it’s not in that report, and it’s
not in subsequent reports, or in other records of my predecessor.
“It would seem that this boy, McLeod, died about eight years after all
this happened and was succeeded by another factor for his company. In
the meantime my predecessor had sent a patrol up to investigate. The
only result of this investigation was a complete corroboration of
McLeod’s report, with practically nothing added to it beyond an urgent
report on the necessity for definite international action on the subject
of these Euralians who came in from Alaska. After that the thing seems
to have passed out of my predecessor’s hands. It seems it was taken up
by Ottawa with the usual result—pigeon-holed. Does it get you? There it
is, a great gold discovery, somewhere up there on the Hekor, I suppose,
and the mystery of this people filching our trade through a process of
outrageous crime. Somewhere up there there’s a girl-child, white—she’d
be about nineteen or twenty now—lost to the white world to which she
belongs. But above all, from my point of view, there’s a problem. Who
are these Euralians, and what becomes of the wealth of furs they steal?
Remember they were at one time at least an _organised_ outfit.” The
policeman replaced the file on his desk and returned the report to its
place. And the pre-occupation he displayed was a plain index of the
depth of interest he had in the problem which had presented itself to
his searching mind. Bill Wilder struck a match and re-lit his cigar.
“That’s a story of the country I know and love,” he said quietly. “It’s
a story of the real Northland. Not the story of one of these muck-holes
which are like boils in the face of civilization. I guess you haven’t
passed me the whole thing you’ve got in your mind, George.”
“No.”
The policeman swung round in his chair and faced the clear gazing grey
eyes of the man whose enormous wealth had still left him the youthful
enthusiasm for the battle of the strong which had first driven him to
the outlands of the North.
“Will you pass me the—rest?”
Bill smiled.
“Sure I will, if you’ve nothing to ask, nothing to comment on that
story.”
“It’ll keep. Maybe I’ll have a whole big heap to talk when you’re
through with your—proposition.”
Raymes nodded. He, too, was smiling. He spread out his hands.
“You want to quit. You want to sell out and pass on where you can make
some use of the life that’s creaking with rust in every joint. Well,
it’s easy. Don’t quit. Don’t sell out. Take a trip north where there’s a
big ‘strike’ waiting on a feller with a nose for gold. Where there’s a
mighty big mystery to be cleaned up, and the hard justice of this iron
country to be handed out to a crowd of devils who’ve battened on its
wealth and are sucking the life out of its vitals. Is it good enough?
You’ll be able to forget the dollars you’re forced to count daily in
this city. You’ll lose sight of the Feldman crowd and the brothels they
set going to hand them a stake. It’s the open, where God’s pure air’s
blowing. Where there’s room for you to move, and breathe, and live, and
where you can hit mighty hard when the mood takes you, and you can feel
good all over that you’re doing something for the country you like best.
This thing’s my job, but I haven’t the troops or time to fix it the way
I should. I’m so crowded to the square inch I don’t know how to breathe
right. I haven’t any sort of right offering you this thing. I know that,
and I guess you’re wise it’s so. But it don’t matter. I do offer it to
you, Bill, and it’s because I know you. I offer it you because you’re
the feller to put it through, and because you’re a feller we can’t
afford to lose out of our territory. Well?”
The police officer’s manner had become seriously earnest, and the other
remained silent for some moments buried in deep thought. George Raymes
waited. He watched for the passing of the gold man’s deep consideration.
He understood that the thing he required of him was no light task and
looked like involving a tremendous sacrifice.
At last Bill’s cigar stump was flung into the cuspidor, and the
policeman realised that a decision had been arrived at. The gold man
looked up, and a whimsical smile lit his clear eyes.
“If I was crazy enough to take a holt on this thing I don’t just
see—I’ve no authority. I’m no policeman. I’m just a bum civilian without
police training. You boys are red-hot on the trail of crime. It’s your
job, and I guess there’s no folk in the world better at it. But—”
“You’ve forgotten,” Raymes broke in. “There’s the trail of a gold
‘strike’ in this. And Bill Wilder’s got the whole country beaten a mile
on a trail of that nature. Make that ‘strike’ an’ I guess you’ll locate
the rest in the process. I’m asking for that from you.”
Wilder laughed. It was the clear, ringing laugh of the youth he really
was. It was a laugh of appreciation at the simple tactics of his friend.
It was a laugh of rising enthusiasm.
“But the authority,” he protested.
Raymes took him up on the instant.
“I have power to enrol ‘specials.’”
The other’s grey eyes lit. Again his laugh rang out. “Yes. I forgot. Of
course you can enrol ‘specials.’” Suddenly he sprang from the depths of
the rocker, and left it violently disturbed. He stood erect, bulking
largely, and a flush of excitement dyed his weather-stained cheeks. “Of
course you can,” he cried. “Yes. I’ll get after it. A gold trail! A
bunch of toughs! A girl—a white girl! Ye Gods! I’m after it. You can
swear me in on any old thing from a Bible to a harvester. That’s all I
need. I’ll find my own outfit, and I’ll get busy right away and collect
up my old partner Chilcoot Massy. I’ll get right off now down to my
office and start fixing things, and I’ll be back again after supper
to-night. But I warn you you’ll need to answer a hundred mighty tiresome
questions, and pass me all the literature you’ve collected on this
subject when I come back. Say, the gold trail again! I’m just tickled to
death.”
CHAPTER II
THE CHEECHAKOS
The man was standing at the edge of the river landing gazing out across
the broad waters as they drifted slowly by, a calm, gentle flood
undisturbed by the rushing freshet of spring, which had already spent
its turbulent life leaving the sedate Hekor embraced in the gentler arms
of advancing summer.
The landing was little better than a wreck. The green log piles were
awry. There were rifts where last summer’s timbers had been carried
bodily away by the crash of ice at winter’s break up. For the annual
rebuilding necessitated by the tremendous labour at the birth of the
Arctic spring had been dispensed with. There was no longer any need for
it.
The man’s gaze was far-searching. It was seriously ruminating. Perhaps,
even, it was regretful. For he knew that in a few hours all that he had
looked out upon for the past seven years would lay behind him, possibly
never to be looked upon again.
The mile-wide river lay open to the caressing sunlight. It was unshaded
anywhere. The far bank rose in a gentle slope, a perfect carpet of wild
flowers, and beyond, as the valley rose upwards, the shimmer of summer
heat bathed the purpling distance in an almost dazzling haze. Away to
his left, beyond the waters, stood the dark spread of Fox Bluff, which
gave the place its name, a wide stretch of tattered forest, isolated on
an undulating plain many no miles in extent. And the ruins of the old
Mission House, long since burned out by the Euralian marauders, still
stood gaunt and bare, a monument to the tragedy that was now some
fifteen years old.
Behind him, well above the highest water level of the river, the staunch
walls of the stockade of old Fort Cupar still sheltered the frame
building which was about to be abandoned. But already the place had
assumed something of the lifelessness which human desertion leaves in
its wake. There were no Eskimo encampments gathered about its timbers.
There were no columns of smoke arising from camp fires. The familiar
yelp of trail dogs, and the shrill voices of native children were
silent. There was no life anywhere but in the presence of the man on the
landing, and in that of the girl clad in native buckskin standing beside
him, and in the slow movements of five Indians and half-breeds who,
under the guidance of the factor, were completing the stowage of cargo
in the three canoes moored to the derelict landing.
It was the day of the great retreat. It was the final yielding after
years of struggle. It was the giving up of that last thread of hope
which is the most difficult thing in human psychology.
Old Ben Needham was more than reluctant. He was a hard-bitten fur-trader
of the older school. A man of force and wide experience. A man bred to
the work, acute, rough, and not too scrupulous. He had been born in the
Arctic, schooled in the Arctic, and only when the needs of his trade
demanded had he ever passed out of that magic circle. He was a man
approaching sixty, full of an aggressive fighting spirit which usually
modifies in men of advancing years. And he knew that he was about to
acknowledge complete defeat after seven years of battling against
invisible odds. He knew that the company had selected him out of all
their army of servants to attempt the rehabilitation of the fortunes of
Fort Cupar, and he had utterly and completely failed. And so, as he
stood on the landing superintending the last removal of stores, and
contemplating the return with his story of failure to those who had sent
him on his forlorn hope, his mood was uneasy, his temper was sour and
inclined to violence.
The voice of the girl beside him roused him out of his contemplation of
the familiar scene.
“You need Mum here to put heart into you, Ben,” she said with a smile
that masked her own feelings. “You know, Mum’s the wisest thing in a
country where fools are dead certain to go under. She’d tell you there’s
nothing so bad in the world as flogging a dead mule. The feller who acts
that way most generally gets kicked to death by a live one. Which, I
guess, is only another way of saying it’s a fool’s game anyway.”
“Does she say that, Kid?”
The man turned from the scene that had so preoccupied him, and his
deep-set, hard grey eyes surveyed the speaker from beneath his bushy,
snow-white brows. For all his mood there was a sort of mild tolerance in
his tone.
The girl he addressed as Kid smiled blandly into his unresponsive face,
and her wide blue eyes were full of girlish raillery. For all the
sunburn on her rounded cheek, and the rough make of her almost mannish
clothing, or perhaps because of these things, she was amazingly
attractive. She was young. Something less than twenty. But she was tall,
taller than the broad figure of the man beside her. And there was
physical strength and vigour in her graceful girlish body.
She was clad in buckskin from her head to the reindeer moccasins on her
shapely feet. Her tunic, or parka, was tricked out with beads and narrow
fur trimmings in truly Indian fashion. And the leather girdle about her
slim waist supported a long sheath knife, much as the native hunters
were equipped. But she was white, with fair curling hair coiled in a
prodigal mass under her fur cap, with wide, smiling eyes that rivalled
the blue of the summer sky, and a nose as perfectly modelled, and lips
as warm and ripe as any daughter of the more southern latitudes. Her
manner was easy and self-reliant. It was full of that cool assurance
bred of the independence which the hard life of the Northland forces
upon its children. Nature had equipped her with splendid generosity, and
the man understood that her sex robbed her of nothing that could make
her his equal in understanding of the conditions in which their lives
were cast.
The girl laughed gaily.
“She says a whole lot of things, Ben,” she cried. “But then you see
she’s the mother of six bright kids who’re yearning to learn, and she
doesn’t guess to let them down, or have them tell her instead. Yes, she
said that sure, when we were wondering how your quitting was going to
fix us. You see, I’ve depended on your store for trade. I guess I was
the only supply of pelts that came your way. And you were the only
supply for our needs. Your folks are right,” she added, with a sigh.
“You can’t run a trading post to hand out to a bunch of kids the stuff
that makes life reasonable, and for the sake of the few bales of furs
we’re able to snatch before they fall into the hands of foreign
poachers. It was sure flogging a dead mule. But it’s going to be tough.
It’s going to be tough for us, as well as for you and your folk. I’ve
tried to look ahead and see what’s to be done, but I can’t see all I’d
like to. Mum reckons we’ll get through, but she leaves it to Providence
and me to say how.”
The man bit off a chew of tobacco and shouted some orders at the men
stowing the last of the stores. His words came forcefully amidst a
shower of harsh expletives. Then he turned again to the girl.
“I’d say your Mum’s as bright a woman as the good God ever permitted to
use up his best air,” he said, with a shake of his grey head. “But I
just can’t see how trading reindeer with the fool Eskimo up north’s
goin’ to feed a whole bunch of hungry mouths, and clothe a dandy outfit
of growin’ bodies right, if there ain’t a near-by market for your goods,
and a store to trade you the things you need. There ain’t a post from
here to Placer, which is more than three hundred and fifty miles by the
river. It kind o’ looks bad to me.”
“Yes.”
The smile had passed out of the girl’s eyes, and her fair brows had
drawn slightly together under the rim of her fur cap.
“You see, Kid,” the man went on, in a tone that was almost gentle for
all the natural harshness of his voice, “I’d be mighty glad to fix you
as right as things’ll let me. We’ve figgered on this thing all we know,
you and me, and you’ve a year’s store of canned goods and groceries by
you paid for by your last bunch of pelts. But after that—what?”
The swift glance of the Kid’s eyes took in the earnest expression of the
man’s rugged face. She realised his genuine concern in spite of all the
worries with which his own affairs beset him. And forthwith she broke
into a laugh that completely disarmed.
“We’ll need to feed caribou meat,” she said. “The farm’s plumb full of
it. Mum says the good God’s always ready to help those who help
themselves. And I guess the bunch at home’ll do that surely when they
find their vitals rattling in the blizzard. Don’t just worry a thing,
Ben. You’ve done the best for us, you know. For all the grouch you hand
out to most folk you’re white all thro’. You’re forgetting there’s Usak
and me. If it means Placer for trade and food for the bunch I guess
we’ll make it.”
The girl’s laugh, and her lightness of manner in her dismissal of the
threat overshadowing her future and that of those who were largely her
care made their talk easy. But there was seriousness and a great courage
lying behind it. She knew the nightmare this break up of her market was
to all those she cared for. But she had no intention of adding one
single moment of disquiet to the burden of the man’s concern for his own
future.
“But it’s a hell of a long piece, Kid,” the factor protested with a
shake of his shaggy grey head. “Couldn’t you folks quit too?”
The girl shook her head while her blue eyes were turned on the broad
expanse of water where it vanished in the south. Perhaps it was the
trend of their talk which had attracted her gaze in that direction.
“Surely we could quit if—we had the notion,” she said, after a moment’s
reflection. “But what if we did? I mean how would it help? Maybe I don’t
know. Placer? What if we made Placer where there’s food and trade? What
could we do? There’s Mum, and my six little brothers and sisters,
running up like a step-ladder from inches to feet. Then there’s Usak, an
Indian man who’s got no equal as a pelt hunter and trailman. Here we’re
lords over a limitless territory. We’ve a herd of deer that runs into
thousands, and reindeer are the beginning and end of everything to the
Eskimo, but wouldn’t be worth dog meat in Placer. Show me. I’m ready to
think. We can go on making out right here if we only make one trip a
year to Placer. If we quit, I guess there’d be nothing but the dance
halls of Placer you’ve told me about for me and my little sisters as
they grow up, while Usak, with a temper like a she-wolf, would run foul
of half the city in a week. No. You said a thing once to me, Ben, that’s
stuck in my stupid head since. What was it? ‘The North’s big, an’ free,
an’ open, an’ clean. The longer you know it the more you’ll curse it.
But the feller who’s bred to it can’t go back on it. There’s no place on
God’s earth for him outside it but the hell of perdition.’ I guess that
fits my notion of—Say, there’s an outfit coming up out of the south.”
The girl broke off.
She stood pointing out over the water where the river seemed to rise out
of the distance between two low hill breasts. A group of canoes,
infinitely small in the distance, had suddenly leapt into view.
The man became absorbed in the unaccustomed vision. He raised a gnarled
hand, broad and muscular for all its leanness, and shaded his eyes from
the sun-glare. After a moment he dropped it to his side. A grim, cynical
light shone in his eyes.
“Cheechakos,” he said in profound contempt.
“How d’you know?” The girl was full of that interest and curiosity bred
of the solitude in which she lived.
“They’re loaded down with truck so they look like swamping. It’s a big
outfit, an’ they look mighty like they’ve bought up haf the dry goods
the gold city can scratch together. Yes. They’re Cheechakos, sure. An’
they’re huntin’ the gold trail. I can locate ’em at a hundred miles.
I’ve seen ’em come, but most generally go, on every blamed river runnin’
north of Dawson.”
The girl laughed lightly.
“To listen to you, Ben, folk might guess you hadn’t feeling softer than
tamarack for a thing in the world. I want to laugh sure. Sometimes I
feel I could shake you till the bones rattled in your tough old body.
Then I remember. An’ I—I don’t want to do a thing but laff. If you’re
not through with your outfit, and beating it down the river by the time
those folk happen along I’ll gamble a caribou cow to a gopher you’ll be
handing them just anything you reckon they need, if it’s only the wise
old talk I know you’re full up to the brim with. You can’t bluff me.”
The girl shook her head and her eyes were full of a smiling, almost
motherly tenderness for the strong man of many years who was tasting the
bitterness of real defeat. She had known him from the day he first set
foot at Fort Cupar with that sort of family intimacy which is part of
the life of the great solitudes. She had been a child then. Now she was
a grown woman with a mind that was simply serious despite her ready
laugh, and a heart full of deep, womanly sympathy. All life and hope
still lay before her. This man had gone far beyond the meridian of both.
He was rapidly approaching those declining years with a great failure to
his credit, and she realised the tragedy of it.
“No,” he said. “I guess I can’t bluff you, Kid. You’re kind of nimble.”
His eyes were still on the approaching outfit. “I wonder,” he went on.
“That wise old talk you reckon I’m full of. Do you fancy me passing it
to you before I quit, instead of to that bunch of Cheechakos?”
The girl nodded with a twinkling smile.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d feel jealous you handing it to the others.”
Ben Needham laughed in that short, dry fashion which was his limit of
hilarious expression.
“Well, you best pull your freight out of here before that bunch of
Cheechakos come alongside. Ther’s a whole heap o’ things you know, but a
sight bigger heap of the things you don’t know. The junk that comes up
out of Placer is mostly junk, mean, human junk. The men of the gold
trail ain’t like the metal they’re chasing, except in the colour of
their livers. One of the things I haven’t figgered you’re wise to is
you’re a gal of nigh twenty, and you’ve a face that smiles like spring
sunshine, and the sort of eyes that makes a man feel like shooting up
the other feller. Do you get me? Beat it, my dear. You’ve a Mum, an’
you’ve got a dandy bunch of brothers an’ sisters. You’ve got a home way
out there on the Caribou River that ain’t ever known a thing but what a
good woman can make it. Wal, keep things that way. But you won’t do it
if the muck of the gold trail hits your tracks.”
The girl’s smile had passed as she watched the old man expectorate into
the clear waters at his feet. She remained completely silent while, in
an utterly changed tone, he hurled violent expletives at his workers.
She looked on while he passed down to where the lashings were being made
fast on the last canoe whose load had just been completed. When he came
back her thoughtful mood had passed, and her smile was supreme once
more.
“I’d wanted to see you start out, Ben,” she said gently. “You know it’s
hard not to be able to speed a real friend, when—when— But there, it’s
no use. The kids are needin’ me, so’s Mum, and Usak and the deer. You’re
so slow getting away I just can’t stop.” Her gaze wandered again to the
approaching outfit, and it was a little regretful, and something
wistful. “Are all the men of the gold trail tough? I mean are they just
all bad?”
The grey head denied her. The man’s cynical smile twinkled in his eyes.
“The men ain’t no better, an’ no worse than most of us,” he said slily.
“That is till they get the yellow fever of it all. When that gets around
they’re mighty sick folk till the fever passes. Guess your memory don’t
carry you back to the days when you weren’t more than knee-high to a
grasshopper. If it did maybe you’d be wise to the thing that’s got a
mighty big place in your dandy life. It’s gold. The yarns I’m told say
it was gold that robbed you of a father. It was gold that left you
helpless, feed for the coyotes that didn’t find you. It was gold,” he
went on, pointing across the river, “that left them burnt out sticks,
which one time was your rightful home. Gold, I guess, has played a
mighty tough part in your life, Kid, and maybe it ain’t goin’ to let up.
That’s the way of things. I’d say you ain’t done with gold yet. You see,
ther’s the story of that ‘strike’ your father made, an’—lost. No,” he
added thoughtfully. “It’s goin’ to come back on you. An’ that’s why I
say beat it. Don’t wait around for those folks comin’ up the river. They
got the fever bad, I guess, or they wouldn’t be makin’ a country that’s
cursed by the Euralian fur poachers. Yes. Beat it, Kid. Light out.
They’re comin’ right in.”
* * * * *
The swift stroke reached its length. The Kid lifted the paddle from the
water and laid it across the little vessel in front of her. Resting
against the paddling strut she craned round and gazed back over the
shining waters.
She had passed the wooded bend of the river, and the far-reaching
shelter of Fox Bluff completely shut her off from observation at the
Fort. The landing was hidden; so, too, were the three great canoes that
were to carry the defeated factor and his outfit down the river to those
who quite possibly would have no further use for his services.
Even the Fort itself, on the higher ground of the opposite bank, was no
longer visible.
The girl was satisfied. She returned to her labours, for the drift of
the stream had carried her canoe back some few yards.
It shot forward again, however, under the skilful strokes of her strong
young arms, and the water rippled and sang as it smote the sharp
cutwater that drove into it. Three miles farther on she had reached the
limits of the great woods, and the turbulent rapids came into view.
They were the rapids at the junction of the two rivers. It was here that
the Caribou River disgorged itself upon the flood of the greater river.
A wide litter of frothing, churning popple disported itself over the
shallows at the mouth of the invading stream. In the passage of time,
the Caribou had battled its way up out of the south-east. It had broken
into the sedate course of the Hekor diagonally, meeting its stream
defiantly. Final overwhelming had been its lot, in the process of which
a vast stretch of sheltering banks had been washed completely out and
transformed into treacherous shoals. It was the girl’s immediate
objective.
Again she ceased from her labours and gazed smilingly over the distant
view. It was alight with a lavish wealth of colour, the vivid hues of
Arctic blossoms with which the ripening sun of spring had set the whole
country ablaze. Her smile was full of girlish enjoyment. For she was
thinking of the wise, friendly, cynical old Ben Needham and his earnest
warning.
She was thinking of him in no spirit of ridicule, but she knew she meant
to disregard his warning utterly. It was the youth in her. It was the
girlish curiosity and a spirit of independence that urged her. The world
beyond was a sort of dream place of wonder to her; a book whose pages
were sealed lest her eyes should seek the things that were there
written. He had warned her that these folk coming up out of the south
were the Cheechakos of the gold trail. He was probably right, but at
least they were white folk who belonged to that world from which she was
wholly cut off. It was an opportunity she had no intention of missing.
She would transform herself into something resembling the creatures of
the shy world to which she belonged. She would lie hidden, and gaze upon
these strange and terrible people from another world, against whom she
had been so gravely warned.
She turned her little vessel sharply towards the bank of the river where
it rose high, and the last of Fox Bluff projected a dense mass of Arctic
willow which hung down, a perfect screen, till the delicate foliage
buried itself in the bosom of the stream. A few swift strokes of her
paddle and she passed from view behind it.
The nose of her vessel was securely resting on the sticky mud of the
bank. She had turned about. And now she sat waiting, peering out through
the foliage as might some hunted silver fox, whose pelt was one of the
chief objects of her trade. She gave no sign, she made no sound. She had
no intention of revealing her presence. But she would see for herself
the thing she must shun, the thing whose presence in her home she must
always deny.
It was a long waiting, but it mattered nothing. The daylight was almost
unending now, and anyway time had small enough bearing on the simple
affairs of her life. She had time for the indulgence of every whim, and
the youth in her prompted a full measure of such indulgence.
A happy excitement thrilled her. Everything that lifted her out of the
humdrum routine of her life on the farm became an exhilarating
excitement. She was completely happy in her life. She was happy in her
support of the mother woman labouring in her home for her many
offspring, she was happy in her association with the Indian, Usak, whose
untiring labours had built up the great reindeer farm of which he had
assured her she was mistress. But her mind was groping amongst a world
of girlish dreams, yearning and full of unspoken, unadmitted desires. A
subtle restlessness was at work in her, and it found expression in the
impulse which had become so irresistible. All her life had been bounded
by narrow limits of association. Her only human associations had always
been those of her far-off home, and the trading post with its factor,
and those men of the fur trail who foregathered about its staunch walls.
Here, for the first time, was something new. And more than all it was
something that was prohibited.
* * * * *
The two men were gazing out at the churning waters storming over the
shoals, and the outlook was threatening. They were standing on the low
bank, trampling underfoot the carpet of flowers which grew in profusion
down to the very edge of the river. They were surveying the junction of
the two rivers where the Caribou broke its way into the flood of the
Hekor, and the endless battle of conflicting streams was being fought
out. The cauldron of boiling rapids extended for nearly two miles.
Wilder raised a sunburnt hand and crushed the blood glutted bodies of
half a hundred mosquitoes on the back of his powerful neck.
“It’s portage, sure, Chilcoot,” he said, with that finality which
denoted a mind made up. “I don’t see a passage anywhere fit to take the
big boats. I’d say the stream’s deep this side under the bank, but we
can’t chance things.”
Chilcoot Massy chewed on for a moment in deep contemplation. He was a
silent creature, squat, powerful and grey-headed, with the hard-beaten
face of a pugilist. He was a product of the northern gold trail whose
experience went far back to the first rush over the Skagway in ’98, and
looked it all in the rough buckskin and cord clothing in which he was
clad. He was Bill Wilder’s chief lieutenant; a man whose force and
courage was unabated for all his years, and whose restless spirit denied
him the comfort and leisure which the ample wealth he had achieved in
association with his friend and one-time employer, entitled him to.
“It certainly looks that way,” he agreed. Then he demurred. “You never
can tell on these rivers,” he said. “We’d have done a heap better
breaking down our outfit, an’ takin’ on a bigger bunch of lighter
canoes. Maybe we’ll run into this sort of stuff right away up the river
as we get nearer the headwaters.”
Wilder shook his head.
“That trader feller didn’t reckon that way,” he said. “There isn’t a
thing to worry from here to the Great Falls,” he said. “And Loon Creek
is twenty miles this side of them. We’re liable to find it tough on the
creek. But that’s not new. We’ll be at work then with a fixed
headquarters, and we can travel light. Ben Needham said we could get
through this stuff if we fancied taking a chance. He guessed if we knew
it there wasn’t any sort of chance about it. Well, we don’t know it. And
I’m taking no chances. You see, there’s more to this thing than chasing
a simple gold trail.” He laughed. “Guess we aren’t civilians any longer.
We’re police. You and me, and Mike. And we’ve got our orders from our
superiors who don’t stand for disobedience. We’re being paid a dollar a
day to make good. And I don’t reckon the police pay out such a powerful
bunch of money to folks to make a failure. Come right on. We’ll get back
and eat. Then we’ll start in on the portage.”
They re-traced their steps to the camp that had been pitched well below
the rough waters.
It was a busy scene. The five great laden canoes were moored nose on to
the bank, and two smaller vessels were drawn up clear of the water on
the mud. It was an imposing fleet, equipped to the last detail, and old
Ben Needham had done it less than justice when he had contemptuously
characterised it for the benefit of the Kid. This was no Cheechako
outfit laden with the useless equipment engendered of inexperience.
It was an equipment such as only the wide experience of Wilder and
Chilcoot could have designed. It was made up of everything which the
outlands of the North demanded, from dogs and sleds to a miniature army
of Breeds and hard-living whitemen, armed to encounter human hostility
as well as the fiercest onslaughts of Nature’s most antagonistic moods.
Furthermore, full preparation for a long sojourn in an inhospitable
region had been made.
Hot food had been made ready when they reached the camp, and dogs and
men were busily engaged satisfying keen appetite for all the fierce heat
of the day and the shadelessness prevailing everywhere. The leader’s
camp had been set apart, and Red Mike, a red-haired, giant Irishman,
whose only sober moments were breathed beyond the drink-laden atmosphere
of the dance halls of Placer, was awaiting their return. He was third in
command, and his responsibility was that of quartermaster, and river
man, and for the discipline of the ruffian crew of the expedition. His
greeting was characteristic.
“Chance is the salt of life,” he cried, in a pleasant brogue, addressing
Wilder. “Are we takin’ it, boss?”
Wilder shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“Then sure you’ll set in an’ eat,” was the prompt retort. “Guess portage
was invented by the divil himself, an’ the Holy Fathers don’t reckon we
need to get in a hurry knockin’ at Hell’s gates. This sow-belly’s as
tough as dried snakes. I don’t seem to notice even the flies yearning.
Tea? Gee! It’s poor sort of hooch, even when you’ve skimmed the stewed
flies clear. I—Mother of Snakes! Wher’ did that come from?”
The man’s blue eyes were turned on the shining waters. His roving gaze
had been caught by the sight of a small hide kyak heading for the camp.
It was propelled by a single paddle dipping in the noiseless fashion
which belongs to the river Indians. And he squatted with a mouthful of
sow-belly poised ready to be devoured.
Chilcoot had flung his length on the ground, but Bill Wilder was still
standing. His eyes were turned at once on the approaching vessel.
Red Mike laughed.
“That trader guy’s sent us along a scout,” he said. “He’s a reas’nable
sort of citizen. I guess that Injun’s goin’ to save us portage.”
Wilder shook his head.
“Needham was all in beating it down river. And anyway—”
“He wouldn’t be passin’ us along a _white gal_ to show us them rapids.”
Chilcoot was sitting up. His hard face was wearing a grin that might
well have seemed impossible to it. And he spoke with an assurance that
brought the Irishman to his feet, with his food thrown aside as though
it were the last thing to be desired at such a moment.
The kyak approached the bank within some twenty yards. Then with a
thrust of the paddle the Kid held it up and sat contemplating the men on
the shore.
The whole camp was agog. The crews lounging over their rough trail food
watched the intruder curiously. But seemingly they had missed, in the
sunburnt figure, clad in familiar mannish buckskin, the thing which the
lightning eye of Chilcoot had discovered on the instant.
Wilder and Red Mike passed hastily down the bank while the older man
followed more leisurely.
It was just a little difficult. Once the men reached the waterside
Chilcoot’s assertion was left beyond question. Had the intruder been a
man, greeting and possible invitation would have been forthcoming on the
instant. As it was even the Irishman was reduced to silence in sheer
amazement. The girl was less than twenty yards away beyond the vessels
moored, a rampart between herself and the Cheechakos against whom the
factor had warned her. Her beautiful blue eyes were unsmiling. Her
sunburnt face was almost painfully serious. And her whole manner, and
her attitude told the men on the bank that her approach had definite
meaning which had nothing to do with idle curiosity. So they waited, and
finally the difficulty was solved by the girl herself.
“You’re getting ready for portage?” she called across the water.
“That’s so.”
It was Wilder who replied to her, and a smile lit his angular face as he
noted the sweetly girlish tones of the voice that reached him.
“You don’t need to,” came back the Kid’s prompt reply, and her paddle
stirred in the water and her little vessel crept in towards the laden
canoes. “There’s a deep channel. It’s right along under the bank, and
it’ll take the biggest boat you’ve got without a worry.”
Wilder stepped on to the nearest vessel and moved down its length. The
prow of the girl’s canoe had come within a yard of him, and he looked
down into the wide eyes gazing so confidently up into his.
“That’s just kind of you,” he said, in a tone he intended should escape
the listening ears behind him. “It’s a mighty big proposition portaging
this outfit, and I was feeling kind of reluctant.” He withdrew his gaze
from the fascinating picture of the white girl in the boat and glanced
in the direction she had indicated. “The channel cuts in under this
bank, you say? And it’s clear all the way?”
“Sure.”
The Kid’s bright eyes were measuring. In her mind was the haunting
memory of old Ben’s warning, but somehow it was powerless before her
inclination and the sight of this large man with his steady,
good-looking eyes, and wholesome, clean-shaven face. Her confidence
increased and her impulse became irresistible.
“If you feel like it I’ll give you a lead,” she said. “I know it by
heart. You see,” she added, with simple conclusiveness, “I was raised on
this river.”
Wilder nodded. His smiling eyes had come back again to the girl’s face
as she sat with her paddle stirring in the water to keep her place
against the stream.
“Did Ben Needham send you along?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” the Kid denied frankly. “I just saw you pass up stream and
guessed you were strangers. So—” She broke off. In a moment she realised
her mistake from the flash of inquiry she saw in the man’s eyes.
“I don’t remember passing you on the river,” he said quickly.
The girl’s moment of confusion passed, and frank impulse again took hold
of her. She laughed happily, and the man felt the infection of it.
“I saw you coming an’ took cover,” she said simply. “I guessed you were
Cheechakos and reckoned I’d take a look—at a distance.”
“Why did you take—cover? There wasn’t need?”
“No.” The Kid shook her head a little dubiously. “There wasn’t real
need. Only—”
“Yes?”
“Well, anyway I’ll be glad to pass you through the rapids if it’ll help
you. It’ll save you more than a day.”
“I’ll be grateful. I—wonder.”
“What?”
“You see, my name’s Wilder—Bill Wilder. And I was wondering what yours
was.”
Again the girl broke into a happy laugh and the gold man, in sheer
delight, joined in. Somewhere out of the blue a pretty white girl, with
blue eyes and a wealth of fair hair, clad in the vividly ornamented
buckskin which he associated only with the Indian, had descended upon
him at a time and place when he had only looked for the roughness of the
northern trail. It was all a little amazing. It was all rather absurd.
And she was offering to pass him practical help in the work in which he
had always believed himself complete master.
“I’m—the Kid,” she returned presently.
“Is that your name?”
The girl shook her head and her smile was irresistible.
“No,” she said. “But it’s how I’m known all along the river.”
“Then I guess it’s good enough for me.” Bill Wilder drew a quick breath.
“Well, Kid,” he went on with a smile, “we were just about to eat. Will
you step ashore and join us? Then, after, I’ll be mighty glad to have
you pass us up those rapids.”
The smile died abruptly out of the girl’s eyes. She remembered Ben
Needham and his warning.
“You’re Cheechakos—on the gold trail?” she asked.
Bill laughed. The whole position suddenly dawned on him.
“No,” he said. “No, Kid. We’re an outfit on the gold trail, sure,” he
went on quite seriously. “But we’re decent citizens. And there’s not a
thing to this camp to scare you. Will you come right ashore?”
For answer the girl’s paddle stirred more deeply and the nose of her
canoe shot up to the vessel on which the man was standing. He held out
one brown hand to assist her, but it was ignored. The Kid rose to her
feet, tall and beautifully slim, and sprang on to the vessel beside him,
carrying her own mooring rope of rawhide in her hand.
“I’m kind of glad you ain’t—Cheechakos,” she said.
And they both laughed as they passed back together over the bales of
outfit with which the boat was laden, and reached the river bank where
Chilcoot and Mike were waiting for them.
CHAPTER III
REINDEER FARM
The Indian, Usak, and the Kid were standing in the great enclosure where
three half-breed Eskimos were engaged in the operation of breaking young
buck reindeer to the sled work of the trail. They took no part in it. It
was the daily occupation in the springtime of the year. It began before
the break-up of winter, when it was conducted with heavily weighted
sleds, and, with the passing of the snow it was continued with the long
pole carryalls, which is the Eskimo means of transport over land in
summer. The carryall was in use now and it was an interesting struggle
between the skill of the squat, sturdy, brown-skinned breakers, and the
half-scared, half-angry fighting will of a finely grown buck deer whose
ragged coat of winter gave him the size of a three-year-old steer.
Haltered, and ranged along the rough-poled fence of the great corral
stood twenty or thirty young bucks awaiting their turn in the rawhide
harness, and they gazed round on the spectacle of their fighting brother
with eyes of mild wonder at the commotion he was creating. Otherwise
they seemed utterly unconcerned in their gentle submissiveness. They
were all man-handled and tame. They had been handled almost from their
birth, for the whole success of the farm depended on the turning out of
fully broken cattle, trained for the work of transport within the
Arctic, where the Eskimo estimate them above every other means of
traversing the vast spaces of snow and ice, or the barren, lichen-grown
territory of summer over which they were wont to roam.
The great deer was quieting down. His sense of the indignity of the
forked carryall resting on his high withers seemed to be passing. His
wild jumps and slashing forefeet were less violent, and his snortings of
fear and anger were replaced by meaningless shakings of the graceful
head on which his annual re-growth of antlers was only just beginning to
display itself. Finally, under the skilful handling of the breakers,
good-temper prevailed, and the beautiful creature was induced to move
forward dragging the boulder-weighted poles with their ends resting on
the ground.
“Him good buck,” Usak said approvingly, as the men led the now docile
creature round the circle of the breaking track.
“Yes.”
The Kid had nothing to add. Truth to tell for once she had little
interest in the work the result of which represented the livelihood, the
whole fortunes of them all. Her thoughts were far away, somewhere miles
along the broad course of the Hekor River. She was thinking of her
previous day’s adventure, and her pretty eyes reflected her thoughts.
Somehow her mood had lost its buoyancy. Somehow the years of happy life
on this far-off northern homestead seemed to have dropped away behind
her. Something had broken the spell of it. Something had robbed it of
half its simple, happy associations.
Gazing upon the mild-eyed creature now gracefully pacing the well-worn
track under the careful guidance of the dark-skinned men of the North,
she was thinking of a pair of clear-gazing, fearless honest eyes which
had looked into hers with a man’s kindly smile for something more weak
and tender than himself, for something that stirred his sense of
chivalry to its deepest. She understood nothing of his emotions, and
little enough of her own. She only remembered the smile and the
kindness, and the man whose outfit she had unfalteringly guided up the
open channel of the river where it skirted the deadly rapids. And
somehow, her adventure marked an epoch in her life which had completely
broken the hitherto monotonous continuity of it.
Bill Wilder. The man’s name was no less graven on her memory than was
the recollection of his great stature and the lean face which had so
re-assured her of the honesty and ability which old Ben Needham’s
warning had denied him. She remembered the half hour she had squatted in
company of these men, sharing in their rough, midday meal, and listening
to, and taking part, in their talk. It had been a thrilling excitement,
not one detail of which would she have missed for all the world. It had
been a deliriously happy time. She remembered how the man called Mike
had pressed her to say where she lived, and to tell them the name to
which she was born, and she remembered the sharp fashion in which, at
the first sign of reluctance on her part, remembering as she had Ben’s
warning, Bill Wilder had told him to mind his business.
Then had come her little moment of triumph when she had passed the
outfit up the open channel. How she had nursed it, and delivered her
orders to the men behind. How she had taken Wilder himself a passenger
in her pilot kyak, and left him wondering at her skill and knowledge.
Then had come the parting with her new friends, when the man had told
her in his quiet assured fashion that someday they would meet again when
his work was done. Someday he would come back, perhaps in two years, and
wait by the rapids till she appeared. And then on the impulse of the
moment she had said there would be no need for him to wait by the
rapids. All he had to do was to turn off into the mouth of the Caribou
River and pass some ten miles up its course.
She was wondering and dreaming now. Her wonder was if the man would
remember his promise, and her simply given invitation. And her dreaming
was of a steady pair of grey eyes that haunted her no matter where she
gazed and robbed her of all interest in the things which had never
before failed to hold her deepest concern.
“We mak fifty buck ready,” Usak went on, failing to realise the girl’s
abstraction. “Fifty good dam buck. An’ I mak north an’ mak plenty big
trade. Yes?” He shook his head, and his dark eyes, a shade more sunken
with the passing of years, but lacking nothing of the passionate fire of
his earlier days, took on a moody light. “Us mak no good plenty trade no
more. No. I go east, ’way nor-east plenty far. All time more far as I
go. What I mak? Fox? Yes. Beaver? Yes. Maybe I mak wolf bear. I mak
small truck. No seal. No ivory. No anything good. Now I mak none. Not
little bit. Him Euralian mak east. All time him go east, too. Him eat up
all fur. Eskimo all much scare. Him go all time farther. So I not mak
him.”
The man’s half angry protest impressed itself upon the girl. Her
pre-occupied gaze came back to his dark, saturnine face. An ironical
smile played for a moment in the blue of her eyes.
“Does it matter, Usak?” she asked. “Old Ben Needham has gone, an’ the
store’s closed down. If you made good trade I guess we’d be left with it
piling in our store.” She shook her head almost disconsolately. “Ther’s
only Placer for us now. We’ll need to make the trip once a year, and
trade the small truck we can scratch together. It’s that or—”
The girl broke off. Ben Needham had gone. Bill Wilder and his party had
vanished up the river. Quite suddenly the desolation of it all seemed
complete.
There was moisture in her eyes as she turned from the man’s dark face to
the familiar scenes about her. The wide Caribou River Valley was bright
green with a wealth of summer grass and tiny flowers which the spring
floods had left behind them. The river was shrunken now to its normal
bed in the heart of the valley, which was walled in by high shoulders
separated by nearly two miles of flat. So it went on for many miles;
sometimes narrowing, sometimes widening. Sometimes the valley was almost
barren of all but the Arctic lichens. Sometimes it was filled with
wind-swept pine bluffs, often dwarfed, but occasionally extensive and of
primordial characteristics. The farm was set in a deep shelter of a
bluff of the latter kind. The house lay behind them, nestling just
within great lank trees that in turn were sheltered by a granite spur of
the great walls which lined the course of the valley. It was a crude but
snug enough home. It was a structure that had grown as the mood and
ability of Usak, and the needs of those who had elected to share it with
him, had prompted.
It was seven years since the change had taken place. Before that, for
eight long years, it had been the home of the child Felice and her
Indian, self-appointed, guardian. Usak had been as good as his word.
Felice had been left to the care of Hesther and Jim McLeod while he went
on his mission of vengeance after he had been left wifeless, and Felice
had been left a helpless orphan. He had returned as he said he would. He
had returned to claim the orphaned child of his “good boss.”
The whiteman and his wife had been reluctant. They had realised their
duty. Usak was an Indian, and they felt that in giving the child into
his keeping they were committing a serious wrong.
But it so happened that with the return of Usak from his journey into
the great white void of the North, the story of which he refused to
reveal, Hesther’s first baby was about to be born. And the coming of
that new life pre-occupied both husband and wife to the exclusion of all
else, and helped to blind them to their sense of duty. So the Indian’s
appeal had double force. And finally they yielded, convinced of the
man’s honesty, convinced that in denying him they would have inflicted a
grievous wound on the already distraught creature.
So Usak had come into possession of the treasure he claimed as an offset
to the monstrous grief of his own personal loss, and he set about the
task of raising the child with the inimitable devotion of a
single-minded savage.
The man had laboured for her with every waking moment. He had laboured
to replace the mother woman who had nursed her, and the great white
father whom he had loved. He had laboured to build up about her the farm
which was to yield her that means of livelihood which his simple
understanding warned him that Marty, himself, would have desired for
her.
It had been a great struggle with his limited education and only his
savage mind to guide him in the barter which was the essence of the
success he desired. Then, too, with each passing year the depredations
of the invading Euralians spread wider and wider afield as the central
control, which apparently had always existed, seemed to lose its grip on
the rapidly increasing numbers of the foreign marauders. Futhermore, his
trade with the little people of the Arctic had in consequence receded
farther and farther, till, as he had just said, it had passed almost
beyond his reach.
So things had gone on till eight years had passed and the dark eyes of
the man saw the womanly development of the pretty white child. Then had
happened another one of those strokes of ill-fortune which so often
react in a direction quite undreamed.
Hesther and Jim McLeod had developed a family of three boys and three
girls in the course of the eight years. Trade was bad, and the threat of
closing down the store was always hanging over them. Then, one day, in
the depths of the terrible Arctic winter, the man was taken ill with
pneumonia, and, in a week, Hesther was left a widow with six small
children and no one to turn to for support and comfort, and with little
more in the world than the shelter of the store, and such food as it
provided, until the Fur Valley Company should remove her and replace her
dead husband with a new Factor.
The Company dealt fairly, if coldly, with her. Ben Needham was sent up
to replace the dead Jim McLeod at the opening of spring. And the widow
and her children were to be brought down to Dawson, and, forthwith sent
on to such destination as she desired. The Company gave her travelling
expenses, and a sum of money to help her along. And that was to be the
limit of its obligations.
But Hesther McLeod had definite ideas. Her cheerful optimism and gentle
philosophy never for a moment deserted her. During the dark months of
winter, when she was left with only the ghost of her dead, she strove
with all the calm she possessed to review the thing which life had done
to her. She was quite unblinded to the seriousness of her position. She
probed to the last detail all it meant to those lives belonging to her
which were only just beginning. And finally the decision she took had
nothing in it of the promptings of hard sense, but came from somewhere
deep down in a gentle, brave, motherly heart.
She would not quit the country in which had been consummated all the
joys of motherhood. Her children were of the North, and should be raised
men and women of the great wide country which had yielded her all the
real emotions of her life. She would stay. She would take the pittance
which the Company offered, but the North should remain her home. And
curiously enough the main thought prompting her heroic decision was the
memory of the white girl she had handed over to the care of the Indian,
Usak.
The rest had been easy to a creature of her simple practice. Usak was
forthwith consulted, and the loyal creature jumped at the idea that the
whitewoman and her children should make their home on the farm he was so
ardently labouring to build up for the daughter of his “good boss.”
In short order the three-roomed log shanty grew. It spread out in any
convenient direction under the man’s indefatigable labours, and the
mother’s domestic mind. A room here was added. A room there. And so it
went on, regardless of all proportion, but with keen regard for
necessity and convenience. And Hesther brought all her chattels with her
from the store, and her busy hands and invincible courage swiftly turned
the place into a real home for the children, and everything else
calculated for the well-being of the lives it was her cherished desire
to do her best for.
So in the course of years, sometimes under overwhelming difficulties,
Felice, who, from the start had been affectionately designated “the Kid”
had grown up to womanhood, taught to read and write and sew by Hesther,
and made adept in the laborious work of the farm and trail and river by
Usak.
And through every struggle, under the radiance of the mother’s courage
and sweetness of temper, and watched over by the fierce dark eyes of the
devoted Indian, it had always been a home of happiness and hope. And
this despite the fact that every factor to make for hope was steadily
diminishing.
The Indian was in the mood for plain speaking now. And the Kid, her mind
disturbed out of its usual calm by her recent adventure, was eagerly
responsive.
The Indian shook his head so that his lank hair swept the greasy collar
of his buckskin shirt.
“The good boss your father, him speak much wise. Him say—”
“I know,” the Kid broke in impulsively, and with some impatience. “Guess
you’ve told me before. ‘When the fox sheds his coat the winds blow
warm.’ We know about that, don’t we?” She smiled for all her real
distress. “But I’d say Nature’s mighty little to do with human trade.
When ther’s no food in the house we’ll have to go hungry, or live on
caribou meat. Say, can you see us sitting around with the wind whistling
through our bones? Does the notion tell you anything? It won’t blow
warmer because Mary Justicia, an’ Clarence, an’ Algernon, an’ Percy, an’
Gladys Anne, an’ Jane Constance are hungry. It won’t be so bad for
mother, an’ me, an’ you. We’re grown. And it won’t be the first time
we’ve been hungry. No. It’s no use. You and me, we’ll have to make
Placer, where the folks drink and gamble, and dance, most all the time,
and, when they get the chance, rob the folks who don’t know better.
We’ll have to make the river trail once a year and buy the truck we need
with the furs we can scrape together. It’s that or quit.”
For some moments the man’s resentful eyes watched the harnessing of a
fresh buck. The creature bellowed and pawed the ground with slashing,
wide-spreading hoofs.
“We mak ’em, yes,” he said, as the beast quietened down. Then he broke
into a sudden fierce expletive. It was the savage temper of the man as
he thought of the cause of all their woes. “Tcha!” he cried, and his
white, strong teeth bared. “They kill your father. They kill Pri-loo.
Now they kill up all trade—dead. I go all mad inside. I tak ’em in my
two hand, an’—an’ I choke ’em dis life out of ’em. I know. They mak it
so we all die dead. No pelts, no food, no deer. So we not wake up no
more. Your father—him live—plenty much gold. Oh, big plenty. Us rich. Us
not care for trade. Us buy ’em up all thing. Yes.” His dark eyes were on
the movements of the men with the deer. But he saw nothing. Only the
vision which his passionate heart conjured out of the back cells of
memory. “Bimeby,” he went on at last, in a tone that was ominously
quiet, “I mak one big trip. I go by the river so I come by the big
hills. Maybe I mak big trade that place.” His eyes shone with a fierce
smile. “Oh, yes, maybe. Then maybe I come back. An’ when I come back
then us break big trail an’ quit. I know him dis trail. Great big plenty
long trail. Us come by the big river an’ the big lak’. The good boss,
your father speak plenty him name. M’Kenzie. Oh, yes. M’Kenzie River.
Much heap fur. All fur. Seal, bear, beaver, silver fox. Much, oh much.
Black fox, too. All him fur. Plenty Eskimo. Plenty trader mans. Us not
mak him Placer. Oh, no. Plenty whiteman by Placer. Him see little
Felice, white girl Kid, him steal him. Oh, yes. Usak know. Him steal up
all child, too. So. Missis Hesther, too. They mak Felice to dance plenty
an’ drink the fire water. Not so Hesther woman. Him mak him work. All
time work. Him old. Not so as Felice. So I go by the trail. Bimeby I
come back. Then us mak big trail. Yes?”
In spite of herself the Kid was interested. But her interest was for
that part of the man’s planning which related to the mysterious journey
which the Indian declared his intention of taking. The talk of the
McKenzie was by no means new to her. She had heard it all before. It was
the dream place of the Indian’s mind, which the talk of her dead father
had inspired. She shook her head as her eyes followed the docile
movements of the newly broken buck.
“Why must you go up the river to the big hills?” she asked seriously.
“That’s new. The other isn’t.”
The man shrugged his angular shoulders.
“I just go. An’ I come back.”
“What for?”
The blue eyes were searching the dark face narrowly. But the man refused
to be drawn.
“It plenty good place by the hills. Maybe I get fur. Maybe—gold. I not
know. Sometime I dream dis thing. I go by the hills, an’ then I—come
back. I know. Oh, yes.”
“I see.”
The girl smiled, and the Indian responded for all his mood. This girl
was as the sun, moon, and stars of his life.
“Say, Usak,” she went on, with a little laugh, “maybe I guess about
this. You have a friend there by the hills. A woman eh? That so?”
“Maybe.”
The man’s eyes were sparkling as they grinned back into the Kid’s face.
But it was a different smile from that of the moment before.
“Then I don’t figger I better ask any more,” the girl said simply. “But
we’re not going to the McKenzie. We’re not going to quit here—yet. No.
We’re going to make such trade as maybe at Placer first. Later, if we
figger it’s too worrying to make Placer, then we’ll think of McKenzie,
an’ you I guess’ll be free to go right along an’ say good-bye to your
lady friend up in the hills. Let’s get this fixed right now. You guess
this farm is mine, my father started it for me. An’ you, big Indian that
you are, have done all you know to make it right for me. Well, I guess
it’s up to me to figger the thing I’m going to do. That’s all right.
I’ve figgered. So has our little mother. We’re goin’ to give this change
two summers’ trial. And after that, if things are still bad, why, we’ll
think about—McKenzie.”
The Kid’s manner was decided. Usak was an Indian, a man of extraordinary
capacity and wonderful devotion. But from her earliest days he had
taught Felice that the farm was hers and he was her servant. And the
child had grown to feel and know her authority, and the difference which
colour made between them. Whatever the man proposed, hers was the final
decision. And for all her real, deep regard for the man who had raised
her, she understood he was still her servant.
Now her decision was taken out of something that had no relation to the
welfare of those depending upon it. It had nothing to do with the
prosperity of the farm. It had nothing to do with wisdom or judgment. It
was inspired by one thing only. The man whom she had passed up the
rapids had said he would come back. And she had told him to seek her ten
miles up the Caribou River. Two summers. Yes. He must surely be back in
that time. If not—well, perhaps, the McKenzie would be preferable to the
Hekor if he had not returned in that time.
A shrill of childish voices broke upon the quiet of the sunlit corral,
and Usak turned as a troop of children came racing across to where they
were standing. Mary Justicia, by reason of her long bare legs and
superior age, led the way. And she was followed in due sequence of ages
by Clarence, Algernon, Percy, Gladys Anne, and the rear was brought up
by Jane Constance, a brownfaced, curly-headed girl of about seven years.
They were all bare-legged, and the boys were scarcely clad at all above
the buckskin of their breeches. But they were full to the brim of
reckless animal spirits and the perfect health provided by a life lived
almost entirely in the open.
“Kid! Ho, Kid! Kid! Kid! Kid!”
The name rang out in a chorus of summons ranging from the rough,
breaking voice of Clarence to the almost baby treble of Jane Constance.
The Kid swung about as the youthful avalanche swept down upon her, and,
in a moment, she was almost smothered by the struggling children
reaching to get hold of some part of her clothing. There could be no
mistake. Adoration was shining in every eye as the children reached her.
There was laughter and a babel of voices as they took possession of her
and started to drag her towards the house where dinner was waiting
ready.
Usak looked on without a word. He was more than content. The girl had
given him her decision as to the future, and though it clashed with his
own ideas it was her decision, and, therefore, would be obeyed. He was
as nearly happy as his fierce, passionate temper would permit. These
children in their amazing hero worship of their older sister, as they
considered her, had his entire approval. They were only little less to
him than the Kid. He was Indian and they were white. And the big heart
of the man thrilled at the thought that these helpless whites were no
less his charge than the grown woman-child of his “good boss.”
* * * * *
They were ranged about the rough table for their midday meal. The
step-ladder sequence of their ages and sizes was only broken by the
presence of the Kid, who sat at one end of it between Algernon, of the
red-head and freckles, and the grey-eyed Percy, who was the born trader
of the community. Hester McLeod, grey of hair for all her comparative
youth, smiling, small, and workworn sat at the head of the table between
the head and tail of her reckless brood. Mary Justicia was at her right,
a pretty, black-haired angular girl of nearly fifteen, ready to minister
to everyone’s wants, a sort of telephonic communication with the
cookstove, and Jane Constance, with her mass of brown curls, and a face
more than splashed with the stew she was devouring, on her left.
At the moment they were all hungrily devouring, and silence, only broken
by sounds of mastication, prevailed. Each child had a tin platter of
venison stew to consume, and a beaker of hot tea was set close to their
hands. They fed themselves with spoons as being the most convenient
weapons, and attacked the fare, which was more or less their daily menu,
with an appetite that was utterly unimpaired through monotony of diet.
The Kid looked up from her food. For a moment her fond eyes dwelt on the
unkempt ragamuffins gathered about the table. There was not one of the
six that was without individual interest for her. They often plagued
her, but right down to the generally incoherent Jane Constance they
looked to her in everything, from their games, to the needs of their
growing bodies. She loved them all for just what they were, unkempt,
often up to their eyes in dirt and mischief. But more than all she loved
the patient, mild-eyed woman at the head of the crazy table, whose
purpose in life seemed to be the whole and complete sacrifice of self.
Her gaze wandered over the mud-plastered walls of the living room of
this Indian-built shauty. Every crack in it, every uneven contour of the
green logs of which it was constructed, was known to her by heart. There
were no decorations. There were no other furnishings but the table, and
the benches on which the children sat for their food and lessons, and a
makeshift cupboard in which were stored groceries, and such domestic
articles as Hesther had been able to bring with her from the Fort. It
was all crude. It was all unlovely, except for the wealth of generous
humanity it sheltered. But every roughness it contained was bound up
with simple happiness for the girl, and the memory of long years of
childish delights.
“We’re going to give it two years’ trial, Mum,” she said, while the
children’s voices were held silent. “It’s the best we can do, I guess,
now old Ben’s pulled out. You’ll have to make out the best you know
while Usak and I beat down the river to Placer once a year. Maybe it
won’t be so bad for you now with Clarence and Alg nearly grown men, and
Mary fit to run the whole bunch herself. If things don’t get worse, and
we make good trade in Placer I guess we’ll scratch along right here till
the boys are full grown. Then we’ll see the thing best to be done. If
things get worse Usak wants to make McKenzie River. He’s crazy for the
McKenzie Valley. With him it’s the thing to fix everything right.”
The mild-eyed mother reached out with a handful of apron and wiped away
the lavish helping of stew which had embedded itself in Jane Constance’s
thick brown curls. The smears on her chubby face were hopeless. They
could remain for the wash tub afterwards.
“I guess it’s what you say, Kid,” she acquiesced. “The good God gave me
two hands and the will to work. But I guess he forgot about the means of
guessin’ right when things got awry. The twins are some men—now,” she
went on fondly, gazing with pride upon Clarence and Algernon, with his
fiery red-head, the possession of which was always a mystery to her
contented mind. “We’ll make out. Eh, Mary?” she cried, turning to the
dark-eyed girl who was her eldest child. “Things don’t figger to worry
you if you don’t worry them, I say. When do you pull out?”
“When the breaking’s through, and the deer are ready for the winter
trail. The season’s good with us if we could only get the pelts. We’ve
more deer to trade than we’ve ever had before.”
Percy looked up, his grey eyes alight.
“Why don’t we quit trade and chase up that gold Usak’s always yarning
about,” he said eagerly. “It’s yours, Kid. Leastways it was your paw’s.
We wouldn’t need to worry with furs then.”
The boy pushed his plate away. For all he was not yet twelve, gold held
a surpassing fascination for his alert, trading mind.
“I’m all for the gold, Mum,” he went on soberly. “An’ I’m real glad old
Ben’s gone. Ther’s no one around but ourselves now, when we find it.
Breeds don’t figger in it. When we get it we’ll divide it all up. Kid’ll
have most, ’cos it’s hers, anyway. The one who finds it’ll have next.
An’ Jane don’t need any. You see, she’s a fool kid, an’ would maybe try
to eat it. Guess I’m goin’ to find it.” The Kid laughed, and exchanged
meaning glances with the mother across the table.
“Can you beat him?” she cried, and all the children laughed with her.
“He’s arranged for the finder to have next most to me. Say Perse, Mum
had best read you out of the Testament. Ther’s a man in it they used to
call Judas. I guess you ought to know about him. Ther’s another feller,
but I don’t know about him. He was in another book. He was the same sort
of feller only not so bad. I think they called him Shylock. He’s in one
of old Ben Needham’s books, so you can’t read about him.”
“Don’t want to anyway,” retorted the unabashed Perse. “Soon as I’m as
big as Clarence an’ Red-head I’m goin’ out after that gold, an’ I’ll buy
you all a swell ranch an’ fixings, an’ give you all you want, an’ Mum
won’t have to work no more. I reckon Clarence an’ Red-head are kites.
Wish I was big as them.”
“Kite’s nothin’!” Clarence was without humour, and took his small
brother seriously. “You’ll do the chores same as us when you’re big as
us. Ther’ ain’t no gold ’cept in Usak’s head. Mum said the Euralians got
it years back. You’d do a heap better gettin’ after pelts same as
us—only we can’t get ’em. Gold—nothin’!” Perse thrust his empty plate
towards Mary Justicia who took it for replenishment, and he watched
while his mother wrung the small nose of Jane Constance which had got
mixed up with her stew.
“When I’m growed I won’t do a thing I can’t do,” he observed
graphically. “If ther’ ain’t pelts wot’s the use chasin’ ’em? You can’t
say ther’ ain’t gold till you chased it. I’m goin’ to chase that gold,”
he finished up stubbornly.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway what any of you are going to do in the
future,” the Kid said with finality. “Just now we’re kind of up against
it, and you’ve all got to help Mum all you know. Isn’t that so, Mum?”
Hesther beamed mildly round on the children, not one of whom she would
have been without for all the world.
“I guess that’s so,” she said. “We’re all goin’ to do our best, sure.
That’s what God set us to do. You see, kids, the folk who do the best
that’s in ’em mostly get the best of life. An’ the best of life don’t
always mean a heap of gold, an’ not even a heap of pelts. It mostly
means a happy heart, an’ a healthy body. And when you die it ain’t no
more uncomfortable or worrying than goin’ to sleep when you’re tired,
same as you do most every night when the flies an’ skitters’ll let you.
Now if you’re all through we’ll clean up. You boys see an’ pass Mary
Justicia the chattels, an’ fix ’em dry after she’s swabbed ’em clean,
while I huyk Jane Constance from under the stew that’s missed her mouth.
I guess Gladys Anne needs fixing some that way, too. Perse, you get me a
bucket o’ water an’ a swab. Maybe I won’t need soap—we ain’t got none to
spare.”
CHAPTER IV
WITHIN THE CIRCLE
Bill Wilder was squatting on a boulder under cover of the stone-built
fortifications. His rifle was lying in an emplacement overlooking the
waterway below. His grey eyes were pre-occupied, searching the red,
sandy foreshore across the river, which rose gently, baldly, sloping
steadily upwards to the boulder-strewn, serrated skyline beyond.
Chilcoot was seated near by. His rifle lay in another emplacement ready
for immediate use. He was chewing in the thoughtful fashion habitual to
him, even under the greatest stress. He, too, was searching the far side
of the river. His gaze was no less intent. It was the look of a man
whose habit has become that of ceaseless watchfulness.
“I wish I hadn’t let him go now.” Wilder spoke without turning. It was
almost as though he were thinking aloud. “He’s a crazy sort of hot-head
who can’t sit around when ther’s a scrap to be had.”
Chilcoot spat through the loophole with great exactness.
“You don’t need to worry for Mike,” he said, with a short laugh that was
not intended as an expression of mirth. “He’ll get along when he’s
through. Ther’ ain’t the darn Euralian born that could chew him up. He’s
spent the worst part of a rotten bad life doin’ his best to lose it by
every fool play Placer could offer him—an’ failed. I guess a wild-cat’s
a poor sort of circumstance in the matter of lives alongside Mike. I
don’t worry a thing.”
“No.”
The break in their silence closed up at once. Chilcoot took a fresh chew
and wiped the mosquitoes from the back of his neck. Wilder filled his
pipe. The smell of cooking was in the air. There were others lining the
fortifications at every point, and one or two men were moving about the
camp fire behind them. But for all the watch at the outer walls the
place suggested noonday idleness. Even the trail dogs were drowsing in
the shade of the walls.
The Arctic sun shone down out of a cloud-flecked sky on a scene of
barren unloveliness. Long since it had burned up such meagre foliage as
the floods of spring had made possible. The whole country-side was as
bald as an African sand desert. The blaze of miniature spring flowers
had been swept away, and the dried grass was as brown and wiry as the
sparse bristles on the back of some hoary hog. Even the lichens which
flourished on the low, rock formations of which the whole country of
this northern river was composed, were in little better case. Utter
sterility lay in every direction. The desolation, the heat, the flies,
the mosquitoes, these things made for a condition that was well nigh
intolerable.
The camp was set at the far headwaters of Loon Creek. It was nominally a
gold camp; in reality it had little to do with anything but defence. It
was a veritable fortress built out of the millions of storm-worn
boulders that littered the region. A wide, encompassing stone corral,
nearly ten feet high, formed the outer defence, which, in turn,
contained a stout, similarly built citadel which sheltered quarters for
men and dogs, and the stores and gear of the outfit.
Bill Wilder and his men had embarked on their expedition with no greater
concern than had usually been the case when the magic of gold had been
the sole lure. George Raymes had despatched him to these uncharted
regions with a curiosity deeply stirred, but with the gold fever burning
fiercely in his veins. And Wilder had prepared for every emergency, but
always with a smile of deprecation for the extent of the war-like stores
which the police officer insisted were absolutely necessary. Now he was
more than thankful for the foresight of the man who had some twenty-five
years of police experience behind him.
He was under no illusion now after a year of this deplorable territory.
None of the men with him had any illusion either. The lure of gold may
have been the original inspiration with them, but from the moment of
embarking upon the waters of Loon Creek it had been swept from their
minds in the fight for their very existence that was swiftly forced upon
them. For all they only contemplated the pursuit of a legitimate calling
in their own Canadian territory they found themselves cut off by many
hundreds of miles from all help in a country peopled by a race of beings
who were furiously hostile.
All through the previous summer the war had been waged. It had been a
heart-breaking guerilla warfare that knew no cessation. The mysterious
enemy seemed to be waiting for them at every possible point along the
river, and in each and every case the resulting fight was of that
comparatively long range character that was more irritating than
disastrous.
The Euralians were past masters in the art of challenging Wilder’s
progress. They never offered a pitched battle. They attacked at a
distance with rifle and soft-nosed bullet, and the pin-pricking of it
was like the maddening attacks of the swarming mosquitoes. The whole
thing was amazingly well-calculated. There was no respite, there was not
a moment in which the creek could be adequately explored for gold. The
expedition was forced to defence almost every hour of the unending
daylight.
In this fashion, during the first summer, the headwaters of the creek
had been reached. But they had been reached with barely time to build
winter quarters before the freeze up and the long night of winter
descended upon the world.
With the closing in of the Arctic night hostilities ceased as far as the
human enemy was concerned. The Euralians fled before the overwhelming
forces which Nature was about to turn loose. Perhaps they understood the
terror which the intruders would be forced to endure on these barren
lands where shelter was unknown. Perhaps they considered it sufficient.
Perhaps they feared for themselves the ferocity of the Arctic night.
Doubtless they were simply satisfied that their prey was held fast, a
helpless prisoner within the walls of the stronghold he had set up in
defence, and was powerless to operate in any of the desired directions.
At any rate Wilder was left unmolested in the grip of the northern man’s
natural enemy.
It had been a desperate time in which the intensity of cold was the
least of many hardships. Fuel had been scarce enough, but sufficient
driftwood and masses of dried lichen had been collected to make life
possible. So the expedition had endured through alternating periods of
snow-storm and blizzard, when the blackness of the northern night could
well-nigh be felt. Then had come those brilliant intervals of starlight
when the twilight grew under the splendour of a blazing aurora, and the
temperature dropped, dropped till the depths of cold seemed illimitable.
It was in these extremities that the whiteman displayed his right to his
position in the scheme of life. An iron discipline ruled the camp, and
never for a moment was it relaxed. Never was the mind permitted to drift
from the appointed labours. Storm or calm it was the same. For Bill
Wilder, and Chilcoot, and even the hot-head, Red Mike knew that it was
work, or the complete disintegration of the will to endure, which, in
turn, would mean disruption and final disaster to the whole of their
outfit.
So desperate was the interminable winter that every man of the outfit
welcomed the deluge of spring with its promptly swarming flies and
mosquitoes, and the reopening of hostilities with their almost unseen
human enemy. Within a month summer was upon them, and the previous
summer’s battle was again in full swing. So it had gone on. And now at
last the wear and futility of it all was beginning to have its effect.
The expedition had endured for a year under conditions almost
unendurable. And during the whole of that period not one single detail
of its original purpose had been achieved.
Gold? It was the last thing in their thoughts now. And as for the
Euralians, with whom they had been in fighting contact for at least half
the time, their identity, their personality was the same sealed book to
Wilder that it had been before he had listened to their story from the
lips of George Raymes. They had never yet made one single prisoner, or
possessed themselves of the slain body of a single victim of their
rifles. No member of the outfit had as yet more than a rifle shot view
of these savages, who so skilfully avoided contact while yet prosecuting
their warfare.
Chilcoot regarded his leader and friend with eyes that twinkled for all
they were serious.
“No. Not for him,” he said provocatively.
Wilder lit his pipe. Then he reached out and opened the breech of his
rifle to let the air pass through the fouled barrel.
“Guess that’s a qualification,” he said regarding the weapon in his
hand.
“Sure,” Chilcoot again laughed shortly. “Ther’s bigger things to worry
for than Red Mike—crazy as he is.”
Wilder nodded. He laid his rifle back in its place with the breech
closed, and a fresh clip of cartridges in its magazine.
“The boys are worrying, an’ it ain’t good. Buck Maberley told me a bunch
of stuff,” the other went on. “But it ain’t the trouble they’re liable
to make. We ken fix that sort o’ junk easy—up here. No. They’ve a
reas’nable grouch though. For once their fool brains are leaking
something better than Placer hooch. I guess they’re askin’ each other
the questions you an’ me have been askin’ ourselves without makin’ a
shout of it. And they’re mostly finding the same answer we get. They’re
guessing if we lie around here about another month, makin’ target
practice for them crazy foreign Injuns we look like takin’ a big chance
of never hitting up against Placer hooch ever again. Which is only
another way o’ sayin’ winter’ll fall on us before we can get back on to
the Hekor, an’ if we’ve the grub we ain’t got the guts to see it
through. You see, it would be kind o’ diff’rent if we’d the colour of
gold to sort of cheer us up. But what spare time those blamed Injuns
leave the boys they spend in panning river dirt for the stuff it never
heard about since ever the world began. An’ they’re sick to death makin’
fools of their better judgment. Curse the skitters.” Again Chilcoot
brushed his hand across his blistered neck and wiped its palm on his
moleskin trouser leg.
Wilder nodded as he, too, strove to rid himself of the insect attacks.
“We’ll have to beat it,” he said with a sigh of regret, but with
decision. “I hate quitting,” he went on a little gloomily. “I wouldn’t
say you’re right, boy, ther’s no gold on this river. But we can’t get
after it right. If the stuff right down here on the river in front of us
ain’t pay dirt I’m all sorts of a sucker. But it don’t matter. These
cursed Euralians have got us dead set so we can’t shake a pan right.
We’re beat. Plumb beat. They got us worried and guessing, which in a
territory like this, means—finished. Man, I’m sick to death of the bald
hummocks and the flies. Another winter up here would get me yeppin’
around like a crazy coyote.”
Chilcoot had turned back to his watch on the river. “Yep,” he agreed,
relieved at his chief’s swift decision. “When’ll we pull out?”
“Right after Red Mike gets back.”
The men continued their vigil in silence for awhile. The contemplation
of retreat, the acknowledgment of defeat were things that affected them
deeply. Both were of a keen fighting disposition. But their inclinations
were coldly tempered by the experience and wisdom which in earlier days
must have been impossible.
“You know, boy,” Wilder went on presently, in the contemplative fashion
of a mind groping, “these Indians have got me guessing harder than I’ve
ever guessed in my life. It’s up to us handing a report to old Raymes
when we get along down. Well, I guess if I was to pass him haf the stuff
jangling around in my head, I’d be liable to get a laugh from our
_superior_ that ’ud make me want to commit murder. These darn neches are
fighting like Prussian Junkers. They’re armed like Bolsheviks. And
they’re using the soft-nosed slugs you’d reckon to find in the hands of
modern Communists. Here they are thousands of miles beyond the reach of
the folk who could hand ’em that stuff. Yet they’ve got it plenty, and
know every darn move in the game played by European armies. Say, it
wouldn’t stagger me to find our fort doused with poison gas.”
Chilcoot spat with unnecessary vigour.
“You’re guessin’ ther’s something white behind ’em?” he said sharply.
“White?” Wilder laughed. He shook his head. “Maybe though,” he said,
“the thing that would best please me just now would be for that
darnation Irishman to bring us in a prisoner. Say, has it hit you we’ve
never got a close sight of these folks. Have you discovered that looking
at results it looks like we’ve never killed one blamed rascal of ’em,
and yet we reckon to carry with us some of the best artists with a rifle
this darned country possesses. We’ve had hundreds of brownfaced targets
for ’em, too. What does it mean? Why just this. Dead or alive these
neches don’t mean us to get a close view of their men. They’re afraid
for a whiteman to—recognise them. Well?” He laughed again. “Say, ther’s
a big play behind this thing, and we haven’t begun to discover it. I’m
not through with it. But I’m going to beat it down to the Hekor right
away, and get a look into it from another angle. Raymes was right. It
looks to me as if the feller who solves the riddle of these—Euralians—is
doing something mighty good for a whiteman’s country. The gold’s quit
worrying me a little bit. Say—”
He broke off and gazed musingly over the glittering waters of the river,
which was visible for miles away to the north in the flat, barren
country through which it meandered.
Chilcoot waited. His friend’s unusual burst of confidence was not a
thing he desired to interrupt. Besides he had voiced much of the thing
that had disturbed his less sensitive mind. So he went on chewing with
his eyes glued to the opposite shore.
“You know, boy, we’d have done well to have kept touch with that dandy
Kid we found at the mouth of the Caribou,” Wilder continued. “I’ve the
notion that bright girl was wiser to the things up this way than that
factor feller. An’ certainly wiser than George Raymes. She said she was
born an’ raised on the river. I wonder. I guess I’ve been wondering ever
since. You know there’s more to this play of ours than gold, an’
Euralians an’ things. There’s a ‘girl child—white.’ You remember?”
Chilcoot’s eyes were grinning into the other’s face as Wilder broke off.
He nodded.
“Sure I do. She’s surely a dandy Kid,” he said.
His grin passed, and seriousness replaced it.
“But she’d got six brothers an’ sisters an’ a mother, an’ I don’t
remember that Raymes said a word about them. You were feelin’ particular
not to ast questions of her. Well, I guess it was a pity. Ben Needham
never passed us a hint of her, either. Say, this is the queerest darn
country. It hides up a whole heap of queer things. Guess it’s that gets
hold of us mutts who waste precious years trying to beat it. We can
locate that Kid passing down river, though. An’ maybe you’ll feel less
a’mighty delicate astin’ questions.”
“Yes. I fixed to do that.”
“I guessed so. I—Say, ther’s Mike beating it for home.”
Chilcoot stood up as he spoke and leant over the hot stone parapet. He
was searching the canoe which had suddenly appeared driving down the
sluggish stream from the north.
Wilder, too, had risen to his feet. He was looking for the desired
prisoner in the boat. He counted the occupants. There were four. Only
four. And that was the number the Irishman had set out with. No. There
was no prisoner. The men in the boat were all whitemen. There could be
no doubt about it. Nor was there any sign of a wounded man lying in the
bottom of the little craft.
“The same old story,” Wilder grumbled.
“Meaning?”
“They’re coming back empty—Gee!”
A shot rang out. It was followed by another and another. The men at the
fort saw the water splash about the canoe where the bullets took effect.
But the boat came on through the sudden hail, and the men at the paddles
remained unscathed.
“That’s Indian shooting,” Chilcoot exclaimed contemptuously. Then in a
tone of deep regret. “If those guys would only give our boys such a
target.”
“That’s so.” Bill stood with his rifle ready, waiting for a sign of the
lurking enemy. “That boat would never make the bank if it was full of
Euralians. It makes you think they aren’t yearning to kill. Only to
worry. Come on. Let’s go down and get Mike’s news.”
Wilder’s outfit was lying moored and camped at the mouth of Loon Creek
where its waters debouched on the broad course of the Hekor. The barrens
were left far behind, and these men had come again to a country where
shade from the blistering sunlight was to be found in occasional bluffs
of forest, and where there was complete rest from the curiously
unnerving warfare they had so long endured.
The camp was pitched on a great spit of land supporting a dwarfed,
windswept bluff of forest trees. The shade from the burning sun was more
than welcome for all the haunting mosquitoes made it their camping
ground too. Great smudge fires of dank vegetation and lichen had been
lit, and, for the moment, even insect hostilities had ceased. The canoes
had been safely stowed for the night, and the men sat around in the
drifting smoke after their supper, while the trail dogs prowled in
search of any refuse which the meal of their human masters provided.
For all it was night, and rest and sleep lay ahead, the sun had only
changed its position in the sky and daylight was unabated. It might have
been high noon from the unshadowed brilliance of the world about them.
As Red Mike had once said in his graphic complaining: “God A’mighty
created the summer sun, but the Divil set it afire to burn everlastin’
north of 60 degrees.”
The three leaders were squatting on their outspread blankets in the
shade cast by a small clump of storm-driven spruce. They were
luxuriating in the smoke of three smudge fires set triangularly about
them. Each was clad as lightly as circumstances would permit. Cotton
shirts and hard moleskin trousers belted about their waists was all and
more than sufficient. Their arms and chests were bare. Each man was
smoking a reeking pipe, and a curiously fascinating, somnolent
atmosphere prevailed over the camp. It was the quiet of physical repose
after heavy labour, intensified by the Nature sounds which are never
absent in the northern wilderness.
Red Mike chuckled in his irrepressible fashion, and Wilder and Chilcoot
turned their reflective eyes inquiringly on his grinning countenance.
“Say, it’s a night—if you can call it night with hell’s own sun burning
blisters on the water—for rejoicin’,” he said. “Is it a drop o’ the
stuff you’re goin’ to open, Bill Wilder? Or has the water wagon got you
still tied to its tail? Man, I could drink the worst home-brew ever came
out of a prohibition State.”
Wilder hunched himself up with his hands locked about his knees, and a
faint smile of derision lit his steady eyes. “Rejoicing?” he said. “I
don’t get you, Mike.”
The Irishman’s blue eyes widened good-humouredly. “Ther’s folks never
made to rec’nize the time for rejoicin’, ’less it’s set for ’em by
politician-made law. It seems to me I remember the time when Bill Wilder
didn’t need the other feller to learn him that way. Say, we come down
that mud-bottomed creek nigh two-hundred an’ fifty mile without a shot
fired. From the moment we broke that crazy camp we set up to hold our
place on the map of this fool country them Euralians quit us cold. Guess
they said, ‘The gophers are on the run, let ’em beat it. They’re
quittin’, an’ we ain’t got time worritin’ with quitters.’ So they handed
us an elegant sort o’ Sunday School picnic passin’ down stream, makin’
twenty-five a day without puttin’ the weight of a fly on the paddles.
Well? Ain’t it time fer rejoicin’? Here we are right back in a territory
that looks almost good to me after those blazin’ barrens we left behind.
We’re right back with whole skins by courtesy of a bunch of dirty
neches.” He laughed again. “It’s sure time to—celebrate.”
It was Chilcoot who replied to him. And his retort came in the sharp
tones of a man unable to appreciate the raillery of the Irishman.
“We ain’t quittin’ them neches,” he said, his deep-set eyes snapping.
“Guess our work’s only started. But you’re right. It’s time to rejoice
_when we quit_, which won’t be this side of winter. If you’d hoss sense
you’d know we’re out-fitted for—three years. Guess Bill here ain’t
openin’ any old corks till we’re through.”
Mike sobered on the instant. He turned to Wilder.
“What comes next, boss?” he asked shortly.
Wilder nodded his head towards the great hills in the west.
“The Hekor, Mike,” he said seriously. “Ther’s no home run yet. There’s
nearly four months to the freeze up, an’ we pull out of here, west,
after we’ve slept. We’re making west to the headwaters, an’ to get a
look at the hill country. Ther’s gold around somewhere, and there are
those neches—as you choose to call ’em. We aren’t ‘quitting’ till we
know more about both.”
* * * * *
It was a scene which years before other eyes had gazed upon. It was the
canyon of the Grand Falls where the Hekor fell off the highlands of the
Alaskan hills. Wilder and his men were ashore at the only landing
available, and again it was a landing which had been used by another
years before.
The gold man and his fellows were fascinated by the tremendous grandeur
of the canyon, with the dull roar of great waters coming back to them
out of the dense clouds of spray which enveloped the far distance of the
straight hewn rift down which the surge of dark waters rushed.
“We can’t make that stuff,” Chilcoot demurred, his eyes on the turbulent
race of water which the canyon disgorged.
“We aren’t going to attempt it.” Wilder shrugged. He turned to Mike who
stood gazing out into the far distance absorbed by the magnificence
which so deeply appealed to his Gallic imagination.
“We got to see the thing lying back of those Falls,” he said pointing.
“Will you make it, Mike? Will you make it with Chilcoot and me? We can
leave camp to Buck Maberley. He can handle the boys good, and you can
put it up to him. I guess it means a portage up there. Then—Well, who
knows? Maybe we’ll be back here in two weeks. Maybe two months. I’ve got
a notion, and I’ve got to put it through. That territory out there is
Alaskan, and I want to get a look. Are you falling for it? I want the
answer right now. I’m guessing all the time. I don’t know a thing. But
I’ve got to get a look back of those Falls. Well?”
Mike’s gaze remained on the distance. The fascination of it refused to
release him. He replied without turning.
“Sure boss,” he said simply. Then he added whimsically “I’ll fall for
water—like that.”
And Chilcoot laughed. Even he found the frank admission of the
red-headed creature’s weakness irresistible.
CHAPTER V
THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS
Squat, broad, watchful Chilcoot Massy was standing on a crazy, log-built
landing which the years had rotted and clad with dank mosses and
leathery fungus. His deep-set eyes were full of wondering curiosity. For
the moment his work was standing guard over the canoe which was moored
to the landing, and which was the only means by which he and his
companions could hope to return in safety to Buck Maberley and the rest
of the outfit encamped three weeks’ journey away below the Falls of the
Hekor River.
Bill Wilder and Red Mike had been away a full hour or more. They had
gone to search the woods which came down almost to the water’s edge.
They had gone to reconnoitre the crowning discovery which the search
behind the Falls had yielded them.
Chilcoot had spent his time usefully. With his friends’ going he had
turned his attention first to the human signs about him. They had not
been many, but they had been such as he could read out of his wide
experience. The rusted mooring rings on the landing told of
comparatively recent use. The moss and fungus had been trodden by other
feet than his own and those of his companions. Then, on the bank, there
were the ashes of camp fires, and a certain amount of litter which
camping never fails to leave behind it. There was no doubt in his mind.
For all the landing was more or less derelict, it was still a place of
call for those who used this hidden waterway.
Chilcoot regretted not one moment of the labours of the past three
weeks. The portage up the canyon of the Falls of the Hekor River had
been gruelling. But compensation had awaited them. The grandeur of the
scene, the immensity of the Falls had been something overwhelming. He
had seen nothing comparable with either. Then had come the journey up
the wide river above them, and ultimately the lake supported high up in
a cup formed by the snow-clad hills. He had felt, if no other purpose
had been achieved, the wonders of this rugged hill country were amply
worth while. But the ultimate discovery of the hidden channel,
debouching into the lake through a narrow, twisted canyon cut through
the walls of the surrounding hills, which had brought them to the
strange, super-heated, mysterious Valley of the Fire Hills, had changed
his entire estimate of the reckless journey upon which Wilder had
embarked. Out of his long experience of the northern world he realised
that here was a discovery of real importance.
First it had been the curious black sand bed, over which the sluggish,
oily waters of the creek flowed, that had caught and riveted his
attention. Then had come the black slopes of the three smoking hills.
But, at last, when they reached the human construction of the
lumber-built landing, and glimpsed the lofty watch tower, erected within
the heart of the woods just inland of it, he realised something of the
real meaning of the thing they had chanced upon. There was nothing of
Indian or Eskimo about the landing. No watch tower such as they had
sighted above the tree-tops owed its origin to savage ideas of defence
or construction. No. Here was habitation deeply hidden with more than
native cunning. Here was something which pointed, in conjunction with
the curious features of the creek, to whiteman enterprise of some
serious commercial value. So, in an atmosphere of suffocating humidity,
he was waiting, keeping guard upon the canoe, lest, as in the past, they
were to find themselves again in hostile territory.
Having explored the signs about him he remained gazing down upon the
black sand bordering the sluggish waters, and thought and speculation
ran on while he searched as far as he could see up and down the creek.
Was he dreaming? Was it all fancy? Would he waken presently to the
rock-littered country of the “barrens” on Loon Creek?
No. He gazed out at the distant smoke cloud overhanging the valley, and
shook his head in answer to his unvoiced questions. No. There was no
fancy to any of it. It was real. Amazingly real. The valley was no
magic, but a substantial reality of Nature.
Memory was stirring. Other scenes and other times had come back to him.
He remembered his early days on the McKenzie. He remembered the
tar-sands which were common enough along its almost illimitable course.
He remembered the queer of it. How the precious liquid tar oozed up
through the sand and settled into great pools. He remembered the curious
jets of gas which spouted through the sand, and how they used to set
fire to them, and cook by the flame, and heat the tar with which they
smeared the bottoms of their light kyaks. He remembered how the Indians
and Breeds did the same thing, and had done so throughout the centuries.
The thing which chance had now found for them was something of the same.
Here was a valley whose heart was flooded with coal tar and oil. Oil? To
judge by the signs all down the length of the valley they had so far
traversed, there should be supplies of oil sufficient for the world’s
needs for years. The secret of the habitation which his comrades had
gone to reconnoitre was no longer a secret in his estimation. Somewhere
along this creek must be commercial workings of the precious material
with which he judged the region to be flooded. Who? Who? His mind groped
along every channel for an explanation. Whiteman? Perhaps. Euralian? He
left his final question without an answer.
* * * * *
“’St!”
Mike laid a detaining hand on the arm of Wilder. They were moving
cautiously through the woods skirting the clearing in which the great,
sprawling, log-built house stood.
“What is it?”
Wilder had halted in response to the Irishman’s gesture, and whispered
back his inquiry with some impatience.
“Someone behind us.” The eyes of the other were searching amongst the
trees and undergrowth through which they had just passed. “Guess the
bush broke twice. It’s no sort of fancy. Ther’s someone—”
He broke off listening, and Wilder distinctly recognised the faint
snapping of brushwood somewhere away in rear of them.
They waited. But as no further sound was forthcoming Wilder shrugged his
shoulders and nodded in the direction of the clearing.
“Guess we can’t worry with that,” he said, his eyes regarding the pile
of buildings upon which the sunlight was pouring. “There’s not a soul
around that house anyway, so far as I can see. Guess there isn’t even a
cur dog. We best quit this wood, and make a break for it. We got to know
who lives there. And it don’t much matter how they take our visit. You
got your guns fixed right?”
The Irishman chuckled in his light-hearted fashion. The invasion of the
house appealed to his reckless spirit. His fighting temper made him
hope, and his hope found swift expression.
“I’ll be sick to death if it’s white folk,” he said. “I’m yearning to
hit up against some of the Euralian gang. Come right on, boss. I’m your
man if you’re goin’ to break in on ’em. My guns are sure fixed.”
* * * * *
Their guns were utterly unneeded. As Wilder had surmised the place was
completely deserted. Their intrusion had passed unchallenged by any
living thing from the moment of entering the clearing. Now at last,
having passed through a seemingly endless series of rooms and passages,
they found themselves standing in a great central hall, beautiful in its
simple display of rich oriental decorations.
The Irishman’s blue eyes were grinning as they surveyed the deserted
splendour with which he was surrounded. He was incapable of appreciating
the full significance of that upon which he gazed. He had been robbed of
a forcible encounter, but he found some sort of compensation in the
astounding thing they had discovered.
“Gee!” he cried. “Makes you feel you’ve quit the dam old north country,
an’ hit up against some buzzy-headed Turk’s harem. Say, get a peek at
them di-vans. An’ them curtain things. An’ them junk china pots. Holy—!”
He broke off and his grinning eyes sobered. A thought had flashed
through his impulsive brain and held him silent.
Wilder was regarding him. All that Mike had only just sensed he had
realised from the moment they had set foot in the house. The place was a
miniature palace, something decaying, but the whole interior told of
Eastern tastes, Eastern habits, Eastern life. The place had been
furnished for oriental occupation. And realising this the name of one
race alone had flashed into his mind. Japanese!
A surge of excitement stirred. He gazed about the great hall, with its
silken hangings, heavily encumbered with the dust of years, with its low
silken couches. Then the carved wooden screen, and the central fireplace
elaborately built under its smoke funnel. He glanced at the bureau
bookcase of modern fashioning, and with every detail added conviction
came to him.
But desertion, or at least neglect, was stamped everywhere. There was
dust on everything. There was a curious musty smell which could not be
mistaken. But, somehow, for all that, there were signs, unmistakable
signs that desertion was not absolute. There had been remains of food in
the pantries. There were ashes in the cookstoves in the kitchen. There
was _water_ in various pitchers and buckets. No. Utter neglect, but not
complete desertion. This was Wilder’s final verdict, gaining
corroboration as he remembered the sounds of breaking bush which Red
Mike’s ears had been so swift to detect.
“We best make the sleeping quarters, Mike,” Wilder said after awhile.
“They’re liable to tell us the last thing we need to know.” And he
passed round the room in search of an outlet which might lead to the
apartments above.
* * * * *
Wilder flung the curtains quickly aside. It was an arched entrance to
one of the upper rooms. He stepped within the room closely followed by
Mike, and they stood silently regarding the interior with appraising
eyes.
Here again there was no occupant. It was a bedroom, and, judging by its
proportions, the principal bedroom. As it had been in the hall below the
furnishings were largely of Eastern fashion. But a modern, Western
bedstead occupied the central place, and a bureau dressing-chest stood
near to a window. For the rest there were silken curtains of lavish
wistaria and chrysanthemum design hanging at the windows, and the floor
of yellow pine was covered with Eastern, tufted rugs.
But the furnishings and decorations of this far hidden home no longer
pre-occupied Wilder. He had discovered the thing he wanted in the modern
bed and the faint, rather noxious odour which human occupation leaves
behind it for senses sufficiently acute. The bed was unmade. It was in
the condition left by a person who has just arisen from it. But he also
realised that not one but two persons had been its last occupants. This
in itself was illuminating, but not nearly so enlightening as the
prevailing odour of the room. That curious human odour had been
instantly recognised. And Wilder knew it had no relation to beings of
his own race. Again the name of the sons of Nippon flashed through his
mind, and a deep satisfaction warmed him as he remembered that after all
it looked as though he would not have to return entirely empty-handed to
his friend, George Raymes.
He turned sharply to his companion who had lost interest under his
chief’s silence.
“Guess I’ve seen all I need,” he said, while his eyes continued to
regard the bedstead. “We’ll get right back to the landing.” He thrust
back his cap from his broad forehead and turned towards the window which
looked out to the south. “Yes, we’ll get right back. This darn place is
not deserted. There are folks around. That being so there’s just one
thing worrying. It’s the safety of our canoe, and our outfit. So we’ll
get along, and you and Chilcoot will have to share guard on the outfit
between you.”
Mike’s blue eyes lit. The thing his chief suggested restored hope to his
fighting spirit.
“If ther’s folk around—an’ I guess you’re right—we’re liable to— Say,
what’s your play, boss, with us two standin’ by the outfit?”
Wilder’s gaze came back from the window. He had only looked out upon
what seemed to be unbroken forest. He shrugged. And a half smile lit his
eyes.
“Why, I’m goin’ to eat first,” he said. “After that—why, after that I’m
goin’ to take up a considerable temporary abode in this shanty.”
“Alone?”
A look of concern had gathered in the Irishman’s expressive eyes.
“Sure.”
“But—Say—”
“Here. Listen, Mike,” Wilder exclaimed a little impatiently. “That goes.
You understand. I’m going to sleep one night at least under this roof.
And I’ve got to do it alone. Ther’s folks belonging to this place, and
they’re around. If I’ve the sense of a blind mule I reckon they’ll sure
come back to their camp. Well, that’s what I want. And I want ’em to
find me here first. Come on. Let’s go an’ eat, an’ see how Chilcoot’s
making out.”
* * * * *
The quiet of the place was intense. Not a sound of any sort penetrated
the thick log walls of the house in the clearing. The brilliant,
interminable daylight went on, for all the hour belonged to night. No
ripple of air served to temper the humid heat of the valley outside. And
within the house the feeling of suffocation was well-nigh intolerable.
Bill Wilder had flung himself into the upholstered chair which stood
before the bureau bookcase which stood in the central apartment. It was
midnight, and he was completely weary of his solitary wanderings through
the deserted house. He had searched in every direction, in every
outhouse, and every nook and corner of the great building. For something
like four hours he had continued his work from the summit of the
look-out tower to the empty, filthy dog corrals on the fringe of the
clearing. And all his labours had yielded him nothing beyond that which
the place had told him in the first few minutes of his earlier visit
with Red Mike. He was disappointed. He was tired. But somehow he felt
that, for all the negative result he had obtained so far, there was
something still to come. Something which would ultimately reward his
persistence.
He felt his early inspiration was not for nothing. He knew it was not. A
subtle conviction pursued him, had pursued him every minute of his
lonely search. He could not have explained his reasons for the belief
that obsessed him. There were no tangible grounds for it, but he knew,
he felt that from the moment he had set foot within the strange house
there had been eyes following his every movement, there was someone,
who, all unseen, had never for a single moment permitted him to pursue
his investigations unobserved.
He was by no means imaginative in the ordinary way. His nerves were like
highly tempered steel. He had no fear of any sort either physical or
superstitious. He had no thought of any ghostly presence. But he knew
instinctively that someone belonging to that place was moving through it
with him, but along ways, and possibly hidden passages, which he had
been unable to discover.
His automatic pistol was fully loaded, and, from the first moment of his
vigil, he had been reasonably prepared for any eventuality, but he knew,
his hard common sense told him, that if his belief was justified there
was not one single instant as he plodded his way through apartment after
apartment, or even while sitting in the chair at the desk with his back
turned on the rest of the great hall, that he was not at the complete
mercy of those who were observing his movements.
Now he prepared for the last act of his search. That completed he would
carry out the rest of his simple programme. Yes, he must search the
desk, and the book shelves above it. Then he would betake himself to the
great bedroom upstairs and occupy the bed which he knew had recently
been occupied by others. A grim smile hovered for a moment in his steady
eyes as he thought of the outrage this taking of the bed of another
constituted in his understanding of the decencies of life. Maybe it
would— He dismissed the thought from his mind, and, reaching out,
lowered the flap front of the desk.
But he did not commence the search of the array of drawers and
pigeon-holes laden with documents with which the interior was furnished.
Instead, he sat back in the capacious chair regarding the rich inlay of
mother-of-pearl, and the exquisite carving which was revealed. The
beauty of the workmanship of the desk made only a passing impression. It
was not admiration that left him idly contemplating the thing before
him. It was something else. Something all unexpected and uncalculated.
Quite suddenly a wave of reluctance, that was closely akin to sheer
repugnance, had taken hold of him, and denied him the completion of the
work he had set his hand to. For the life of him he could not pry into
the private papers of his unknown host. Japanese, or any other, it made
no difference. That sort of thing was sheer police work, and, for all he
had been sworn a special constable for the occasion by his friend,
George Raymes, the police spirit had not yet fully taken possession of
his civilian feelings. No. He shut the desk up with something of the
rough force which his self-disgust inspired. He shot back the supporting
arms into their sockets, and turned his chair about in a manner which
displayed his irrevocable decision.
So he sat back, and drew his pipe from his pocket and filled it
contemplatively. His eyes were half smiling, and his expression was
wholly ironical for what he regarded as his own contemptible weakness.
He lit his pipe and gazed about him over the apartment. It was well past
midnight now, and the broad light of day lit the place with a soft
evenness that was something monotonous. And, smoking, he permitted his
thoughts to pursue the trend which his position inspired.
Strangely enough they left him without a shadow of concern for himself,
and only sought to unravel the mystery with which he knew he was
surrounded.
He was in the heart of the hills whence the Euralians were reputed to
hail from. He had discovered a miniature palace, not a rough shanty, and
it was furnished with the taste, and for the abode of someone of
unquestionably Japanese origin. A certainty existed in his mind that the
owner of it all was somewhere present in the house and in hiding. Why?
The territory was Alaskan. It had nothing to do with Canada, where he
had come from. Why, then, should the owner fear to show himself? What
object could he have in remaining hidden? He found several possible
answers, but none seemed to furnish an adequate solution. The whole
thing was an enigma that completely defeated him. But he meant to solve
it even if he was forced to remain a month in the place. The only
certainty he felt, and that for the reason of his belief that the owner
was watching him possibly at that very moment, was that his invisible
host possessed none of the hostility which the Euralians on Loon Creek
had displayed. Had it been otherwise, surely, long since, he would have
discovered it in a definite attack whilst engaged on his work of
unjustifiable intrusion and search.
However, it was all useless speculation. There was nothing further to be
gained by it. Possibly the bureau behind him might have told him
something. But there it was. A man’s private papers were sacred. And he
could not outrage such sense of honour as the traffic of gold had left
to him. No. He would go to the bed he had selected and—see what
happened.
He stood up and knocked out his pipe on the stone-built fireplace and
moved quickly, but without attempting to conceal his movements, from the
room.
CHAPTER VI
THE EYES IN THE NIGHT
A belated sense of humour was stirring in Bill Wilder as he passed on to
the quarters he had selected for his occupation. The room, he felt
certain, was that usually occupied by his invisible hosts. Convinced of
their secret surveillance of his movements he believed they would surely
witness his audacious usurpation of their private apartment. It was the
thought of this that brought the smile to his eyes. He was wondering
what form their very natural resentment would take, for he had no doubt
whatever as to what would happen with the position reversed. Anyway, he
felt he was playing a trump card for bringing them into the open, and
that, at present, was the thing he most desired. He would chance the
rest. Meanwhile further speculation was useless, and he shrugged his
broad shoulders, and his smile vanished under his resolve. He was
determined on a prolonged vigil. He would pretend sleep and—await
developments.
That was his purpose. But he failed to reckon with Nature and a
vigorous, healthy body. And, furthermore, he had forgotten the
oppressive humidity which weighed heavily upon the faculties. He had
also forgotten that he had been bodily occupied for something like
eighteen hours of the endless daylight. So it came that within five
minutes of flinging himself fully dressed upon the dishevelled bed he
fell into a deep slumber of the completely weary.
How long he slept he never knew. He was dreaming chaotically. He seemed
to be deeply concerned with a hideously misshapen mountain from the
sight of which it was impossible to escape. It was lofty, and heavily
snow-clad, and its fantastic shape continually changed, assuming absurd
likenesses to still more stupid things. First it looked like his block
of offices in Placer. Then it resembled the Irishman Mike, with flaming
top instead of red hair. Then, again, it somehow flattened out to a
burlesque of the barren surroundings of Loon Creek, only to leap again
into the shape of a golden domed palace with a watch tower reaching far
up into the clouds. The last kaleidoscopic variation it assumed was the
huge head of a dark-faced man, crowned with snow-white hair that
streamed down over shoulders completely hidden under its dense cloak,
and with a pair of eyes flaming with a fire that became agony to gaze
upon. It was the lurid horror of those eyes that finally startled him
into actual wakefulness. And he found himself sitting on the side of his
bed staring at something that sufficiently resembled the nightmare
horror of his dream to leave him in doubt of its reality.
He passed a sweating palm across his forehead. It was a gesture of
uncertainty. Then, in a moment, full realisation came, and he leapt to
his feet and his challenge rang out vital and determined.
“Not a move!” he cried. “Move and you’re dead as mutton! You’re covered!
An’, sure as God, I’ll drop you at the first sign!”
He moved a step forward. His body was half crouching, and his fully
loaded automatic pistol was leading threateningly.
There was no movement in response to his threat and he remained just
where his first step had carried him, while horrified curiosity, as he
gazed on the spectacle framed between the silken curtains of the arched
entrance to the room, replaced his urgency of a moment before.
It was a man and a woman. And they were standing side by side. They were
both something diminutive. Particularly was this the case in the woman.
The man was sturdily built, with lank, snow-white hair that reached from
the crown of his head, and hung down upon his broad shoulders. A long,
snowy beard covered his chest with such luxuriance that it almost seemed
part of the mane that flowed down to his shoulders. But all this,
striking as it was to the just awakened man, was quickly lost sight of
in the painful vision of a pair of eyeless sockets that gaped at him,
filled and surrounded with vivid inflammation.
The man was in rough clothing not dissimilar from that which Wilder
himself was wearing. His sturdy body was coatless and clad in a simple
grey flannel shirt, while his nether garments were of the common
moleskin type. He was old, but how old Wilder could not estimate with
any certainty. His eyelessness, and his snow-white hair and beard made
the task impossible. One thing alone impressed the onlooker in those
first startled moments. The man was blind, and his skin, in sharp
contrast with his hair, was of a darkish yellow. In a moment he had
realised the truth of his original estimate of the nationality of his
unwilling hosts.
The woman at the blindman’s side was a quaint, pathetic little figure.
She, too, was old, with greying black hair. She was clad in something in
the nature of a silken kimono, and looked as fragile as a figure of
exquisite porcelain. Her slightly slanting black eyes were steadily
searching the face of the white intruder while she stood clasping the
hand of the man at her side, in a manner suggesting motherly solicitude.
There was nothing resentful in her gaze. It was simply appealing,
troubled, appraising.
The whiteman’s order held them. They remained motionless, without a word
or sign, just where they had been discovered. It was almost as if, like
naughty children, they were awaiting the expected chiding following upon
some escapade in which they had been found out.
Realising their submission Wilder’s attitude underwent a change. He
dismissed his tone of sharp authority, but retained his threatening gun
in evidence.
“If you’ve a notion to come out into the open instead of spying around
in hiding I’ll put this gun up, and we can talk,” he said, with a look
in his eyes closely approaching a smile. “You see, I knew you were
around, and only took possession of your room in the hope of bringing
you out into daylight. Guess you’ve nothing to worry with if ther’s no
monkey-play doing. Well?”
He eyed them both searchingly while he spoke, but it was the queer
little, troubled-eyed woman whom he really addressed. The painful
fascination of the man’s terrible eyes had passed leaving behind only a
feeling of nausea.
After the briefest hesitation the woman spoke. She spoke in good enough
English with just the faintest foreign accent and occasional awkward
twist in her phraseology. Her voice was low and infinitely sweet, and
her whole manner suggested intense relief from some overwhelming burden
of terror.
“We feared it was the man, Usak, come back,” she said. “He say he would
come, and we look for him all the time. But you are white. Oh, yes. You
are not the Indian that he is. You come like all those others who look
for the thing this country has to give. It is so? Yes?”
With the mention of the Indian whom Wilder knew to have been the servant
of the murdered Marty Le Gros there came a movement on the part of the
blindman. It was a gesture, sudden and almost forceful. And the hand
that made it was that which the woman beside him was grasping. He half
turned as though about to speak. But he remained silent, obviously
restraining himself with difficulty.
Wilder saw the movement. He realised the man’s sudden disquiet. And he
understood. A feeling of elation swept over him. These people feared the
coming of Usak. These two strange, shy creatures in their far-off secret
home. And Usak had threatened them with his return. Why?
Suppressing his elation Wilder smiled down at the woman, so helpless, so
appealing in the terror she was unable to conceal.
“No,” he said almost gently. “I’m not Usak. I’m just a whiteman with two
companions. Guess they’re white, too. You see, we came right on this
place of yours without knowing about it. You don’t need to be worried.
But I got to make a big talk with you before I quit. And seeing ther’s
not a big diff’rence between day an’ night in this queer country do you
feel like making that swell hall of yours below and sitting around for
that talk? Do you? Both?”
Wilder’s gentleness was the outcome of an irresistible feeling of pity
for the frightened woman. It had nothing to do with the thing he had in
mind. The name of Usak was uppermost with him now, and he knew that one,
at least, of these strange figures was in some way deeply connected with
the ugly riddle it was his work to solve. His chivalry refused to
associate the woman with it. It was different, however, with the man for
all his terrible sightlessness. The man replied to him immediately and
his voice was harsh and cold. Its tone was wholly uncompromising.
“We can talk,” he said shortly.
Wilder’s whole manner hardened on the instant. And his answer came
sharply, and his tone was no less uncompromising than that of the other.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Lead the way down. And don’t forget ther’s
a ‘forty-five’ gun right behind you all the way.”
* * * * *
Bill Wilder had long since learned the lessons of a country in which
chance seemed to be the dominating factor of life. His hard schooling in
the wide scattered goldfields of Yukon Territory had forced the
conviction on him that chance was a better servant in this northern
country than hard sense. And he knew now that sheer chance had flung him
stumbling upon something that, if not actually the heart of the mystery
of the murder of Marty Le Gros by the Euralians, was at least no mean
key to it.
At the woman’s mention of the Indian, Usak, his mind had leapt back to
the story which George Raymes had been able, however inadequately, to
piece together from his old police reports. Usak, he remembered, was the
husband of the squaw who had been murdered. These two people feared his
coming so that they completely hid themselves at the approach of
strangers. Usak had _threatened_ them with his return. Therefore he had
visited them before. For what purpose? They were frightened for their
lives of him. Why should they be? Usak’s squaw had been murdered
by—Euralians.
Surveying the sturdy back of the white-haired man, blinded, helpless,
being led by the pathetic, devoted woman at his side, as he shepherded
them to the hall below, he remembered once long ago, in his chequered
career in Placer, to have seen a man whose eyes had been gouged in a
bar-room fight. He remembered the hideous spectacle he had been left,
and he knew that the man he had just discovered had endured the same
terrible, inhuman, treatment. Usak? Was that the source of the terror he
had inspired?
Reaching the hall his hosts took up their position standing near the
centre, stone-built fireplace. They had faced about so that they
confronted him, and Wilder understood the woman had simply obeyed the
man’s unspoken command.
The harsh voice of the blindman jarred on the quiet of the room.
“You are an intruder,” he declared, his eyeless sockets turned
unerringly on the whiteman’s face. “You invade our home unbidden. You
threaten us with your gun unprovoked. You say you are a whiteman. We are
helpless. I cannot even see you, and my wife is defenceless. Well?” He
shrugged with infinite contempt. “You demand talk with us. Go on.”
Wilder’s impulse was to retort sharply. But he restrained it. Where
there should have been pity for a blindman living out a darkened life in
these far-off mountains there was only antagonism and instant prejudice.
He understood how it came well enough. Instinct as well as swift
conclusion warned him that behind those eyeless sockets there dwelt a
mind driven by a nature something evil. For the moment, however, he must
adopt conciliation. Any other course would, in all probability, defeat
his ends. So his tone became that of easy moderation. He laughed.
“Guess I’m all you reckon, sir,” he said. “Yes, I’m an intruder, and I
need to pass you a hundred apologies. But what else could I do? Anyway,
the best now would be to hand you the meaning of the thing I’m doing.
You see, I’m out looking for things. The sort of things this queer
valley looks like handing out. I’m on a big prospect, and these hills
look to be full of the things I want. This is the second year I’ve been
on the trail, east, and west, and north, and now—well, I guess it hasn’t
been for nothing.”
“Oil? You’ve found the oil this valley is full of?” The blindman’s
question came sharply, but without alarm. His tone had lost something of
its harshness, and Wilder was satisfied. With deliberation, and almost
ostentatiously, he put his automatic pistol back into his hip pocket.
And he knew that the quick eyes of the woman were watching his movements
and conveying the story of them voicelessly, through her hand clasp, to
the man. Then he moved over to the chair which was turned about from the
bureau, and flung himself into it.
“Maybe,” he said. Then he indicated the couch which stood nearby to a
tall carved wooden screen. “Won’t you sit?” he went on pleasantly. “It’s
not for me to offer you a seat in your own house, but—” He broke off
with a light laugh. “Maybe we’ll be quite a while talking.” His whole
manner had assumed the cordiality he intended. There was a moment of
hesitation. Then, without a word, the woman led her charge across to the
dusty couch. But she did not move directly across. The couch stood
opposite where they stood yet she led the man making a deliberate detour
and Wilder was puzzled. Then, glancing down at the floor, he realised
something which had hitherto escaped him. A large ugly stain of brown
was splashed on the polished flooring.
There was no mistaking it. He recognised it instantly.
It was unquestionably a blood-stain, and by its extent he judged it to
be blood from a mortal wound. His questioning gaze sought the two queer
figures at once. The woman had carefully avoided it, and he interpreted
her action in the only way possible. She evidently understood the origin
of that stain, and repugnance inspired her movements.
They sat themselves on the couch side by side and Wilder went on as
though nothing had distracted his attention. He turned his chair so that
he faced them.
“Yes, ther’s oil in this valley,” he said. “My two friends reckon
there’s enough oil to feed the whole world. But I’ve got scruples,” he
laughed, “for all you may be guessing the other way. Say, before I get
busy farther up the creek I’d be glad to know just how we stand. You’re
here on an oil play? And I’m not yearning for trouble. Is this oil game
your play? Have you a concession? Am I butting in on a big commercial
proposition that’s already established? I’d be glad to know, Mr.—”
Wilder broke off invitingly. Yet, for all there were signs of the
mollifying effect of his attitude in the man, several moments passed
before a reply was forthcoming.
At last the snow-white head inclined affirmatively.
“You have scruples,” he said. “You desire not to butt in. Yet you invade
my house. You ransack it. You treat it so as it is your right to do
these things. You threaten with your gun when I come forth.”
He shrugged. But this time it was without any display of feeling. He was
calmly questioning, and his attitude displayed a suspicion of
puzzlement.
Wilder suddenly squared himself in his chair.
“Here,” he cried. “Let’s be frank. My name’s Wilder. Bill Wilder. I’m a
gold man first and foremost. After that, why, I guess I’m just as much
an adventurer as most of the folk of this Northland. That’s all right.
I’m not out to rob a soul of anything he’s a right to. And as for the
things you guess I had no right to do, just think a bit. Here I find a
house without a sign of life. You choose to hide yourselves up. Well? A
derelict house here in the Arctic? Why, I guess I’ve as much right to
search it as to search for anything else this country’s got to show us.
As for the gun play it seems to me a man has every right to protect
himself when folks sneak in on him in the night. That’s my answer to all
that’s worrying you. And my name, as I said, is Wilder. Who are you?”
There was a sweeping bluntness about the challenge that should have been
irresistible. Wilder waited for the answer he demanded while reserving a
trump card to play in case of refusal.
There was no change in the blindman’s attitude. There was no movement.
His yellow face remained sphinx-like.
“Maybe I should not blame you,” he said, in his harsh fashion. “You make
a good case. But—I am blind.
“Here,” he went on, in imitation of the other, with a slight gesture of
his disengaged hand, “I will not tell you the things you ask. But I tell
you some other. This valley is the great oil bed of these mountains, and
the oil is being tapped. If you touch on this oil you will never leave
the valley alive. Those who are working it have been doing so for many
years. It is their established right, for no one has denied them in all
the years. No one has come near. They find it and work it. It is equity.
I have no place in this thing. I am—blind.”
Wilder’s eyes hardened. He glanced from the man to the woman. In the
latter’s eyes was a look of renewed apprehension, almost of pleading,
and he felt that she was waiting for the effect of her man’s words.
“Then you fear to tell me—who you are?” he asked quietly.
“I fear nothing.”
“Nothing? Yet you fear the coming of this man you call—Usak. You fear
the sight of every stranger?”
Wilder’s gaze was on the anxious face of the woman. His words were for
her benefit. But they had an unexpected effect. The blindman suddenly
unbent.
“It is as I said,” he declared, his tone moderating but assuming a
bitterness of real feeling. “I fear no one and nothing. I am blind. I am
completely alone, but for my good wife. I live through her hands, her
eyes, her will. What is the worst that may happen? Death? It is
nothing—now. I am a dead man to the world—now. I am blind. Once it was
not so. Once in this home, here in this valley, there were servants who
worked at my command. There were many interests in my life. Now it is
changed. The light has gone out, and with it have passed those who
obeyed my will, those who depended for their well-being on my word. It
is the way of such service. Rats never fail to quit the doomed ship,” he
cried bitterly. “I have nothing to fear. Least of all—death.”
“Not even—punishment?”
Wilder’s hazard came instantly. It was well calculated. The blood-stain
on the floor was within his view. Then there was the story of Marty Le
Gros, and of Usak, who inspired such terror in the woman.
The yellow man started. It was as if an effort of will was striving for
vision through his empty sockets. For a moment he made no answer, and
headlong panic had returned to the woman’s eyes. It was the latter that
removed the last shadow of doubt from Wilder’s mind.
“Punishment? For what?” The man spoke in a low, fierce voice.
Wilder thought swiftly before replying. He understood that he was right
up against the stone wall of the yellow man’s determination. There was
only one course left him. If he could not climb it he must batter it to
ruins. His earlier hazard was a small enough thing compared with the
decision he took now. He rose from his chair and stood towering over the
diminutive pair on the couch. His eyes were coldly compelling, and his
whole manner was carefully calculated for its effect upon the helpless
little woman, whom he could not help pitying.
“Here,” he cried sharply. “Let’s cut this fencing right out. You refuse
to pass me the name you are known by. You refuse to tell me the meaning
of this home hidden beyond human sight in a valley that’s full to the
lips of oil. Well, I guess I’ll hand you the story you’re scared to hand
me. You reckon you don’t fear a thing. Psha! You can’t get away with
that play. It wouldn’t leave a two-year-old kid guessing. I’m quitting
now. I’ve brought you into the open, an’ I’ve located in you an answer
to a hundred guesses. I’m quitting now, but you won’t be left unwatched.
You won’t get a chance to make a get-away. You’ve had mostly fifteen
years to do that, an’ I don’t know why you stopped around with the man,
Usak, threatening to come right back on you. Maybe because you’re blind
and deserted. Maybe because you’ve a mighty big stake lying around.
Maybe it’s because ther’s other queer folk of your own race, who, for
their own reasons, don’t fancy letting you quit. It don’t matter. What
does matter is I’m quitting now because this is Alaskan Territory. I’m
going down country to get things fixed with the United States authority
to have you brought right into our country to tell us how the
missionary, Marty Le Gros was murdered by the Euralians who people these
hills, and who I guess are nothing but a crowd of Japanese pirates out
grabbing in whiteman’s territory. You’re scared of nothing, eh? Can you
face that? Can you face the return of the man, Usak, whose wife was
murdered at the same time? Can you tell us why they were murdered, and
what happened to the great gold ‘strike’ that poor darn feller made? I’m
quitting now just to fix this thing. An’ my boys’ll see you make no
get-away meanwhile. And as for your threat of the Euralian pirates
working the oil on this valley, that cuts no sort of ice with us. We’ve
been fighting these folk a year an’ more. You see, we’re officers of the
Canadian Police.”
* * * * *
The imagination, the sweeping grasp of the clear-thinking mind that had
lifted Bill Wilder from the depths of the whirlpool of humanity that had
early flooded the gold regions of the North, to the highest pinnacle of
success in a traffic wherein vision and courage were the chief
essentials, had served him now far better than he knew.
The first spoken words of the little Japanese woman in her terror had
welded a hundred links together into a connected chain such as no amount
of ordinary labour in investigation could have supplied him with.
There was no question except the given names of these people left in his
mind. There were convictions that perhaps needed corroboration to reduce
them to concrete facts. But that caused him no worry. It had been said
of Wilder that half a story was all he needed, he could always supply
the rest. It was so in the present case.
He left the house without a doubt remaining. This place was the home of
the Euralian organization, or had been before that fantastic figure of
avenging had left the man he had just parted from with eyeless sockets.
What scenes had been enacted there he could only guess at. But there it
was, safely hidden, with its watch tower, the heart of a natural
fortress located with the profoundest judgment for the purposes desired.
And he was convinced, that, at any rate, the man who still lived his
darkened life there was surely one of the instruments, if not the actual
instrument, through which the man, Marty Le Gros, had met his death. He
was one of the Euralians, and, like as not, the chief organizing head,
since deposed through his physical disability by his lawless subjects.
Furthermore he had finally satisfied himself that he had achieved the
thing he had set out to accomplish. The Euralians as they called
themselves were definitely of Japanese origin.
As he passed into the surrounding woods the immensity of the truth he
had stumbled upon came home to him in an almost overwhelming rush. The
Yellow Peril which the world had talked of, feared, and politically
discussed for over a decade, had suddenly become a reality to him. Here
was just one little branch of it. And the manner of it gave point to the
subtle, secret fashion in which it was being developed. Imagination was
a-riot. These people were Japanese. They were probably a hardy people
from northern Japan, under the control of a carefully chosen leader of
capacity and knowledge, such as he realised the man he had just left to
have been before his disaster of blindness. They were imported through
the far-hidden northern inlets to the country on which, leech-like, they
had battened. They came, a sea-faring race, over the northern waters,
and set about the simple task of possessing this far, almost unpeopled
territory, and extracting its wealth for their own service. And what
became of that wealth, mineral and animal? What of the furs which they
stole, or traded with the Eskimo? What of the oil of this valley? What
of the unguessed wealth of coal deposits which were believed to exist?
The gold, too, and the hundred and one other raw materials which
littered this far-off, unexplored land?
The northern seas; the great harbours of the northern coasts, lost from
view of the few scattered white folks, hidden amongst rugged,
snow-capped hills, and more than half their time completely icebound. It
was simple, so very simple to the north-men of Japan, who were born
sailors. Doubtless a steady traffic among those hidden inlets went on,
and disguised freighters passed to-and-fro between the Alaskan coast and
the remoter ports of the land of Nippon.
And meanwhile the penetration of this whiteman’s country was steadily
progressing. Who could say the extent of that penetration? It was
southern California over again. And the invaders were only waiting,
waiting for the day to dawn when—
The breaking of bush just behind him as he passed on towards the creek
brought him to a halt. He faced about alertly and his hand shot into the
pocket where his automatic pistol lay ready for use. But it was
withdrawn empty almost immediately. The diminutive woman with the
slanting, terrified eyes broke from the undergrowth, something
breathless from her exertion, and stood before him.
His eyes were smiling with a kindliness he made no attempt to disguise
at sight of her. The memory of her devotion to her sightless man was
uppermost for all he had fathomed the meaning of their presence on the
river. She seemed to him a gentle creature, hopelessly condemned to a
task of utter self-sacrifice. And he deplored the painful terror under
which she suffered so acutely. The shame and pity of it all touched him
deeply.
“Say, mam,” he said, in a re-assuring tone, “you took a big chance
coming that way. I’m guessing for the thing that set you worrying to
come up with me on the run in a heat liable to hand apoplexy to a brass
image.”
But there was no re-assurance in the urgent gaze that looked up into his
face. The poor creature’s bosom heaved with obvious emotion. She opened
her almost colourless lips to speak, but no sound came. Instead she
closed them again and glanced behind her fearfully.
Wilder understood. He had supposed her to be simply a messenger. Now he
realised she feared discovery by the blindman she had left behind her.
Presently she turned to him again, and thrust one thin, delicate hand
into the bosom of her gown where it remained while she flung a terrified
inquiry at him.
“You go so to make it that they come and take him, and kill him, for the
killing of the miss—the man, Le Gros?” she shook her head violently.
“No, no!” she cried passionately. “He not kill Le Gros! They must not
kill _him_. Sate kill Le Gros, and Usak come and kill Sate, and all the
men. He fight to kill my Hela, too. But he put out his eyes. You are
officer police. The great Canadian Police. You know good what is right,
what is wrong. I tell you all. I tell you all the truth. My Hela not
kill no man. It our dead son kill this man, an’ the other. I know. Hela
tell me. He tell me all.” The smile had passed from Wilder’s eyes as he
listened to the almost breathless, headlong rush of the poor creature’s
desperate appeal for her man.
“Did he send you to say this?” he asked, knowing well that the man could
not have inspired such acting in her.
“Hela send me?” The woman’s eyes widened. “No! Oh, no! If he know I am
come then I—I know no more. Hela send me? No! I come for him. I come so
you know all the thing he will not tell.”
“Why?”
“Because I die if you send and kill my Hela,” she cried, with a world of
despair in the simple declaration.
Wilder stood for a moment thinking deeply. He turned from the pathetic
figure which somehow distracted his judgment. And he knew that he must
decide quickly and make no mistake.
Finally he turned to her again. And the smile had returned to his steady
eyes.
“Tell me so I can understand,” he said gently. “Tell me all there is to
it, just the truth. Tell me who you are, and what you’re doing around
this valley. And if you show me the whole thing right, and if
your—Hela—did not kill, then you need have no sort of worry he’ll come
to harm through me. You get that? Pass me the story, and make it short.
But it’s got to be sheer truth.”
The woman’s hand remained buried in the bosom of her gown, and now she
raised the other, and, a picture of submission and humility, she stood
with it pressed over that which was hidden in her bosom. Her black eyes
were less fearful, her lined cheeks were less drawn. Her whole
appearance suggested the passing of something of the weight of terror
under which she had been labouring.
She began her story at once. She spoke quietly, in contrast with her
recent emotion, and in the curious broken phraseology which denoted her
rare use of a tongue she otherwise knew well enough.
She told him that her man was Count Ukisama—Hela Ukisama—and that she
was his wife, Crysa. She told him that he was the head, and original
organizer of the people who were called the Euralians. She told him they
came, as he had already guessed, from Northern Japan, and were engaged
in a great traffic in furs with the Eskimo, which were secretly exported
in whalers from the far northern harbours of the country. But she warned
him this was not the whole trade. There was oil and coal. But most
desired of all was the gold which they had found in these northern
valleys for years.
Close questioning, as she proceeded, quickly showed Wilder that she was
completely ignorant of the methods by which this traffic was carried on.
She knew nothing of the hideous murder and piracy which was the whole
story of these yellow marauders. Obviously she was told by her husband
only those things he considered were sufficient for her to know.
When she came to the story of Marty Le Gros, and his gold “strike,” it
was clearly different. Here she was apparently aware of every detail,
and she made it plain that after the coming of Usak, and Ukisama had
been so inhumanly blinded, she had forced her husband to tell her the
true meaning of the terrible thing that had happened.
It was a story that lost nothing of its awful significance from her
broken and sometimes almost incoherent way of telling it. He learnt how
Ukisama and his son Sate had heard of Le Gros’ “strike,” and how they
strove by every means in their power to jump in on it. How they had
searched Loon Creek from end to end, and finally abandoned their search
convinced that the missionary had given that as the locality simply to
mislead. Then at once they became angry and were determined to make him
yield them his secret.
She told him of the descent upon the mission at Fox Bluff, where they
meant to wring his secret from him, and how they had utterly failed
through the impetuosity of her son, Sate, who, when the missionary
prepared to defend himself with his guns, fired a reckless shot which
mortally wounded him. Hela, she declared, deplored the act as ruining
his chance of learning the man’s secret. Then she declared that the
squaw of the man Usak had interfered, and again the hot-headed Sate had
taken the matter into his own hands and shot her down.
“And your Hela, this boy’s father, just looked on while this was done?”
Wilder’s question came sharply when the woman narrated this incredible
detail of her story with an air of entirely honest conviction.
“No, no,” she cried, and hastily launched a torrential defence of her
blinded charge.
She denied flatly that her husband desired to harm a hair of the head of
anyone. But Sate was a wild youth whom none could tame, and least of all
his father. No. When his father found what had been done he became
scared, and it was then he did the only thing left him. He fired the
mission in the hope of hiding up his son’s crime. Then she said they
hastened away, and came up the river with all speed. But they had
forgotten Usak, whom they had not encountered. She did not know how it
came, nor did her husband. But Usak knew them. He knew their home here
in this valley, and he set out, and, by means they did not understand,
he arrived at this house before them.
Then she detailed, with painful emotion the things that happened with
Usak’s coming. How he, a great, fierce Indian man, stole in on the house
and murdered their three servants—the rest all being away with her
husband. The last one, after being mortally wounded by the Indian’s
hunting knife, managing to reach her in the sitting hall to warn her. He
fell dead on the floor in a pool of blood before her eyes. In her terror
she had hastily fled to the secret cellars which were under the house,
where they stored their trade in gold. And so she remained until Usak
had passed from the house of death. Then long afterwards, she learned
from Hela that he passed down the river and waited for their return with
the canoe. He waited hidden on the bank. And he shot every man in the
canoe as it passed, including their son Sate. He spared none. Not
one—except her husband. And so her husband made the landing where she
was awaiting him.
Then came the final tragedy. The Indian was in hiding. He had kept pace
with the boat, and when Hela landed he leapt out on him to complete his
terrible purpose. He fought not to kill but to blind. And he succeeded.
He left her man alive, but with his eyes lying on his cheeks. And,
before he went, he warned them what he had done was sufficient for the
time. But that later, after a long time, he would return and kill them
both.
“And he will come,” she wailed in conclusion. “For he is an Indian, and
his squaw was killed by our son. He will come. Oh, yes.”
“Yet you stay here? Why?” Again came Wilder’s sharp question. He had
steeled himself against the pity which the woman’s unutterable despair
inspired.
The little creature shook her head in complete helplessness.
“How we go?” she asked. “It cannot be. He is blind. We are alone. The
men leave us now he is blind. They trade for themselves. Hela no longer
has power. They laugh in his face if he make order for them to obey. No.
And they will not let him go either. They keep him here. They know. If
he go back to Japan then another is sent who sees. Then these men no
longer trade for themselves. No. They will not let him go. They keep him
here. They pass us food. They let them not know in Japan the thing it
is. An’ so they work the oil, and coal, and gold. And they travel far
for the furs. And so it is. And then sometime Usak will come again, and
then—and then—”
Suddenly she withdrew the hand which had remained all the time she was
telling her story in the bosom of her dress. It was grasping a large,
folded paper. She held it out, literally thrusting it at Wilder, who
took it from her with gravely questioning eyes.
“What is it?” he demanded, and curiosity had replaced the sharpness in
his voice.
“The plan of the gold. The gold of this Marty Le Gros. It is for you. I
give it. So you will make it that Usak not come again to kill. You, an
officer police.”
Wilder opened the paper and glanced at it. A clear exact drawing was
inscribed on its discoloured surface. It was a map in minute detail, and
he re-folded it quickly while his gaze searched the urgent eyes raised
to his.
“You give me this?” he said, in a quiet fashion that revealed none of
the surge of excitement with which he was suddenly filled.
“Yes.”
The little woman who had called herself Crysa Ukisama suddenly flung out
her hands in an agony of vehement appeal.
“I give it. I take this thing from its place. This bad thing, which is
evil to us. He not know I take it. Oh, no. Sate find it in the house of
the missionary before they fire it. And he, Hela, not give it up. No.
Yet he cannot see it. He cannot find this place. He say, too, it is
evil, and no one must see it. So I hide it all this long time, and keep
it. But I know. So long we keep it this Usak sure come back an’ kill us.
It is for that bad paper he come. It make him come. You take it. You
have it. And maybe you give it Usak so he will not come back. You
officer police. You know this man? You say, Hela Ukisama send it so he
not come an’ kill my Hela? You think that? You make him not come? Oh, I
go mad when he come bimeby. Yes. He kill my Hela. Same as he kill all
other man. I know. Oh!”
With her last wailing cry Crysa buried her face in her delicate, ageing
hands, and a passion of emotion racked her frail body. Wilder looked on
in that helplessness which all men experience in face of a woman’s
outburst of genuine grief. He waited. There was nothing else for him to
do, and, presently, the distraught creature recovered herself.
Then he reached out, and one hand came to rest on the silken-clad
shoulder.
“You’ve told me the truth as far as you know it, my dear,” he said very
gently. “You’ve been hit hard. Darn hard. So hard I don’t know just what
to say to you. But you’ve done well passing me that story and that
paper, and I’m going to do all I know to help you. See here, I’m not
going to hand you out all sorts of rash promises, but, if ther’s a thing
I can do to stop that Indian man, Usak, getting around back here to hurt
you, why, I’m just going to do it. Go right back to your man now. He’s
been pretty badly punished. So badly it don’t seem to me he needs a
thing more of that sort this earth can hand him. And as for you you’ve
deserved none of it. Go back to him, and you have my given word, that,
just as hard as I’ve worked on the thing the p’lice have sent me out to
do, I’ll work to see no harm comes to you from this Indian man. So
long.”
CHAPTER VII
THE DREAM HILL
It was less than ten weeks to the time when the first fierce rush of
winter might be expected. Already the days were shortening down with
their customary rush, and in a brief time only the Caribou Valley, the
river, the whole world of the far North would be lost to sight under the
white shroud of battling elements, whose merciless warfare would be
waged, with only brief intervals of armistice, until such time as the
summer daylight dawned again.
Hesther McLeod was sitting in her doorway. It was the favoured sitting
place she usually selected when the flies and summer heat made her rough
kitchen something approaching the intolerable. The intense heat of
summer was lessening, but the ominous chill of winter had not yet made
itself felt. The sky had lost something of its summer brilliance, and
clouds were wont to bank heavily with the threat of the coming season.
But the flies remained. They would undoubtedly remain until swept from
the face of the earth by the first heavy frost.
Hesther was assiduously battling with one of her many tasks while she
talked in her simple, homely fashion to the Kid, who was standing beside
her. The foster-mother was frail but wiry, and, with her greying brown
hair and thin face, looked the work-worn, happy philosopher she actually
was. The Kid was a picture of charming femininity for all the mannish
mode of her working clothes. Her pretty, rounded figure would not be
denied under the beaded caribou-skin parka that reached almost to her
knees. It was belted in about the waist, and a fierce-looking hunting
knife protruded from its slung sheath. Her wealth of fair hair was
supposed to be tightly coiled under the enveloping cap drawn down over
it. But it had fallen, as it usually fell, upon her shoulders as though
refusing to endure imprisonment when the sun it loved to reflect was
shining. Her blue eyes were deeply thoughtful just now as they regarded
the bowed head of the beloved mother woman. She watched the nimble
fingers spread the buckskin patch out over the jagged rent in the seat
of Perse’s diminutive breeches.
“You know,” Hesther said, without looking up, “that little feller
Perse’ll make good someways. I can’t guess how. But his queer little
head’s plumb full of things that stick worse than flies. An’ even though
the seat of his pants drops right out, which it’s mostly doing all the
time, he’ll foller his notion clear through to the end. He’s got the
gold bug now, an’ spends most all his time skiddin’ himself over rocks
an’ things chasin’ what he wouldn’t rec’nise if he beat his pore little
head right up against it. I want to laff most all the time at his yarns.
But I just don’t. I’ve a hunch to see him do things.”
The Kid nodded.
“Yes,” she agreed simply. Then her gaze was turned to the distant river
where its shining waters could just be seen beyond the lank jack pines
which surrounded the rambling house. “Perse is the brightest of the
bunch. You know, Mum, it’s kind of queer us talking of the kids making
good. We don’t ever stop to guess how they’re going to do it—away up
here, thousands of miles from, from anywhere.”
Hesther flung a quick upward glance at the sweet weather-tanned face
that was no longer smiling. She was wondering, for the girl’s tone had a
note in it to which she was quite unaccustomed. In a moment, however,
her eyes had dropped again to the thick patch cut from a caribou
moccasin she was endeavouring to make fast to the child’s tattered
pants.
“Trouble, Kid?” she asked, without looking up again.
These two understood each other. A deep bond of sympathy and love held
them. The girl looked to this brave little widow of Jim McLeod for
sympathy and comfort in her distress as a child looks to its mother. In
affairs which needed capacity and strong execution the position was
reversed. This girl of twenty, supported by the staunch Usak, strong in
spirit and youthful optimism, wide in her grasp of the affairs of the
farm, was responsible leader in all pertaining to their livelihood. Just
now the girl was troubled and Hesther realised that the Kid had not
abandoned her afternoon’s work at the corrals simply for idle talk at
her doorway. Her interrogation was calculated. She wanted the girl to
talk.
“Nothing worse than usual, Mum,” she said with a sigh. “It’ll be two
years since Ben Needham went, come next opening. We’ve enough supplies
to see us through six months. That’s the limit. Usak’ll be along back
before the freeze-up. Well, things depend on the trade he brings back,
and a winter trail to Placer. Do you get it? By next spring our
stores’ll be run out. If he brings back good trade, and no accident
happens along on our winter trail, we’ll be in fairly good shape for
awhile. But it just means we can’t put in another season right through.
I don’t see how we can, unless we have mighty good luck. The thing’s as
dead as caribou meat without a market right alongside, like it was when
Ben Needham was around. We’re right here beyond the edge of the world,
and—and it can’t be done.”
“You mean—quit? An’ with the boys coming along? The twins are nearly
sixteen.”
The mother laboured on assiduously. The busy needle punched its way
through the tough buckskin with a sharp click as the strong fingers
plied it.
The Kid glanced down at the bowed figure.
“The boys are good. Alg is a real man around the deer,” she said, with a
shadow of a smile in her pretty eyes. “Clarence is hardening into a
tough trail man. Usak reckons he’s a great feller to have with him. But
it’s not that, Mum. It’s the trade these wretched Euralians beat us out
of, and the distance to our market.”
“Is that all it is, Kid?”
Hesther’s needle was still. She was looking up with a pair of soft,
brown, questioning eyes, and the gentle mentality behind them was
reading the girl through and through with a certainty that her
transparent simplicity and innocence made possible.
“How can it be anything else, Mum? I guess ther’s nothing around this
farm to worry with but the feeding of hungry mouths.”
The Kid had turned away. Again her eyes had sought the gleam of waters
sedately flowing on to their junction with the greater river beyond.
The mother shook her head. She leant forward on her door-sill with her
lean, bare arms folded over her offspring’s clothing.
“I don’t just see how it can be a thing else,” she admitted promptly.
“But I was thinkin’. You see, Kid, you’re over twenty. Let’s see. Why, I
guess you’re over twenty-one. Yes. Sure you must be.”
And she deliberately began to count up the years that had passed since
the terrible time of the descent of the Euralians on Fox Bluff. The girl
watched the counting fingers, and the abstracted gaze of the other as
she reckoned up her sum.
“But what’s that to do with it, Mum?” she cried.
“Sure I’m over twenty-one, but—”
Hesther laughed gently. She shook her head.
“There was no talk of quitting, whatever our trade, before you made
Placer last year with Usak. Say, Kid,” she went on, with infinite
sympathy and gentleness, “you’re a woman now. You aren’t a—Kid—any
longer. Does it tell you anything?” She raised a pointing finger that
was painfully work-worn, and admonished her. “My dear, things are a heap
different through a woman’s eyes. When you’re a kid you’re mostly crazy
with every new thing just living can show you. When you’re a woman it
isn’t life just to live. Ther’s a whole book full o’ feelings, and
wants, an’ notions start in to worry around, and the answer to ’em isn’t
found in the work of running a caribou farm, and beating a bunch of
scallawags who’re grabbing your trade. It isn’t found in yearning to
hand a stomach full o’ food to a crowd of kids you love like brothers
an’ sisters, either.”
The girl’s eyes were searching for all their responsive smile, and she
made no attempt at denial.
“Wher’ d’you find the answer, Mum?” she asked.
The older woman’s eye fell serious. A wistful yearning crept into them.
“I found it in two things when I was your age,” she said. “First it was
in the excitement of fancy clothes, and parties, where folks of my own
age got around, boys and gals. Then I guessed the answer to every
yearning I had was in my Jim, and in the bunch o’ scallawags he set
crawling around my knees. Why, Kid, this queer old world’s just got only
one place where it can make me feel good. It’s where my Jim’s babies
are. You been down to Placer. You and Usak. You’ve seen a big city where
ther’s white-folk like yourself, where ther’s lights burning on the
streets, and folks dancing, and parties racketing, and the boys and gals
are having quite a time. Then you get along back to the farm here, and
the kids, and, maybe, me. And I guess you’re glad—for awhile.”
The girl moved from the door-casing where she had been leaning. She
abruptly dropped to a seat on the door-sill beside Hesther, and took
possession of the thin, strong hand nearest to her. There was a change
in her as sudden as had been her movements. Her eyes were shining and
full of something Hesther had never seen in them before. And somehow the
magnetism of it, her sudden, almost passionate earnestness claimed the
older woman and left her with a feeling that was something scared.
“Tell me, Mum,” she cried, in a thrilling voice. “You haven’t told me
enough. You loved your Jim. Tell me just how you loved him.”
“It ’ud be easier to tell you how the thunder banks up in summer and
bursts over us,” Hesther replied with a headshake, while her hand
responded with sympathetic pressure to the clasp of the girl’s.
She gazed into the earnest face that so reminded her of the father who
had been slain so many years before, and the pretty, fair-haired woman
who had borne this foster child of hers. She was wondering at the girl’s
sudden passion of interest in her love for the dead man who had given
her such a wealth of simple happiness. It was a new phase, and it meant
something. And she wondered what the meaning was.
“No, Kid,” she went on. “I don’t reckon if I talked from now to Kingdom
Come I could ever tell you the thing you’re asking. He was my man, just
all of him. Could you feel so that any feller could tell you to do the
craziest thing and you’d want to get busy right away doing it? Could you
feel so that a feller’s frown was better than the whole world’s smile?
Could you feel you’d rather have one man call you a crazy fool, and beat
you over the head with a club, than a hundred swell fellers bowing an’
scraping to hand you a good time? If you could feel all that foolish
stuff you’d know something how I loved my Jim. He was mine, Kid,” she
went on squeezing the girl’s plump hand in her thin, strong fingers. “He
was mine from the roof of his head to the soles of his caribou
moccasins, and life with him was full of sunshine, even when the night
of winter shut down. And he handed me all these ‘God’s blessings’ that
aren’t never content but that I’m doing an’ making for them all the
time. My, but I’d be glad to have you feel all those things.”
The girl nodded. Her eyes were deeply contemplative. She was not looking
at the woman beside her but gazing abstractedly into space.
“I—I think I could feel all that,” she said after awhile. “I—I think I
could feel so a man could beat me to death if he wanted to. But—”
She broke off. Then her gaze came back to the brown eyes beside her, and
a sort of ecstatic smile lit her eyes and transformed her with its
radiance.
“But he’d have to be a great feller, with the courage of a fighter. He’d
have to be a man who ordered other folks around, a man who knew no fear.
A man who’d help a friend with his last dollar or kill the enemy who
hurt him. Yes,” she went on dreamily, “and he’d have grey eyes, and a
strong face that wasn’t maybe too good-looking, and dark hair, and
shoulders like a bull caribou, and—”
“Be like to some feller you got a look at down in Placer?”
Hesther had returned to her work, and drew a deep breath of expectancy.
But the girl ignored the challenge. She turned suddenly and spoke with
feverish eagerness.
“You felt that way, Mum, for your Jim?” she demanded. “That’s the way
all gals feel when they want—want to marry someone? Maybe the Eskimo
squaws feel that way, too? Just every woman? Is that so?”
Hesther smiled and nodded.
“Sure. Tell me about him.”
The older woman’s philosophy had been swallowed up by the irresistible
emotions of her sex. She wanted to hear the story of this child’s tender
romance. She had made up her mind there was a romance deeply hidden
within her innocent heart, and that it had taken place in that great
gold city the girl had visited with Usak. She was hungering for the
story of it as every real woman hungers for the love story of another,
after having passed a similar milestone in her own life. She was
thrilled, and her calm veins were afire with the recrudescence of her
youth.
But the Kid suddenly came out of her dreaming, and smilingly shook her
head in a fashion that flooded the other with disappointment.
“No, Mum,” she said. “There wasn’t a feller in Placer made me feel that
way. Not one. I—I was just thinking. That’s all.”
“And it makes you want to quit and get around where life’s real life?”
Hesther cried incredulously. “An’ where there’s folks and parties, and
marrying, and you can have a place in it all?”
Again the girl shook her head. This time all smiling had passed. Her
lips were no longer happily parted. And the corners of her mouth were
slightly depressed.
“No, dear,” she said, with a decision which the other felt had cost her
an effort. “I don’t feel like quitting. I don’t want to quit. Ever! I
want to stay right here, till—till—I want to stay here always with you,
and the kids, and Usak. But sense says I can’t. None of us can. We’ve
played our game to the limit, an’ I guess the cards are dead against us.
We must go next year for—the sake of those babies your Jim handed to
you. I don’t just know all it means. I don’t just see what we’re to do
to earn our food. But we’ll have to make the break, and take what the
good God hands—Hello!”
The girl broke off. Her final exclamation came at the sight of a little
procession which hurried round the angle of the building. It was headed
by Mary Justicia and the adventurous Perse. Alg was behind carrying Jane
Constance in his sturdy arms, while Gladys Anne clung to him yielding
him her moral support.
It was a subdued procession, and the Kid and the mother looked for the
thing which had affected them so seriously. Their attention became
promptly fixed on the dripping bundle of humanity in the elder boy’s
arms. An explanation was instantly forthcoming in the coolest
phraseology.
“Darn crazy little buzzock reckoned to drown herself,” the boy said with
a grin. “Hadn’t no more sense than to fall off’n the driftwood pile into
six foot of water. We shaken most of it out of her.”
The mother was on her feet in a moment, and the child, despite her
liquid condition, was snatched to her eager bosom. And in her anxiety
everything else was completely forgotten.
“You pore little bit,” she cried solicitously as she hugged the moist
bundle in her arms. Then she turned on the gawking youth with which she
was surrounded. She glanced swiftly over the faces grinning up at her,
and punctuated her survey with a sweeping condemnation.
“You bunch o’ hoodlams,” she cried. “The good God gave you the image of
Hisself, did He? Well, I guess He must ha’ forgot the mush you need to
think with. Be off with you. The whole bunch. You, Mary Justicia, stay
around an’ help me scrape the pore mite clean. The rest of you get out
o’ my sight. I don’t feel like looking at any of you again—ever.”
She vanished into the house, a diminutive figure of righteous
indignation, and the Kid was left to the eager, laughing explanations of
the unimpressed culprits.
* * * * *
The kyak darted down the river on a stream that made its progress
something like the flight of an arrow. Its great length and narrow width
left it a crazy enough vessel to handle, but the Kid had been born and
bred to its manipulation, and she played with it as she chose without
concern for its crankiness. Her gun lay in the bottom of the hide-built
craft, for she was speeding down towards the marshes in quest of
water-fowl.
With the rapid passing of the shortening northern day she knew she would
find the marsh alive with duck. Game was plentiful just now. In another
few weeks the approach of winter would drive the migratory fowl south,
where the waters remained open and winter feed was to be had in
abundance. The girl was pot-hunting, and the full stocking of the farm
larder was an important duty in her routine of life.
Silently, almost ghostlike, the dip of her paddle giving out no sound,
she sped on over the shining waters between high, lichen-grown banks,
that were mostly rock-bound and almost completely sterile. It was a
wild, broken stretch of country, without any of the vegetation which was
the inspiration of the setting of the farm. It was without any
graciousness, from the southern hills to the northern limits containing
the shallow valley. But even so, to this girl, who had known the Caribou
Valley all her young life, there was intense attraction in every detail
of its familiar uncouthness.
Quite abruptly she passed beyond the undulating, rock-bound stretch, and
shot into the jaws of a short but narrow canyon. For no apparent reason
the country about her suddenly reared itself into a tumbled sea of low,
broken hills that darkly overshadowed the passage which the river had
eaten through them. The gleaming waters had lost their vivid, dancing
light and assumed an almost inky blackness. Their speed had increased,
and they frothed and churned as they beat against the facets of the
encompassing walls, as though in anger at a resistance they had never
been able to overcome.
The girl was gazing ahead at the far opening, where the hills gave way
to the wide muskeg which was her goal. It was at the sort of giant
gateway which was formed by two sheer sentry rocks standing guard on
either side of the river, overshadowing, frowning, lofty, windswept and
bare.
A girlish impulse urged her. These two barren crests were old-time
friends of her childhood. The leaning summit of the hill on the left
bank was the dream place of childish fancy. It was always windswept,
even on the calmest day. It was beyond the reach of the mosquitoes and
flies abounding on the river. It was free and open to the sunlight,
which was getting shorter now with every passing day. And, somehow, an
hour passed on its chilly summit never failed to inspire her heart with
feelings freed from the oppressive weight of the cares of her life
below.
Yes. She would leave the feeding fowl to their evening meal. For the
present there was no shortage in the farm larder. The marshes could wait
till to-morrow. For the moment she felt deeply in need of that
consolation she never failed to find in this old friend of her earlier
years. She would pass an hour with it. She would confide to it the story
of those feelings and desires, which, with every passing month, were
absorbing her more and more deeply. For she was restless, disturbed. As
Hesther had suggested, the dawning womanhood in her was crying out.
Oh, yes. She understood now. The life of the farm was no longer the
satisfying thing it had always been. Something was amiss with her. A
great, unrecognised longing had been urgent in her for months past. And
a glimmer of its meaning had come to her while listening to Hesther’s
endeavour to show her the thing which her own love for her dead husband
had been.
Suddenly she dipped her paddle and held it. Instantly her light vessel
swung about and headed up stream. Slowly, laboriously it nosed in
against the stream and glided gently up to the familiar landing place.
Leaping ashore, the Kid stooped and grasped the central struts of her
craft. Then she lifted it bodily out of the water, and set it in safety
on the broad strand.
* * * * *
The Kid was squatting trail fashion with her back thrust against the
smooth-worn, almost polished sides of a great boulder. The chill wind
was beating against her rounded cheeks. There were moments when its
nipping blast brought tears to her eyes. And her soft, fair hair
streamed from under her cap in response to its rough caresses.
Her eyrie was set more than a hundred feet above the rest of the world
about her. Her gaze was free to roam the length and breadth of the
valley below her. There was nothing whatsoever but the limit of vision
to deny her. Here she could feast herself upon the world she had learned
to love, with fancy free to riot as it listed.
It was a wonderful panorama for all its harshness. Away to the north lay
endless miles of barren, low hills and shallow valleys which lost
themselves in the far-off purple of falling daylight. To the south of
her it was the same, except that the dying sun of summer lolled heavily
on the horizon, gleaming, blinding in its last passion. To the east lay
the farm and the corrals that claimed all her working hours, and beyond
that was the purple of distance enshrouding lank, sparse, woodland
bluffs whose stunted, windswept tops cut sharp drawn lines against the
far-off shadows. It was all wide flung, and harsh, and infinitely small
viewed from her lofty crow’s-nest. And even the river, immediately
below, was no better than a silver ribbon dropped by some careless hand
on a carpet that was drab, and worn, and utterly without beauty.
But none of these claimed her now. The girl’s gaze was to the westward.
Even the hour was forgotten, and the spread of cold grey cloud which the
biting wind was driving down upon the world out of the fierce
north-east. Her gaze was on the dark line beyond which flowed the mighty
Hekor, where it beat the meeting waters of the two rivers into a
cauldron of boiling rapids. It was on the great bluff of woodland which
had sheltered her original home, and beyond which lay the deserted Fort,
which had been the pulsing heart making life possible for them all. And
she was thinking, thinking of a man with “grey eyes, and a strong face
that wasn’t too good-looking, and dark hair, and shoulders like a bull
caribou.”
He had said he would return, this man who called himself Bill Wilder. He
and his red-headed companion and the grey hard-bitten creature he called
Chilcoot. They had gone out into the far North. The great, wide-open
North with its treacherous smiling summer masking a merciless wintry
heart. Would he return? Would he come again down the river? Would he
forget, and pass right on down to the city which contained his home? She
wondered. And, with each possibility that presented itself, a cold
constriction seemed to grip her strong young heart.
How long had he said? She remembered. She had never forgotten. She could
never forget. The man’s smiling eyes had haunted her ever since the
first moment they had gazed so earnestly, so kindly into hers. Oh, she
knew nothing of whence he came or whither he was bound. She knew nothing
of the man he might be. These things concerned her not at all. She had
judged him in the first moments of her meeting with him nearly two years
ago, and from the first words he had spoken in his easy way, and her
judgment had been of a splendid manhood that harmonised with the deep
woman instinct, which, for good or ill, is the final tribunal of a
woman’s life.
He had been the ideal of everything that appealed to her in manhood. She
had learned her simple understanding of life amongst the rough men of
the northern trail. Here was a man recklessly plunging into the far-off
world, ready to face and battle with every chance with which that world
was crowded. He was fearless. Yes. He was all she looked for in courage.
He was a leader, a strong, determined leader of men no less brave and
adventurous than himself. And as for the rest it was all there. She had
seen for herself. A great stature, a strong man’s face. And eyes that
calmly shone with honesty and kindliness.
She sighed. Would he return? The hands about her knees broke apart. They
fell from about her knees, and she stirred, and twisted her body round
so that she sat with one hand on the bare rock supporting it. She was
facing round to the west.
Why, why did she so long for his return? He had said he would return in
two years. Two years? That would not be up till next opening. The winter
ahead suddenly looked to be an interminable period of waiting. Winter.
And anything might happen to him in—winter. Suddenly she became weakly
anxious for his safety. She knew the dangers. She knew the conditions of
the country into which he had gone. The Euralians. The desperate storms.
The— But she dismissed her fears. She remembered the man’s equipment.
But more than all she remembered his confident, commanding eyes. No.
Nothing could harm him. Nothing. Nothing. But would he remember. Would
he—?
She started. Suddenly she sprang to her feet with the easy agility of
one of the young deer it was her work to handle. And she stood against
the sweeping breeze, at the very edge of the ledge, silhouetted against
the background of a dying sun.
The biting wind swept her hair across her eyes. She raised a brown hand
and thrust it aside and held its mass firmly, while she stared out
wide-eyed in amazement. Then she raised the other hand, pointing, a
thrill of excitement, and gladness, and hope, surging through her heart.
And as she stood, utterly unconscious of the thing she did, words sprang
to her lips and she counted aloud.
“One! Two! Three! Yes. Five large and two small!”
And with each numeral she uttered, her pointing hand moved from one tiny
distant object on the river to another.
For awhile she remained spellbound by the vision. She remembered. Oh,
yes. There could be no mistake. Five large canoes and two smaller. That
had been the extent of Bill Wilder’s outfit as she had first discovered
it. It was he. He was coming up the river. He had returned. And—he had
returned sooner than he promised.
A wild tumult of feeling consumed her as she stared at the distant
procession of boats. Then, in a moment, a surge of colour swept up into
her cheeks, and a fierce panic of shame robbed her of all her delight.
She turned; tearing herself from the glad sight, and fled headlong to
her kyak below.
CHAPTER VIII
BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS
Hesther was perturbed, yet she was engaged on the task of all tasks
which appealed to her in her life’s routine.
It was wash-day. She was standing over a boiler of steaming water,
frothing with soap suds and full of a laundry made up of the rainbow
hues of a Joseph’s coat. The kitchen was reeking with steam. It was also
littered with piles of well-wrung garments awaiting the services of Mary
Justicia for transfer to the drying ground outside. The swarming flies
were more than usually sticky in the humid atmosphere, and the
prevailing confusion in the rough living room was as splendid as the
most ardent housewife could have desired on such an occasion.
Perturbation with Hesther could only have one source. Something must be
amiss with one of the large family for which she held herself
responsible. Nothing else could have disturbed her equanimity. She was
completely single-minded and even in her emotions. Beyond the four walls
of her house she had no concern. She was utterly abandoned to the six
young lives entrusted to her efforts by her dead husband, and the girl
who, from her earliest infancy, had been called “the Kid.”
It was of the Kid she was thinking now. Their talk of the day before had
filled her with disquiet. The girl had denied so much, and yet, to the
patient mother-woman, there had been signs that only afforded one
interpretation.
And now she was asking herself all the many questions which her woman’s
heart instinctively prompted. Who was the man? Where was the man? When
had the Kid encountered the man? What was he like? How far had this
thing gone that it had stirred the child to a fever of excited interest
in another woman’s love for her man? She was mystified beyond words.
None but trailmen and trappers had come near them throughout the years.
They were mostly half-breeds and Eskimos, and one or two poor whites who
thought of nothing but the mean living they were able to scratch out of
this Euralian-ridden territory.
No. It was none of these. Of that she was convinced. And for all the
girl’s denial her mind persistently turned to Placer. There had been a
definite change in the Kid, she fancied, since her return from the gold
city. A change which her keen anxiety of the moment forthwith
exaggerated. She felt that she must take Usak into her confidence. Yes.
When he returned from his summer trip with Clarence, trading the
trail-broken deer, she would question him. She warned herself that it
was imperative for all it seemed like disloyalty, and distrust of the
Kid’s denial. Yes. That was the only course for her.
She glanced up from her steaming tub where her busy hands were rubbing
and squeezing the highly coloured garments in the suds. Mary Justicia
had appeared in the doorway and was standing outlined foggily in the
steam.
“Those,” Hesther said, indicating the litter on the rough-boarded table.
“It’s a big wash, child,” she observed contentedly, “but I guess we’ll
get through in time for dinner. You see we got all Janey’s stuff, an’
it’s that stained with mud an’ the like it makes you wonder the sort o’
muck that comes down the river.”
Mary Justicia seized on the garments. Then she paused and turned with
her arms full.
“The kids are comin’ right along up from the river, Mum,” she declared,
dismissing her mother’s remarks under an interest much more to her
liking. “Guess they’re coming along up on the run, an’ Alg’s with ’em.
You wouldn’t say Perse had located something, or—or got hurt? I didn’t
just see him comin’ along with the bunch.”
The mother wiped the suds from her hands and dried them on her overall.
“It’s an hour an’ more to food,” she said, with a sharp inquiry in her
tone and look. “Wot’s got ’em beatin’ it to home now? Alg should be
along up at the corrals with the Kid.”
She hurried to the door and looked out. Sure enough there was a tailing
procession of children racing for the house. But all four of them were
there. Perse was running last, behind the toddling figure of Jane
Constance.
* * * * *
It was a breathless crew that broke into the steaming kitchen. From the
sixteen-year-old Alg down to the round, grubby-faced Janey, with her
mass of curling brown hair and dark eyes, excitement was a-riot, and
they hurled their amazing news at the busy mother in a chorus that set
her flourishing a half-wrung garment at them in protest.
“Say, quit it, all of you!” she cried. “I haven’t ears all over my head
if you think I have. Outfit? What outfit? Here, quit right away, the
whole bunch. An’ you Alg, tell your crazy yarn while I get right on with
the wash. You ‘shoo’ the others right out into the open, Mary Justicia,
while Alg hands me his fairy tale. They’ll be takin’ pneumonia in this
steam else.”
The elder girl obediently “shooed” the rest of the children from the
room, and stood guard in the doorway lest the avalanche returned. But
she was all eyes and ears for Alg who was simply bursting with his
astonishing news.
“It’s an outfit come right up the river,” he began at once, his eyes
alight and dilating with an excitement he could scarcely contain
sufficiently to leave him coherent. “It’s a swell outfit of white folk,
ever so many of ’em. I guess they must ha’ come through in the night an’
passed right up to the gravel flats along up beyond the corrals. Guess
they pitched camp three miles up, an’ they got five big canoes, an’ all
sorts of camp stuff. Ther’s a feller with bright red hair, an’ two
fellers who’re sort of bosses. The rest are just river folk, an’ the
like. It was Perse located ’em, an’ I guess he come along and tell us,
and we went right up, an’—”
“Did you tell the Kid?”
Hesther’s sharp demand was the natural impulse which the boy’s news
stirred in her. The arrival of a strange outfit of white folk on the
river was a matter of serious enough importance in their lives, but it
was outside her province. Her real concern was for her washing and all
that that implied. The Kid, in the absence of Usak, was her resource in
such a situation. The boy shook his rough head.
“I didn’t see her around as we came along back,” he said, “an’ I didn’t
wait to chase her up. I guessed I best come along an’ tell you first.”
The mother nodded and wrung and rinsed a flannel garment as though
nothing else in the world mattered. She was thinking as hard as a mind
concentrated upon her manual effort would permit. And somehow the result
was sufficiently negative to leave her without any inspiration beyond
that the Kid should be told at once so that there should be no delay in
the responsibility of the newly developed position finding the proper
person to deal with it.
“Beat it right up to the corrals,” she said at last, “an’ locate the
Kid, and hand her your yarn, son.” Then the working of her simple mind
eased to its normal condition. “An’ when you done that come right back
to home, an’ don’t get running around pecking at them folks. We don’t
know who they are. Maybe they’re a bum outfit o’ low down whites chasing
after no good. You’re mostly a grown feller, Alg, an’ you got women-folk
around. I guess it’s right up to you, an’ me, an’ the Kid, with Usak
away, an’ with strangers around. Now you get right along an’ beat it.
Food’ll be about ready against you get along back. An’ I’ll finish the
wash after. Ho, Mary, here’s another bunch to set out dryin’.”
But Hesther was infinitely disturbed. Her perturbation on the Kid’s
account had been something very much less disturbing than this sudden
and totally unlooked for development. Strangers! White strangers!
Strangers on their river! What had they come for? And, more than all,
what manner of white folk were they? The woman in her had taken alarm,
for all she gave no sign. There was the Kid and Mary. They were alone,
without any sort of help except Alg and the two or three half-breed
Eskimo working about the farm. At that moment she would have given all
she possessed to have had Usak on hand to look to for the protection she
desired.
It was curious. For years she had lived under the threat of the Euralian
marauders who had passed through the country like a devastating
pestilence. They were foreigners. They were savages. Their crimes were
wanton in their cruelty. Yet the dread of them failed to quicken her
sturdy pulse by a single beat. Now, however, at the coming of these men
of her own race, it was utterly different. A sort of stupefied panic
suddenly descended upon her, and her wash day had ceased to interest
her. She removed the boiler from her cook-stove, and prepared for the
mid-day meal.
Mary Justicia had abandoned her post at the doorway. She had cleared the
table of the litter of washing and was setting the meal ready while her
mother gave herself up to the work at the cookstove, when a small head
was thrust in at the doorway.
“Mum!”
There was a note of suppressed excitement in Perse’s eager summons.
Hesther turned from the stove on the instant.
“You be off with you!” she cried. “Food won’t be—”
“Tain’t food, Mum,” retorted the boy urgently, as he gazed into the
steam-filled room. “It’s a feller, a great big feller, bigger than Usak,
comin’ right along. What’ll I do? Tain’t any use tryin’ to ‘shoo’ him.
He’s too big fer that. Guess it wouldn’t be any use Mary ‘shooin’’ him
either. I—”
Hesther ran to the doorway. She stood framed in it, her thin, bare arms
folded across her spare bosom. It was an attitude that might have
suggested defiance. But at that moment there was only a deepening panic
surging in her mother heart.
And standing there she beheld the approach of a man of unusual stature.
He was clad in trail-stained, hard clothing that by no means helped his
appearance. His buckskin coat was open, and under it was revealed a
plain cotton shirt that gaped wide at the neck, about which was knotted
a coloured scarf. His dark hair hung loose below his low-pressed cap.
But these things passed unnoticed. For the woman was concerned only with
the face of the man, and the thing she was trying to read there. As he
came up he removed his cap and stood bareheaded before her. And he
smiled down into her troubled, inquiring face out of a pair of grey eyes
that never wavered for a moment.
“I guessed I’d best come right along down at once, mam,” he said in
easy, pleasant tones. “We pulled in up the river last night And seeing
things are kind of lonesome about here, and we’re a biggish outfit of
strangers such as maybe you weren’t guessing to see about, I felt it
might get you worried. Well, I just want to make it so you don’t feel
that way. We’re a gold outfit figgering to prospect this river, and I’m
running it. My name’s Bill Wilder. It won’t tell you a thing, I fancy.
But I want to say right here that just so long as we’re around ther’s
not a feller in my bunch that’s going to worry you or yours without
getting a broken neck from me. That’s all I came along to pass you. You
see, mam, it’s a queer country full of queer folk, and I sort of fancied
making things easy for you.”
The woman in Hesther was deeply stirred. The man’s whole attitude was
one of simple respect and kindliness. There was no mistaking it, and her
favourable judgment of him was as instantaneous and headlong as had been
her panic of the moment before. It was the voice, the clear smiling eyes
of this whiteman stranger that claimed her ready confidence. For she was
a woman whose simplicity of heart dictated at all times.
“Why, say, now, that’s real kind of you, sir,” she replied beaming with
genuine relief. “It surely is a rough country for a lone woman with a
bunch of God’s Blessings around her.” Then she moved back into the house
with an air of removing the hurriedly set up defences of her home, and
turned to Mary Justicia, while the other children gawked at the
stranger. “You’ll set another platter, girl. I guess Mr. Wilder’ll take
hash with us, if he ain’t scared to death eating with a bunch of kids
with the manners of low-grade Injuns.” Then she smiled apologetically at
the man with his powerful shoulders and great height. “You see, it’s
wash-day with us, sir,” she went on, “an’ it ’ud take a wise feller to
rec’nise our kitchen from a spring fog. But the ducks have been shot
four days by the Kid, an’ I reckon they’ll eat as tender as Thanksgiving
turkey. Will you step right in an’—welcome?”
The cordiality of the little woman’s invitation was irresistible. But
Wilder shook his head in partial denial. Her reference to “the Kid” had
changed his original intention of complete refusal.
“Mam,” he said, “ordinarily I’d be mighty glad to take that food with
you all. But I guess I need to get back to camp in awhile. You see, we
only pulled in last night at sundown, and ther’s a deal needs fixing
when you’re runnin’ a bunch of tough-skinned gold men. But I’d be glad
to step in and yarn some if wash-day permits.”
* * * * *
Wilder’s reputation amongst the men of his craft was that of scrupulous
straight dealing and honesty for all he was an astute man of affairs in
the business in which they trafficked. They knew him for a man who never
needed to sign when his word was given. Beyond that they knew little of
the real man. Amongst those whom he counted as friends there was an
infinitely warmer side to the man. They saw the native simplicity and
kindliness which he usually kept closely hidden under a harder surface.
But, somehow, the real man was reserved for the eyes of such women as he
encountered. His chivalry for the sex was innate. It was no make-believe
veneer. To him it mattered nothing if a woman were plain or beautiful,
old or young. Even her morals had no power to influence his attitude. A
woman, with all her faults and virtues, was just the most sacred
creature that walked the earth. Good, bad, or in a category between the
two, she left the mundane gods of daily life nothing comparable in their
claim upon him.
His feelings, however, reduced him to no extravagant display of
sentiment towards women. On the contrary. He loved to regard them as
creatures created for the beautifying of human life, companions on
complete equality with man, except where the disability of sex was
involved. It was in such circumstances he claimed man’s right to succour
to the limit of his powers.
Something of all this had stirred him at the sight of the brown-eyed,
work-worn woman with her “God’s Blessings,” as she called them, about
her. But it had had nothing to do with the inspiration of his prompt
visit to the homestead he had discovered ten miles up from the mouth of
the Caribou River. He had contemplated this visit all the way down the
long journey on the Hekor River. He had visualized the existence of some
such home, and had determined to locate it. And the purpose had remained
in his mind ever since that day, two summers ago, when the girl who was
called “the Kid” had flung him her parting invitation. Even now, as he
bulked so hugely in the one real chair the homestead afforded, and which
was the rest place for Hesther when her many labours permitted, he saw
again in fancy the girl’s frankly smiling blue eyes, full of delight and
pride at the masterly fashion m which she had piloted the great outfit
up the narrow channel of the Hekor rapids. Her pretty weather-tanned
face had lived with him every day of his long sojourn in the desolate
wastes farther north, and he had longed for the time when he could run
her to earth in that home which she had told him lay ten miles from the
mouth of the Caribou River.
At last it had come. And in how strange a fashion. It almost looked as
though Fate had taken a hand in bringing about the thing he desired. It
was not only his desire to look again upon the sun-browned face of the
girl who had so surely leapt into his heart that had brought him to the
Caribou River. It was the diagram map, so carefully drawn by the dead
Marty Le Gros’ hand, which the terrified little Japanese woman had
thrust upon him in the hope of saving her blinded husband. _The great
gold “strike” of the dead missionary was on the Caribou River, and he
held the detailed key of it._
He was thinking of the Kid now as he listened to the ripple of talk
which flowed so naturally from Hesther’s lips as she stood over the
savoury stew on the cook-stove.
“It makes me want to laff,” she said, “you folks reckoning to try out
the Caribou for gold. You’re jest like my Perse, only you don’t skid out
the seat of your pants chasing the stuff. Say, that kid—he’s nigh
thirteen years—has the gold bug dead right, an’ he reckons to locate it
around this valley. I’d say you couldn’t beat it, only you’re reckoning
that way, too. Gold? Gee! Gold on this mud an’ rock bottom? Why, you’ll
need all the dynamite in the world to loosen up this territory, ’cept
where it’s muskeg, an’ then you’ll need a mighty long life line to hit
bottom.”
Bill nodded.
“Guess you folks should know the valley, mam,” he admitted, with a smile
of amusement in his eyes.
Hesther turned about from her work.
“You aren’t thinking that?” she said quickly.
“No.”
“Ah, that’s a man all through. You reckon ther’s gold on Caribou, and
you’ll chase it to a finish. Say, my Perse ’ud just love you to death
for that.”
Wilder watched Mary Justicia moving silently around the room preparing
the table.
“Where did—Perse—get his notion from, mam?” Wilder inquired disarmingly.
In a moment Hesther’s brown eyes became serious. There crept into them
an abstracted far-off look. And in repose a curious sadness marked her
expression.
“Why, the Kid’s father. The missionary, Marty Le Gros, who was murdered
by the Euralians nigh eighteen years back.”
Wilder started. A flood of excitement hurled through his body. He almost
sprang from the square, raw-hide seat of his chair. But he controlled
himself with an effort and spoke with a calmness that betrayed nothing
of his sudden emotion.
“You said Perse was only thirteen,” he argued.
“That’s so,” Hesther nodded, setting the tea-kettle to boil beside the
stew. Then she turned about to the two children squatting on the
doorstep. “That’s Perse,” she said, indicating the boy who was listening
avidly to the talk. “He’s only heard of the yarn that the Kid’s pore
father made a big ‘strike.’ I know he made it. Jim and me—Jim’s my dead
husband who used to run the Fur Valley Store at Fort Cupar—handled the
chunks of yellow stuff he showed us. They were wonderful. Oh, yes, he
made a big ‘strike’—somewhere. But I don’t guess it was on Caribou. We
were to have known. He was going to hand us the yarn. But he didn’t. You
see, they got after him, an’ murdered him. So no one ever knew. You see
Perse hasn’t a notion beyond Caribou. So he reckons if ther’s gold
anywhere in creation it must be on Caribou.”
“He’s a wise kid.”
Hesther laughed.
“Because he thinks your way?”
“Sure. But say, mam, I guess you’re waiting to serve out that food and
I’m holding things up.”
The woman shook her head.
“The Kid ain’t down from the corrals yet. We don’t eat till she comes.”
The man nodded and made no attempt to take his departure.
“I see,” he said reflectively. Then he laughed.
“Say, mam,” he went on with a gesture of deprecation, “you’ve got me
guessing good. I’m just a gold man an’ not a highbrow logician or
guesser of riddles. You’re here with your bunch of God’s Blessings, as
you call these dandy kids of yours. You talk of corrals as if you were
running a swell cattle ranch. You talk of the Kid’s father who was Marty
Le Gros, a missionary, murdered by Euralians eighteen years ago. An’ you
haven’t even spoke as if you had any sort of name yourself. Well, as I
said I’m just a gold man chasing up a creek you don’t reckon to hold
anything better than mud and rock, but I’m liable to be a neighbour of
yours for something like a year at least. And if it isn’t putting you
about I’d just love to sit and listen to anything you feel like handing
out.”
It was the way it was said. It was so frankly ingenuous and inviting.
Hesther looked into the stranger’s grey eyes, and no question remained
in her mind. So she laughed in response and shook her greying head.
“Say, living on the edge of the Arctic has quite a way of cutting out
the manners we’re brought up to,” she said at once. “I’m Mrs. McLeod,
and my man, Jim, as I said, was factor at Fort Cupar. Well, he died.”
For one thoughtful moment she glanced into the stew pot. Then she dipped
some steaming beans from a boiler and emptied them into the stew. After
that she turned again to the waiting man in the chair.
“This is a reindeer farm. It’s a sort of crazy notion in a way, but it’s
handed us a living ever since Marty Le Gros, who started it up, was
murdered by the Euralian toughs. Will I hand you the story of that? Or
maybe you’re heard it? Most folks in the North have.”
Wilder nodded.
“Don’t trouble to tell it, mam,” he said quickly. “It’s bad med’cine
that I’ve heard all about. And it’s not likely to hand you comfort in
the telling. So this was his farm?”
“Sure it was. He started it reckoning to build it up for his little
baby, Felice, who we call the Kid, and the Indian man, Usak, who was his
servant, ran it for him. Well, after he was done up and his place was
burnt out, Usak came along from here and found his little kiddie flung
into the bluff to die, or get eaten by wolves and things. Usak was nigh
crazy. But he claimed the Kid and raised her on this farm, which he went
on building for her. When the Kid was about twelve my man Jim took ill
and died, and I came along right over from the store with my bits and my
kiddies, and just live with ’em. It helped me and mine, and it helped
the Kid and Usak some. And that’s all ther’ is to it. I’m sort of
foster-mother to the Kid. And we all scratch a living out of Usak’s
trading the trail-broke caribou with such Eskimo as the Euralians have
left within reach.” She laughed, shortly and without mirth. “It’s
nothing much to tell, sir, but there it is, and you’re welcome to know
it.”
The woman’s brief outline contained the whole drama of the past eighteen
years told without emphasis, almost as though it were a simple matter of
everyday occurrence. Years ago it might have been different, but
now—why, now only the present seriously concerned her, and that was the
preparation of food and the execution of those many duties which were
demanded by the young lives who looked to her mothering.
For some moments Wilder offered no comment. He was concerned, deeply
concerned. This woman’s homely trust and courage affected him deeply.
But more than all else was a superlative thankfulness that Providence,
through George Raymes, had sent him on what had first looked to be a
hopeless pursuit of something completely impossible of achievement. He
remembered the Superintendent’s final summing up of the work set for him
to accomplish.
“Does it get you?” he had asked, “there it is, a great gold discovery,
somewhere up there on the Hekor, I suppose, and the mystery of this
people filching our trade through a process of outrageous crime.
Somewhere up there there’s a girl-child, white—she’d be about nineteen
or twenty now—lost to the white world to which she belongs. But above
all, from my point of view, there’s a problem. Who are these Euralians,
and what becomes of the wealth of furs they steal?”
The whole of the work was well-nigh completed. He is had completely
satisfied himself on the problem of the Euralians. He had recovered the
plans of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike” and it only remained for him to
follow their directions to complete the re-discovery of the find itself.
And now—now he had at length discovered the “girl-child, white,” who, to
his mind was heir to the things her dead father had left behind.
Yes, the end of his task looked to be drawing near, but he could not
resign himself to the fact. Somehow it seemed to him that he was only
approaching the threshold. That the drama of the whole thing was still
in being. That there were scenes yet to be depicted that would deeply
involve him. There was the blind Japanese man and his panic-stricken
woman. There was the terrible Usak whom he had yet to meet. Then there
was The Kid.
The Kid. What was her real name? Felice. Yes. That was the name Mrs.
McLeod had told him. Felice. It meant happiness. It was a good name. But
the irony. Poor child. Raised by the terrible Usak. Fostered here on the
barren lands of the North, without a hope beyond the hard living these
poor folk were able to scrape with the crude, uncultured assistance of
an Indian. The whole thing was appalling. He loved the Northland. But to
be condemned to it without hope of better things left him wondering at
the amazing courage which Felice and this gentle mother must possess.
In that one brief moment headlong determination came to his assistance.
It was not for nothing that Providence had directed his steps into this
crude, desolate valley. No. And his heart warmed, and emotions stirred
under the gladness of his inspiration.
He eased himself in his chair and rose abruptly to his feet.
“Mam,” he said, thrusting out a hard brown hand towards Hesther, “I want
to thank you—I—”
But the out-held hand dropped abruptly to his side, and he broke off in
the midst of the thing he had to say. For Perse and Jane Constance had
rolled themselves clear of the door-sill to admit their foster-sister.
The Kid stood framed in the opening with the grey-noon daylight shining
behind her. She was radiant in her mannish parka, and the buckskin
trousers terminating in high moccasins reaching almost to her knees. Her
eyes were alight and shining in their sunbrowned setting, and her fair
hair had fallen from beneath her low-pressed cap. Health and beauty were
in every contour of her vigorous young body, and in her smiling eyes as
she gazed upon the plain, angular face of the man who had just risen
from Hesther’s chair. But a curious shyness left her hesitating and
something dismayed.
For one instant the girl’s eyes encountered the man’s. Then she swiftly
glanced at the older woman by the stove. And Hesther jumped at the cue
she felt to be hers.
“It’s Felice, who we all call the Kid,” she said for the man’s benefit.
Then she turned to the girl. “This is Mr. Wilder, my dear—Mr. Bill
Wilder.”
The girl’s shyness passed in a quick smile that was like a sudden burst
of sunshine.
“I know, Mum, dear,” she cried. “I met him two summers ago on the river
and passed him and his outfit up through the rapids at the mouth of the
river.” Then she crossed over to the man whose eyes were smiling in
perfect content. “You’ve found our little shanty,” she said holding out
a soft brown hand, “and I’m glad. You’re real welcome.”
The frankness of her greeting was utterly without embarrassment, and
Wilder took the outstretched hand in both of his and held it for a
moment while he turned to the mother who was looking on in amazement.
“She saved me a two days’ portage, mam,” he said, in explanation. “And I
guess she’s the brightest jewel of a waterman I’ve seen in years.”
“My!” Hesther’s exclamation was almost a gasp as she watched their hands
fall apart. Then with the mildest shadow of reproach: “An’ you never
told me, Kid, You never said a word.”
CHAPTER IX
THE GREAT SAVAGE
Usak stood up from the camp fire that was more than welcome. He stood
with his broad back to the shelter of low scrub to leeward of which the
midday camp had been pitched, and gazed out over a wide expanse of
barren, windswept country. The threat overhanging the grey world was
very real. Winter was in the dense, ponderously moving clouds; it was in
the bite of the northerly wind, which was persistent and found the weak
spot in such human clothing as had not yet given place to the furs of
winter. The light of noonday, too, was sadly dull. For the hidden sun
had lost so much of its summer power, and its range of daily progress
had narrowed down to a line that was low on the horizon.
But the savage was unconcerned for the outlook of the day. He was
unconcerned for the sterile territory over which his long summer journey
had carried him. The man’s whole being was focussed upon the needs of
life. The needs of those who depended on him. The needs which were no
less his own. And for once a sense of satisfaction, of ease, was
all-pervading. His trade had been something more profitable than it had
been for years, and he understood that the needs of the coming winter,
and next year’s open season, looked like being comfortably provided for.
Oh, yes, there was much labour ahead.
His trade must be translated into the simple provisions which must
ultimately be obtained in far-off Placer. He knew all that But it left
his staunch, fierce spirit unafraid. The means of obtaining the things
needed were in his hands. The rest was the simple battle with the winter
elements which had no terrors for his unimaginative mind.
It was the last lap of a journey of several months. Night would find him
in the shelter of his own home, with the voices of the white children,
who had become so much a part of his life, ringing in his ears. And
before he slept he knew that he would have witnessed the glad smile of
welcome and satisfaction in the white girl who was as the sun, moon, and
stars of his life. He would have told her of his good news, and together
they would have examined and appraised the values with which he had
returned from the far-off Eskimo camps which good fortune had flung into
his path.
So the grey world looked good. Even the naked undulations amongst which
the ribbon-like river wound its way had lost something of their
forbidding aspect. It was the world he knew, the world he had battled
with all his manhood. His satisfaction had translated it.
He stood for a moment or two, a figure of splendid manhood. His
far-gazing eyes looked out with something in them akin to that which
looks out of the sailor-man’s eyes. They were searching, reposeful and
steady with quiet confidence.
He turned at last at the sounds of movement at the fire, and, for a
moment, he watched the white youth, who was his companion, as he
collected the chattels out of which they had taken their midday meal.
Then he moved quickly to the boy’s side and took the pan and camp kettle
from his hands. And his actions were accompanied by a swift protest in a
voice that rarely softened.
“Him Injun work,” he said gruffly. And the manner of it left no doubt as
to the definite understanding of their relations. It was the man’s
fierce pride that his mission was to serve the white folk entrusted to
his care.
Clarence yielded, but his thin cheeks flushed. Then he laughed but
without mirth. He was a strapping youth of unusual physique. At sixteen
he was all the man his mother claimed for him, for somehow the hardship
of the trail had eaten into his youthful character and robbed it of the
boyhood his years should have made his. He was serious, completely
serious, and his freckled face and brown eyes looked something weary of
the labour thus early flung on him.
“It’s most always that way, Usak,” he grumbled sharply. “Nothin’s my
work you’ve got time to do.”
The Indian made no reply. He moved quickly over to the three great
caribou, standing ready for the trail, harnessed to their long, trailing
carryalls. They were fine, powerful bucks, long-trained to the work, and
their widespreading, downy antlers, now in full growth and almost ready
for their annual shedding, indicated their tally of years in the service
of the northern trail. He bestowed the gear in its allotted place in the
outfit and returned to the fire.
For a few moments he held out his brown hands to the warming embers,
squatting low on his haunches. Then he turned to the boy. His reply to
the youth’s challenge had been carefully considered.
“What you mak him this word?” he said, in his harsh way. “You my white
boss I lak him mak work for. It good. Oh, yes. Someday it come you grow
big white man lak to the good boss, Marty. I know. Then you think ’em
this dam Injun no good. Him mak white boy-work for him. No good. I,
whiteman, no work for Injun man. Oh no.” His black eyes smiled, and his
smile had no more softness in it than his frown. “I tell you,” he went
on. “_I_ think much big think. You mak big trail man bimeby. Bimeby Usak
die dead. Maybe he get kill ’em all up on winter trail. Who knows? Then
he think much for him Kid. He think much for him white-mother, Hesther.
Him say, Usak all dead. No matter. Him Clarence big fine trail man. Him
mak good all thing Usak no more do. So Usak not care the big spirit tak
him. So. Whiteman tell Injun all time work. It so. The good boss, Marty,
speak so. Injun man no good, never.”
Clarence turned quickly. He, too, was squatting over the welcome fire. A
sharp retort was on his lips. He knew that the Indian was his master on
the trail. He knew that the man was almost superhuman in his ability. He
knew that the man’s desire was just as he said. But somehow the spirit
in him refused to accept the other’s self-abnegation. Usak was his
teacher, not his servant. And somehow he felt there was no right, no
justice, for all the difference in colour, that this creature should so
humble himself by reason of that absurd difference.
But his lips closed again without a spoken word. He was held silent
under the sway of the man’s powerful influence. And so, as it was
always, Usak had his way.
After a moment the white youth accepted the position thrust on him.
“We best pull out?” he said almost diffidently.
The Indian nodded. Then his dark eyes smiled again, and his powerful
hands rubbed themselves together over the luxurious warmth.
“_I_ wait for that,” he said quietly. “You my boss. My good white boss.
Same lak the white-girl, Kid, an’ the good Marty. Sure we pull out. We
mak him the farm this night. It good. Much good.”
He rose to his full height without effort, and turned at once to the
waiting caribou.
* * * * *
The night was dark but the burden of cloud had completely dispersed. In
its place was a velvet sky studded with myriads of starry jewels. Then
away to the north the world was lit by a shadowy movement of northern
lights. The night was typical of the fall of the northern year, chill,
still, haunted, for all its perfect calm, by the fierce threat of the
approach of winter.
The ice-cold waters of the river lay behind the outfit. They had just
crossed the shallow ford where the stream played boisterously over the
boulder-strewn gravel bed. The labouring caribou were moving slowly up
the gentle incline of lichen-covered foreshore. And the Indian on the
lead, and the white youth trailing behind the last of the three beasts
of burden, knew that in less than two hours the last eight miles or so
of their summer-long journey would be accomplished.
Usak dropped back from his lead and permitted the caribou to pass him,
and took his place beside the leg-weary youth. For some time they paced
on in silence each absorbed in his own thought.
It was a great looking forward for both. Both were contemplating that
modest home they were approaching with feelings of something more than
content. Clarence was yearning for the boisterous companionship of his
brothers and sisters. The boy in him was crying out for the youth which
the rigours of the northern trail had so long denied him. The ramshackle
habitation which was his home possessed for him just now a splendour of
comfort, and ease, and delight such as only a starving imagination could
create about it. He was heart-sick and bodily weary with the
interminable labour which the long trail demanded.
With the Indian it was different. The joy of return for him had no
relation to any weariness of body or spirit. He was contemplating only
the good news which was carefully packed up on the primitive carryalls
to which the caribou were harnessed, and the happiness he looked to see
shining in the eyes of the whitewoman it was his mission to serve.
It was out of this spirit of happy satisfaction he had abandoned his
place at the head of the outfit, and dropped abreast of his white
companion. For once in his life it was his desire to talk. And the
inspiration came from the fulness of his savage heart.
“The white mother much glad bimeby,” he said, in his curious halting
fashion.
Clarence nodded. He paused a moment and ran his strong hands down the
legs of his buckskin nether garments. The ice cold water of the river
was partially squeezed out of them, but they remained saturated and
chilly to the sturdy legs they covered.
“Sure,” he said in brief agreement.
“I think much,” Usak went on. “This winter trail. You mak him with me?
Him Kid much good trail man. Plenty big white heart. She mak ’em good,
yes. But she much soft white woman. Winter trail him hard. Placer long
piece far. It no good. No. Clarence big trail man now. Snow. Ice. Storm.
It nothing to big trail man Clarence—now. You come mak him with Usak?
Then him Kid sleep good by the farm. All time much warm. All time much
eat good. Yes?”
The boy looked up into the darkly shadowed face in the starlit night as
they walked rapidly behind the great deer who were hurrying towards the
homestead which they knew lay ahead. For all his weariness a great pride
uplifted the youth. The desperate winter trail. The long trail which
hitherto had been steadily denied him by reason of his youth and lacking
experience. Usak had bid him face it. The vanity of the youth flamed up
in him.
“You mean that, Usak?” he demanded sharply. And the Indian realised the
tone.
“The winter trail for big man,” he said, subtly.
“Yes.”
Clarence drew a deep breath. Then after a moment he went on. And again
the Indian recognised and approved the new tone that rang in his voice.
“That goes, Usak,” he said. Then with sudden passionate energy: “I’m no
kid now,” he cried. “The winter trail I guess needs menfolk, not women
or kids. I’m with you, sure. And I play my hand right through. Say, I
go, but I go right. Ther’s goin’ to be no play. The work that’s yours is
yours. The work that’s mine’s mine. An’ I don’t let any feller do my
work on the trail. Not even you. Does that go? Say it right here an’
now.”
The smile that changed the Indian’s expression so little was there under
cover of the shadows of night.
“Him go all time, sure. You big boss whiteman mak him trade by Placer.
You say all time the thing we do. Oh, yes. That’s so. Usak—Sho!”
The man broke off and his final exclamation had in it the curious hiss
so indicative of a mind started profoundly and unpleasantly. He had
halted on the summit of a high ground roller and stood pointing out
ahead, somewhere on the opposite shore of the river where the twinkling
lights of camp fires were burning brightly. He stood awhile in deep,
concentrated contemplation, and his arm remained out-flung for his
companion’s benefit Clarence, too, was gazing at the amazing sight of
the twinkling, distant camp fires.
The same thought was in the mind of each. But it was the uncompromising
spirit of the savage that first gave it expression.
“Euralian!” he said, in a tone of devastating hatred.
Instantly the youth in the other cried out.
“Mum! She’s alone with the kids!”
* * * * *
Bill Wilder kicked the embers of the fire together. Then he leant over
to the driftwood stack and clawed several sticks from the pile. He flung
them on the fire and watched the stream of sparks fly upward on the
still night air.
It was the second night of camping on the gravel flats of the Caribou
River, and the last brief hour before seeking the fur-lined bags in
which the northern man is wont to sleep. Chilcoot and Wilder were
squatting side by side, Indian fashion, over the camp fire burning
adjacent to the tent they shared with the Irishman. And the latter faced
them beyond the fire, sprawled on the ground baked hard by the now
departed summer heat.
Talk had died out. These men rarely wasted words. They had long since
developed the silent habit which the northern solitudes so surely breed.
But even so, for once there was a sense of restraint in their silent
companionship. It was a restraint which arose from a sense of grievance
on the part of both Chilcoot and the Irishman. And it had developed from
the moment of quitting the mysterious habitation in the western hills.
The facts were simple enough from their point of view. Both the Irishman
and Chilcoot had been left in complete ignorance of their leader’s
adventures during his long night vigil in the deserted house. He had
returned to them only to order a hurried departure, and had definitely
avoided explanations in response to their eager inquiries by evasive
generalisations.
“I just don’t get the meaning of anything, anyway,” he had declared,
with a shake of the head. “Ther’s some queer secret to that shanty the
folks who own it don’t reckon to hand out. If we’d the time to pass on
up the creek maybe we’d locate the meaning of things. But we haven’t and
seemingly that darn house is empty, and there isn’t a thing to it to
tell us anything. No,” he said, “I’ve passed a long night in it and
taken chances I don’t usually reckon to take, and I’ve quit it feeling
like a feller who’s got through with a nightmare, an’ wonders what in
hell he’s eaten to give it him. I’m sick to death chasing ghosts, and
mean to quit right here. We’ll just need to report to our superiors,” he
smiled, “an’ leave ’em to investigate. Meanwhile we’ll get right on
after the stuff which seems to me to lie in one direction, and that’s
the location where the dead missioner worked around. We’ll beat it down
to the Caribou River for a last fling, and after that Placer’s the best
thing I know.”
Chilcoot who understood his friend through long years of experience and
association was by no means deceived. But his loyalty was the strongest
part of him. He read behind the man’s words. He saw and appreciated the
suggestion of excitement lying at the back of Wilder’s smiling eyes, and
understood that the claimed unproductiveness of the night’s vigil was
sheer subterfuge. Furthermore he realised that the hurriedly ordered
departure had been inspired by the events of the night. But he attempted
no further question. And even aided his friend in denying the torrent of
questioning which the Irishman did not scruple to pour out.
Mike’s reminders of the obvious oil and coal wealth of the black,
mysterious hills, and the queer soil of the whole region, left Wilder
unmoved. He agreed simply. But he dismissed the whole proposition as
being outside anything but the range of their natural curiosity. He
reminded the persistent creature that the territory was Alaskan, and
they were for the time being debarred from further investigation through
being enrolled officers of the Canadian Police.
So he had had his way and the eastward journey was embarked upon. And as
the waters of the oily creek passed away behind them, and the queer Fire
Hills dropped back into the distance he hugged his secrets of the night
to himself for the purpose of using them in the fashion he had already
designed. Thus his companions were left puzzled and dissatisfied.
All the way down the great waterway of the Hekor, Wilder had pondered
the position in which he found himself and the events which had led up
to it. The figures of the blinded Japanese and his little wife haunted
him. Then there was that carefully detailed chart which showed the
locality of the dead missionary’s discovery to be on the Caribou River.
And the thought of the Caribou had brought again into the forefront of
his vision the memory of the fair young white girl who had passed him up
the rapids which churned about its mouth, and with her parting farewell,
had flung her invitation at him to that home which was ten miles up from
the junction of the two rivers.
The memory of the Kid had been with him ever since he had first gazed
down into her wonderful blue eyes, and had realised the perfect rounded
figure of her womanhood under her mannish garb. He had always remembered
those peeping golden strands of hair, which, despite her best effort to
conceal them, never failed to escape from under the fur cap which was so
closely drawn down over her shapely head. Then her wonderful skill on
the water, her confidence and her pride in her achievement. He needed
nothing beyond those things. The girl had held him fascinated. She had
set all the youth in him afire. And now—now the wonder of it. The
chances of those remote hills had sent him racing down towards her home
full of a dream that surged through his senses with all the pristine
fire of his hitherto unstirred manhood.
He was thinking of her now. He was thinking of his visit to her home
that very noonday, the first of his arrival upon the river. As he sat
over the fire silently contemplating the depth of its ruddy heart with
calm unsmiling eyes, a passionate desire was stirring within him. Since
the moment of return to his camp on the gravel flats, with the picture
of that happy, unkempt home full of sturdy young life haunting him, he
had been concerned only for the sweet, blue, smiling eyes of the girl of
the northern wild.
He had heard the story of the courageous mother. He had heard the girl’s
story from her own pretty lips as they had walked, to the bank of the
river where he had left his canoe moored. And he had been filled with
only the greater admiration for the simple strength and courage with
which these devoted souls had embarked upon their tremendous struggle
for existence.
At last he knocked out his charred pipe and thrust it away into a
pocket. Again his hands were outspread to the blaze, but now his eyes
were directed to the red-headed creature beyond the fire. Wilder
suddenly cleared his throat. He began to speak, addressing himself to
the Irishman. And Chilcoot looked round from his contemplation of the
fire.
“You boys best listen awhile while I make a talk.” Wilder’s manner was
quiet enough, but there was that in his tone which impressed his
companions. “You’ve maybe both got a grouch on me. And I’ll admit I’d
feel the same if I were you. You’re both of you guessing all sorts of
bad med’cine about that business back there in the hills. You’re
reckoning I got visions I haven’t figured to pass on to you. Well, I
sort of feel like clearing things up some—I mean that old grouch.”
His eyes began to smile and he turned to the older man beside him and
shook his head.
“No,” he went on, “I’m not going to say a word about that night I passed
in that darn place. I’m just going to ask you boys to sort of forget it,
and forget your grouch. You just got to trust me same as you’ve done
right along, and maybe later, I’ll be able to hand you the story as I
know it. You, Chilcoot, know me, and I guess you’ll act that way without
a kick. It’ll be harder for Mike, who hasn’t worked with me the years
you have. Still, maybe I can make it easy even for him.”
He thrust out a foot and kicked the fire together while the two men
maintained their silent regard.
“The thing I’ve to talk about is the thing we got to do right here,” he
went on. “I’ve got it planned, and I want to hand you the schedule of
it. We’ve drawn a bad run of blanks for the stuff we’ve been chasing for
the past year, but the run’s ended. The stuff’s in sight. It’s right
here on these mud flats, for all the notion’ll seem plumb crazy to you
boys.”
The Irishman stirred and sat up.
“Ther’s gold on this darn—creek?” he cried incredulously.
“There surely is.”
Wilder’s tone had suddenly hardened.
“How’d you know that?”
Quick as a flash came the red-headed man’s question.
Wilder’s eyes responded coldly to the challenge. He shook his head.
“Ther’s no reason for me to hand you that, Mike,” he said sharply.
“Ther’s no reason for me to hand you a word that way. You signed a
partnership in this layout, with me to lead without question. The thing
that concerns you is the stuff. Here. You don’t believe that stuff is on
this creek. That’s so. I say it is. Our partnership doesn’t quit till
fall next year. Well, I guess I’m not yearning to hand you presents.
Guess you haven’t found it my way—”
“No.”
Mike grinned as he punctuated the other’s remark.
“Just so,” Wilder nodded. “That being so it’ll make you appreciate the
thing I’ll hand you now. I’ll pass you a bank draft for haf a million
dollars the day we set foot in Placer if we haven’t located that
missioner’s ‘strike’ somewhere along this mud-bottomed creek. An’ I’ll
call Chilcoot to witness that goes.”
The two men gazed eye to eye through the haze of smoke. Mike made no
movement, but a look of almost foolish doubt was in his mute regard of
the man who made his amazing offer. It was different with Chilcoot. He
turned almost with a jump.
“Say, you’re crazy, Bill,” he protested.
“I’m not,” Wilder snapped, while his gaze remained steadily fixed on the
face of the man beyond the fire. “Does it go, Mike?” he asked. “And does
it cut out your kick? That’s the thing I’m looking for. You get the
thing we’re looking for under my leadership, or I hand you haf a million
dollars a present. Well?”
The Irishman raised a hand and thrust his fur cap back from his
forehead. His amazement was almost ludicrous.
“Chilcoot’s right,” he blurted at last.
“He isn’t.”
“You—mean that?”
“Sure.”
The Irishman suddenly broke into a laugh of derision. “Well,” he cried,
“Chilcoot’s witness.” Then he flung up his hands. “Say, I haven’t any
sort of kick left in me. I don’t care a curse if you passed the night in
that darnation shanty with an army of murderin’ spooks. Gee! Haf a
million dollars. I’d hate to death a sight of that missioner’s ‘strike’
between now an’ next fall. Hand out your dope, Bill. You’re boss of this
layout. Haf a million! Gee!”
Wilder nodded. He turned at once to Chilcoot. He shook his head with
quiet confidence.
“I’m not crazy, boy,” he cried, in a tone of pleasant tolerance. “Do you
mind our ‘strike’ back there on Eighty-mile in those days when we were
worried keeping our bellies from rattling against our backbones? Get a
look into this darn swamp and think back. It’s twin to Eighty-mile. The
formation is like as two beans. The same mud, an’ granite, with the same
queer breaks of red gravel miles on a stretch. Ther’s that. But ther’s
more. That missioner lived right on this creek. It was his home country.
And he wasn’t the boy to chase around on a prospect. If he made a
‘strike’ it was on home territory that was always under his eye. And
you’ll mind he never mentioned Caribou in his yarns. He said Loon Creek,
which is far enough to keep prying eyes from getting around the real
location. Maybe he was wise for all they beat him. There it is anyway.
I’ve got a mighty hunch for this creek.”
He turned again to the fire, and thrust out his hands.
“An’ you reckon to stake a haf million on your notion?” Chilcoot cried
uneasily.
“I’ll play my luck.” Wilder nodded. “I’ll go further. I know the stuff
is here.”
“You know that?” Mike broke in.
“I surely do.”
“You reckon you ken set your finger on it?”
“More or less.”
The man with the flaming head suddenly sprang to his feet.
“More or—less!” he cried almost contemptuously in his headlong way.
Wilder remained unmoved.
“Here,” he said quietly spreading out his hand in an expressive gesture,
“we only got a matter of weeks to the freeze-up. We’re liable to snow
any day now, and every night ther’s frost. In awhile the ground’ll be
solid so we can’t break into it without more dynamite than we got
stowed. That being so, here’s the schedule. You, Mike, now you feel good
about it, ’ll need to beat up stream and locate prospect ground for next
spring. You’ll use the whole outfit and you’ll locate camp ground.
That’s your billet till the freeze-up, and you’ll need to make right up
to the head waters. Chilcoot and I’ll beat our own trail. An’ don’t
forget it, boy, Chilcoot’s witness ther’s haf a million for you if we
don’t make that ‘strike.’ Does it tickle you any?”
“Just plumb to death, chief.”
The Irishman was grinning from the roots of his flaming hair to a neck
that was none too clean. The last shadow of his discontent had vanished
from his expressive eyes. And even Chilcoot was smiling in his slow
fashion.
“That’s good,” said Wilder. “Guess we can roll into our—Hello! What
the—?”
He sat peering out down the river bank with a hand shading his eyes from
the firelight. Chilcoot too had turned searching into the night. The
Irishman, standing, was in possession of the better view.
“It’s two fellers comin’ up from the river,” he said. “An’ they got a
small kyak drawn up on the shore.”
* * * * *
The gathering about Wilder’s camp fire had been augmented. Five men sat
about it where before there had only been three. Of the newcomers one
was a white youth and the other was an Indian, who left Wilder’s stature
no more than ordinary. The newcomers were squatting on the river side of
the fire, slightly apart from the others. And they sat side by side,
closely, as though there remained a definite barrier of antagonism
between them and the strangers they had found on the river.
Usak sat with his long old rifle laid across his knees. Clarence was
armed, too, but his weapon was in the nature of a more modern sporting
rifle. Of the gold men one at least realised the personality of these
visitors in the night.
There had been no greeting. The Indian and his companion had approached
watchfully. They had reached the fire without a word. But their eyes had
been busy, and their minds full of searching questions. Forthwith they
had squatted. But only on their recognition that their hosts were
whitemen.
It was Wilder who broke up the strained silence. The moment the flame of
fire had lit up the white youth’s face recognition had been instant. The
likeness in it to the faces of those brothers and sisters he had
encountered that noonday left the identity of both him and his dusky
companion beyond question.
“You are Clarence,” he said, with quiet friendliness. Then his gaze
rested thoughtfully upon the inscrutable eyes, and harshly moulded
features of the Indian. “And you are Usak.”
It was the white youth who replied. He nodded while the Indian sat
searching the whitemen’s faces with a gaze that was almost lost in eyes
narrowed down to the merest slits.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Gold men on the trail. My name’s Wilder. Bill Wilder.”
The Indian raised one arm and indicated the others.
“Him men, too? What you call ’em?”
His young white boss having answered the first question Usak had no
scruple but to take up the rest of the matter himself.
“Chilcoot Massy and Red Mike Partners with me. And we come from Placer.”
Wilder’s ready reply was in studied friendliness. But his keen eyes
searched the Indian’s face, which was completely expressionless. The
dusky face had neither friendliness nor antagonism. Yet it was potential
for either under the harsh mask which Nature had set upon it.
Chilcoot and Mike left the situation in the hands of their chief, and
simply sat waiting and curious. The white boy afforded them little
concern. It was the Indian, with his grim manner, and his long,
old-fashioned rifle that claimed their whole attention, as it did their
chief’s.
But Wilder was studying the man out of his knowledge of his malevolent
reputation. He knew he was confronting the dreaded creature who had
perpetrated his terrible vengeance upon those two people he had
encountered at the house in the hills. He knew it at once when he
recognised Clarence as one of the family he had visited that noonday.
And he was anxious to discover the impression his presence on the river
made upon the man.
He had not long to wait.
“You gold men,” Usak said, in a tone that was deep-throated and full of
the latent savage in him. “You come for gold? You come to Caribou.” He
shook his head, and his eyes suddenly opened wide, and their black
depths were full of that fierce resentment which was to be feared like a
cyclonic storm. “I tell you no!” he cried hotly. “Caribou is not for
whiteman gold man. No. It is for the white girl the good boss Marty
leave to the care of Usak. Him all mans quit Caribou quick. I say him.
I—Usak. You’m go quick as you come. You not go, then all mans get kill
up dead. It so. Him no gold on Caribou, an’ Caribou him for my good
white-girl boss, Kid.”
With his last word the man stood erect and his movement was without any
apparent effort. He stood a creature of mighty stature grasping a long
rifle that was dwarfed beside him. He deliberately spat in the fire and
turned away. Then it was, for the first time, he experienced the
authority he had forced on his white companion’s shoulders. Clarence,
too, had risen, but he did not turn away.
“Say, Usak, just stop right here,” he ordered sharply.
The Indian was startled. He turned again and waited at the boy’s
bidding, while his passionate eyes narrowed on the instant.
Clarence gave him no time to speak. He passed round the fire to Wilder
and thrust out a welcoming hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” he said, with an amiable boyish smile.
“Guess _I’m_ only a kid, but I can speak for my mother an’ the Kid. You
see, Usak’s our guardian around here. He’s the best thing to us that was
ever put into an Indian’s body. But he reckons this river and all the
territory around it belongs to my mother an’ the Kid, an’ hates the
sight of folks he thinks likely to do us hurt. You get that? But he
don’t quite understand things between whitefolk. I’m glad to welcome you
to our country, an’ I’ll be glad to welcome you by our home down the
river. And I guess Mum, and the Kid’ll feel that way, too. Maybe you’ll
forget Usak spat into your fire.”
Wilder took the boy’s hand in a powerful grip, and smiled up into his
ingenuous tired face.
“Why, sure,” he cried. “You don’t need to say another word. I’ve been
along this morning to pay my respects to your splendid mother, and
your—Kid. And seeing I’m located on this river of yours for the next
year, why, I’m hoping I’ll see a deal of you all. My friends here feel
that way, too. We’re not pirates come to steal anything you reckon is
yours, or to hand you a moment’s worry. That goes, an’ I guess your
mother’ll tell you the same.”
The boy stood for a moment a little overwhelmed by the easy, friendly
manner of the stranger. And in his confusion at his impulsive assertion
of authority over the Indian he resorted to the only thing his wit
suggested. He took refuge in a swift withdrawal.
“Thank you, sir,” he said lamely. “I guess we’ll get right on home. You
see, we’re just in off a summer trail.” He turned away and looked
squarely into the Indian’s face. “We’ll beat it home, Usak,” he said
shortly.
* * * * *
They watched the shadowy figures in silence as they passed down the
river bank and were swallowed up by the shadows of the chilly night.
Red Mike turned and grinned at his companions through the haze of smoke.
“That boy’s chock full of real sand,” he said with appreciation.
Chilcoot rubbed his gnarled hands.
“I’d sooner be up against the worst Euralian ever bred than that darn
redskin,” he said meditatively.
Wilder nodded and extended his hands over the fire.
“Yes,” he said, regarding the fire with serious eyes. “Or a whole darn
legion of ’em.”
CHAPTER X
DAYS OF PROMISE
The Kid stood up from her task. She was no longer in her working
clothes, and the translation was something almost magical. Her tall,
slim, yet beautifully rounded figure was clad in a simple shirtwaist of
some cheap cotton material, which, with a plain, dark cloth, shortish
skirt, completed the costume in which she loved to array herself at the
close of her working day. She was smiling her delight, and her whole
expression was radiant. Her pretty eyes were alight with all that
satisfaction which Usak, in his simple mind, had dreamt he would witness
in them. Her lips were parted for the eager talk which sprang so readily
to them. And as the brooding eyes of the savage gazed upon her he felt
that his reward was ample.
They were in the leanto storehouse built against the log shanty which
was Usak’s own abode. It was all a part of the ramshackle homestead
which housed them all, but it was set apart and without communication
with the abode given up to the white folks of the queerly assorted
household.
An oil lamp lit the place with its inadequate yellow light, and produced
profound shadows amongst the general litter. It was set on an up-turned
packing case which was part of the stock-in-trade for transport. The dry
mud floor was littered with the result of the Indian’s summer trade, the
extent and quality of which was far more generous than the girl had
hoped would be the case. There were a number of pelts amongst which were
several white and red fox. There were two or three freshwater seals,
some beaver and fishers, and a makeweight of wild cat. But best of all
were several ivory walrus tusks, and the prize of all prizes to the pelt
hunter, which the girl was holding in her brown hands and stroking
gently in her delight. It was a jet black fox. And she knew its value to
be far more than the rest of the trade put together.
“It’s a wonderful, wonderful skin, Usak,” she said, her eyes feasting on
the crudely dried fur, which, even in its rough state was still soft,
and thick, and full of promise. “Whoever took it was a swell hunter,”
she declared, scrutinising it with the eye of an expert. “Trapped. And
not a scar to show how. My, but it’s worth a pile. How much?”
She raised her delighted eyes to the dark face of the big man standing
by.
“Sho!” The Indian shrugged. “I not say him. Tousand dollar, maybe. Him
much plenty good pelt. Oh, yes.”
“Thousand?” The girl’s tone was scornful. “More like fifteen hundred.
We’ll get that in Placer, sure. An’ these ivories,” she went on. “Oh,
it’s a good trade.” She laid the skin aside reluctantly and smiled again
into the man’s face. “Guess if I know a thing we haven’t a worry for a
year an’ more. Mum’ll sleep easy for a year certain, I guess. An’
Perse’s pants won’t always have her figgering.”
Then the woman in her became uppermost as she contemplated the further
meaning of the Indian’s success.
“Mum’ll get a new outfit. And so will Mary Justicia. An’ we can fix up
all the others, the boys as well, I mean. It’s just great, Usak.
You’re—you’re a wonder. How did you do it? Did you locate a bunch of
Euralian robbers, an’—”
The Indian shook his head. But he offered no verbal denial. Truth to
tell the girl’s curiosity and obvious desire for the story of his
summer-long labours made no appeal to him. For all his satisfaction at
the Kid’s readily expressed delight he had been robbed of more than half
his joy of return by that final incident of his journey home. His
passionate heart was full of a sort of crazy resentment at the presence
of the outfit of white intruders on the river. And even as the girl
talked and questioned he remained absorbed in, and nursing his bitter
grievance.
His silence and lack of interest were too painfully obvious to be
missed. And the Kid suddenly dropped to a seat on a box beside the
beautiful fur she had laid aside.
“What is it, Usak?” she asked, with that quick return to the authority
which existed between them. “Ther’s things worrying. I can see it in
your face. Best tell it right away. Is it Clarence? Has he failed after
the good things you hoped of him? Yes. Best tell it. I can stand things
to-night with a clean up of trade like this around me.”
The Indian moved away. He squatted himself on an upturned sled awaiting
repairs to its runners. And the girl watched him closely.
Young as she was there was much that the Kid understood instinctively.
She had not spent all her childhood’s days with this great savage
without learning something of his almost insanely passionate moods, and
the potentialities of them. To her he was just a savage watch-dog, loyal
from the crown of his black head to the soles of his moccasined feet.
But she understood that his curious ferocity was none the less for it.
There was one thing in him that never failed to stir her to some alarm.
It was the narrowing of his black eyes, which, in his more violent
moods, had a knack of closing to mere slits. His eyes were so closed
just now.
While she waited for him to speak she watched him reach out and possess
himself of his beloved rifle which had been stood against the wall of
the leanto. He took it, and laid it across his knees, and his powerful
fingers caressed the quaint old trigger-guard. It seemed to her that
never in her life had she observed him in so ominous a mood.
“Well?” she demanded sharply, and her alarm added a strident ring to her
voice.
The man looked up.
“You mak him this question?” he demanded, without softening. “This thing
I mak to myself. Oh, yes. It for me. I feel him all here,” he beat his
chest with one clenched fist to indicate his bosom. “I mak him no say.
Not nothing. Clarence him big whiteman. Much good trail man. So. I mak
you big trade. Plenty food come next year. Plenty good thing much. So.
You lak him? Oh, yes. It good. Then why you mak him this question?”
The man’s jaws seemed literally to shut with a snap.
The Kid smiled with an effort. She was without personal fear. Her
smiling blue eyes confronted and held him as she determined they should.
“I’m waiting,” she said. “If I wait here all night in the cold you’ll
surely have to say it. What’s troubling?”
The girl’s power over the savage was tremendous. In a curious negative
sort of way she understood that this was so. She never looked for the
reason, simply accepting the obvious fact, and sometimes rejoicing in
it.
For all her youth she understood the danger of his untamed spirit. And
many times in her young life she had learned the value of the
restraining influence she exercised over him.
The man knew his weakness in confronting her. There were times when his
hot soul rebelled at his own powerlessness. It was that way now. But
through it all a subtle gladness never failed to soften the irritation
their clashes of will were wont to inspire. The truth was his utter and
complete worship of her was irresistible. As an infant the Kid had
caught the rebound of his devotion to his murdered wife, Pri-loo, and
the perfect loyalty that had been his for her father. From the moment of
the passing of these two creatures, who had bounded the whole of his
life’s horizon, he had found salvation from the wreckage of his savage
passions in the infant life that had been flung into his empty arms.
Perhaps his worship of her was a sheer insanity. But it was an idolatry
of parental purity.
He chafed under her insistence. Once he sought to avoid those compelling
eyes. He gazed about among the shadows of the hut in a helpless fashion
that was almost pathetic, whilst his great hand fondled the breech of
his beloved weapon. But he returned to the magnet that never failed to
claim him as surely held as any bond-slave.
“Tcha!” The exclamation was the man’s final, ungracious yielding. He
flung his rifle aside and stood up. And in a moment he was rapidly
pacing the narrow limits of the hut. “You ask him this? I tell you,
‘no.’ No good. So I tell you.” He paused and flung out an arm pointing
in the direction of the river. “This white-man. Bimeby I go kill ’em all
up.”
He remained pointing. His eyes were wide now and full of deadly purpose.
A volcanic rage was consuming him.
The Kid’s eyes also widened for an instant. She remained unmoving. Then
a smile dawned about her lips and presently illuminated her whole face.
She raised one hand and thrust out a pointing finger at him, and a
clear, happy, ringing laugh broke from her parted lips.
“You kill up these whitemen?” she cried. “These folks who’ve just come
along up the river? No,” she said, suddenly sobering, and shaking her
head. “If you kill them you kill me, too. They’re all my good friends,
Usak. An’ if you hurt a hair of their heads I’ll just hate you to death
for ever an’ ever.”
It was a tense moment. The man had come to a standstill, staring
incredulously down at the fair-haired creature who was his whole earthly
delight. For all her laugh there was fear in the Kid’s heart. The
impulse had been irresistible. There could be no half measures. The
situation had called for strong and definite challenge.
“You say him this?” The man’s tone was like the threatening growl of a
wild beast. “This whitemans all your good friend? I tell you—No! Him
mans your enemy. Him come steal all things what are yours. Him river.
Him land. Him—gold. Usak know plenty much. Him no damfool Injun man. Oh,
no. Him wise plenty. Him say this whitemans no good friend. Only big
thief come steal all thing. So I kill ’em up, sure.”
The Kid breathed a deep sigh. The joy of this wild man’s return had lost
its glamour. Deepening fear gripped her heart. And it was for the
whiteman with the grey eyes that smiled so gently, and reflected so
clearly the big, honest soul behind them.
“You just got to listen, Usak,” she cried urgently, stifling the fear
which was striving to display itself in eye and voice. “An’ when I’ve
done my talk you’ll need to quit that wicked spirit that’s always
wanting to kill when folks offend you. I didn’t know you’d had time to
locate these folks. But it don’t matter a thing. I tell you they’re
friends—of mine. I’ve known Bill Wilder since two summers back. I found
him in trouble with his outfit on the river below the rapids, and passed
him right up through the channel on his way north. And I asked him right
then, when he got along down, to come up the Caribou an’ make a friendly
visit. He’s come along because I asked him. He’s my friend an’—”
“You lak him, this man? Him your man? You marry him same lak Pri-loo was
my woman?”
The man’s tone had changed to one of simple wonder and almost of
incredulity. His understanding had only one interpretation for a man and
woman’s friendship, and perhaps he was the wiser for it. But his savage,
untutored directness of expression sent the hot blood of shame to the
simple girl’s cheeks. The yellow lamp-light revealed the flushed cheeks
and the half closed eyelids that sought to defend the woman’s secret
from the man’s searching gaze.
The Kid shook her head, and denial cost her an effort. “It’s not that
way with white-folk,” she said endeavouring to evade direct denial.
“Maybe I just like him. He’s big, an’ strong, an’ good. I like his talk.
So I think Mum an’ the children like him, too.”
“So you say this man to come by Caribou—that you see him some more? Oh,
yes. So white mother Hesther may lak him, too? An’ those others?”
The man’s eyes were no longer fierce. They were smiling derisively out
of his savage wisdom.
The Kid stirred restlessly under his words and manner. His smile, which
was intended for no unkindness, became a hateful thing to her. And she
understood the reason. She knew that her explanation was without truth.
She had trapped herself into foolish evasion. She knew she had desired
herself to see this man again. She knew— But she permitted herself no
further admission. Anger rose swiftly in her, and she sprang to her
feet. Her pretty eyes flashed in the yellow light and for the first time
in his life the Indian realised something of that which centuries of
civilization has bred into the white-woman.
“How dare you say that to me?” she cried. “You—an Indian!” She laughed a
curious shrill sort of laugh. “What is it you say? ‘Injun man no good.’
Maybe you’re right. I’m your good boss Marty’s daughter. Remember that.
I’m your boss. Your white boss. And now I tell you to obey. You leave
that whiteman, all those whitemen alone. I tell you this. Who’re you to
say who comes on this river? Who’re you anyway? Usak, the Indian. An
Indian—the servant of my dead father, and now my servant. Remember!”
She stood in the fitful light a tall slim figure of angry authority and
outraged womanhood. And the great Indian stood cowed before the torrent
of her scorn and wrath. No longer was the smiling derision in his eyes.
No longer was that blaze of volcanic wrath in them. She had smote him in
the most vulnerable joint of his armour. His worshipped idol had turned
and rended him, and spurned him as she might some pariah.
The great fellow’s eyes avoided the girl’s. His simian length of arms
left his great hands hanging seemingly helpless by his sidies. His great
size reduced him to a painful picture of pathetic dejection. The Kid’s
swift scorn had beaten him as nothing else in the world could have
beaten him.
She moved towards the door without a further glance in his direction.
Her body was erect, and her heart was hard set and coldly determined.
There was no pause or further word. But she knew.
It came as she reached the door. There was a sound behind her. The next
moment Usak was beside her holding out the precious black fox skin she
had left.
“You tak him this?” he said, in a tone of humility and appeal that was
irresistible to the girl who knew so well all he had always been to her.
“I mak him this trade for the white boss, Kid. I see ’em five Euralian
by the camp. I kill ’em all up dead. So I mak tak ’em this black fox,
an’ this ivory. Oh, yes. I kill ’em all man’s for white boss, Kid. All
time I do this. I do all thing for Kid. So as she say—all time.”
The girl looked up into the man’s dark eyes. In a moment her heart
melted. She took the priceless skin from his hands and laid it over her
arm with one hand resting caressingly upon it.
“You killed five Euralian men for this?” she said.
“I kill ’em, yes,” the man returned simply.
The girl shook her head, and her eyes were troubled.
“I—I kind of wish you hadn’t,” she said gently.
“Euralian?” The man’s eyes widened. “It not matter nothing,” he said,
with a shrug. “So I get him skin an’ him ivory for white boss, Kid. I
kill all thing. Yes.”
* * * * *
The two men were standing on a gravel foreshore. It was the foreshore of
a well-nigh dried out creek which in more abundant season was wont to
flow turbulently into the greater stream of the Caribou. It was an
almost hidden creek, for there existed no apparent inlet to the bigger
river, except at such times as the spring freshet translated it into a
surge of flood water. Now, in the late fall, there was scarcely water
enough in its bed to do more than moisten the soles of a man’s
moccasins, and, at the junction with Caribou, there was scarcely an
indentation in the latter’s banks to mark its course.
But a mile and more to the north it was quite different. Here the creek
was sharply marked between high, wide, barren shoulders that gave its
course a breadth of something little less than a quarter of a mile. And
its whole bed was a curious, copper-hued gravel which every gold man
recognises as the precious “pay-dirt,” in pursuit of which he spends his
life.
Bill Wilder and Chilcoot were moving slowly over this loose gravel
gazing searchingly at the higher ground which enclosed the deepening
cutting. For the moment they had no concern for the stuff they were
treading under foot. They were looking for signs and landmarks which
they had already learned by heart from minute descriptions.
With every furlong they explored the encompassing walls rose steadily
higher, and grew ever more and more rugged. Their formation was rapidly
changing. The rock walls were cut with sharp facets and riven in a
hundred directions. There was no foliage anywhere. The cliffs were bald
and not a yard of the wide pay-dirt bottom yielded a scrag of grass, or
a single Arctic flower. It looked as if Nature had refused one atom of
fertility to the soil in which she had chosen to bestow her treasure.
It was nearly noon when the explorers’ investigations were first
interrupted. And the interruption came at a low headland where the whole
course of the ravine swung away in an easterly direction, which looked
to carry it in an exact parallel with the upper waters of the Caribou.
Chilcoot was on the lead at the bend and he came to a standstill, and
flung out an arm pointing.
“Get a look, Bill,” he cried, in the rough tone that for him was
something indicative of the unusual. “It’s a shanty, or I’m a
‘dead-beat.’”
The ravine had narrowed abruptly, but beyond the bend it instantly
widened. Chilcoot was standing gazing beyond, where the dark, rocky
walls had risen to a great height and overhung, shadowing the canyon
ominously. He was pointing across the almost dried out stream at a tiny
human habitation crushed in against the base of the opposite wall.
Wilder instantly abandoned his pre-occupation with a curious facet of
black rock that was not unlike pumice in its queer formation. He had
been examining a vein of crystal quartz running through it. He hurried
up to his companion and gazed at the strange vision of a log-built shack
that seemed a complete anachronism in this wilderness of Nature.
* * * * *
Wilder gazed about him. The interior of the dilapidated hut was no less
interesting than its exterior. It was old and decayed, hanging together
simply by reason of the support of the cliff against which it had been
built. For the moment imagination was stirred, and he saw in fancy the
picture of a simple missionary carrying on, in his untutored fashion, a
work that had no relation to his spiritual calling.
Chilcoot, with the practical interest which the discovery inspired in
his lesser imagination, was examining the signs and indications with
which the place was littered. There was a rusted, riffled pan. There
were several shovels in a more or less state of decay. There was an old
packing case filled with odds and ends for a camper’s needs. There were
the remains of a fire set between two blackened stones, a battered camp
kettle and a pannikin or two. Just within the doorway stood a bent
crowbar and a haftless pick. Another pick was leaning up against the box
of oddments.
It was easy enough to interpret the story of this decayed and deserted
shelter. And the men who had discovered it were prompt in their reading
of its story. It was a gold prospector’s shelter littered with the
crudest implements of his craft. And from the decaying walls and
rafters, and the rust-eaten condition of every metal utensil, they read
a story of long years of disuse and the stress of the northern seasons.
Chilcoot was stooping over the box of camp rubbish. Wilder had turned to
the doorway, leaning out of its original truth, and, for awhile, the
scene beyond it completely preoccupied him. It was a shadowed canyon
which, as the distance gained, grew more and more rugged with vastly
higher surroundings. But the gravel bed remained with its tiny stream of
water drifting gently down from its far-off source. Directly opposite
him stood a spire of rock that rose up like a monolith far above all its
surroundings, and the sight of it seemed to absorb all his interest.
A sharp exclamation from Chilcoot startled him and he turned his head.
“What you found?” he asked.
Chilcoot was standing over the box and its contents were littered about
him on the ground. He was peering into a rusted tin box, stirring the
contents with a knotted forefinger.
“Dust,” he replied laconically. But his tone was tense.
Bill came quickly to his side and together they gazed down at the loose
yellow stuff that shone dully against the red rust with which the years
had corroded the tin containing it. In spite of their years, their
wealth, the sight of the precious metal held them fascinated, and
stirred emotions deeply. It was a generous sample weighing several
ounces, and amongst it were two or three nuggets the size of well-grown
peas. Chilcoot picked out the largest and held it up for his companion’s
inspection.
Wilder nodded, but his eyes were shining.
“Sure,” he said. Then he turned away. “Set it aside, old friend,” he
went on, “an’ let’s get outside. We need to talk.”
* * * * *
The sky was drearily overcast, and the walls of the canyon further
helped to overshadow the world about them. The two men were lounging on
the bare gravel which formed the bed of the creek. Wilder had his back
propped against the crazy shanty they had just explored.
Chilcoot folded up the paper which the other had passed him for
examination. It was the plan of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike,” and it was
the first time since it had come into Wilder’s possession that other
eyes than his had been permitted to gaze upon it.
The older man returned it without comment, but his deepset grey eyes
were expressive. There was puzzlement in them. There was something else.
They had narrowed curiously. And the hard lines of his weatherbeaten
face were a shade more hardly set.
Wilder returned the map to the bosom of his buckskin parka. He flaked
some tobacco from a plug with his sheath knife and lit his pipe. He
ignored his companion’s mood, although perfectly aware of it.
“Ther’s a deal to do yet,” he said calmly. “A piece farther up the creek
is Le Gros’ old working. The map shows that just as it hands us a
picture of this shanty, and that queer spire of rock standing up right
over there,” he added, nodding his head at the curious crag which rose
sheer from the bed of the creek and towered above the high walls
enclosing it. “Yes, we got to prospect that working, and try out the
creek right along. If the ‘strike’ is right, and the old yarn proves
true, the rest’s easy—or should be.”
Chilcoot lit his pipe. But he shook his head emphatically.
“Guess I can’t hand no sort of opinion,” he said coldly. “I ain’t wise
to a thing.”
The tone of voice, the curtness of the thing he said, should have had
their effect. But Wilder still refused to be disturbed out of his calm.
His eyes smiled as he gazed out over the gravel bed where the thin
stream of the creek flowed on almost without a murmur. He was smoking
with that leisurely luxury suggesting a contented mind.
“Just so, old friend,” he replied. “You don’t know a thing—yet. But
you’re going to know it right now. All of it.”
“I’m glad.” The asperity was still in the other’s tone and Wilder’s
smile deepened.
“You see I hadn’t the nerve to insult your intelligence, boy, by handing
you a fairy tale—while it was just a fairy tale,” he said. “Guess I
can’t stand the laff when it’s on me, either. So I guessed I best cut
the talk and stand for a grouch. Well, it’s not a fairy tale now. No.
Not by a long piece. An’ the laff—well, it’s not on me anyway.”
Chilcoot had sat up. His sturdy legs were drawn up and tucked under him
in the fashion supposed to belong to the tailor. He was gazing round on
his friend with a look of expectancy. Somehow his whole expression had
undergone a swift change. He had clearly forgotten his resentment. He
was always quick to react. His nature was easy where Wilder was
concerned. Now a twinge of compunction at his own hastiness set him
eager to make amends.
“You don’t need to say a thing, Bill. If it suits you to keep your face
shut it goes with me all the time.”
But Wilder shook his head. He grinned and raised a hand and thrust back
his cap.
“I need to say a whole heap. Maybe when I’m through you’ll wish I
hadn’t. Say.” He paused thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit and gazed
straight into the eyes of the older man. “I best tell you the thing that
lies back of everything first. You’ll feel like laffing, maybe. But I
don’t care a curse. You got to know, an’ I’m crazy to tell you. You see,
you’ve been pardner an’ friend to me ever since the gold bug got into my
liver. I’m nigh crazy for a pair of dandy blue eyes, just as blue as—as
a summer sky in California, and a golden halo of hair like—like an
angel’s. Yes, an’ for a kit of buckskin, all beaded an’ fine sewn like
an Indian’s. I surely am crazy for it—all.”
The man had removed his pipe, and his hands had made a gesture of
emphasis that told his companion far more than his words.
Chilcoot’s eyes were grinning, but there was no derision in them. They
were shining with a depth of interest that changed his whole expression.
“Snakes, man!” he cried. “You’ve fallen fer that gal? That Kid that
floated us up the river goin’ north? An’ who you’ve located again right
now over at that darn queer outfit of a Reindeer farm? Say!”
Wilder nodded and returned his pipe to his mouth.
“I surely have, old friend,” he said, with a restraint that the look in
his eyes denied. “I’ve fallen fer that—Kid. That Kid whose name is
Felice Le Gros. She’s just been a dream picture to me ever since I saw
her handling that queer skin kyak of hers on the river, looking like
some fairy Injun gal such as maybe you used to read about when story
books were filled with wholesome fairy tales that set you crazy for the
darn old wilderness. I’ve fallen for her so I don’t even want to pick
myself up. I want her bad. She’s got to be my wife, or this darn life
don’t mean a thing to me ever again. Life? Gee! I can’t see a day of it
worth a regret on a deathbed if I can’t make that Kid feel the way I
do.”
Chilcoot’s ill mood was entirely swept away. Hard old citizen as he was,
saturated as he was with the iron of his early days of struggle to loot
the earth, a surge of delighted interest thrilled him to the depths of
his rough soul. No mother listening to the first love-story of an only
daughter could have been moved more deeply. His years were nearly twice
those of the other, but it made no difference, unless it were to add to
the feeling of the moment.
“Does she know about it?” he demanded. “Does— Say, her name’s—she’s
daughter to Marty Le Gros? She’s the ‘gal-child, white,’ Raymes told us
of? Say, Bill, I’m crazy for the rest. Best get right in. I just don’t
know a thing. An’ I seem to know less than ever I did before you began.
But you’ve found a gal to share life with you. And I’m just so glad I
can’t rightly say. Get right on with the yarn an’ I won’t butt in. I’m
all out to pass you any old hand you’re needing.”
“That’s how I figgered, Chilcoot, knowing you,” Wilder said in his
earnest fashion. “That’s why I told you this thing first. Now just sit
around and I’ll tell you the stuff that looked like a fairy tale and
kept my mouth shut.”
Wilder began his story at once and talked on without any sort of
interruption from his companion. Lost in the dark heart of the ravine,
overshadowed by a wintry sky and the rugged, barren, encompassing walls
that rose up and shut out so much of the grey northern daylight, he told
the story as he had learned it, and pieced together, of the tragedy of
the apparently deserted habitation which he knew to be the home and
secret hiding-place of the one-time leader of the fierce Euralian horde.
He told of the events of his search and vigil in the house from the time
of his discovery of the blinded Japanese, Count Hela, and his
panic-stricken wife, to the final moment when the woman had pursued him
with her story, and sought to bribe him with the precious map stolen
from the murdered missionary. He told it all in close detail, dwelling
upon the mention of the dreaded Usak’s name by the terror-stricken
woman, that the other might follow out all his subsequent reasoning and
re-construction of the story of Le Gros and his orphaned daughter. He
told it right down to the story of his visit to the Reindeer Farm, on
their arrival on the Caribou, which furnished him with the final
corroboration.
“There it is, old friend,” he said in conclusion. “Usak, the husband of
the murdered Pri-loo, never gave those folk the chance to use that map.
He deliberately blinded the man and killed his son. And when I got wise
from the map that this precious strike was on Caribou I got my big
notion. I jumped for it right away and jumped right. This
wonderful—Kid—with a face like— Say, I guessed right away at the start
she was the ‘girl-child, white’ I was chasing up, and the rightful heir
to her murdered father’s ‘strike.’ It was that closed up my mouth. I
just couldn’t say a word. We—you boys—the whole outfit were on a gold
trail looking to share in the stuff. And I knew that when it was
located, by every sort of moral right an’ justice, it would belong to
the Kid. And anyway she’d be entitled, an’ all her folks, to the first
rake over of the claims. Ther’ could be nothing for you boys till her
interest was safeguarded. See? She’s the daughter of Marty Le Gros, and
was raised by that murdering Indian, Usak, who came right along the
other night and threatened to clear us out of Caribou at the muzzle of a
rifle that looked to have served an interior decoration for old Noah’s
Ark. Can you beat it?”
Chilcoot shook his head helplessly. The story had lost nothing from his
companion’s telling. He was well-nigh staggered at the hideous
completeness of it all, and certainly amazed. His pipe had been
forgotten until that moment, and he knocked the charred remains of
tobacco out of it on a large flint lying nearby.
Wilder re-lit his pipe and smiled contentedly.
“Do you get what I reckon to do, Chilcoot?” he asked.
But the older man made no effort. He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I’d say it ’ud be the sort of crazy stunt most folks wouldn’t reckon to
find come out of the mighty clear head they guess stands on the
shoulders of Bill Wilder.”
His words were accompanied by a deep-throated chuckle.
“Maybe that’s so, boy,” Wilder retorted without umbrage. “But anyway,
it’s a stunt to suit my notion of honesty, and—yours. See? I sent Mike
an’ the bunch off to get ’em right out of the way while we came along
here. That’s all right. Our work’s just beginning. You an’ me we’re
going to get right to it and test out this queer old canyon. We got the
time before winter, if the thing’s what I guess it is. When we’ve
located the stuff ther’s got to be the pick of the claims for that gal.
An’ one each for Mrs. McLeod, at the farm, and her kids. Then we’ll pass
right down to Placer and make the titles good with the Commissioner.
After that— next Spring—we’ll turn the bunch loose on the ground, and
they can grab how they please. How’s that? Does it go? Yes, sure it
does. I know you. You and me, we can afford to cut right out and play
the game to help these others along. That’s my crazy notion. Well?”
Chilcoot rose to his feet. There was no doubt of his agreement. An
almost child-like delight was stirring his rugged heart.
“Surely, Bill,” he said simply. “It’s good for me. But that murdering
Indian. Does he come in?”
Wilder’s eyes suddenly sobered. He, too, scrambled to his feet. And for
a moment he stood gazing thoughtfully down the shadowed ravine.
“He worries me some,” he admitted at last. “Ther’s things mighty good in
him, I guess. Ther’ must be. He raised the Kid. But ther’s things mighty
bad I haven’t told you about.” Then he shrugged. “It don’t matter
anyway. No, he don’t stand in. Maybe things’ll happen. We’ll just have
to wait. You never can tell with a darn neche.”
A vision of the terrified Japanese woman had risen up before his mind’s
eye. He remembered the nightmare she was enduring at the thought of
Usak’s promised return. Suddenly he flung out his hands dismissing the
vision.
“It’s all queer, Chilcoot,” he cried. “But we must see it through. It’s
strange. To think I’ve had to beat about this darn old North to find the
thing—the only thing to make life worth while. I could laff, only I
don’t feel like laffing. Say, boy, you just don’t know how I want
that—that Kid.”
CHAPTER XI
CHILDREN OF THE NORTH
Each day the sun’s brief reign was growing less. There was perhaps six
hours of daylight, fiercely bright when the snow clouds permitted, but
otherwise grey and cold, and without beneficence. To the human mind day
was no longer a thing of joy, but only a respite in which to complete
those labours essential to existence in the northern wilderness before
the long twilight of night finally closed down upon the world.
At the farm on the Caribou preparations for the winter were already in
full swing. Already the reindeer herd had been passed up to the shelter
of the hills to roam well-nigh free through the dark aisles of the
woodland bluffs which lined the deeper valleys of the great divide, out
of the heart of which the waters of the Caribou sprang. The labour of
banking the outer walls of the homestead with soil for greater security
against the cold had been completed. For the ground was already
hardening under the sharp night frosts, and almost any day now might see
the first flurry of snow. Daily the hauling of fuel went on from the
distant forest bluff which sheltered the ruins of the missionary’s home
where the Kid had first seen the light of the northern day. And this
work was undertaken by the boys, and the half-breed Eskimos, whose work
amongst the deer herd had ceased with its departure to the hills in
search of winter keep.
Life just now was a sheer routine. A routine which demanded faithful
observance. The least neglect might well spell disaster for those who
knew the narrowness of the margin in human victory over the merciless
winter season. But these northern people knew the routine of it by
heart, and nothing would be neglected, nothing forgotten. The haulage of
fuel would go on far into the winter, and when the world froze up and
the white pall was spread over its dead body only the method of its
transport would be changed.
But for all the drear of outlook in the coming season life was
apparently no less the care-free thing which the youth of the farm so
surely made it appear. Childish laughter was proof against a falling
sun. It was proof against the anxious labour of it all, just as it was
proof against the contemplation of unending darkness. It was almost as
though the change had its appeal. Was not the twilight of winter
something to inspire imagination? Was not the fierce blizzard, when the
world was completely blinded for days on end, something to confront and
defy with all the hardy spirit of youth? Was not the brilliant aurora
something about which to weave romantic dreams as fantastic as was the
great crescent of dancing light itself? And the ghostly northern lights,
and the brilliant night-lit heavens, with their moon, and reflected
moons, were not these matters in which the budding human mind could find
a wealth of inspiration for the riot of imagination?
Yes, the long night of winter was not without its appeal to the young
life on the Caribou River. Only was it for those elders, who knew its
desperateness, who had long since learned the littleness of human life
in the monstrous battle of the elements, a season of grave anxiety that
left them indifferent to the irresponsible imaginings and dreamings of
those at the threshold of life.
For Mary Justicia down to the youthful Jane Constance, with her curling
brown hair and her velvet dark eyes, the coming of winter was a season
of exciting interest. And this year even more so than usual. This year
there was a curious hopeful change in their lives. The measure of it,
perhaps, they failed to fully understand. But the effect was there, and
they felt its influence. They one and all knew that Usak had returned
with a really good trade. Usak was the genius of their lives, and this
year he had waved his magic wand to some purpose. They had heard
whispers amongst their elders of a good time coming. They had heard the
Kid and their mother discussing colours and materials for suitings. They
had heard talks of dollars in thousands. And visions of canned
delicacies, of nice, fat, sticky syrup, and succulent preserves, had
crept into their yearning minds.
But that was not all. There was a wondrous change in the hero of their
youthful worship. The Kid’s smile was rarely shadowed as she ordered
their lives. A soft delight looked out of her pretty eyes which shone
with happy contentment whatever their childish aggravations. Then the
mother of them all. Infrequent and gentle as were her scoldings
generally, just now she seemed to have utterly forgotten her dispensing
of them. The wash tub claimed her, her needle claimed her, her cooking
claimed her, leaving her happily oblivious to their many and frequent
shortcomings.
Then there were the gold seekers on the river. The laughing, red-headed
Irishman, who had vanished up the river with the rivermen and those
poorer whites in whom they were less interested. But the two others
visited the homestead pretty regularly, and laughed, and talked, and did
their best to make life one long joy for them.
Especially was this the case with the man Bill Wilder. Bill Wilder had
caught the fancy of all, from their mother down to the merry Janey,
whose table manners were a source of never-ending anxiety to Hesther.
The children loved him as children will so often love a big man who is
never reluctant to encourage their games. Perse clung to him at every
opportunity. Was he not a gold man, and was not his coming to Caribou a
justification of his own boyish dreams of gold? Clarence found in him a
kindred spirit of the trail. And Alg sought his advice on his domestic
labours on any and every excuse. But Gladys Anne and Janey were his
favourites—next to the smiling Kid.
And the mother looked on, watchful and wisely alert. Her busy mind was
full of speculation and contentment. She was thinking how she and her
brood would fare should these men ultimately find the gold they sought.
She refused to build on the notion. It was not her way. And just now, as
a result of Usak’s return, she felt that ways and means were less
pressing, and so, in her easy philosophy, that aspect of the position
was permitted to drift into the background.
The Kid was her main thought just now. Her woman’s wisdom was sufficient
for her to grasp the real meaning of Wilder’s frequent attendance at the
farm. It was plainly written in his manner. It was still more plainly
written in the manner of the girl in his absence. She had long since
dragged the full story of their original meeting at the Hekor rapids
from the diffident and almost reluctant girl. She had laughingly chidden
her for her long reticence. She had even admonished her for the
invitation she had flung at him, a gold man stranger.
But under it all, away back in her simple woman’s mind she nursed the
romance of it all, and hoped and hoped, while yet she gravely feared for
the orphan she had mothered.
The brief days flew rapidly by. Almost every night the tall figure of
Wilder came up from the river bearing something for their supper, which
he was scrupulously determined to share. The meal was partaken of by the
yellow light of an oil lamp. Big Bill, as the children loved to call
him, was for a brief while a part of the family, and sat around in the
warm kitchen, smoking and laughing, and submitting to the ready banter
which his search for gold on the Caribou inspired. Then later he strode
off to his canoe lying drawn up on the river bank, and, not
infrequently, he was accompanied by some of the elder children, and on
occasions by the Kid, herself, alone.
Of all the folk at the homestead Usak took no delight in these visits.
He definitely resented them. But he said no word, and simply refrained
from taking any part in the welcome extended to the intruding whiteman.
There was never a protest forthcoming. His protest had been made on the
occasion he had stirred the Kid to wrath, and he had no desire to
experience another such encounter. So he remained at his labours in his
own quarters, watchful, alert, determined. And he made his preparations
for the winter trail which was to yield something approaching affluence
for those he served.
It was at the end of his first week on the river that Bill’s voice
hailed the homestead as he came up from the landing, bearing a string of
a dozen or more speckled mountain trout. The night was dark with heavy
cloud, but the younger children raced out of the house to meet him at
his summons.
A few moments later Perse dashed into his mother’s presence flourishing
the shining fish at her.
“It’s a dandy bunch, Mum,” he cried, sprawling them on the table.
“They’re for supper. Big Bill’s comin’ right along up with Janey an’
Gladys Anne.”
He turned to the Kid who was gazing down at the fish without any display
of interest. The boy’s grinning eyes were full of mischief. He came
round to her side and looked into her unsmiling eyes.
“Guess you didn’t get it, Kid,” he said. “Big Bill’s comin’ right along
up.”
Then he jumped and ran for the door under a swift cuff that came from
his mother’s work-worn hand.
“Be right off you imp o’ perdition,” she cried. “The Kid ain’t worried
whose comin’ to this house. Ef I get that talk agin ther’s a rawhide
waitin’ on you.”
Then she moved to the girl’s side. She reached up and laid a sympathetic
hand on her slim shoulder.
“Say, Kid,” she said, with a gentle smile. “Ther’s scarce a night he
don’t come along.” She glanced hastily round the room to be sure they
were alone. “Are you kind o’ glad?” she ventured anxiously. “Does it
make you feel sort o’—glad?”
The girl smiled down into the soft brown eyes. She nodded.
“Yes, Mum, I’m just glad all through.” She paused. “But I was kind of
thinking. It was fixed Clarence was to make the trail to Placer with
Usak. Well, Usak don’t reckon it’s safe to trust to him—a boy. He
figgers I best go.”
The mother nodded. Then she drew a deep breath.
“He’s queer,” she said. “I reckon he hates Big Bill Wilder.”
The Kid laughed, but it was without mirth.
“He surely does, Mum,” she said with bitter emphasis.
* * * * *
The man was standing just inside the doorway. The pleasant warmth was
welcome enough in contrast to the sharp night air outside. But he made
no attempt to remove the seal parka which had replaced the thick
pea-jacket he usually wore.
“No,” he said with a laugh, in response to the mother’s urging to “sit
around” while she prepared the supper. “Guess I’m not eating with you
dear folk to-night.” His gaze sought the shyly smiling eyes of the Kid.
“There aren’t enough of those trout to make a right feed for the bunch.
And, anyway, Chilcoot and I are making a party to ourselves.”
He turned to the mother who was at the stove, about to shake down the
ashes and fire-up for the preparation of the evening meal.
“We’d have fancied askin’ you all, the whole bunch, to come right along
up and eat with us. But I guess the kiddies need to make their blankets
early, and anyway our camp fixings aren’t unlimited. So we reckoned to
ask you, mam, and the Kid, here, and say one of the boys. That ’ud leave
Mary and the other standing guard over the bunch of mischief you leave
behind to see they don’t choke themselves. And there’s always the great
Usak to see no harm comes to them. Do you feel like making the trip?
Chilcoot’s waiting around at the landing, and ther’s two canoes to take
us up.”
“Say, if that ain’t real mean.”
It was Perse, who had flung himself into the chair usually at the
disposal of Big Bill on his evening visits. His small body was lost in
the ample rawhide seat.
“I call that dirt mean,” he went on, in an aggrieved treble. “What you
makin’ the party for, Bill? Ha’ you made the big ‘strike’?” Then his
intelligent grey eyes turned shrewdly on the Kid. “Guess I know though.
I’ll—”
For a second time he hastily vacated the room. The ready hand of the
mother, quick as it was, had no time to descend before he had jumped
clear.
“Yes,” she cried after him, “you beat it, and send Clarence along right
at once. He’s working around with Usak an’ Alg in the fur store. You ken
send Mary Justicia right along, too.”
Then she turned to the smiling man who found keen amusement in the
outrageous Perse.
“He’s an imp, that’s what he is,” she declared, while the Kid moved
quickly to the stove and shook it down. “But that’s real kind of you,
Bill. I’d like fine to come along and eat with you, but I guess these
‘God’s Blessings’ o’ mine ’ud run wild without me. Would you fancy
takin’ Mary Justicia along, and that bright little feller, Perse, an’
Clarence, an’ the Kid? I’ll pass Perse a word and set him behavin’
right. He’ll make one more bit for you to feed than you reckon, but I
don’t guess that’ll worry your outfit. He can take his own platter an’
pannikin. He’d be mighty grieved not to go. You see, he thinks Big Bill
the greatest proposition north o’ ‘sixty’—seeing he guesses ther’s gold
on Caribou.”
The woman’s eyes twinkled with humour as she concluded with the now
time-honoured jest at her visitor’s expense.
Bill nodded good-humouredly, and his eyes sought the face of the girl
standing in the background beside the stove.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be real glad for the boy to come along.” He
laughed. “Ther’ won’t be anything fancy for him t’ eat. It’s just duck,
an’ some trout, an’ some canned truck. But I’d sure be glad. Wot you
say, Kid?” he asked, his tone not without a shade of concern. “Will you
come along up with us? I’d been mighty thankful for your Mum to share
in, but I sort of knew beforehand the social whirl on Caribou hadn’t a
claim on her to compare with her ‘God’s Blessings.’ Will you come?
Chilcoot reckons he’s all sorts of a feller at entertaining women folk
to supper. An’ maybe he’ll start in to yarn of the gold trail, an’ we’ll
be hard set to stop him. Ther’s an elegant moon for the trip. And you’ll
all be right back before she sets.”
His manner was light but behind it was real earnestness, and a shade of
anxiety. Hesther, all the mother in her alert, was swift to detect it.
She smiled encouragingly round on the girl.
The Kid nodded. Her gaze was averted with just a shadow of shyness.
“I’d just love the trip,” she declared quickly. Then her shyness passed
and her sweet blue eyes laughed happily into the man’s face. “What is
it? Have you found Perse’s color? Ther’s sure something back of this,”
she went on in delighted enjoyment, as she watched the man’s expressive
face as he strove for unconcern. She shook her head. “No,” she declared.
“Guess it’s not Perse’s gold. I guess you reckon Mum’s cooking isn’t the
thing she believes, and you’re goin’ to show us the sort of swell thing
Chilcoot and you make of it. My! I’m dying to see how two great men live
on the trail. Sure I’ll come, an’ so will Mary, an’ Clarence, an’ Perse.
Do we need to fix ourselves for the party? Perse most always needs
fixing, anyway.”
There was a laugh in every word the girl spoke, and to the man it was a
delight to listen to her, and to watch the play of her expressive face.
To the mother eyes there was that in the girl’s manner which wholly
escaped the man. She knew the Kid was striving with everything in her
power to conceal the feelings Wilder had so deeply stirred in her. She
sighed quietly, and hoped and prayed that all might be for the best
happiness of the girl she had come to lean on so surely in the battle
they fought together for existence. She only had her instinct to guide
her. She had no real worldly wisdom. She liked the steady, honest gaze
of Bill’s eyes. So she yielded to that best philosophy in the world,
which, in sober moments, she was wont to hurl at her inquiring
offspring: “Act right, an’ eat good, an’ don’t worry to get after Fate
with a club.”
Bill laughed. He was in the mood to laugh.
“No,” he said. “Come right along, just as you’re fixed. Chilcoot don’t
reckon to receive you in swallowtails. Maybe he’s greased his roof with
seal oil to make it shine some. I can’t say. Ah, here’s Clarence, an’
Mary, and Master Perse. Now beat it all of you and get right into
parkas. Your Mum figgers to be rid of you awhile so you’re coming right
along to eat with me. Guess Chilcoot’ll be nigh frozen to death waiting
down at the river.”
* * * * *
The leanto was shadowed. The single oil lamp cast its feeble rays on the
general litter. And the scene was characteristic of the Indian whose
methods obtained so largely in the running of the farm.
Usak laboured silently, grimly amongst the shadows. His movements were
in that quiet fashion which the padding of moccasined feet on an earthen
floor never fails to intensify. He was quite alone now, for the last of
his helpers had departed at the urgent summons of the boy, Perse, who
had bidden them to the presence of their visitor.
The man’s dusky face was hard-set as he moved about amongst his
chattels. His black eyes were narrowed and pre-occupied. There were
moments when he paused from his labours and stood listening. It was as
though he expected some jarring sound which he was ready to resent and
hate with all the strength of his heart.
It was at such moments that his gaze seemed inevitably to be drawn to
the long, old rifle leaning against the wall just within the wide
doorway. It was his life-long friend. It was his oldest associate in his
lighter as well as his darker moods. And just now his mood left him
yearning for the feel of its ancient trigger under a mercilessly
compressing forefinger.
The man was sorting and classifying his summer trade, and preparing it
for transport. Pelts lay scattered about, and the smell of pepper, and
other preservatives, was in the air. The long sled was set on its
runners, repaired, and ready to face the coming winter trail to Placer.
And about it, littered in almost hopeless confusion, was an ill
assortment of camp outfit which needed cleansing and repair. The whole
scene was of the tentative preparations of the trail man. There might be
many weeks before the snow and freeze-up would make the journey
possible. But Usak was possessed of that restless spirit which refuses
to submit to idleness, and whose sense of responsibility drove him at
all times.
As the moments passed his pauses from the work of sorting and bestowing
became prolonged. Once he passed to the doorway and stood out in the
chill night air, and his sense of hearing was clearly directed to
windward where the night breeze came directly across the white-folk’s
portion of the rambling habitation. And on its breath sounds of laughter
and happy voices came to him. And amongst them he was clearly able to
distinguish the strong, deep tones of the big man whose presence he so
deeply resented on the river.
He stood thus for some moments. Then a sharp sound escaped his set lips
and he passed again within, as though in self-defence against the
passions which the sound of that hated voice had stirred.
His examination of the skins had lost its deliberateness. He picked them
up and flung them aside only half scrutinized. And, at last, he
abandoned his task altogether. He deliberately squatted on the
blackened, up-turned bottom of an iron camp kettle, and sat staring out
into the dark night in the direction in which he knew lay the landing at
the river bank.
There was no longer any attempt to hide the desperateness of his mood.
It was in every line of his dusky features; it was in the coming and
going of his turbulent breathing; it was in the smouldering fire that
shone in his black eyes. The native savage was definitely uppermost. And
insane passion was driving.
He remained, statue-like, on his improvised seat, and every sound that
reached him from the house was noted and interpreted. Sometimes the
sounds were so low as to be almost inaudible. Sometimes they were the
sounds of laughter. Sometimes they smote his ears with clear definite
words, for the night was very still, and the darkness rendered his
animal-like hearing profoundly acute.
Suddenly there came the opening and shutting of a door, and with it a
sound of voices and laughter. He started. He rose from his seat and
moved almost furtively to the doorway, and his hand instinctively fell
upon the muzzle of his leaning rifle.
He listened intently. The voices were still plain, but becoming rapidly
fainter. Yes. He could clearly distinguish the individual tones he knew
so well. He heard the voice of the Kid. And replies came in the voice of
the man. There were other voices, but somehow, they seemed quite apart
from these two.
He could stand it no longer. He turned about and extinguished the lamp.
Then he moved over to his leaning rifle and possessed himself of his old
friend. Just for one moment he remained listening. Then, with a curious
movement suggesting a shrugging of his great shoulders, he passed out
into the night.
CHAPTER XII
YOUTH SUPREME
The silence of the night was broken by the sounds of youthful voices,
and the gentle splash of the driving paddles. There was laughter, and
the passing backwards and forwards of care-free, light-hearted banter.
Now and again came the deeper note of strong men’s voices, but for the
most part it was the shriller treble of early youth that invaded the
serene hush of the night.
The two small canoes glided rapidly up the winding ribbon of moon-lit
waters. They were driven by eager, skilful hands, hands with a
life-training for the work. And so they sped on in that smooth fashion
which the rhythmic dip of the paddle never fails to yield.
The Kid was at the foremost strut of the leading canoe with Big Bill
Wilder at the stern. Their passenger was the irrepressible Perse, who
lounged amidships on a folded blanket. Behind them came the sturdy form
of Chilcoot Massy guiding the destiny of the second vessel which carried
the youth, Clarence, and the sedate form of Mary Justicia lifted, for
the moment, out of the sense of her responsibility, which years of
deputising for her mother in the care of her brothers and sisters had
impressed upon her young mind.
Hearts were light enough as they glided through the chill night air.
Even Chilcoot Massy, so perilously near to middle life—and perhaps
because of it—found the youthful gaiety of his guests irresistible. It
was a journey of delighted, frothing spirits rising triumphant over the
dour brooding of the cold heart of the desolate territory which had
given them birth.
The cold moon had driven forth the earlier bankings of snow-clouds. It
lit the low-spread earth from end to end, a precious beacon, which, in
the months to come, would be the reigning heavenly light. The velvet
heavens, studded with myriads of sparkling jewels, and slashed again and
again from end to end with the lightning streak of shooting stars, were
filled with a superlative vision of dancing northern light. The
ghostliness of it all was teeming with a sense of romance, the romance
which fills the dreams of later life when the softening of recollection
has rubbed down the harshnesses of the living reality.
The delight of this sudden break in the crudeness of life waxed in the
hearts of these children of the North. There were moments when silence
fell, and the hush of the world crowded full of the ominous threat which
lies at the back of everything as the winter season approaches. But all
such moments were swiftly dismissed, as though, subconsciously, its
dampening influence were felt, and the moment was ripe for sheer
rebellion. It was an expression of the sturdy spirit which the Northland
breeds.
There was no thought of lurking danger other than the dangers they were
bred to. How should there be? Was not this Caribou River, with its
spring floodings, with its summer meanderings, with its winter casing of
ice, right down to the very heart of its bed, their very own highway and
play ground? Did not these folk know its every vagary from the icy moods
of winter, to its beneficent summer delights? How then could it hold for
them the least shadow of terror on a night to be given up to a gaiety
such as their lives rarely enough knew?
Yet the shadow was there, a grim, voiceless shadow, soundless as death,
and as unrelenting in its pursuit. A kyak moved over the silvery bosom
of the water hard behind the rear-most canoe of the revellers, driven by
a brown hand which made no sound as the paddle it grasped passed to and
fro, without lifting, through the gleaming water.
It was a light hide kyak, a mere shell that scarce had the weight of a
thing of feathers. And the brown man driving it was its only burden,
unless the long old rifle lying thrusting up from its prow could be
counted. It crept through the shallows dangerously near to the river
bank, and every turn in the twisting course of the silver highway was
utilized as a screen from any chance glance cast backwards by those
whose course it was dogging.
The shadowy pursuit went on. It went on right up to within a furlong of
the final landing. For the mood of the brown man was relentless with
every passion of original man stirring. But he never shortened by a yard
the distance that lay between him and his quarry. And as the leading
boats drew into the side, and the beacon light of a great camp fire
suddenly changed the silvery tone of the night, the pursuing kyak shot
into the bank far behind, and the brown man leapt ashore.
* * * * *
The feast was over. And what a feast it had been. There had been
mountain trout, caught and prepared by the grizzled camp cook, whose
atmosphere of general uncleanness emphasised his calling, and who was
the only other living creature in this camp on the gravel flats. There
had been baked duck, stuffed with some conglomeration of chopped
“sow-belly,” the mixing of which was the cook’s most profound secret.
There had been syrupy canned fruit, and canned sweet corn, and canned
beans with tomato. There had been real coffee. Not the everlasting
stewed tea of the trail. And then there had been canned milk full of
real cream.
That was the feast. But there had been much more than the simple joy of
feasting. There had been laughter and high spirits, and a wild delight.
How Perse had eaten and talked. How Clarence had eaten and listened. How
the Kid had shyly smiled, while Bill Wilder played his part as host, and
looked to the comfort of everybody. Then Mary Justicia. There was no
cleaning to do after. There was no Janey to wipe at intervals. So she
had given all her generous attention to the profound yarning of the
trail-bounded Chilcoot Massy.
The happy interim was drawing to a close. The camp fire was blazing
mountains high, a prodigal waste of precious fuel at such a season. And
the revellers were squatting around at a respectful distance,
contemplating it, and settling to a calm sobriety in various conditions
of delighted repletion.
The cold moonlight was forgotten. The chill of the air could no longer
be felt with the proximity of the fire. The Coming season gave no pause
for a moment’s regret. The only thought to disturb utter contentment was
that soon, all too soon, the routine of life would close down again,
and, one and all, it would envelop them.
Bill was lounging on a spread of skin rug, and the Kid and Mary Justicia
shared it with him. A yard away Chilcoot, who could never rise above a
seat on an upturned camp pot, was smoking and addressing Clarence, and
the more restless Perse, much in the fashion of a mentor. Their talk was
of the trail, the gold trail, as it was bound to be with the veteran
guiding it. He was narrating stories of “strikes,” rich “strikes,” and
wild rushes. He was recounting adventures which seemed literally to
stream out of his cells of memory to the huge enjoyment, and wonder, and
excitement of his youthful audience. And it was into the midst of this
calm delight the final uplift of the night’s entertainment came.
The whole thing was planned and worked up to. Chilcoot had led along the
road through his wealth of narrative. He was telling the story of
Eighty-Mile Creek. Of the great bonanza that had fallen into the laps of
himself and Bill Wilder. Of the tremendous rush after he and his partner
had secured their claims.
“It was us boys who located the whole darn ‘strike’” he said
appreciatively. “Us two. Bill an’ me. Say, they laffed. How they laffed
when we beat it up Eighty-Mile. Gold? Gee! Ther’ wasn’t colour other
than grey mud anywheres along its crazy course. That’s how the boys
said. They said: ‘Beat it right up it an’ feed the timber wolves.’ They
said—But, say, I jest can’t hand you haf the things them hoodlams
chucked at us. But Bill’s got a nose fer gold that ’ud locate it on a
skunk farm. He knew, an’ I was ready to foiler him if it meant feedin’
any old thing my carkiss. My, I want to laff. It was the same as your
Mum said when she heard we’d come along here chasin’ gold, only worse.
She couldn’t hand the stuff the boys could. An’ queer enough, now I
think it, Eighty-Mile was as nigh like this dam creek as two shucks.
Ther’s the mud, an’ the queer gravel, an’ the granite. Guess ther’ ain’t
the cabbige around this lay out like ther’ was to Eighty-Mile. You see,
we’re a heap further north, right here. No. Ther’ was spruce, an’ pine,
an’ tamarack to Eighty-Mile. Ther’s nothing better than dyin’ skitters
an’ hies you can smell a mile to Caribou. But the formation’s like. Sure
it is. An’ Bill’s nose—”
“Cut out the nose, Chilcoot, old friend,” Wilder broke in with a laugh.
“Ther’s a deal too much of my nose to this precious yarn. What you
coming to?”
A merry laugh from the Kid found an echo in Perse’s noisy grin.
“It’s good listenin’ to a yarn of gold,” he said. “It don’t hurt hanging
it up so we get the gold plenty at the end.”
“That’s so boy,” Chilcoot nodded approvingly. “That’s the gold man
talkin’. That’s how it was on Eighty-Mile. Ther’ was just tons of gold,
an’ we netted the stuff till we was plumb sick to death countin’ it.
Gold? Gee! Bill’s bank roll is that stuffed with it he could buy
a—territory. Yes, that was Eighty-Mile, the same as it is on—Caribou!”
“Caribou?”
Perse had leapt to his feet staring wide-eyed in his amazement. The Kid
had faced round gazing incredulously into Wilder’s smiling face. Even
Mary Justicia was drawing deep breaths under her habitual restraint. The
one apparently unmoved member of the happy party was Clarence. But even
his attitude was feigned.
“Same as it is on—Caribou?” he said, in a voice whose tone hovered
between youth and manhood. “Have you struck it on—Caribou?”
His final question was tense with suppressed excitement.
Chilcoot nodded in Bill’s direction.
“Ask him,” he said, with a smile twinkling in his eyes. “It’s that he
got you kids for right here this night. Jest to ask him that question.
Have you made the ‘strike,’ Bill? Did your darn old nose smell out
right? You best tell these folks, or you’ll hand ’em a nightmare they
won’t get over in a week. You best tell ’em. Or maybe you ken show ’em.
Ther’s folk in the world like to see, when gold’s bein’ talked, an’ I
guess Perse here’s one of ’em. Will you?”
All eyes were on Big Bill. The girls sat voicelessly waiting, and the
smiles on their faces were fixed with the intensity of the feeling
behind them. Clarence, like Perse, had stood up in his agitation, and
both boys gazed wide-eyed as the tall figure leapt to its feet and
passed back to the low “A” tent, which was his quarters.
While he was gone Chilcoot strove to fill in the interval with
appropriate comment.
“Yes,” he said, “Caribou’s chock full of the dust, an’—”
But no one was listening. Four pair of eyes were gazing after Big Bill,
four hearts were hammering in four youthful bosoms under stress of
feelings which in all human life the magic of gold never fails to
arouse. It was the same with these simple creatures, who had never known
a sight of gold, as it was with the most hardened labourer of the gold
trail. Everything but the prize these men had won was forgotten in that
thrilling moment.
Wilder came back almost at once. He was bearing a riffled pan, one of
those primitive manufactures which is so great a thing in the life of
the man who worships at the golden shrine. He was bearing it in both
hands as though its contents were weighty. And as he came, the Kid, no
less eagerly than the others, hurriedly dashed to his side to peer at
the thing he was carrying.
But the pan was covered with bagging. And the man smilingly denied them
all.
“Get right along back,” he laughed. “Sit around and I’ll show you.” Then
his eyes gazed down into the Kid’s upturned face, and he realised her
moment of sheer excitement had passed and something else was stirring
behind the pretty eyes that had come to mean so much to him. He nodded.
“Don’t be worried, Kid,” he said quietly. “Maybe I guess the thing
that’s troubling. I’m going to fix that, the same as I reckon to fix
anything else that’s going to make you feel bad.”
The girl made no reply. In her mind the shadow of Usak had arisen. And
even to her, in the circumstances, it was a threatening shadow. She
remembered the thing the savage had said to her in his violent protest.
“Him mans your enemy. Him come steal all thing what are yours. Him
river. Him land. Him—gold.” There was nothing in her thought that this
man was stealing from her. Such a thing could never have entered her
mind. It was the culminating threat of the savage that had robbed her of
her delight, and made the thing in the pan almost hateful to her. Usak
had deliberately threatened the life of this man, and the full force of
that threat, hitherto almost disregarded, now overwhelmed her with a
terror such as she had never known before.
She was the last to take her place on the spread of skins before the
fire. The others were crowding round the man with the pan. But he kept
them waiting till the girl had taken her place beside him. Then, and not
till then, without a word he squatted on the rugs and slowly withdrew
the bagging.
It was a breathless moment. Everything was forgotten but the amazing
revelation. Even the Kid, in that supreme moment, found the shadow of
Usak less haunting. The bagging was drawn clear.
There it lay in the bottom of the pan. A number of dull, yellow, jagged
nuggets lying on a bed of yellow dust nearly half an inch thick.
It was Perse who found the first words.
“Phew!” he cried with something resembling a whistle. “Dollars an’
dollars! How many? Did you get it on— Caribou?”
“Sure. Right on Caribou.”
Wilder nodded, his eyes contemplating his treasure.
“Where?”
It was Clarence who asked the vital question.
“You can’t get that—yet.” Wilder shook his head without looking up.
“Mum would be crazy to see this,” ventured the thoughtful Mary Justicia.
The Kid looked up. She had been dazzled by the splendid vision. Now
again terror was gripping her.
“You’ll not say a word of this. None of you,” she said sharply. “Mum
shall know. Oh, yes. But not a word to—Usak.”
Wilder raised his eyes to the girl’s troubled face.
“Don’t worry a thing,” he said gravely. “Usak’s going to know. I’m going
to hand him the talk myself.” Then he laughed. And the tone of his laugh
added further to the girl’s unease. It was so care-free and delighted.
“Sit around, kids,” he cried. “All of you.”
He was promptly obeyed by the two boys who had remained standing. They
seated themselves opposite him. Then he dipped into the pan and picked
out the largest of the nuggets of pure gold and offered it to the Kid.
“That’s for your Mum,” he said quietly. “It’s pure gold, same as the
woman she is. Here,” he went on, quickly selecting the next biggest.
“That’s yours Kid— by right.”
Then he passed one each to the two boys and Mary Justicia, and finally
shot the remainder of the precious wash-up into the bag that had covered
the pan and held it out to the Kid.
“There it is,” he cried. “Take it. It’s for you, an’ all those folk
belonging to you. It’s just a kind of sample of the thing that’s yours,
an’ is going to be yours. Guess old Perse, here, was right. It’s the
gold from Caribou, an’ right out of your dead father’s ‘strike’— which
is for you, Kid. Say, you’re a rich woman, for the best claim on it is
yours, an’ it’s the richest ‘strike’ I’ve ever nosed out. Richer even
than Chilcoot’s Eighty-Mile.”
* * * * *
The party was over. The journey back to the homestead was completed. The
full moon had smiled frigidly down upon a scene of such excitement as
was rare enough in her northern domain. Maybe the sight of the thing she
had witnessed had offended her. Perhaps, with her wealth of cold
experience, she condemned the humanness of the thing she had gazed upon.
For on the journey home she had refused the beneficence of her pale
smile, and had hidden her face amidst those night shadows which she had
forthwith summoned to her domain.
But her displeasure had in nowise concerned. A landmark in life had been
set up, a radiant beacon which would shine in the minds of each and
every one of these children of the North so long as memory remained to
them.
Somehow the order of return home to the homestead had become changed.
Neither Wilder nor the Kid realised the thing that had taken place until
it had been accomplished. It seemed likely that it was the deliberate
work of Chilcoot, who, for all his roughness, was not without a world of
kindly sentiment somewhere stowed away deep down in his heart. Perhaps
it had been the arrangement of the less demonstrative Mary Justicia, who
was so nearly approaching her own years of womanhood. However it had
come to pass Chilcoot had carried off the bulk of the visitors, with
Mary and Perse and Clarence for his freight, leaving Bill and the Kid to
their own company in following his lead.
It was the ultimate crowning of the night’s episodes for the Kid. Bill
had demanded that she become his passenger; that the sole work of
paddling should be his. And he had had his way. The Kid was in the mood
for yielding to his lightest wish. If he had desired to walk to the
homestead she would not have demurred. So she lounged on skin rugs
amidships in the little canoe, with her shoulders propped against the
forward strut, and yielded herself to the delight with which the talk
and presence of this great, strong, youthful man filled her. The shadow
of Usak still haunted her silent moments, but even that, in this
wonderful presence, had less power to disturb.
The impulse of the man had been to abandon all caution, and bask in the
delight and happiness with which this child of nature filled him. Her
beauty and sweet womanhood compelled him utterly, while her innocence
was beyond words in the sense of tender responsibility it inspired in
him. He loved her with all the strength of his own simple being. And the
sordid world in which he dwelt so long only the more surely left him
headlong in his great desire.
But out of his wisdom he restrained the impulse. Time was with him and
he feared to frighten her. He realised that for all her courage, for all
her wonderful spirit in the fierce northern battle, the woman’s crown of
life must be as yet something little more than a hazy vision, a nebulous
thing whose reality would only come to her, stealing softly upon her as
the budding soul expanded. Yes, he could afford to wait. And so he held
guard over himself, and the journey was made while he told her all those
details of the thing that had brought him to Caribou.
His mind was very clear on the things he desired to tell, and the things
he did not. And he confined himself to a sufficient outline of the
reasons of the thing he was doing with his discovery on Caribou, and the
things he contemplated before the opening after the coming winter.
The journey down the river sufficed for this outline of his purpose, and
the distance was covered almost before they were aware of it. At the
landing they looked for the others. But they only discovered Chilcoot’s
empty boat, which left them no alternative but to walk up to the
homestead.
As they approached the clearing the girl held out a hand. “Will I take
that—bag?” she asked. “I—I’d like to show it to Mum with my own hands.
You know, Bill, I can’t get it all yet. All it means. It’s a sort of
dream yet, an’ all the time I sort of feel I’ll wake right up an’ set
out for Placer to make our winter trade.”
She laughed. But her laugh was cut short. And as the man passed her the
bag of dust he had been carrying a spasm of renewed fear gripped her.
“Yes. I’d forgotten,” she went on. “I’d forgotten Usak. This thing’s
kind of beaten everything out of my fool head. You’re going to tell him,
Bill? When?” They had reached the clearing and halted a few yards from
the home the Kid had always known. The sound of voices came to them from
within. There was laughter and excitement reigning, when, usually, the
whole household should have been wrapped in slumber.
“Right away. Maybe to-morrow.”
Bill stood before her silhouetted against the lamplight shining through
the cotton-covered window of the kitchen-place. There was something
comforting in the man’s bulk, and in the strong tones of his voice. The
Kid’s fears relaxed, but anxiety was still hers.
“Say, little gal,” he went on at once, in that tender fashion he had
come to use in his talk with her. “That feller’s got you scared.” He
laughed. “I guess he’s the only thing to scare you in this queer
territory. But he doesn’t scare me a thing. I’ve got him beat all the
while—when it comes to a show-down.”
“Maybe you have in a—show-down.”
The man shook his head.
“I get your meaning,” he said. “But don’t worry.”
“But I do. I can’t help it.” The Kid’s tone was a little desperate. “You
see, I know Usak. I’ve known him all my life. He threatened your life to
me the night he found you on the river. I jumped in on him and beat that
talk out of him. But—you see, he reckons you’re out to steal our land,
our river, our—gold. It’s the last that scares me. If he knows the
stuff’s found, and unless he knows right away the big things you’re
doing—Don’t you see? Oh, I’m scared for you, Bill. Usak’s crazy mad if
he thinks folk are going to hurt me. You’ll tell him quick, won’t you? I
won’t sleep till I’m—sure. You see, if a thing happened to you—”
“Nothing’s goin’ to happen, little Kid. I sure promise you.”
The man’s words came deep, and low, and thrilling with something he
could not keep out of them. It was the girl’s unfeigned solicitude that
stirred him. And again the old headlong impulse was striving to gain the
upper hand. He resisted it, as he had resisted it before.
But this time he sought the coward’s refuge. He reached out a hand and
laid it gently on the girl’s soft shoulder.
“Come right in, an’—show your Mum,” he said. “Hark at ’em. That’s Perse.
I’d know his laugh in a thousand. Say, we’re missing all sorts of a
time.”
* * * * *
The two men were back at their camp. They were seated over the remains
of their generous camp fire. It had sadly fallen from its great estate.
It was no longer a prodigal expression of their hospitality, but a mere,
ruddy heap of hot cinders with a wisp of smoke rising out of its glowing
heart. Still, however, it yielded a welcome temperature to the bitter
chill of the now frowning night.
Chilcoot remained faithful to his up-turned camp kettle, but Bill
concerned himself with no such luxury. He was squatting Indian-fashion
on his haunches, with his hands clasped about his knees. It was a moment
of deep contemplation before seeking their blankets, and both were
smoking.
It was the older man who broke the long silence. He was in a mood to
talk, for the events of the night had stirred him even more deeply than
he knew.
“They felt mighty good,” he observed contentedly. “Them queer bits o’
life.”
His gaze remained on the heart of the fire for his words were in the
manner of a thought spoken aloud.
Bill nodded.
“Pore kids,” he said.
In a moment the older man’s eyes were turned upon him, and their smiling
depths were full of amiable derision.
“Pore?” he exclaimed. Then his hands were outspread in an expressive
gesture. “Say, you’ve handed ’em a prize-packet that needs to cut that
darn word right out of your talk.”
He looked for reply to his challenge, but none was forthcoming. And he
returned again to his happy contemplation of the fire.
Bill smoked on. But somehow there was none of the other’s easy
contentment in his enjoyment. He was smoking rapidly, in the manner of a
mind that was restless, of a thought unpleasantly pre-occupied. The
expression of his eyes, too, was entirely different. They were plainly
alert, and a light pucker of concentration had drawn his even brows
together. He seemed to be listening. Nor was his listening for the sound
of his companion’s voice.
At long last Chilcoot bestirred himself and knocked out his pipe, and
his eyes again sought his silent partner.
“The blankets fer me,” he said, and rose to his feet. He laughed
quietly. “I’ll sure dream of kids an’ things all mussed up with fool men
who don’t know better.”
“Sure.” Bill nodded without turning. Then he added: “You best make ’em.
I’ll sit awhile.”
Chilcoot’s gaze sharpened as he contemplated the squatting figure.
“Kind o’ feel like thinkin’ some?” he observed shrewdly.
“Maybe.”
The older man grinned.
“She’d take most boys o’ your years—thinkin’!”
“Ye—es.”
Bill had turned, and was gazing up into the other’s smiling face. But
there was no invitation to continue the talk in his regard. On the
contrary. And Chilcoot’s smile passed abruptly.
“Guess I’ll beat it,” he said a little hurriedly. And the sitting man
made no attempt to detain him.
* * * * *
The man at the fire was no longer gazing into it. He was peering out
into the dark of the night. Furthermore he was no longer squatting on
his haunches. He had shifted his position, lying on his side so that his
range of vision avoided the fire-light as he searched in the direction
of the water’s edge below him. His heavy pea-jacket had been unfastened,
and his right hand was thrust deep in its pocket.
The fire had been replenished and raked together. It was burning
merrily, as though the man before it contemplated a prolonged vigil. The
night sounds were few enough just now in the northern wilderness. The
flies and mosquitoes were no longer the burden they were in summer. The
frigid night seemed to have silenced their hum, as it had silenced most
other sounds. The voice of the sluggish river alone went on with that
soothing monotony which would continue until the final freeze-up.
But Wilder was alert in every fibre. He had reason to be. For all the
silence he knew there was movement going on. Secret movement which would
have to be dealt with before the night was out. His ears had long since
detected it. They had detected it on the river, both going down and
returning. And imagination had supplied interpretation. Now he was
awaiting that development he felt would surely come.
He had not long to wait. A sound of moccasined feet padding over the
loose gravel of the river bed suddenly developed. It was approaching
him. And he strained in the darkness for a vision of his visitor. After
awhile a shadowy outline took definite shape. It was of the tall, burly
figure of a man coming up from the water’s edge.
He came rapidly, and without a word he took his place at the opposite
side of the fire.
Bill made no move. He offered no greeting. He understood. It was the
thing he had looked for and prepared for. It was Usak. And he watched
the Indian as he laid his long rifle across his knees, and held out his
hands to the crackling blaze.
The Indian seemed in no way concerned with the coolness of his
reception. It was almost as if his actions were an expression of the
thing he considered his simple right. And having taken up his position
he returned the silent scrutiny of his host with eyes so narrowed that
they revealed nothing but the fierce gleam of the firelight they
reflected.
He leant forward and deliberately spat into the fire. Then the sound of
his voice came, and his eyes widened till their coal black depths
revealed something of the savage mood that lay behind them.
“I see him, all thing this night,” he said. “So I come. I, Usak, say him
this thing. I tell ’em all peoples white-mans no good. Whitemans steal
’em all thing. White-mans him look, look all time. Him look on the face
of white girl. Him talk plenty much. Him show her much thing. Gold? Yes.
Him buy her, this whiteman. Him buy her with gold which he steal from
her land.”
He raised one lean brown hand and thrust up three fingers.
“I tak him this gun,” he went on fiercely. “Him ready to my eye.
One—two—three time I so stand. You dead all time so I mak him. Now I say
you go. One day. You not go? Then I mak ’em so kill quick.”
Wilder moved. But it was only to withdraw his hand from the pocket of
his pea-jacket. He was grasping an automatic pistol of heavy calibre. He
drew up a knee in his lolling position, and rested hand and weapon upon
it. The muzzle was deliberately covering the broad bosom of the man
beyond the fire, and his finger was ready to compress on the instant.
“That’s all right, Usak,” he said calmly. “What are we going to do? Talk
or—shoot?” His eyes smiled in the calm fashion out of which he was
rarely disturbed. “I’m no Euralian man to leave you with the drop on
me.”
The final thrust was not without effect. For an instant the Indian’s
eyes widened further. Then they narrowed suddenly to the cat-like
watchfulness his manner so much resembled.
“We talk,” he said, after a brief conflict with his angry mood, his gaze
on the ready automatic whose presence and whose offence he fully
appreciated.
Bill nodded.
“That’s better,” he said. Then he went on after a pause. “Say boy, if
you’d been a whiteman I’d have shot you in your darn tracks for the
thing you just said, and the thing you kind of hinted at. I had you
covered right away as you came along up. But you’re an Indian. An’ more
than that you belong to Marty Le Gros’ lone Kid. You’ve raised her, an’
acted father an’ mother to her, an’ you guess the sun just rises an’
sets in her. I’m glad. An’ I’m glad ther’ isn’t to be any fool
shooting—yet. But, anyway, when ther’ is I want you to get a grip on
this. I’m right in the business, an’ I’ve got your darn ole gun a mile
beaten. I guess that makes things clear some, an’ we can get busy with
our talk.”
The Indian made no reply, but there was a flicker of the eyelid, and an
added sparkle in the man’s eyes as he listened to the whiteman’s
scathing words.
Bill suddenly sat up and clasped his hands about his knees while the
automatic pistol was thrust even more prominently.
“Here, Usak,” he went on, in the same quiet fashion, but with a note of
conciliation in his tone. “You’re guessing all sorts of fool Indian
things about that gal coming along up here to my camp. You talk of
buying her with the gold I’ve stolen from her. If you’d been the man you
guess you are you’d have got around, and sat in an’ heard all the talk
of the whole thing. But you’re an Indian man, a low grade boy that
guesses to steal around on the end of a gun, ready to play any dirty old
game. No. Keep cool till I’ve done.”
Wilder’s gun was raised ever so slightly, and he waited while the
leaping wrath of the Indian subsided. He nodded.
“That’s better,” he went on quickly. “You got to listen till I’m done.
I’m goin’ to tell you things, not because I’m scared a cent of you, but
because you’ve been good to the Kid, and you’re loyal, an’ maybe someday
you’re going to feel that way to me. See? But right away I want you to
get this into your fool head. I came along for two reasons to Caribou.
One was to locate Marty Le Gros’ gold, an’ pass it over to the gal who
belongs to it, an’ the other was to marry Felice Le Gros, the same as
her father married her mother, an’ you, I guess, in your own fashion,
married Pri-loo, who the Euralians killed for you. Now you get that? I
don’t want the Kid’s gold, or land, or farm. They cut no ice with me.
I’m so rich I hate the sight of gold. But I want the Kid. I want to
marry her and take her right away where the sun shines and the world’s
worth living in. Where she won’t need to worry for food or trade, an’
won’t need to wear reindeer buckskin all the time. And anyway won’t have
to live the life of a white-Indian.”
The keen gaze of the whiteman held the Indian fast. There was no smile
in his eyes. But there was infinite command and frank honesty. Usak
stirred uneasily. It was an expression of the reaction taking place in
him.
“Him marry my good boss, Kid?”
The savage had gone out of the man’s tone. The narrowed eyes had
widened, and a curious shining light filled them.
“You give him all him gold? The gold of my good boss, Marty?” he went
on, as though striving for conviction that he had heard aright. “Sure?
You mak him this? You not mak back to Placer wher’ all him white-woman
live? You want only him Kid, same lak Usak want him Pri-loo all time?
Only him Kid? Yes?”
Bill nodded with a dawning smile.
“You big man all much gold?” the Indian went on urgently. “You not mak
want him gold of the good boss, Marty?”
Bill shook his head and his smile deepened.
“Guess I just want the—Kid,” he said.
The Indian moved. He laid his rifle aside as though it had suddenly
become a hateful thing he desired to spurn. Then he reached out,
thrusting a hand across the fire to grip that of the whiteman.
But no response was forthcoming. Bill remained motionless with his hands
about his knees and his weapon thrusting. Usak waited a moment. Then his
hand was sharply withdrawn. His quick intelligence was swift to realise
the deliberate slight. But that which the crude savage in him had no
power to do was to remain silent.
“You not shake by the hand?” he said doubtfully. “You say all ’em good
thing by the Kid? It all mush good. Oh, yes. Yet you—” He broke off and
a great light of passion suddenly leapt to his black eyes. “Tcha!” he
cried. “What is it this? The tongue speak an’ him heart think mush. No,
no!” he went on with growing ferocity. “The good boss, Marty, say heap
plenty. Him tell ’em Indian man all time. Him whitemans no shake, then
him not mean the thing him tongue say.”
“You’re dead wrong, Usak. Plumb wrong. That’s not the reason I don’t
guess to grip your hand.”
Bill’s gaze was compelling. There was that in it which denied the
other’s accusations in a fashion that even the mind of the savage could
not fail to interpret.
The anger in the Indian’s eyes died down.
“Indian man’s hand good so as the white man,” he said. “Yet him not
shake so this thing is mush good. This Kid. Him mak wife to you. You
give her all thing good plenty. So. That thing you say big. Usak give
her all, too. Usak think lak she is the child of Pri-loo. Usak love him
good boss, Marty, her father. Oh, yes. All time plenty. Usak fight,
kill. All him life no thing so him Kid only know good.”
Bill inclined his head. The man was speaking out of the depth of his
fierce heart, and he warmed to the simple sturdiness of his graphic
pleading.
“I know all that,” he said.
“Then—?”
The Indian’s hand was slowly, almost timidly thrust towards him again.
But the movement remained uncompleted.
“Usak,” Bill began deliberately, and in the tone of a purpose arrived
at. “I know you for the good feller you’ve been to all these folk. I
know you better than I guess even they know you. I guess it don’t take
me figgering to know if I’d hurt a soul of them you’d never quit till
you’d shot me to pieces. I know all that. Let it go at that. A whiteman
grips the other feller by the hand when he knows the things back of that
other feller’s mind. Do you get that? Ther’s a mighty big stain of blood
on the hand you’re askin’ me to grip, an’ I’m not yearning to shake the
hand of a—murderer.”
The men were gazing eye to eye. The calm cold of Wilder’s grey eyes was
inflexible. The Indian’s had lit with renewed fire. But his resentment,
the burning fires of his savage bosom were no match for the whiteman’s
almost mesmeric power. The gaze of the black eyes wavered. Their lids
slowly drooped, as though the search of the other’s was reading him
through and through and he desired to avoid them.
“Well?”
The whiteman’s challenge came with patient determination.
The Indian drew a deep breath. Then he nodded slowly.
“I tell him all thing,” he said simply.
“Good.”
Wilder released his knees and spread himself out on the ground, and
almost ostentatiously returned his pistol to his pocket.
“Go ahead,” he said, as he propped himself on his elbow.
Usak talked at long length in his queer, broken fashion. His mind was
flung back to those far-off years when the great avenging madness had
taken possession of him. He told the story of Marty Le Gros from its
beginning. He told the story of the man’s great hopes and strivings for
the Eskimo he looked upon as children. He told of the birth of the Kid,
and the ultimate death of the missionary’s wife. Then had come the time
of his boss’s gold “strike,” the whereabouts of which he kept secret
even from him, Usak. Then came the time of the murderous descent of the
Euralians, and the killing and burning that accompanied it. And how he
had returned to the Mission to find the dead remains of Pri-loo his
wife, and of his good boss, Marty, and the living child flung into the
wood which sheltered its home.
He told how he went mad with desire to kill, and set out to wreak his
vengeance. He had long since by chance discovered where these people hid
themselves in the far-off mountains, and he went there, and waited until
they returned from their war trail.
Now for the first time Wilder learned all the intimate details of the
terrible slaughter which this single savage had contrived to inflict.
Nor did the horror of the story lose in the man’s telling. He missed
nothing of it, seeming to revel in a riot of furious memory. Once or
twice, as he gloated over the fall of an enemy, he reached out, and his
lean hand patted the butt of his queer old rifle almost lovingly. And
with the final account of his struggle with the leader himself, even
Wilder shrank before the merciless joy the man displayed as he
contemplated the end of the battle with the man’s sockets emptied of the
tawny eyes that had gazed upon the murder of those poor, defenceless
creatures the Indian had been powerless to protect.
“Oh, yes,” he said in conclusion. “Him see nothing more, never. Him have
no eyes never no more. Him live, yes. I leave him woman. So I go. So I
come back. I come back to the little Kid, him good boss, Marty, leave. I
live. Oh, yes. I live for him Kid. I mak big work for him Kid. Big
trade. So him grow lak the tree, him flower, an’ I think much for him.
It all good. It mak me feel good all inside. Him to me lak the child of
Pri-loo. You marry him Kid? Good. You give him gold? Good. Usak plenty
happy. Now I mak him one big trip. Then no more. Then I do so as the
good whiteman of him Kid say. Yes.”
The Indian spread out his hands in a final gesture. Then he drew up his
knees, and clasped them tightly, while his burning eyes dwelt broodingly
upon the leaping fire.
“Why this trip?” Bill’s question came sharply.
The Indian raised his eyes. Then they dropped again to the fire and he
shook his head.
“You won’t tell me? Why?” Bill demanded again. “Ther’s no need for any
trip. Ther’s work right here for you, for all. Ther’s gold, plenty,
which you can share. Why?”
Again came the Indian’s shake of the head. His eyes were raised again
for a moment and Bill read and interpreted the brooding light that gazed
out of them. The man seemed about to speak, but his hard mouth tightened
visibly, and again he stubbornly shook his head and returned to his
contemplation of the fire.
Suddenly Bill sprang to his feet and held out his hand. In an instant
the Indian was on his feet, and his dark face was even smiling. His
tenacious hand closed over that of the whiteman.
“That’s all right, Usak,” Bill said quietly. “I’m glad to take your
hand. You’re a big man. You’re a big Indian savage. But you’re a good
man, anyway. Get right back to your shanty now, an’ take that darn old
gun with you. You don’t need that fer shooting me up, anyway. Just keep
it—to guard the Kid, and those others. Just one word before you go.
Marty kept his gold secret. You keep it secret, too, until the Kid lets
you speak. I’ve got to make a big trip to secure the claims before we
can talk. When I done that talk don’t matter. Say, an’ not a word to the
Kid of our talk. Not one word. I want to marry her. And being white folk
it’s our way to ask the girl first. See? I haven’t asked her yet. An’ if
you were to boost in your spoke, maybe she’d get angry, and—”
“Usak savee.”
The Indian was grinning in a fashion that left the whiteman satisfied.
Their hands fell apart, and Usak picked up his gun. Then he turned away
without another word and the night swallowed him up.
Wilder stood gazing after him, There was no smile in his eyes. He was
thinking hard. And his thought was of that one, big, last trip the
Indian had threatened to make.
CHAPTER XIII
A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE
Bill Wilder and Chilcoot moved slowly up from the water’s edge. The
outlook was grey and the wind was piercing. The river behind them was
ruffled out of its usual oily calm, and the two small laden canoes,
lying against the bank, and the final stowing of which the men had been
engaged upon, were rocking and straining at their raw-hide moorings.
The change of season was advancing with that suddenness which drives the
northern man hard. Still, however, the first snow had not yet fallen,
although for days the threat of it had hung over the world. The ground
was iron hard with frost, and each morning a skin of ice stretched out
on the waters of the river from the low, shelving banks. But the grip of
it was not permanent. There was still melting warmth in the body of the
stream, and, each day, the ice yielded up its hold.
It was three days since the camp had witnessed the gathering of children
about its camp fire. Three days which Bill had devoted to those
preparations, careful in the last detail, for the rush down to Placer
before the world was overwhelmed by the long winter terror. Now, at
last, all was in readiness for the start on the morrow. All, that is,
but the one important matter of Red Mike’s return to camp. Until that
happened the start would have to be delayed.
Everything had been planned with great deliberation.
Clarence McLeod had even been called upon to assist, in view of the race
against time which the task these men had set themselves represented.
Three days ago he had been despatched up the river to recall the
Irishman. His immediate return was looked for. Chilcoot had hoped for it
earlier. But this third day was allowed as a margin in case the gold
instinct had carried Mike farther afield than was calculated.
The last of the brief day was almost gone. And only a belt of grey
daylight was visible in the cloud banks to the south-west. Half way up
to the camp Wilder paused and gazed out over the ruffled water, seeking
to discover any sign of the man’s return in the darkening twilight. He
stood beating his mitted hands while Chilcoot passed on up to the camp
fire.
There was no sign, no sound. And a feeling of keen disappointment took
possession of the expectant man. So much depended on Mike’s return.
Under ordinary circumstances the season was not the greatest concern,
and Wilder would have been content enough to wait. But the circumstances
were by no means ordinary. There was that lying back of his mind which
disturbed him in a fashion he was rarely disturbed. And it was a thought
and concern he had imparted to no one, not even to his loyal partner,
Chilcoot.
He moved on up to the camp, and the keenness of his disappointment
displayed itself in his eyes, and in the tone of his voice as he
conveyed the result of his search to his comrade.
“Not a dam sight of ’em,” he said peevishly.
He had halted at the fire over which Chilcoot was endeavouring to
encourage some warmth into his chilled fingers. He removed his mitts and
held his hands to the blaze.
“I was kind of wondering,” he went on, “about that boy, Clarence. Maybe
he’s hit up against things. Maybe—Say—”
A faint, far-off echo came down stream. It was a call. A familiar cry in
a voice both men promptly recognised. Chilcoot grinned.
“That’s Mike,” he said. Then he added: “Sure as hell.”
Wilder breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“I’m glad. I’m mighty thankful,” he exclaimed with a short laugh. “We’ll
be away to-morrow after all.”
Chilcoot eyed his companion speculatively.
“I hadn’t worried fer that,” he said. “Guess we can’t make Placer in
open weather.” He shrugged a pair of shoulders that were enormous under
his fur parka. “It’ll be dead winter ’fore we’re haf way. It’ll be black
night in two weeks, anyway. The big river don’t freeze right over till
late winter, but ther’ll be ice floes ’most all the way. I can’t see a
day more or less is going to worry us a thing.”
“No.”
Bill was searching the heart of the fire.
“The Hekor don’t freeze right up easy,” he went on. “That’s so. But
it’ll sure be black night.” Then he looked up, and Chilcoot recognised
his half smile of contentment. “It don’t matter anyway. The thing’s
worth it.”
“What thing?”
Bill laughed.
“Why the jump we’re making.”
There was a brief pause. Then Chilcoot’s eyes twinkled.
“You scared of the winter trail, Bill?” he asked quietly.
“Not a thing.”
The older man nodded.
“It would ha’ been the first time in your life,” he said. “I’ve seen you
take the chances of a crazy man.”
* * * * *
“Don’t it beat Hell?”
The Irishman had listened to the story of the “strike” and sat raking
his great fingers through the thick stubble of flaming beard he had
developed, and grinned first across at his chief, Bill Wilder, then at
the twinkling, deep-set eyes of Chilcoot.
They were all gathered about the fire, that centre of everything to the
northern man. The youth Clarence was sprawled full length on the ground,
happy in the thought that he was playing his part in the great game on
which these men were engaged. He was content to listen while the others
talked. But he drank in every word with the appetite of healthy youth,
digesting and learning as his young mind so ardently desired.
“An’ it’s rich? Full o’ the stuff?” Mike’s lips almost smacked as he
persisted.
“So full you’ll get a nightmare reckonin’ it.”
Chilcoot nodded while his eyes sparkled. Mike drew a deep breath. The
two summers behind them looked like a happy picnic instead of the months
of wasted endeavour they had seemed to his impetuous soul.
“Ther’s more than a hundred claims on it we know of,” Bill said soberly.
“Maybe ther’s miles of it up that queer, crazy stream. We haven’t
worried farther. The stakes are in fer the whole of our bunch, an’ the
folks across the water. That’s as far as we’re concerned. We’re beating
it to Placer to-morrow to register. Say,” he went on impressively,
“ther’ll be a rush like the days of ’98, and we can’t take chances. If
the thing’s like what I guess we’ll cheapen gold worse than the Yukon
boom did. Does it hit you?”
“Between the eyes.” Mike laughed out of his boisterous feelings. “We ken
get the bunch right down, an’ get a dump of stuff out before the
freeze-up,” he went on eagerly. “What’s it to be? A pool or claim work?”
“Ther’s goin’ to be no pool. An’ ther’s goin’ to be no rake over till
spring.” Wilder’s tone was decided, and the grin died out of the
Irishman’s eyes. “I told you we’re takin’ no chances. Chilcoot and I
have planned this thing right out. Of the three best claims we’re sure
about, one is yours. But you don’t pan an ounce of soil till the
register’s made, and you’ve got your ‘brief.’ Then it’s yours on your
own, the same as the others belong to each of the other folk. An’ you
can work how you darn please. But you won’t see the place, even, till we
get right back from Placer. An’ the boys aren’t hearing a word of it
till spring. It’s this I sent Clarence, here, up to get you around for.
I want you to sit tight, right here, till we get back with the whole
thing fixed. It’s worth waiting for, Mike. It’s so good you just haven’t
figgers enough in your fool head to count your luck. You’ll act this
way, boy. I promised you haf a million dollars if you hit back to Placer
without a colour. That still goes, but you won’t need a thing from me.
You’ll play our hand right?”
Mike’s disappointment was all the keener for his mercurial temperament,
but he nodded readily and Wilder was satisfied.
“Sure I’ll play it right, the way you want it. But I don’t see we need
act like ther’ was spooks around waitin’ to jump in on us before the
register’s fixed.”
Wilder smiled back at the protesting man.
“But ther’ are,” he said. “If you’d the experience I’ve had of this
blamed old North you’d be scared to death for our ‘strike.’ It’s a
ghost-haunted country this, and most of the spooks have got a kind of
wireless of their own that ’ud beat anything we Christian folk ever
heard tell of. Ther’s six months of winter ahead, and most of that we’ll
be on the trail, or fixing things. It just needs one half-breed pelt
hunter to get wise to the game happening around, or a stray bunch of
Euralian murderers, and we’d have haf the north on us before the
Commissioner could sign our ‘briefs.’ No, boy, get it from me, and just
sit around till daylight comes again, an’ dream of the hooch you’re
going to drink to the luck of the Kid. It’s the Kid’s luck that’s handed
us this thing. It’s the luck her father reckoned was to be hers. And by
no sort of crazy act are we going to queer it. I’m taking your scow, and
beating it down stream. Clarence’ll feel like gettin’ to home.”
The grinning eyes of Mike followed the tall figure of his leader, with
the youth, Clarence, striding beside him, as it vanished in the darkness
on its way to the water’s edge. And as they passed from view he turned
to the man who displayed no desire to quit the comfort of the fire.
“I’d guessed he’d fallen for it two summers back,” he said. “You can
locate it with both eyes shut, an’ cotton batten stuffed in your brain
box. That gal had him fast by the back of the neck on sight. The Kid,
eh? It’s not Bill Wilder’s way of playing safe on a gold ‘strike.’ That
gal’s got him scared to death for the plum he guesses to hand her. No,
sirree,” he went on, with a shake of his disreputable head, “the
Jezebels o’ Placer for mine, an’ a bunch o’ hooch you could drown a
battleship in. It’s easy game that don’t hand you a nightmare, if it’s
liable to empty your sack o’ dust. That Kid! What’s he goin’ to do?”
Chilcoot shrugged. Mike was not the man he felt like opening out to.
“He ain’t crazy enough to—marry her?” Mike went on contemptuously. “No.
He’s no fool kid.”
A deep flush mounted to the veteran’s temples. His deepset eyes sparkled
as he surveyed the other through the smoke of the fire.
“You best ask Bill the things you want to know,” he said coldly. “It
don’t matter what you think. It don’t matter what any darn fool thinks.
Bill’s mostly spent his life playin’ the game as he sees it. An’ I guess
he’ll go right on doin’ the same. And the game he plays is a right game.
An’ he’s as ready to hand it out to a hooch-soused no-account, as he is
to a gal with a dandy pair of blue eyes.”
* * * * *
It had been a quiet, almost subdued evening at the homestead. Somehow
Bill Wilder’s manner had been graver than was its wont, and these simple
folk, who, since his re-discovery of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike,” had
so quickly come to regard him as something in the nature of the arbiter
of their destinies, had been clearly affected by his change of manner.
He had shared their supper, and listened to Clarence’s story of his
search for Red Mike. He had found it easier to listen than to talk.
Hesther, too, had spent her time in listening, while the children
chattered all unconscious of the real mood of their elders.
For the Kid it was a time of quiet happiness, marred only by the thought
that with the first streak of brief daylight on the morrow this man
would be speeding on his race with the season to ensure her own, and the
good fortunes of all those she loved.
The girl looked forward to the coming months of winter clarkness without
any glimmer of that happy, contented philosophy which had always been
hers. Looking ahead the whole prospect seemed so dark and empty. The
days since Bill’s coming to the Caribou had been so overflowing, so
thrilling with happy events and delirious joy that the contrasting
prospect was only the more deplorably void. And with all the untamed
spirit in her she rebelled at the coming parting.
Yet she understood the necessity. She realised the enormous stake he was
playing for on their behalf, and so she was determined that no act or
word of hers should hinder him. There had been moments when the impulse
to plead permission to accompany him was almost irresistible. It filled
her heart with delighted dreams of displaying, for his appreciation, her
skill and sturdy nerve on the winter trail. She felt that for all her
sex she could easily accept more than her due share of the labour, and
could increase his comfort a hundredfold. But in sober moments she knew
it could not be. If nothing else the woman instinct in her forbade it.
The girl never for one moment paused to question her feelings. Why
should she? The life she knew, the life she had always lived, had left
her free of every convention which encompasses a woman’s life in
civilization. Bill Wilder had leapt into her life as her dream man. He
was her all in all, the whole focus of her simple heart. Why then should
she deny it? Why then should she attempt to blind herself? There had
been no word of love between them. It almost seemed unnecessary. She
loved his steady grey eyes, with their calm smile. She revelled in his
unfailing, kindly confidence. His spoken word was always sufficient,
backed as it was by his great figure, so full of manhood’s youthful
strength. Then he was of her own country. That vast Northland which
claimed their deepest affection for all its terror. Oh, yes, she loved
him with her whole soul and body. And her love inspired the surging
rebellion which her sturdy sense refused outlet or display.
No. She had long since learned patience. It was the thing her country
taught her as surely as anything on earth. Besides, the planning was all
Bill’s. Every detail had been weighed and measured by him. Even it was
his veto that had been set on her own journey for trade. He had urged
its abandonment, demanding both her and Usak’s presence on the river
during his absence. So it must be.
For the girl this last evening together passed all too swiftly. Much of
the time, while the others chattered, she remained scarcely heeding
sufficiently to respond intelligently to the occasional appeals made to
her. And then, when the time came for Bill’s going, she rose quickly
from her seat beside the stove and slipped her fur parka over her
buckskin clothing. She regarded the privilege she contemplated as her
right.
Hesther observed, but wisely refrained from comment. But her children
were less merciful. Perse grinned impishly.
“Wher’ you goin’, Kid?” he demanded.
The ready mother instantly leapt to the girl’s assistance.
“Lightin’ Bill to the landin’,” she said sharply. “Which the scallawag
menfolk around this shanty don’t seem yearnin’ to do.”
“She don’t need to,” Clarence protested.
“Don’t she?” The mother laughed. “You’re too late, boy. Guess Bill,
here, ’ud hate to be lit by folks who need reminding the thing’s due.
You boys beat it to your blankets. Kid’ll see Bill on his way.”
The man was ready. He bulked tremendously under the thick fur of his
outer clothing. He pulled his fur cap low down on his head, while the
Kid lit the queer old hurricane lamp with a burning brand from the
stove. Hesther’s diminutive figure was further dwarfed beside him as she
prepared to make her farewell.
“It’ll be quite a piece before you get along again,” she said, in a
voice that was not quite steady. And the man laughed shortly for all
there seemed no reason.
“I just can’t figger how soon before I’m along back,” he said. “I’d like
to fix it, but it wouldn’t be reasonable anyway. You see, mam,” he went
on, his gaze turned on the girl who shut the lamp with a slam, “Gold
Commissioners have their ways, and sort of make their own time. And
though I reckon to pull some wires I can’t say when I’ll get through.
And then ther’s always the winter trail. But I’ll sure be along back
before the spring break.”
His gaze came back to the little woman who was regarding him with
wistful eyes of affection, as though he were one of her own boys, and he
thrust out a hand which was instantly clasped between both her rough
palms.
“I just got to be back then,” he went on. “And when I come you can
gamble I got things fixed so tight you’ll only need to sit around and
act the way I tell you.” He smiled down into the misty brown eyes. “You
keep a right good fire, mam,” he said gently. “Ther’s no trouble for you
while I’m gone. Mike’s not a thing but a nightmare to look at, but he’s
got clear orders while Chilcoot and I are on the trail. And he’ll put
’em through to the limit. You won’t need for a thing he can hand you. So
long.”
The mist in the mother’s eyes had developed into real tears, and they
overflowed down her worn cheeks.
“God bless you, Bill,” she stammered, as she released his hand with
obvious reluctance. “I’ll sure do my best. I just can’t say the things
in here,” she went on, clasping her thin bosom with both hands. Then she
struggled to smile. “Guess we’ll all be countin’ up till you get back,
an’ it can’t be a day sooner than we’re all wishin’. So long, boy.”
Bill turned to the elder children who had remained to speed him on his
way and nodded comprehensively.
“So long, folks,” he said. “See you again.”
He passed quickly to the door, where the Kid was awaiting him, and moved
out. And a final glance back revealed Hesther framed in the open
doorway, with the yellow light of the room behind her, silhouetting her
fragile figure, as she waved a farewell in the direction of the swinging
lantern.
* * * * *
The Kid’s pretty blue eyes were raised to the smiling face looking down
into hers. It was a moment tense with feeling. It was that moment of
parting when she felt that all sense of joy, all sense of happiness was
to be snuffed right out of her life. And the responsive smile she forced
to her eyes was perilously near to tears.
The lantern in her hand revealed the canoe hauled up against the crude
landing. Its rays found reflection in the dark spread of water where a
skin of ice was already forming, seeking to embed the frail craft at its
mooring.
There was little enough relief from the darkness under the heavy night
clouds. There was no visible moon. That was screened behind the stormy
threat, yet it contrived a faint twilight over the world. Not a single
star was to be seen anywhere and the ghostly northern lights were deeply
curtained.
Now, in these last moments of parting, the youth in Bill Wilder was once
more surging with impulse. As he gazed down into the bravely smiling
eyes a hundred desires were beating in his brain. And he yearned
desperately to fling every caution to the winds and abandon himself to
the love which left him without a thought but of the delight with which
the Kid’s presence filled him.
Somehow it seemed to his big nature a wanton cruelty that this girl
should be charged with the cares of a struggle for existence in this
far-flung northern wilderness. Perhaps as great a feeling as any that
stirred him at this moment was a desire to relieve her of the last
shadow of anxiety in the monstrous season about to descend upon them.
And yet he was compelled to leave her to face alone the very hardships
he would have saved her from. And this with an acute understanding of
the uncertainty of the outcome of the thing he had planned to accomplish
in the darkness of the long winter night. For once in his life his usual
confidence was undermined by curious forebodings. But he gave no outward
sign, while he listened to the urgent little story the girl had to tell
of the Indian Usak.
“He’s a queer feller,” he said thoughtfully. Then he added: “You told
him clear out ther’s to be no trading trip to Placer? An’ still he’s
making ready a trip?”
The girl laughed shortly. There was no mirth in it. It was a little
nervous expression of feeling.
“You just can’t get back of that feller’s mind,” she said. “Usak’s dead
obstinate. He’s obstinate as a young bull caribou when he feels like it.
It was when I told him it was your plan we shouldn’t make Placer. I sort
of read it in his queer black eyes, even though he took the order
without a kick. Maybe he was disappointed. You see, he’s got that swell
black fox. Next day I found him fixing for a trip on his own. I asked
him right away about it, an’ his answer left me worried an’ guessing.
‘That all right,’ he said, ‘I know us not mak Placer. So. Then I mak one
big trip.’”
The girl’s imitation of the Indian’s broken talk brought a deepening
smile to Bill’s eyes for all the concern her story inspired.
“I told him right away you guessed it best for him to stop around,” she
went on. “An’ it was then he got mulish. He snapped me like an angry
wolf. ‘Who this whiteman say I not mak big trip? Him not all thing, this
man. No. I mak big trip.’ He went right on fixing his outfit after that
and wouldn’t say another word. He’s right up ther’ in his shanty now. I
saw the lamp burning as we came down. He means to go his trip, and-”
“Nothing’s goin’ to stop him.” The man’s jaws shut with a snap. “He’s
surely got a mule beat.”
He remained buried in deep thought for some moments while the girl
watched him, wondering anxiously at his interpretation of Usak’s
attitude. She was filled with an unease she could not shake off.
Quite suddenly Bill’s manner underwent a change. He laughed quietly, and
his gaze, which had passed to the dark river came again to the troubled
face beside him.
“Just don’t worry a thing, Kid,” he said, with an assumption of
lightness which drew a responsive sigh of relief. “It don’t matter.
Ther’s the boys around, and Mike, and my bunch. Usak’s full of his own
notions, an’ it’s best not to drive him too hard. If he guesses to make
a trip, just let him beat it. No. Don’t you worry a thing.”
“No.”
The Kid sighed again. And the man understood that the comfort he had
desired for her had been achieved.
Again came his quiet laugh.
“Anyway we can’t worry with Usak—to-night.”
The girl shook her head. In a moment she had forgotten the Indian and
remembered only the thing about to happen. It was their farewell that
had yet to be spoken, and this man would be speeding up the darkened
river to his camp, and it would be months—long, dreary months before she
would witness again those calm smiling grey eyes, and hear again the
voice that somehow made the heaviest burdens of her life on the river
something that was a joy to contemplate. The desolation of his going
appalled her now that the moment of parting had actually arrived.
“Gee! It’s going to be a long night to—Spring.”
Bill spoke with a surge of feeling he could no longer deny.
The girl remained silent, and her blue eyes sought the dark course of
the river in self-defence.
“What’ll you be doing—all the time?”
Bill’s voice had lowered. There was a wonderful depth of tenderness in
its tone.
“Waitin’—mostly.”
It was a little wistful, a little desperate. For the first time the
girl’s voice had become unsteady.
Bill drew a deep breath.
“Waiting?”
He turned swiftly in the shadow that hid them up. His eyes were no
longer calm. They were hot with those passions which are only the deeper
and stronger for the strong man’s restraint. Suddenly he thrust a hand
into the bosom of his parka and withdrew the folded plans of Marty Le
Gros’ gold “strike.”
“Here, Kid,” he said urgently. “You best have these. They’re yours
anyway whatever happens. You never can guess in this queer old country.
Take ’em in case. I’ll sure get right back in the spring. If I don’t
you’ll just have to figger—I can’t.”
He waited for the girl to take the paper. But she only gazed round on
him with eyes that had widened in real terror.
“You mean you’ll be—dead?” There was an instant’s pause as though the
thought had paralysed her. Then a piteous cry broke from her. “Oh, no,
no, no!” she cried. “You’ll come back, Bill. You won’t let a thing kill
you. I want you, Bill. You’ll come back to me. Oh, say you will.”
It was a distracted face that was raised to his with widened eyes that
had filled with tears.
“Would it hurt if—I didn’t?”
The man had moved a step nearer.
Just for one instant the tearful eyes stared up at him. Then the
threatened storm broke. The lantern clattered to the ground and
extinguished itself, and the girl’s face was buried in her mitted hands.
The sight of her distress was unendurable. The man no longer had power
to deny himself. Impulse leapt from under all restraint. That wonderful
impulse that is the very essence of the human soul, the inspiration of
all life. He caught her up in his fur-clad arms, and held her crushed
against a heart leaping madly with the triumph of glowing manhood.
* * * * *
The grey daylight was still faint over the south-eastern horizon. It was
growing slowly, transforming the darkened world under a grey twilight
that was hard set to dispel the night shadows. Still it was daylight,
and just sufficient to serve as a reminder that behind the drear Arctic
winter lay the promise of ultimate golden day.
The teeming rapids lay ahead, a cauldron of furiously boiling waters,
and away beyond them the stately course of the Hekor River. To the south
lay the wide woodland bluff that had witnessed the years-old tragedy of
Marty Le Gros’ home, flinging deep shadows across the turbulent waters.
While to the north, far as the eye could see, lay the low lichen-grown
land rollers inclining gently away to the purple distance.
Bill Wilder and Chilcoot had pulled in to the northern bank. Their two
light canoes were moored just at the head of the narrow, deep, swift
channel down to the greater river, which was the only open passage
through the boiling rapids. They were made fast to an up-standing
boulder, and the men were afoot on the shore, gazing down at their
outfit, and engaged in earnest talk.
Chilcoot was listening for the moment while his thoughtful eyes searched
anywhere but in the direction of the purposeful face of his friend. And
Wilder was talking rapidly and with a decision that forbade all protest.
“Old friend, ther’s just one thing I don’t want from you now,” he said.
“That’s any sort of old kick. Maybe I’m handing you reason enough to set
you kicking like a crazy steer. But you won’t do it, boy, for the sake
of all the years we’ve ground at the queer old mill of life together.
You’re the one feller, the only feller, I look to to help me along when
I’m set neck deep in a tight hole, and if you fail me I’ll have to
squeal on the thing above all others that seems right to me. I gave a
promise, and I’ve got to make that promise good if it beats the life out
of me, and robs me of all that little gal back there means to me. I’m
going right up the big river to the Valley of the Fire Hills, while you
get right on down to Placer, and pull every darn wire in my name and
your own to fix the ‘strike’ right. Later I’m gambling to get along down
and join you, if this darn country don’t beat the life out of me. I’ve
got to go if hell freezes over. Ther’s a helpless woman, and a blinded
man right up there, and if I don’t make ’em first they’ll be murdered by
a savage who’s just stark mad to slaughter ’em. They’re the folk I got
the plans of the ‘strike’ from. And I got it on a sort of promise I’d
see no harm got around their way from the feller who hates ’em so he’d
beat his way out of the gates of hell to get after ’em.”
“Usak.”
The bright eyes of the older man searched his friend’s.
Bill nodded.
“An’ that’s why you split the outfit into two boats?”
“Sure.”
“Is he settin’ right out? You got to beat him on the river?”
There was sharp doubt in Chilcoot’s question.
Bill nodded again.
“Yes.” Then he laughed mirthlessly. “I got to beat it up that river as
if all the legions of hell were hard on my heels. Say, boy, I got to
beat the hardest trail man around the North, with a crazy eye running
over levelled sights. I’ve got to beat him and I’ve got to beat the
winter night. I just don’t know a thing how it’s to be done, but if I
don’t do it I’ll have broke my fool word—which ’ud break me.”
Chilcoot’s gaze was turned up the river in the direction of the queer
homestead whose simple dwellers had flung them their farewell as they
passed down on their journey in the darkness.
“An’ that little gal, Bill,” he said slowly. “That little gal you reckon
to take right out of here, an’ marry, an’ educate, an’ set around in a
land of sunshine to raise your dandy kids. Ain’t ther’ a promise there
that it’ll break you to fail in? Are you feelin’ like makin’ a great
give-up for lousy scum of—Euralians? Are you?”
“There’s sure a promise there, boy, I’ll make good. If I don’t it’ll
only be I’m dead.”
The old man shook his head.
“I jest don’t get the argument,” he said in his blunt fashion. “If I
didn’t know you I’d say you’re dead crazy. But you ain’t,” he went on,
with another shake of the head. “Your promise is the biggest thing in
your life, bigger than that Kid’s happiness. Maybe you just can’t help
it. Maybe none of us ken help the things we are. I ain’t goin’ to kick.
It ain’t my way with you. I’m goin’ right on down to Placer, an’ I’m
goin’ to put things through, same as if you was along. An’ I’ll wait fer
you to come along till I know you can’t get. Then I’ll get back to here,
an’ see the Kid, an’ her folks get the thing you fancy for them, an’
I’ll see ’em along their trail till they can handle their own play. That
goes, Bill. Guess it goes all the time with me.”
“I knew.”
Wilder’s real acknowledgment was in the faint smile that shone in his
eyes. There was no attempt to find words to express himself. And anyway
with Chilcoot there was no need.
Chilcoot gazed down at the swaying boats.
“Will we beat it?” he said, and turned and glanced down the swift
stream.
“We best.”
It was then the older man voiced something of the real feeling that so
deeply stirred his rough heart.
“You know, Bill, ther’s things in life make a feller wish they weren’t.
You’re bug on a promise, an’ it’s the thing that’s left you the feller
you are in other folks’ minds. I’d make any old promise, so it suited
me, to folks I ain’t worried about. An’ I wouldn’t lie awake o’ nights
breakin’ it. But I ain’t any sort o’ high notions. Japs—Euralians?” he
snorted, “Why, I’d promise ’em the earth with a dandy barbed wire fence
set all round it to get the thing I wanted from ’em. I’d—”
“Not if you’d seen a queer little woman whose worst crime was giving up
her life nursing a blinded devil of a murdering Euralian husband, and
was nigh crazy that some feller was coming along to rob her of his life.
Man, the sight made me sweat pity. If I can save that poor soul that
much, why—I want to do it.”
Bill sighed and passed a hand across his broad brow. “It’s no sort of
self-righteousness with me, boy,” he went on. “I just won’t know an easy
moment if I don’t do everything in my power to beat that crazy Indian.
Come on. We’ll get right on. We’ll clear these rapids and part the other
side.”
He moved hurriedly down to the water’s edge and began to cast the
moorings adrift. Chilcoot held the canoes ready. In a few moments both
had taken their places, and the thrusting paddles still held the little
vessels against the stream.
Bill suddenly held out a hand from which the mitt had been removed, and
Chilcoot gripped it forcefully.
“We’ll shake right here, old pard,” Bill said quietly. “When we get
below we’ll be full up keeping clear of the popple. You got everything
clear. An’ ther’s nothing on the river to beat you. I’ll be glad to have
your wish of luck.”
Their hands fell apart.
“You sure have it, Bill, all the luck that’s always yours rolled right
up into one.”
Chilcoot nodded and his eyes sparkled with real feeling. “So long,” he
cried.
“So long.”
Bill’s farewell came ringing back as his little craft shot out into the
stream under the plunging stroke of his paddle.
CHAPTER XIV
A WHITEMAN’S WORD
The grey dawn yielded to the many hues of the sunrise. For the moment a
cloudless azure dome smiled down upon a world with a soft crystal-white
carpet outspread. For days the temperature had hovered about zero, and
ice had formed upon the waterways with that fierce rapidity which the
northern man knows so well. Its frigid grip was reaching in every
direction seeking to seal the world under iron bonds.
But the Valley of the Fire Hills was dripping and steaming. Everywhere
the snow was melting, and the dark waters of the little river flowed
smoothly on still free from the smallest trace of ice. The temperature
was well above freezing, for the terrestrial furnaces of the blackened
hills were banked and glowing.
The valley was dense with a fog of steam. It was a ghostly world without
shape or form. A blind world with only the river bank to guide the
adventurer through its heart. There was no sound of life for all the
coming of the pitiful light of the briefest day. The world was still,
remote, bewildering.
Yet life was there; staunch, indomitable life. It was there with
purpose, simple, unwavering, and no qualm or doubt marred the clarity of
its resolution. A boat, a small whiteman-built canoe, was moving up the
eastern bank of the stream, feeling groping, taking every chance so that
it made its final destination.
With the first lift of the sun above the horizon a current of air
stirred the fog, and a cold breath shot through the tepid air. It came
and passed. Then it came again with added force. It was low on the
ground and the fog lifted. Swift and keen it pursued its advantage, and
the blinding mist thinned, and a dull sheen of the risen sun replaced
the cold grey. The wind increased. It bit fiercely as it swept down the
heated valley. And in a moment, it seemed, out of the bewildering fog
there appeared the graceful outline of the nosing canoe.
Bill Wilder breathed a sigh of relief. At last the scales had fallen
from before his eyes, and his way lay open to him. Instantly his paddle
dipped, and his boat shot out into midstream. It leapt forward under the
mighty thrusts of his arms, and as it raced on a fervent prayer went up
that the wind might hold and increase in strength.
* * * * *
The canoe lay moored at the old log landing. There had been no
hesitation. No doubt had been entertained for its security. Wilder had
left it to such chances as might befall, his only means of return to the
outer world, while he made his way over the snow-slush to the shades of
the woodlands surrounding the secret habitation that was his goal.
* * * * *
Half way through the woods the thing Wilder looked for came to pass.
Eyes and ears were keenly alert. He had realised that his approach would
be observed. That seeing eyes, faithful to the service of the woman’s
blinded charge, would be unfailing in their watch. The terror he had
once witnessed in them had been sufficient to warn him that her life was
comparable to that of a vigilant watchdog, everlastingly searching for
the approach of the dark, avenging figure that hypnotized her with the
horror of its return.
The diminutive figure of the Japanese woman came hurriedly to meet him
from her hiding somewhere screened amidst the dull green foliage of
these northern woods. She stood before him, her slanting black eves
widely gazing, and her thin, lined face eagerly demanding in its
expression of scarcely suppressed agitation.
Crysa began at once. She had no fear of this white-man. But she realised
that his coming had to do with her safety and the safety of her charge.
His promise had been her comfort, her most treasured memory.
“You give him the paper?” she said, as though no space of time had
elapsed since their last meeting, and the memory of every word then
spoken was as fresh in her mind as though their meeting had occurred
only the day before. “You give him this thing? And now you come that I
may know it is so? And Usak is satisfied? Oh, yes. You come to say that
thing? There is no more fear? None? I sleep, I eat, I know peace. Usak
will not come?”
Wilder gripped himself before this poor creature’s heart-breaking
appeal. He knew he must dash her last hope, and hurl her again to that
despair which had beset her so long. It was useless to attempt to soften
the facts. His resolve was clear in his mind. He shook his head.
“Nothing will satisfy him,” he said sombrely, “but the life of your man.
He’s on his way now, I guess. But I got away first. I came right along
up to get you folks away to safety. I don’t reckon to know how you’re
fixed for a quick get-away. But you both got to make it right now, or
Usak’ll be along and kill you both up. Maybe I can get you right out of
the country back to your own folk. That’s how I figger. But if I’m to do
that you need to beat it down the river with me—now. I came because of
my promise. See? I’m here with a white-man’s word to do the best I know.
You’ve got to take me to Ukisama, and both of you need to make up your
minds right away. Money don’t need to worry you. Only outfit for the
journey along down to Placer. Well?”
While he was speaking the woman’s face was a study in emotions. With his
first words the urgent hope fell from her in one tragic flash. There
were no tears. But panic closed down upon her in a staggering contrast
to her hope of the moment before. The dreadful fear she was enduring
left her lips moving. She followed the man’s words, as though she was
repeating them the more surely to impress them upon her staggered
faculties. But a measure of comfort seemed to come to her as he
propounded his purpose for their safety. And a desperate sort of calm
helped her as he made his final demand.
“You come with me,” she cried at once. “I take you to Hela. You say all
this thing. I, too, say much. Maybe he go. I not know. Come.”
And she turned, and led the way without waiting for any reply.
* * * * *
Wilder experienced a curious sensation of repugnance as he entered the
presence of the blinded man. He was not usually troubled by such
sensitiveness. But somehow he now realised more surely than ever contact
with something inexpressively evil. The yellow face of the man was
almost grey. But whether it was the result of any emotion of fear that
had produced the noisome hue he could not tell. The man’s eyeless
sockets seemed even more repulsive than when first he had looked upon
them. Then there were his restlessly moving hands, which, in his blind
helplessness, never for a moment seemed to remain quite still.
They were in the central hall of the house, that Eastern apartment so
full of vivid memories for the whiteman. It was unchanged from that
which he knew of it, even to the dust, and the sense of neglect and
disuse that pervaded it. Wilder remembered acutely. His eyes passed over
every familiar detail of the place and brought back to him a picture of
the happenings of that night, when, unbidden, unwelcome, he had been a
guest in the house.
The blinded man confronted him on his seat upon the cushioned divan
beside the carved screen. And he spoke at once as Bill entered and moved
over to the chair which was set before the bureau. Crysa went at once to
her husband and took her place on the seat beside him.
“You come again?” he said in his low, harsh tones.
And the challenge warned Wilder of the amazing watchfulness which fear
had inspired in these two. Crysa had said no word as she entered, yet
this sightless man knew him and understood.
“Sure.”
Wilder spoke quietly.
“I’m here to help you,” he went on. “If you reckon to save the life
remaining to you you’ll need to take my talk at its face value and make
a quick get-away right off. I’ve just handed your wife, as quick as I
could, the trouble beating up the river for you. Usak’s behind me with
his gun. He’s crazy for your blood. An’ I’m crazy he shan’t get you. I
took an almighty chance pushing up from the Caribou here because I
handed your wife a promise I’d do the best I knew to save the murder
that crazy Indian looks for. With winter closing right down no one can
figger the chances of getting through back. Still, I handed my word, and
it goes with me. The thing I can do is to get you down to Caribou if the
winter don’t queer us. I can get you right on to your own country,
which, seeing you are who and what you are, is the only thing. Maybe
I’ll be going beyond the right I have in doing this, but I’ll do it
because you’re blind and helpless, and because your wife seems to have
suffered enough for being your wife. There’s going to be no argument as
far as I’m concerned. That I’m a police officer cuts no ice. In this
thing I’m just a plain whiteman who’s given his word, and it goes. Now,
here’s the proposition so far as I’m concerned. I’m going right back to
the landing, and I’ll wait around there till, the daylight goes. If you
come along in that time with the truck you need for the journey—you
needn’t worry with the food, I’ve got all we need—you have my promise
I’ll get you safe through, if its humanly possible, to your own country.
If I fail my life will pay just as surely as yours. You got my promise,
a whiteman’s promise, and you’ve got to be satisfied with it if you
fancy making a get-away. The moment night closes in I pull out, whether
you come with with me or not. That’s all.”
The repulsion inspired by the blind man’s presence had a deeper effect
on Wilder than he knew. He had planned his method, but his planning had
not provided for the cold fashion in which he delivered his proposition.
His tone was even more frigid than he realised. He rose from his seat to
depart. And instantly the Count’s harsh voice stayed him.
“And how do I know Usak is on the river? How I know this is not a police
trap?”
Wilder searched the ghastly features. A surge of anger leapt, and his
cheeks flushed till his broad brow was suffused to the edge of his thick
fur cap.
“It don’t matter a thing to me what you know, or what you don’t know,”
he said sharply. “Usak’s on the river, making right here with his gun.
Ther’s a getaway there at the landing till the daylight goes. You can
take it or not. It’s right up to you. It’s there because murder’s going
to happen around, and it’s my notion to prevent it. You’re blind, and
your woman helpless. It don’t seem to me you matter a hoot in hell. But
I’m glad to help a woman—any woman. You’ll think it over. An’ don’t
forget there isn’t more than two hours before the daylight goes. That’s
all I’ve to say.”
He turned and passed out the way he had come, and as he went he avoided
the dark stains on the floor, those stains so grimly significant, which
even he could not bring himself to pass over.
* * * * *
Half an hour before the last of the daylight a canoe crept down to the
landing.
Wilder was ready to cast off. He had spent the interim in preparing room
in his vessel for the added burden of his passengers. He knew they would
come.
There had been no doubt in his mind whatsoever. And curiously enough, he
was the more sure since the man was blind. In his philosophy the more
surely the man was afflicted the more surely he would cling to life, and
dread the final slaughtering of his body by an unseen enemy. Then in
addition there was the urgent appealing of the little woman, who was
surely something more than a ministering angel to this helpless demon.
Oh, yes, he had known they would come, but he had not suspected the
manner of their coming. They came in their own canoe, the blind man
paddling in the bow, and the woman, infinite in her despairing devotion,
serving her man to the last at the steering paddle.
It was a display of devotion that thrilled the whiteman for all the
worthlessness of the object of it. And he accepted the position readily.
It might add to his care, but it would lessen his labours. Their escape
from the avenging Usak was all he desired. But he was by no means
blinded to the reason that they came in their own boat. It was the man’s
distrust. He had no desire to yield himself a possible prisoner in the
whiteman’s craft.
Wilder nodded approval as they drew alongside, and he realised the
considerable outfit, including food, that had been provided.
“You prefer it that way,” he said quietly. “That’s all right. Keep right
on my tail,” he went on, reaching up and casting his mooring adrift.
“It’s mighty dark along the river, an’ maybe we’ll be thankful it is
that way. If it beats you you can make fast to me. If you’ve sense
you’ll act that way. I got two eyes an’ I know all ther’ is to this darn
trail.”
He thrust out into the stream, and the second vessel followed him like a
ghostly shadow in the twilight.
* * * * *
A man sat gazing out from his rocky shelter. His dark eyes were brooding
as he contemplated the falling snow. Below him, rendered invisible by
the storm, lay the still bosom of the mountain lake with shore ice
supporting its white burden. The bulk of the water still resisted the
grip of winter, but with every passing day, every hour, the spread of
shore ice was encroaching.
The grey curtain of falling snow was impenetrable even to the accustomed
eyes of Usak. The world about him was silent, and windless, and alive
with that desolate threat which drives man to despair. He had reached
the mouth of the Valley of the Fire Hills, and, blinded by the sudden
snow-storm, had sought what shelter he could find.
His shelter was half cavern and half overhung in the towering headland
at the mouth of the valley. Yet it served. His kyak was hauled from the
icy water and lay on the foreshore. And the man sat over a smoulder of
fire made of the driftwood he had collected on his way, and the
profusion of lichen he had gathered from the snow-free shelter in which
he sat.
Usak crouched huddled and smoking, over the inadequate fire. Its warmth
was negligible, but it afforded that without which no human being in
such desolation could endure, a mental comfort and companionship. He was
content to wait. For all the winter was advancing apace, for all he knew
that soon, desperately soon, the great lake, out upon which he was
gazing, would be one broad sheet of ice many feet in thickness, and
impossible for the light craft which was his vehicle, he was content
enough. The Valley of the Fire Hills would remain unfrozen, and the
great river below him would remain open long enough for his navigation.
For the rest there was always portage. Oh, yes. Time was with him. The
real freeze-up was not yet. The snow would cease later, and meanwhile he
could contemplate the thing he had looked forward to for so many years.
So there was no impatience that the world was blinded by snowflakes half
the size of his brown palm. With the passing of the silent storm, so
still, so windless, doubtless the cold would increase, but also,
doubtless, the sky could clear, and the Arctic twilight would again
light the world with its ghostly rays.
He thrust out a moccasined foot and kicked the embers of his fire
together. He removed the pipe from his strong jaws, and held its stem to
the warmth. The saliva in it had frozen, and it had gone out.
Presently he reached down and picked up a live coal. He tossed it into
the pipe bowl and sucked heavily at the stem, belching clouds of reeking
smoke. His enjoyment was profound.
After awhile the pipe was neglected. His enjoyment of it was merged into
something more absorbing. His savage mind was lost in the thing that had
brought him to the heart of the great Alaskan hills, and he was gazing
on a vision of savage delight. As his hands gripped each other about his
knees there was movement in them, nervous, twitching movement. For, in
fancy, they were slowly crushing out the life he was determined should
know the hideous meaning of prolonged death agony.
His delight was in his darkly brooding eyes as they looked into the
flicker of the fire. His mind was teeming with the thing he would say
while that life was conscious and could know the terror and agony of
those last moments. Oh, yes. It was worth all the waiting and he was
glad, glad that now, at last, the moment of his final vengeance was
approaching. Sheer insanity was driving, but it was that calm insanity
where the border line is passed coldly and calmly with hate the
dominating influence. Suddenly he started and leant forward.
His hands parted from about his knees, and, in a moment, he was on his
feet crouching and gazing out into the impenetrable snowfall. He moved
aside from his fire and crept forward. Then he stood up tall and
straight, and his head was turned with an ear to the outer world.
A sound had reached ears trained to the pitch of any forest creature. It
had been faint, so faint, yet to Usak it was quite unmistakable. It had
come from out there on the water beyond the ground ice, and he knew that
some living thing was passing, hidden by the grey of the snowfall.
He stood for a long time listening, his dark eyes no less alert than his
ears. Then with something like reluctance he came back to the fire and
spread his hands out over it. After awhile he returned to his seat.
There was no doubt in his mind. The sound he had heard was the ruffling
of the water stirred by the dip of a paddle.
But his shoulders moved in a shrug, and he dismissed the matter. Why
not? There were folk in the Valley of the Fire Hills, other folk than
those—Yes, far up, there were many of the folk he hated but did not
fear—the Euralians.
* * * * *
Usak was standing on the landing almost lost in the billows of smoke
surging down upon him. They belched out of the heart of the wood which
concealed the clearing, wherein had stood the secret habitation of the
man whom he had designed should know his final vengeance.
The whole of the dripping valley seemed to be afire. Behind him the roar
and crackle of the burning forest grew louder, and the suffocating smoke
grew denser and denser while the heat was blistering.
He stepped quickly into his waiting kyak and pushed out into the stream,
vanishing in the twilight of the night. He paddled rapidly till he had
cleared the woodland belt and approached the unlovely barrens of the
Fire Hills. Then he sought the shelter of the bank and shipped his
paddle.
He knelt up in the little vessel gazing back at the ruthless work of his
hands. It was there plain enough for him to see. The billows of drifting
smoke were darkly outlined against the moonlit, star-decked heavens. And
farther inland was the glowing heart of the fire, with leaping splashes
of flame lightening up the world around it, hungrily devouring the
splendid dwelling that had once been the home of his most hated enemy.
But there was none of the joy in his mood that might have been looked
for. No. A light of fury was burning in his merciless eyes. He had been
thwarted in his long contemplated vengeance, and he had been driven to
the impotent devastation which his savage heart had prompted. He had
reached the place only to find it utterly deserted. The house he found
devoid of all life, and his search had only yielded him further
confirmation that his intended victims had escaped him. So, in his
insane savagery, he had done the thing that alone would satisfy. He had
fired the house, and seen to it that even the woods about it should not
escape destruction.
He remained for awhile contemplating the mischief of his handiwork and
drawing such comfort from it as his mood would allow. Then, at last,
feasted, satiated, he dipped his paddle again into the sluggish waters.
He knew. He understood. The chance had been his far back there at the
mouth of the creek. He had heard the sound of a paddle, and should have
guessed. But his wits had failed him, and the snow had blinded him. But
even now he did not wholly despair. There was the winter. The man was
blind. And the woman—Psha! He drove his paddle with all the fury of his
desire.
CHAPTER XV
THE IRONY OF FATE
The race against the season was being won. The race against that other—?
Yes, Bill Wilder was well enough satisfied. Not a day, not an hour had
been lost in his rush to the hills. He had spared no effort. And on the
return he had driven hard with the full weight of the stream speeding
him. There had been the one heavy snowstorm as he had passed out of the
mouth of the Valley of the Fire Hills. For a few hours it had blinded
him and forced him to shelter. For the rest the luck of the weather had
been with him, with only the increasing cold and the twenty hour nights
with which to do battle.
He was feeling good as he came to the familiar landing above the Grand
Falls, and prepared for his portage down to the canyon of the rapids.
It was all curious in its way, and there were moments on the journey
when he found himself half whimsically wondering at the thing he was
doing. For the man he was endeavouring to save from the hands of Usak he
had only utter loathing and detestation. There was no pity in him, not a
moment’s thought of it. For the little distracted woman it was
different. He knew he was risking everything in life out of pity for
this poor creature, who was nothing in the world to him except that she
was a woman, and not even white at that. He realised his utter folly. He
even reminded himself that the thing he was doing was not only unfair to
himself, but to those others who looked to him for succour, that other
whose life had become focussed in him.
He knew that an encounter with Usak would mean a battle to the death of
one or perhaps all of them. He knew that, embarrassed by these helpless
creatures, a sudden final onslaught of the Arctic winter night might
well mean the end of all things. But he had not hesitated. No. He had
calculated closely. His knowledge of the northern world had told him
that there was time—even time to spare. The daylight had not yet passed,
and, unless the season was one of unusual severity, the dreaded
freeze-up was not due for several weeks more. No. The cold was steadily
increasing. There would be more snow yet. But there would be relapses of
temperature, and the final sealing of the great river was still a long
way off. So he had refused to be turned aside from his purpose.
He had laboured on with a mind steadily poised and with nerves in
perfect tune. His greatest apprehension was the possible encountering of
the Indian, Usak. And even on this his resolve was clear and as
merciless as anything the savage, himself, might have contemplated. He
was armed and ready, and no interference would be tolerated even if his
necessity drove him to slaughter.
The daylight had been spent in disgorging the two canoes of their
freight. He and the little Japanese woman had spent the time preparing
his packs. They were not vast, but the whole portage would mean three
laborious trips over the rough territory of the great gorge down to the
landing below.
The first trip was to be his own canoe. The second was to be the camp
outfit of his passengers. The blind-man and the woman would accompany
him on that trip and help with the packs. Then, with these folk safely
encamped below the gorge, he would return alone to bring down their
canoe.
Yes. It was all clearly planned with a view to the simplest and best
advantage, and the preliminary work had gone on rapidly under his
energetic guidance. There was not one moment’s unnecessary delay, for he
understood, only too well, the value of every precious hour he could
steal on his human and elemental adversaries.
The last pack had been made up of the things that could be dispensed
with. His canoe was hauled up empty, ready to be shouldered. And now,
with the last flash of daylight shining in the south-west, he stood low
down on the foreshore gazing out over the water in the direction of the
misty falls. Mid-day was only two hours gone and the daylight was
already collapsing with the falling sun.
The peace of this far-off world was a little awesome, the silence was
something threatening. The dull roar of the Grand Falls alone robbed it
of utter, complete soundlessness. The snow was a soft virgin carpet in
every direction. The hardy, dark woods were weighted down with its
burden. For all there was shore ice against the river bank the whole
breadth of the waters of the river were silently, heavily flowing on to
the tremendous precipitation far beyond. But it was not of these things
that Wilder was thinking. In the emergency besetting he was concerned
only for the signs which, out of his experience, he was striving to
interpret.
They were very definite. The sun had fallen below the horizon,
accompanied by two pale sundogs that strove but failed to display an
angry glare. The horizon was clear of all cloud, a vault of wonderful
colour. Such breath of wind as was stirring was coming up out of the
south-east. It was good. It was all good. The sundogs suggested
possible, ultimate change, but not yet. The breeze was almost mild. But
above all there was not a single cloud to shut out the light of the moon
that would presently rise, and the brilliant starlight, and the
beneficent northern lights. No. It would be a perfect night.
He turned back to the couple hugging the tiny fire they had ventured to
light in the shelter of an attenuated bluff of woods.
“Just get this clear,” he said thrusting his hands out to the warmth.
“I’m setting out right away. It’ll take me six hours to make back here.
Six hours good. I’d have been glad to cache your boat back there in the
woods, an’ hide up our tracks right. But the snow on the ground beats us
on that play. Any pair of eyes happening along could follow us anywhere.
No. If Usak’s around I give him credit for being able to read our tracks
anyway, and with the snow, why they’re just shriekin’ at him. We got to
take a big chance. But ther’s one play we can make.”
He paused and rubbed his hands thoughtfully while the eyeless man gazed
unerringly up into his face, and the woman beside him waited a prey to
apprehension.
“You best beat it back into these woods,” he went on quickly. “Leave
that fire—burning. Leave it so it looks like dying out. As if we were
all out on portage. See? And you two make the woods, dodging the snow
patches, an’ walking on the bare ground. Take your sleeping kit, and get
what sleep you can—without a fire. That’s all. I’ll get right back just
as quick as I know. Once we’re on the river below these Falls, why I
guess Usak hasn’t a chance. But I got to leave you one end or the other
while I make this first portage, an’ it seems horse sense leaving you
above the Falls. We haven’t seen a sign of that murdering Indian above
here the whole way.”
The blindman nodded.
“That’s sense,” he said in his harsh way.
The woman silently acquiesced. It was sufficient that the man had
agreed. But her troubled eyes told of the haunting dread that obsessed
her.
Wilder turned away and moved over to his canoe lying ready. He stooped
down, and when he stood up again the little vessel was exactly poised
upon his broad back.
* * * * *
The hush of the woods was profound. The dark aisles of the trees were
visible in the moonlight, for the foliage above was thin, and meagre,
and tattered under the fierce storms which roared down out of the heart
of the hills. The promise of sun-down had been fulfilled. A full moon
shone down upon a chill, silvery world, and the starlight was of that
amazing brilliance which is the great redeeming of the Arctic night.
There was no wind, not a breath. It was cold, intensely cold, and the
northern heavens were lit by an amazing wealth of vivid, moving lights.
The blindman and his woman made no pretence of the sleep that Wilder had
suggested. Sleep was impossible to them. They crouched together in their
sleeping furs, striving for any measure of warmth for their chilled
bodies. But they had otherwise obeyed. For the thing suggested had
appealed. They were deep hidden amidst the tree trunks, waiting, waiting
for that return which alone could yield them any sense of security.
They talked together spasmodically, and in low, hushed tones.
For the most part they talked in their own native tongue, but sometimes
they used the language of the country of their adoption.
The blindman’s hearing was doubly acute for his affliction. And he
crouched straining for any sound to warn them of lurking danger. But the
hours passed, and only the droning roar of the distant Falls broke the
soundlessness of the night.
Crysa could contain her fears no longer. A sigh escaped her and she
stirred restlessly.
“He will come?” she said, and her tone was full of besetting doubt.
The man’s reply was slow in coming. It almost seemed as though the
straining effort of listening completely pre-occupied him.
He nodded at last.
“He will come,” he rasped. Then he added, “He is a fool whiteman.”
The woman’s quick eyes lit as they glanced round on her husband.
“He is good,” she said.
“Good?”
The scorn in the yellow man’s tone was something bitter beyond words.
Nothing more was said, and the man returned to his listening.
* * * * *
A long low kyak glided up to the landing. It came without sound, for the
stream was swift, and the shore ice had been broken up by those who had
come before. The trailing paddle was lifted quickly from the water and
the vessel’s occupant reached out and caught the side of the boat lying
moored against the bank. Skilfully he guided the nose of his craft in
between the moored vessel and the bank, and the whole thing was
completed in absolute soundlessness.
With his vessel lying stationary he remained for a moment unmoving. His
great body towered as he knelt up against his paddling strut. He was
surveying the moored boat with eager, dark eyes and an acutely reading
mind. Presently he turned from the contemplation of the thing that had
set a wild fierce hope stirring in his savage heart. His gaze was flung
upon the landing itself, and upon the surrounding slope of the river
bank, and the adjacent bluff of woods. The brilliant night revealed all
he sought with a clearness which left him without a shadow of doubt.
Finally he discovered beyond, just within the shelter of the woods, the
last dying smoulder of the camp fire. He reached towards the nose of his
kyak, and seized the long rifle lying there. Then he stepped ashore.
The dark figure moved swiftly up the shore. It reached the edge of the
woods and stood for a moment gazing down on the dying camp fire. The
dark eyes had suddenly become fiercely urgent as he searched every sign
that was there for his interpretation.
After a few moments the man moved about in the neighbourhood of the
fire. His moccasined feet gave out no sound. He was searching diligently
in the trodden snow. At last he came again to a halt. He threw up his
head and stared about him. It was the attitude of a creature of the
forest scenting its prey, and in his eyes was a look of fierce exulting
as he gazed into the dark shelter of the woods. Then his whole attitude
underwent a change. He seemed to crouch down. His long rifle was borne
at the trail in his hand, and he moved forward stealthily, and became
swallowed up by the shadowed depths.
* * * * *
The hush of the night left the falling of a pine cone a sound that was
almost startling. The droning roar of the distant Falls was only part of
the awesome quiet. The windlessness was a threat of greater and greater
depths of cold, while the brilliant moon and cloudless sky only helped
to impress more deeply the intense frigidity of the coming season. It
was all perfect, in its exquisite peace, a vision of superlative
splendour in the amazing twilight. It suggested a sublime creation
unspoiled, unsullied by any inharmonious blemish, a broad indefinite
sketch set out by the mighty brush and divine inspiration of a God-like
artist who only requires to inset the subtle, finishing details. Such
was the seeming of the moment.
A cry. A series of raucous human cries. They came from somewhere within
the forest belt. They came full of terror, and maybe pain. They came
full of ferocious unyielding and savage passion. They came again and
again, with the shrill of a woman’s voice mingling. Then the last sound
died out, swallowed up by the immense silence.
So the grandeur of the night scene, the sublimity of Nature’s profound
calm, lost for a few brief moments by the invasion of an expression of
surging human passions, returned again, all undefeated, to the rugged
heart of the northern wilderness.
* * * * *
The moon was still high in the starlit heavens, shedding its cold
benignity upon the flowing waters. The belt of the northern lights had
extended. Their ghostly sheen had deepened, and the vivid arc of a
burnished aurora had joined their legions. The world was lit anew. The
twilight had glorified; the night was transformed. No longer was the
moon the dominant light giver. The jewel-like sparkle of the stars had
dimmed in contrast. For the aurora, the glory of the Arctic night, had
ascended its triumphant throne.
The whiteman swung along, approaching the camping ground above the
Falls, filled with satisfaction and hope at the beneficent change. For
practical purposes the night light was all-sufficient. In fancy he saw
the completion of his labours in far less time than he had anticipated,
and something like ultimate security for those he sought to succour.
The further portage would be easy now. The first trip was over. Now
there was the bearing of the packs in which he would have the assistance
of those others. Then the last—the portage of their—
He had reached the low shore clearing of the landing. A great flood of
silvery light illuminated the whole breadth of the river. There it lay a
wide, swift tide, with the great hills far across its bosom rising a
jagged snowcapped line, gleaming like burnished silver under the amazing
heavenly lights.
But the scene as Nature had painted it made not an instant’s claim upon
him. How should it? He had come to a sudden halt, his gaze riveted upon
a vision that made him draw his breath sharply, and set his heart
leaping. He became rooted to the spot. Two boats were out there on the
broad bosom of the river. Two of them. And both were moving on down the
stream towards—
A shout broke from him. It came with all the power of his well-nigh
bursting lungs. It was the natural impulse which his surge of feeling
inspired. He shouted again and again. Then of a sudden he charged down
to the water’s edge, and stood staring helplessly, silently, a prey to
unspeakable horror.
Two boats! The leading vessel was a long low kyak. There was no
mistaking its build. Just as there was no mistaking, to his mind, the
burly figure propelling it. The second boat he recognised on the
instant. It was the canoe he had expected to portage on his third trip.
In it were two figures sitting up. They were motionless. They were
paddleless. They were sitting, inert, like bundles set there, and quite
incapable of any movement, incapable of any resistance. And between the
two boats stretched a taut line.
It needed no second thought for Wilder to realise the thing that was
being enacted. The inhuman vengeance of the crazy Indian had descended
upon those benighted helpless folk and no power on earth could save
them.
Usak’s purpose was as clear as the brilliant light of the night. The
ruthless savage was towing them out into mid-stream. Presently he would,
doubtless, release their vessel when it had reached the limit of safety
for himself. Then he would leave them to the hideous destruction
awaiting them at the great waterfall flinging back its thunderous roar
out of the heart of the mists enshrouding it.
There was no succour that he could offer. He was without any means of
reaching them with his own canoe already below the Falls. And his
automatic pistol was useless. No. He could only stand there helplessly
watching the terrible tragedy of it all.
Now he knew the thing that must have happened. He vividly pictured the
coming of Usak, whom they must have passed higher up the river on their
way down. The stillness of the figures in the boat was terribly
significant.
The man must have come upon them in their hiding, perhaps asleep. He
must have overpowered them. Probably he had bound them hand and foot
when he set them in the boat, so that the blindman, no less than the
other, should contemplate, even if it was only through his hearing, the
dreadful death he was preparing for them.
He caught his breath. Then in a moment he hurled the full force of his
impotent loathing in a furious shout across the water.
“You swine! God Almighty!”
The exclamation came as he saw the man cease paddling and reach out to
the rope behind him. In a moment it was severed, and the trailing boat
began instantly to turn broadside on to the current.
The watching man gave a gasp. Then the broadside boat was forgotten, and
his whole attention was given to the other, the boat containing the
demented creature perpetrating his long-pondered crime.
Usak’s paddle was beating the water furiously. He was striving with all
his enormous strength and skill to swing his light vessel out of the
stream. He was labouring in a fashion that instantly warned the
on-looker of the peril besetting him. And the sight of the struggle
thrilled him with an excitement which had no relation to any desire for
the man’s escape.
Usak was a superb river man. Perhaps he had no equal upon the northern
waters. But he was an Indian with the lust to kill, and without the
sober judgment of the whiteman watching him from the shore. Wilder
understood. It was there for him to see. The Indian had gone too far in
his desire. He had passed the limits of safety before he severed the
rope to hurl his victims to the fate he had designed for them. He was
caught in the same overwhelming rush of silent water. His paddle was no
better than a toy thing to stay the rush. His kyak was caught and flung
broadside. And abreast of the other it was drifting, drifting down upon
the roaring cataract ahead.
Wilder drew a deep breath.
Usak had ceased paddling. There was a moment in which he remained
utterly unmoving like those others. To the on-looker it seemed that he
was contemplating the full horror in which his mistake had involved him.
Then, of a sudden, he saw the dark figure rear itself up in the boat,
which, even at that distance, seemed to rock perilously. The man stood
erect. Then an arm was raised and the paddle was flung into the racing
waters. After that it seemed that the doomed creature’s arms were folded
across his broad bosom, and, like a statue, unmoved by any emotion of
fear, he stood boldly contemplating the terrible doom towards which he
and his victims were inevitably being borne.
Wilder turned away. It was all too painful. It was all too horrible in
its human wantonness. He passed up the shore and sat down, pondering the
irony of the fate that had descended upon the demented man out there on
the water.
And after awhile, when the cold of the night drove him, and he bestirred
himself, and again moved down to the water’s edge, it was to witness the
placid unruffled bosom of the great river flowing heavily on as it had
done throughout the ages. The trifling human tragedy it had witnessed
was far too infinitely small to leave its impress upon a scene so
tremendous in its expression of overwhelming Nature.
CHAPTER XVI
THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL
The transformation was complete. It was beyond anything that had been
dreamed of by those who had foreseen the thing that would happen. It had
come with that startling rapidity which the lure and magic of gold never
fails to bring about.
Just before the break of spring saw the return to the Caribou of
Chilcoot and Bill Wilder. But their return was very different from their
adventurous going, when it had been a desperate race against the season.
They came while the grip of the Arctic night was still fast upon the
great waterways, and before the sun had lifted its shining face above
the horizon. They came with a great equipment of men and material on
heavily laden dog-sleds. They came with all speed that not a moment of
the coming daylight might be lost, and to head off the rush of the human
tide that was already strung out behind them for the new adventure.
Bill Wilder had not permitted the grievous tragedy he had witnessed on
the upper waters of the Hekor to deflect his purpose one iota. The shock
of the thing he had witnessed had been painful beyond words. For the
blind leader of the Euralian marauders he had had not one grain of pity.
For the great Indian, who had given his life to the loyal service of the
girl he loved, there had been a regret that was not untinged with a
sensation of relief. He felt somehow that the thing was right; he felt
that had the demented creature achieved his purpose and himself escaped,
the position would have been fraught with serious complications, not to
say dangers. Usak would have expected to return to his service of Felice
as though nothing had happened. He would have demanded the thing he
looked upon as his right. And to hold his place at her side he would
have been prepared to use any and all the methods his savage mind
prompted.
Wilder’s duty would have been obvious. The man had committed his wanton
crime. He was a serious danger to them all. Even, he felt, to the girl
herself. There would have been nothing for him to do but hand the story
of the crime to his friend, George Raymes. That would have deeply
involved him. The Kid would have been hurt, hurt as he had no desire to
hurt her, with the knowledge of the hideous crime, and that the full
penalty of whiteman’s law had fallen upon the man who had been a second
father and devoted servant to her. As it was she need never know the
thing that had happened. No one need ever know the thing that had
happened, except Raymes, and perhaps Chilcoot, who would, he knew,
remain as silent as the grave.
He had felt it was all for the best. And somehow, in those moments in
which he had witnessed the calm courage with which the Indian had faced
his terrible end a feeling of intense admiration and sympathy went out
to the savage whose conception of manhood was so curious a blending of
downright honesty and loyalty, of hate to the limit of fiendish cruelty,
and of an invincible courage in face of personal disaster.
But for the little Japanese woman his feelings were stirred to the
deepest. When he thought of her, body and soul he hated the ruthless
Indian with all the passionate manhood in him. And the more deeply he
pondered her tragic end, the more surely he cried out against the
seeming injustice that Fate could have allowed it to come to pass.
He had sat for hours over the flickering camp fire before he
contemplated continuing his labours. But in the end the shock of the
horror passed, and the urgency of the moment bestirred him. There was
nothing to be done but to continue his journey. There was no need even
to obliterate such traces of the camp as might remain. It was the way of
Nature in these far-flung regions to hide up man’s track almost in the
moment of his passing.
So he had made his way down to Placer, not even pausing at the rapids at
the mouth of the Caribou, so vivid with happy memories for him. It was a
journey of weeks that taxed every ounce of the manhood in him. For the
night of winter had fallen, and the storming world about him was often
doubly blinded. But he reached his destination at last, and reached it
with the last of the open water.
It was his return to Placer that set the whole city agog. It was known
he had been about in the north for two open seasons. And the conclusions
drawn were natural enough in a gold community watching the movements of
the man who was the leading figure in the traffic upon which it was
engaged.
He denied every inquiry by which he was assailed. He denied even his
friend, and, for the time being, chief, George Raymes. He visited him at
once. And with his first greeting explained in a fashion he had long
since prepared.
“I’m right glad to see you again, George,” he declared, as they gripped
hands. “Ther’ve been times when I didn’t guess it would happen ever. But
I’ve so far beat the game, and I’m glad. Now, see, right here,” he went
on, smiling whimsically into the other’s questioning eyes, “I haven’t
any report to hand you yet. And I’ll take it more than friendly you
don’t ask me a thing. I’m setting right out with one big outfit, and if
the game goes my way I’ll be right back when the earth’s dry, and the
skitters are humming. And when that time comes I’ll hand you a story
that ought to set you sky high with the folks who run your end of the
game. Do you feel like acting that way?”
The policeman was content. He knew Wilder too well to press him.
Besides, Chilcoot had been in the city weeks. Chilcoot had been in close
contact with the Gold Commissioner. Furthermore, Chilcoot had been
preparing the return outfit, collecting men and material for a swift
rush, and had talked with him in his office. So he readily acquiesced,
and left these “special” constables to work out their plans in the way
they saw fit.
But the whisper had gone round. Bill Wilder and Chilcoot Massy were
preparing a great outfit for the trail. Bill Wilder and Chilcoot Massy
were buying largely. And their purchases were of all that material
required in the exploitation of a big “strike.” Then word had leaked out
through the Gold Commissioner’s office, as, somehow, it always contrived
to do when something of real magnitude was afoot. So the “sharps,” and
the “wise-guys,” and the traders, and all the riff-raff, ready to jump
in on anything offering a promise of easy gain, bestirred themselves out
of their winter’s pursuit of pleasure. Not one, but a hundred outfits
were quietly being prepared with the deliberate intention of dogging
these great captains of the gold trade to their destination. Chilcoot
and Wilder were preparing for the winter trail. And as a result every
dog and sled within the city was brought into commission.
Then had come the setting out. It was arranged with the utmost secrecy.
The preparations of these men had been made beyond the straggling town’s
limits, so that the get-away could be as sudden as they chose to make
it. Every man engaged to accompany them was under bond to report each
day at the camp at a given hour, and this had gone on since the moment
of their engagement. It was on this rule Wilder depended for his
get-away from those who were determined to follow.
For days and weeks the outfit stood ready. Each day the dogs were
harnessed, and every man was in his place. Then the word was passed to
unhitch, and the men were permitted to return to the city.
The intending pursuit knew the game from A to Z. It was not new. It had
been practised a hundred times. It was no less ready. It was no less on
the watch. When the start was actually made word would reach them within
two hours and the whole wolf pack would jump.
So it happened. One day the men did not return to the city. But word
came back, and the rush began. Out into the twilight of the Arctic night
leapt the army of trail dogs and their teamsters. Hundreds of sleds
hissed their way over the snow-bed on the great river. Hundreds of
voices shouted the jargon of the trail at their eager beasts of burden,
and the fierce whips flung out. Many were rushing on disaster in the
blind northern night. Many would never reach the hoped-for goal to grab
the alluring wealth from the bosom of mother earth. But that was always
the way of it. Whatever the threat, whatever the dread, whatever the
possibility of disaster, the lust of gold in the hearts of these people
remained triumphant.
But the thing worked out for Wilder as he designed. The old tried
artifice gave him the start he needed. Three hours was all he required.
For the rest these hardy adventurers behind him would never see the snow
dust from his sled runners. He was equipped for a speed such as none of
them could compete with, and if the weather became bad he calculated to
lose the pursuit utterly.
It was a storming journey. The North he loved and courted did her best
for him in return. Snow-storm and blizzard came to his aid, and, after
weeks of terrible hardship, he reached the Caribou with his track lost
beneath feet of drift snow.
He had gained all the time he needed. And so when the spring sun rose
above the horizon, and the world of ice began its thunderous peals of
disintegration, and the hordes of Placer swarmed on the banks of the
Caribou he had established his outfit upon the staked claims ready to
hurl at the work before him, and defend his property from all lawless
aggression.
With the return of daylight it was a bewildering scene on the river.
From its mouth right up to the gold-working on the creek, which had lain
so long hidden, the tide of adventurers was swarming. And almost with
every passing hour the flood seemed to grow. The low banks were dotted
with tents and habitations of almost every sort of primitive
construction. And men and women, and even children, were like human
flies where for ages the silence of the North had remained all unbroken.
As the season advanced and the fever of work developed to its height,
the reality of the thing became evident. Gold? Why the original strike
was little more than the fringe of the thing awaiting those whose
hardihood had been sufficient for them to survive the winter journey.
The creek, as Chilcoot had suggested, was laden with its immense
treasure, and rich claims were staked for ten miles up its narrow
course. “The Luck of the Kid,” as Wilder had christened it, was a
veritable Eldorado.
The homestead lying back in its shelter of windswept bluff had no place
in the bustle and traffic on the river. It was a home of even deeper
calm now than was its wont when the northern world aroused itself at the
dawn of the open season. Usually at such a time the caribou herd was
brought in, and the work its advent entailed never failed to absorb the
rising spirits of those young lives, ready like the simple wild flowers
of spring, to hurl themselves into their annual labours after the long
night of winter’s inactivity. Usually at such a time it was the hub of
life upon the river, literally teeming in contrast with the stillness of
the cheerless valley. But now the herd remained at large free to drift
back to its original wild state. The corrals were empty and unrepaired,
for there was no Usak to guide the efforts of the half-breed Eskimo, and
no half-breed Eskimo to need such guidance.
The farm had died in the winter night. And curiously enough there were
no mourners. All that remained was the homestead itself, with Hesther
McLeod and the girl children, and the Kid, to enjoy its sturdy shelter.
The half-breeds had joined in the rush for gold. And Clarence, and Alg,
and Perse were out there, away up the river “batching it” on their
claims, absorbed in the exhilarating pursuit of extracting the wealth
which had been literally flung into their hands. Then Usak had failed to
return from his “one big trip.”
Hesther and the Kid were at the kitchen door, and with them was the
author of the amazing transformation.
It was a day of brilliant sunshine with a spring sky of white, frothing,
windswept cloud that broke, and gathered, and swept on, yielding a
vision of brilliant blue sky at every break. Already the flies were
making their presence felt, and the river was a rushing torrent, wide,
and deep, and brown with the sweepings of its completely submerged
banks.
They were gazing out upon the distant panorama of the busy river. They
were watching the general movement going on. There were men moving up,
packing their goods afoot since the river was for the moment
un-navigable for the light craft, which, as yet, were alone available.
There were traders building shanties for the housing of their wares.
There were tents which sheltered those who were relying on the gambler’s
desire for their share in the feast. There were other habitations which
housed, the even more disreputable creatures, who, like vultures, hover
always in the distance waiting to glut themselves upon the spoils of the
wayside. Then, much more in their appeal to the gentle mind of Hesther,
there were the figures of women, staunch, devoted women carrying on
their simple domestic labours while their men were absent farther up the
river seeking the treasure which their dazzled eyes yearned to gaze
upon.
For all they were gazing upon the scene Hesther and the Kid were far
more deeply interested in Bill Wilder and the thing he was saying. The
eyes of the girl were shining with unfeigned happiness and delight. The
long winter of his absence had been ended weeks ago, and his early
return had transformed her whole outlook. From the moment of his coming
there had been no more darkness for her, no more anxious waiting. For
had not almost his first words been to tell her that his work, that work
which had taken him from her side, was finished; completely,
successfully finished. The excitement of the gold rush, the excitement
of the boys had left her undisturbed. But the happy excitement of this
man’s return had thrilled her in a fashion that left her without thought
or care for anything else. And now he was detailing those plans which
envisaged for her simple mind all that was beautiful and desirable in
life.
“You see,” he said, “ther’s not a thing here now to keep us. It’s just
the other way around. All this.” He indicated the life on the river. “We
best get out before—before it gets worse, as it surely will.”
He turned directly to Hesther.
“My organization’s right up there on the claims, under the control of
Chilcoot, and they’re working your stuff same as if it was for me. And
the result of it’ll come along through my office, just the same as if it
was mine. I’m not needed around up there. Maybe I best tell you I’m so
full of gold I don’t care ever to see fresh colour. I want to quit it
all, and take you folks along with me. The boys can stop around and
Chilcoot’ll see to ’em. And we’ll just get along down and fix things the
way we want ’em. Ther’s a swell house waiting in Placer for you, mam.
It’s all fixed good. It’s your home, for you an’ yours just as soon as
you feel like taking possession, and maybe the Kid here’ll feel like
stopping along with you till—till—Say,” he turned to the smiling girl,
“we won’t let a thing keep us waiting, eh? We’ll get married right away
in Placer, just as quick as things can be fixed right. Then your Mum,
here, can choose just where she feels like living. That so?”
There was no need for verbal response. It was there in the girl’s eyes,
which smiled happily up into his as she slipped her brown hand through
his arm.
“That’s the way I’d like to fix things,” he went on, taking possession
of the girl’s hand. “Does it suit you, mam?” he said, turning again to
Hesther. “Just say right here. Ther’s a bank roll waiting on you down
there, in the way of an advance on the stuff that’s coming to you out of
your claim. And I’ll be around all the time to see you ain’t worried a
thing.”
The gentle-eyed mother opened her lips to speak. But words seemed
difficult under his steady gaze. Wilder glanced quickly away, and the
woman’s emotion passed.
“I just don’t know how to say the thing I feel, Bill,” she said softly.
“The thing you’ve been to me an’ mine. God’ll surely bless you,
an’—an’—”
Bill laughed. He felt his laugh was needed.
“Not a word that way. Say, you been mother to my little Kid. It goes?”
“Sure. The thing you say goes with me—all the time.” Hesther glanced
hastily back into the kitchen. She was seeking excuse and found it in
her simple labours.
“I guess that stew’ll be boilin’,” she said. “I’ll go fix it.”
And Billy’s happy smile followed her into the room, while he caressed
the hand he was holding.
* * * * *
Bill and the Kid had passed on down to the landing so pregnant with
memories for them both.
It was the girl who was talking now while the man stared out down the
busy river.
“You know, Bill. I just don’t sort of understand the way this—this gold
makes folks act. It sort of seems to set them kind of crazy. The boys
are the same. I used to feel it would be fine to have dollars an’
dollars. I used to think of all the swell food and clothes I’d buy for
the boys, an’ Hesther, an’ the girls. That was all right. But I didn’t
get crazy for gold like these folk. You say ther’s a heap of gold in my
claim. I—I don’t seem to feel I want a thing of it. True I don’t.” She
laughed. “Maybe you’ll guess I’m more crazy than they are. Do you?”
Bill shook his head.
“No, Kid. I don’t,” he said gently. “I’m glad. Later, maybe, when we’re
married, and you’ve got around, and learned about things, and seen the
things you can have with gold you’ll feel different. But I’m glad it
don’t get you that way now. I tell you ther’s a big heap more to life
than this gold. But ther’s a heap of good things you can do with gold.
You feel you want to make other folks happy and comfortable? Well,
gold’ll help you that way. I bin all my life collecting a bunch of this
dam old stuff, and I’d learned to hate it good. Well, it’s not that way
now. Say, I just lie awake at nights thinkin’ the things I can do for
you, and the folks belonging to you. And I got to like the darn stuff
again. And I’m just as crazy glad as all those other poor folk I got
it.” He smiled whimsically down into the girl’s eyes. “The outfit’s
ready, Kid. I’ve had it ready days,” he went on. “Ther’s two big canoes,
and they’ll hold your Mum, and the gals, and you and me and the
half-breeds to paddle. When do you say, little girl? It’s right up to
you.”
He waited anxiously for the girl’s reply. Watching her he saw the happy
smile fade abruptly out of her eyes, and he knew the bad moment he had
foreseen had arrived.
“Usak hasn’t got back,” she said quickly.
“No.”
Suddenly the girl withdrew her hand from the rough cloth arm of the
man’s pea-jacket.
“You know I just can’t understand the thing that’s happened. He’s been
gone six months. He went, as I told you, right after you, and we haven’t
heard a thing. You know, Bill, it kind of seems to me he’s—dead. I sort
of feel it right here,” she went on, pressing her hands to her bosom.
“An’—an’ I feel—Oh, he was an Indian I know, but he was the feller who
raised me like a father an’ mother. An’ I sort of loved him for it,
an’—an’—I just can’t bear to quit till—till— Don’t you understand? I
sort of feel I must wait for him. It would break him all up if I quit
him. And I—I don’t want to quit him. Indeed I don’t.”
For some moments Bill made no attempt to reply. He remained staring out
at the surging river as it roared on down under the freshet. He did not
even attempt to comfort the girl in her obvious distress.
It was difficult. But Bill was steadily resolved not to tell the real
truth as he knew it. It would break her heart to know Usak to be the
fierce fiend he was. No. If necessary he would lie in preference.
He shook his head at last.
“He won’t come back,” he said decidedly. “Get a grip on the position. He
went on a winter trip. He set out in his kyak, you told me. He went with
a light outfit and his rifle. Why, his kyak couldn’t carry two months’
grub, an’ he’s been away six. Let’s guess a bit. We know this old North.
The winter trail. We know these rivers with the ice crowding down on
’em. We know you’ve only to beat the winter trail long enough to get
your med’cine. The North gets us all beaten in the end if we don’t quit
in time. The one way trail’s claimed Usak, little girl, if I’m a judge.
No. Don’t wait on his return. If he gets back Chilcoot’ll send him right
along on to us. If he’s alive I mean to have him with us. I squared
things with him before he went so he’ll be glad to be with us both.
Let’s leave it that way. Eh?”
The girl’s hand had stolen back to its place on the man’s arm, and he
took possession of it again. To her he was irresistible, and then there
was that wonderful, wonderful time coming.
She nodded her fair head, and the smile dawned once more in her eyes.
“I guess it’s best—but—”
“That’s right.”
The man drew a deep breath of relief. He had been saved a deliberate
lie. And his eyes smiled.
“To-morrow?” he said quickly.
But the girl was no less quick in her denial.
“Mum couldn’t be ready. Ther’s the boys.”
Bill laughed.
“I forgot. This day week, eh?” he went on urgently. “The river’ll
slacken then. That do?”
The Kid laughed happily as he squeezed the soft hand lying so
contentedly in his.
* * * * *
Superintendent Raymes laid aside the folded sheets of the closely
written report which he had read several times over. For a moment he sat
gazing at it thoughtfully. Then he reached across his desk and selected
a long cigar, and passed the box to his visitor and temporary
subordinate.
“Best take one, Bill,” he said. Then he laughed quietly. “You can only
die once.”
“But I don’t want to die—now.”
Bill shook his head and pulled a pipe from the pocket of his pea-jacket.
In a moment both men were smoking. Bill gazed about him while he waited
for the other to speak. It was the same office he had always known.
Simple, plain, typical of the lives of these Mounted Policemen. Somehow
it appealed to him just now infinitely more than it had ever done
before. He remembered his mood that time when he had sat in the same
chair two years before. And somehow he wanted to laugh.
“It’s an amazing story, Bill,” Raymes said after awhile. “I guessed when
I got you interested two years back there was a deal to it. But I never
reckoned it was going to be the thing it is. Say—” His eyes lit and he
swung his chair about and faced the other while he held his cigar poised
streaming its smoke upon the somewhat dense atmosphere of the room. “By
all accounts the folk hereabouts owe you a deal for the nosing of Le
Gros’ ‘strike.’ It’s the biggest since ‘Eighty-Mile’?”
Bill shook his head.
“Nobody owes me a thing—not even thanks. We’ve helped ourselves. And
I’ve helped myself most of all.”
“But I thought you said you hadn’t a claim on it?”
“That’s so.”
“Well?”
Bill laughed outright.
“Guess you’ve forgotten the ‘girl-child, white.’” Raymes nodded. His
usually sober face was smiling in response.
“I know. You located her.”
“Sure I did.” Bill sucked happily at his old pipe. “I located her. And I
brought her and her folks right down with me to this city. I fixed ’em
all up in a swell house, and made things right for them. The Kid and I
are going to be married in two weeks from now. And I’ll take it friendly
for you to stand by me when the passon fixes things. No, I don’t guess
anyone owes me a thing. The Kid herself is my claim, an’ she’s chock
full of the only gold that sets me yearning.”
“Well, say!”
The police officer sat gazing in smiling astonishment.
“Seems queer?”
“No. I’m just glad I’ve had a hand in passing you that claim. Good luck,
Bill. I’m sure your man.”
Bill gripped the hand thrust out at him. Then the smile passed out of
both men’s faces as if by agreement. After all the policeman’s work was
his foremost concern.
“It don’t seem to me there’s a thing to do about your story of this
murdering Indian, and the folks he dragged to death with him,” he said,
in his alert official way. “In a way it’s a sort of poetic justice on
all concerned. I’ll need to pass it along with the official report, but
it’ll maybe just end right there. But these Euralians. That’s a swell
scoop for me, sure. It’s a thing for Ottawa, an’ll need to go down in
detail. Maybe you’ll be needed to hand further information. Japanese,
eh? Well, it isn’t new in this western country. It’s the same from
northern Alaska down to Panama. The darn continent’s alive with ’em,
penetrating peacefully, and robbing us white folks of our birthright.
You know, Bill ther’s a bad day coming for us whites. We sit around an’
look on, shrugging our shoulders, and eating and sleeping well. And all
the time this thing’s creeping on us, like some dam disease. The
Americans know it, and are alive to the danger. We don’t seem to worry.
At least, not officially. But I sort of see the day coming when this
thing’s got to be fought sheer out, and I’m by no means sure of the
outcome. We’re told the Yellow man in the West outnumbers the White. But
that don’t suggest a thing of the reality. When the Yellow men mean to
strike you’ll find they’ve honeycombed this country, and the States, and
it’ll be something like four to one waiting to rise at the given word.
Yes, it’s bad,” he finished up, with a grave shake of the head. “But you
certainly have given me a swell scoop that should help my boat along
with Ottawa. Guess you won’t feel like quitting our territory now, eh?”
The man’s manner had changed from gravity to something bantering as he
put his question.
“More than ever,” Bill said, with a shake of the head.
“But it’s the North’s given you all—this?”
“Yes. That’s so, George.” Bill knocked out his pipe. “But you don’t
know. Felice has been raised in the darkness of that darn region, almost
without decent human comfort. She hasn’t known a thing but buckskin and
the river trail, and the flies and skitters of a barren world for twenty
of the best years of her life. She doesn’t know a thing but an almighty
fight to make three meals of food a day, and a night passed in queer
brown blankets an’ caribou pelts. Well, it’s up to me to teach her the
thing life is and can be. I’m going to. I’m going to give her such a
time she won’t remember those days. She’s going where the sun’s warm and
life’s dead easy. And so are those belonging to her. It’s up to me, and
I’m out to do it. You haven’t seen her yet. You’d understand if you had.
She’s right outside sitting waiting for me in the buggy. Will you come
along and say a word of welcome to her?”
Bill had risen to his feet. There was just a shade of eagerness in his
invitation. It was almost as if he feared reluctance in this old friend
of his.
But there was none. Not a shadow. Raymes rose from his desk on the
instant, and his eyes were full of swift censure.
“You kept her waiting there, Bill?” he cried. “You? Say, come right on
and present me, so I can tell her the thing I think of you.”
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Luck of the Kid" ***
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