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.