Indian Pete's death was the talk of Tramworth for a month. The
"Sentinel" printed a vivid account of the tragedy, commenting on the
Indian as having been a crack shot and emphasizing the possibility of
even experienced hunters making grave mistakes. Much to the sheriff's
disgust the article concluded with, "In again reviewing this tragedy,
one important fact should not be overlooked. The Indian fired three
shots at the supposed deer. This information we have from a trustworthy
source." In a later issue the sheriff read, "Mr. Ross visited Tramworth
last week, accompanied by the brave animal that so nobly avenged the
alleged 'mistake,' as described in a recent issue of this paper. Both
seem to be in excellent health."
This issue of the "Sentinel" eventually reached the lumber-camps
clustered about the spot where township lines Nine and Fifteen
intersected. It was read with the eager interest that such an article
would create in an isolated community that had known and liked or
disliked "Injun Pete." Some of the lumbermen expressed approval of the
dog, appreciating the unerring instinct of animals in such cases. Others
expressed a sentimental sympathy for the Indian, and Smoke's history
would have been a brief one had their sanguinary threats been executed.
Most of the men seemed to consider David Ross as a victim of
circumstance rather than an active participant in the affair. Yet in one
shadowy corner of the main camp it was recalled by not a few that Ross
had made Harrigan "take the count," had in fact whipped him in fair
fight. There were head-shakings and expressive silences over this;
silences because Harrigan had friends in the camp, and he was czar.
One evening, much to the surprise of every one, Barney Axel, who had
been gloomily uncommunicative heretofore, gave them something to think
about, especially as he was regarded as Harrigan's closest friend, and a
man prone to keep his own counsel.
It happened that Joe Smeaton, an axe-man at the main camp, and
universally unpopular owing to his habit of tale-bearing, was rehearsing
the "Sentinel's" account of Indian Pete's death to an interested but
silent audience.
"Denny's hit kind of hard," he ventured at random.
Several nodded.
"He kind of liked Pete."
More nods and a muttering of "That's so--he sure did."
Then, out of the smoke-heavy silence following, came Barney Axel's
voice, tense with the accumulated scorn of his secret knowledge.
"He'll be hit harder yet!"
There was a covert threat in the tone. Pipes stopped wheezing. The men
stared anywhere but at each other. This was high treason.
"Fisty's drinkin' too much," he added, covering his former statement
with this counter-suggestion, which seemed to satisfy every one but
Smeaton. He took occasion to repeat the conversation to Harrigan that
night in the seclusion of the wangan office.
"He said that, did he?" Harrigan's heavy brows drew together. Smeaton
nodded. Harrigan spat on the glowing stove viciously. "Things at the
'Wing' ain't runnin' jest to suit me. Barney's been boss there just
three years too long. He's sufferin' fur a new job, and he'll get it."
Then he turned to Smeaton. "Joe, you can take charge at the 'Wing' in
the mornin'."
Early next day Fisty and Joe Smeaton drove over to Axel's camp. They
found him in the woods, hard at it with his men, as usual. The "Wing"
was the best-managed camp at Nine-Fifteen.
"Barney," said Harrigan, taking him to one side, "I'm thinkin' you'd
like a better job."
"Ain't got no kick, Denny," said Axel, eyeing Smeaton suspiciously.
"You've been foreman here for three years. I'm thinkin' you'd like a
change--to a better payin' job."
"Well, if it's more pay--I would that," said Axel. "What's the job?"
Harrigan stepped close to him. "It's lookin' fur another one," he said.
"You kin go!"
A wolfish grin twisted Axel's lips and Harrigan reached for his
hip-pocket; but, disregarding him, the discharged foreman leaped to
Smeaton and planted a smashing blow in his face. "That's one I owe you,
Joe. Stand up ag'in and I'll pay the whole 'count and int'rest."
Smeaton, on his knees, the blood dripping from his mouth and nose, spat
out curses and incidentally a tooth or two, but he refused to stand up.
Harrigan had drawn his gun and stood swinging it gently, and
suggestively. Axel swung round and faced him, his eyes contemptuous as
they rested on the blue gleam of the Colt.
"Got any fust-class reason for firin' me so almighty fast?" he asked
quietly.
"No," said Harrigan, "'cept I'm t'rough wid you."
"Don't be so ram-dam sure of that, Mr. Denny Harrigan," he said, turning
his back and going for his mackinaw, which was down the road near the
men.
Smeaton looked up and saw the gun in Harrigan's hand. He arose and
walked quietly toward his boss, who was still watching Axel. Fisty felt
the gun jerked from his grip, and before he could even call out, the big
.44 roared close to his ear and he saw Axel's shirt-sleeve twitch, a
second before he leaped behind a spruce for protection.
Smeaton flung the gun from him and ran toward the shanty, as the men
came up from here, there, and everywhere. The shot had been too near
them to pass unnoticed.
Harrigan recovered the Colt and slid it in his pocket, as Axel came from
behind the tree, white, but eyes burning.
"It's all right, boys," he shouted. "Went off by accident. Nobody's
goin' to get shot."
They picked their steps back through the heavy snow, one "Pug" Enderly
grunting to his companion, "Dam' a man that'll carry a gun, anyhow."
"Keep your hands easy, Denny Harrigan," said Axel. "I got a better way
to get even with you, and you knows it."
Harrigan fingered the butt of the Colt in his pocket. So Barney was
going to peach about--no, he couldn't prove anything about Ross and the
Indian, but he did know too much about a certain find on Lost Farm
tract. Harrigan snarled as he realized that Axel held the whip-hand.
He jerked the gun from his pocket, murder gleaming in his agate-blue
eyes.
"Now, you git, quick!" he snapped, leveling the short, ugly barrel at
Axel's head.
"It's mighty nigh time--you're right," said Axel. "When a boss gits
crazy 'nough to come at the men he's hirin', with a gun, it's about time
to quit. And I'm goin'," he added, stalking to where his snowshoes were
planted in a drift; "and if you dast, shoot ahead while I'm gettin'
ready."
Harrigan stood watching him as he laced the thongs of his snowshoes. He
realized that Axel's going meant the squelching of his prospects, the
unmasking of the find on Lost Farm, and he temporized gruffly.
"You can't make it by to-night, Barney."
"Can't, eh? Well, my bucko, I'm goin' to."
He straightened to his gaunt height and shook first one foot, then the
other. "Guess they'll stick."
Then he swung down the road, passed the men at work, without a word to
them, and disappeared in the forest.
The pulse of his anger steadied to a set purpose with the exertion of
breaking a trail through the fine-bolted snow which lay between him and
the Tramworth "tote-road." When he came out on the main road, he swung
along vigorously. At the end of the second mile he stopped to light his
pipe and shed the mackinaw, which he rolled and carried under his arm.
It was piercingly cold, but, despite the stinging freshness of the
morning, he was sweating. He knew that he must reach Lost Farm before
nightfall. He trudged along, a tall, lonely figure, the lines of his
hard-lived forty years cut deep in his weather-worn face. The sun rode
veiled by a thin white vapor, a blurred midday moon. He glanced up and
shook his head. "She's a-goin' to snow," he muttered. From nowhere a jay
flashed across the opening ahead of him. Again he stopped and lit his
pipe. Then he struck up a brisker gait. The long white miles wound in
and out of the green-edged cavern through which he plodded. _Click!
clack! click! clack!_ his snowshoes ticked off the stubborn going. He
fell to counting. "A dum' good way to git played out," he exclaimed. He
fixed his gaze on the narrow, tunnel-like opening left by the
snow-feathered branches that seemed to touch in the distance and bar the
trail, endeavoring to forget the monotonous tick of his snowshoes.
A little wind blew in his face and lifted a film of snowdust that stuck
to his eyelashes. He pulled off his mitten and brushed his eyes. There
on the trail, where had been nothing but an unbroken lane of undulating
white, stood a great brown shape. As Barney tugged at his mitten the
shape whirled, forelegs clear of the snow, and _Whish!_ a few shaking
firs, a falling of light snow from their breast-high tops, and the moose
was gone.
"Go it, ole gamb'l roof!" shouted Barney, as the faint _plug, plug,
plug_, of those space-melting strides died away. Before he realized it
he was counting again. Then he sang,--a mirthless, ribald ditty of the
shanties,--but the eternal silence swallowed his chant so passively that
he ceased.
A film of snow slid from a branch and powdered the air with diamond-dust
that swirled and settled gently. Above, a thin wind hissed in the pine
tops.
The sun had gone out in a smother of ashy clouds, and the trees seemed
to be crowding closer. _Pluff! pluff!_ a mass of snow slid from the wide
fan of a cedar, and breaking, dropped softly in the snow beneath.
Barney quickened his stride. A single flake, coming out of the blind
nothingness above, drove slanting down and sparkled on his leather
mitten. Then came another and another, till the green-fringed vista down
which he trudged was suddenly curtained with whirling white. The going
became heavier. The will to overcome the smothering softness that gave
so easily to the forward thrust, yet hung a clogging burden on each lift
of the hide-laced ash-bows, redoubled itself as he plunged on. Presently
the trail widened, the forest seemed to draw back, and he found himself
on the wide, white-masked desolation of Lost Lake.
Panting, he stopped. Instantly the rising wind struck freezing through
his sweat-dampened shirt. He jerked on his coat. "I'll make her yet--but
I guess I'll stick to the shore. How in tarnation I come to miss the
road gets me, but this is Lost Lake all right, and a dum' good name fur
it."
He turned toward the forest that loomed dimly through the hurtling white
flakes. When he reached its edge he looked at his watch. It was four
o'clock. He had been traveling six hours without food or rest. He
followed the shore line, frequently stumbling and falling on the rocks
that lay close to the surface of the snow. The wind grew heavier,
thrusting invisible hands against him as he leaned toward it. It was not
until after his third fall that the possibility of his never reaching
Lost Farm overtook him. Before he realized it, night was upon him, and
he could scarcely see the rim of his snowshoes as he drew them up, each
step accomplished by sheer force of will. He thought of the men who had
left the camp above and had never been heard from. It was bad enough,
when a man's light went out in a brawl, or on the drive; but to face the
terror of the creeping snow, lost, starving, dragging inch by inch
toward a hope that was treason to sanity. Finally, raving, cursing,
praying, dying, alone--
Well, it was "up to him" to walk. He struggled on in the darkness. Had
he known it, he was almost opposite the trail that crossed the dam at
the foot of Lost Lake and wound up the hillside to Avery's camp. Again
he stumbled and fell. The fury of despair seized him and he struggled in
the resistless snow. His foot was caught in some buried branches. Had it
been daylight he would have reached down and carefully disentangled
himself, but the terror of night and uncertainty was on him. He jerked
his leg out and was free, but the dangling web of a broken snowshoe hung
about his ankle. The ash-bow had snapped.
"Done!" His tone commingled despair and anger. Then the spirit, which
had buoyed on the lashing current of many a hazardous enterprise,
rallied for a last attempt.
"What! Quit because I think I'm done? The dam' snowshoe is busted, but I
ain't--yet."
He hobbled toward the trees, fighting his slow way with terrible
intensity. Beneath a twisted cedar he rested. The cold took hold upon
him and lulled him gently.
"I'll fix her up and plug along somehow." He examined the shoe. "Take a
week to fix that," he muttered. "Guess I'll start a fire and wait till
mornin'."
He felt in his pockets. He had used his last match in lighting his pipe.
"Wal, I was a fool to fly off the handle 'thout grub or matches or
nothin'. Wal, I kin cool off now, I reckon."
He felt drowsily comfortable. The will to act was sinking as his
vitality ebbed beneath the pressure of cold and hunger.
He gritted his teeth. "What! let my light go out afore I get a finishin'
crack at Denny Harrigan?"
In the blanket of night a pin-prick of red appeared. It moved, vanished,
moved again.
"Dreamin'," he grumbled. His head sunk on his chest. Once more he lifted
his frosted eye-lids. The red point _was_ moving.
"Last call fur supper," he said; and bracing his hands against the
cedar, he drew in a great breath and shouted.
"Hallo-o-o!" came faintly to him on the wind.
"Hallo-o-o--yerself," he added, in a drowsy whisper. His last round was
spent.
David Ross, on his way from Avery's cabin to his own, heard the far-away
call. He immediately turned and walked toward the spot where Axel was.
As he drew near he circled about, peering under the bending branches. He
looked here and there, holding the lantern high above his head. Nothing
answered as he called. Nothing moved. He turned back toward the trail,
round which twinkled the lights of Lost Farm Camp. The wind had hushed.
The snow fell lazily. In the silence a rustling caught his ear. Axel,
huddled against the cedar trunk, had slipped sideways, his coat scraping
against the loose-fibred bark.
David traced the sound to a snowshoe sticking up in the drift beneath
the tree. Then a moccasined foot, a red-striped stocking, and finally he
was kneeling by the unconscious Barney, shaking him vigorously. The
lumberman's eyes slowly opened, then closed again heavily. David placed
his lantern in the lee of the cedar and, kicking off one of his own
racquettes, belabored Axel with it unsparingly.
Finally, the torpor broke and Axel opened his eyes. "A'right, a'right,"
he muttered. "Git up in a minute--jest a minute--"
In the half-hour it had taken David to reach him, the frost had gripped
Axel's blood with clogging fingers that were not to be easily shaken
off. Slipping his snowshoe on again, he propped the drowsy figure
against the tree and worked himself under the inert shoulders. He
reached up and grasped the wide coat-collar, then straightened himself
suddenly. He had the lumberman on his back, but could he stagger through
that killing half-hour again? Hanging the lantern on a low stub as he
stooped beneath the burden of that dead weight on his shoulders, he
turned toward the camp, fighting his way first and wondering how he did
it afterwards.
Hoss Avery was pouring hot coffee between Axel's blue lips when the
latter coughed and his eyes unclosed.
David, holding the lamp above him, stooped nearer. A look of recognition
brightened Barney's heavy eyes for a moment.
"Jest--the--man--I'm--lookin'--fur," he whispered. Then he yawned,
turned on his side and David thought he heard those grim lips murmur,
"Sleep."