As a wolf might plan a hunt in the forest, Ben planned his war against
Neilson and his subordinates. He knew perfectly that he must not attempt
open warfare. The way of the wolf is the way of cunning and stealth: the
stalk through the thicket and the ferocious attack upon the
unsuspecting; and such example must guide Ben in his operations. He
could not be too careful, too furtive.
His foes were three against one, and they were on their own ground. They
knew the trails and the lay of the country; and as always, in the
science of warfare, this was an advantage hardly to be overcome. Ben
knew that his only hope lay in the finest strategy. First he must make a
surprise attack, and second, he must utilize all natural advantages.
He was well aware that he could lie in ambush, close to the mine, and
probably send one man to a speedy death with a rifle bullet. But he did
not have one enemy; he had three. The survivors of the first shot would
immediately seek shelter--probably returning shot for shot--and that
would insert an element of uncertainty into the venture. At the distance
he would be obliged to shoot, he would possibly only succeed in wounding
one of his enemies, and he might miss him altogether. Such a plan as
this was wholly too uncertain for adoption.
There must be no sporting chances in his strategy. The way of the wolf
is to cover every opening, to prepare for every contingency that his
brute mind can foresee. He would give and receive no quarter, and the
ancient fairness and honor must be likewise forgotten. He must take no
risk with his own life until the last of the three was down. What
happened thereafter did not greatly concern him. The world could shatter
to atoms after that for all he would care. He was a son of forest
solitude; and he had but one dream left in life.
It was not his aim to give his foes the least chance to fight back, the
slightest hope of battle. He would use any advantage, descend to any
wile. This was not to be a sportsmen's war, but a grim battle to the
death, inexorable and merciless.
These things were all fully known to him before ever he left the
hillside, and like a man asleep, walked down to his camp. The fire had
burned down to coals--sullen and angry--but he heaped on fuel, and they
broke into a blaze. Then, Fenris at his side, he squatted on the ground
beside the dancing flame.
He watched it, fascinated; mostly silent but sometimes muttering and
whispering half-enunciated words. His red eyes and the black hair,
matted about his lips and shadowing the backs of his hands, gave him a
wild, fierce look; and it was as if the primal blood-lust and hatred
that seared him had literally swept him back into the forgotten
centuries,--the first, savage human hunter at the edge of the retreating
glaciers. The scene had not changed: dark spruce and the red glow of
fire; and there was atavism in his very posture. The first men had
squatted beside their camp fires this same way, their wolfine pets
beside them, as they made their battle plans.
The eager flames held Ben's fascinated gaze as a crystal ball might hold
the eyes of a seer. They seemed to have a message for him if he could
just grasp it, a course whereby he might achieve success. Oh, they could
be cruel, relentless--mercilessly eating their way into sensitive flesh.
They were no respecters of persons, these creeping, leaping tongues. Nor
must _he_ have any scruples or qualms as to how he gained his ends. He
too must be merciless, and if necessary, strike down the innocent in
order to reach the guilty.
As he watched certain knowledge reached him of life and death. The
conclusion slowly came to him that just blind killing was not enough.
For all he knew death might bring instant forgetfulness--and thus not
constitute in itself a satisfactory measure of vengeance. The _fear_ of
death was a reality and a torment: for all he knew, the thing itself
might be a change for the better. It might be that, suddenly hurled out
of this world of three dimensions, his enemies would have no knowledge
nor carry no memories of the hand that struck them down. There could be
no satisfaction in this. To murder from ambush might be a measure of
expedience, but never one of self-gratification. When Ben struck he
wanted them to know who was their enemy, and for what crime they were
laid low.
The best way of all, of course, was to strike indirectly at them,
perhaps through some one they loved. Soon, perhaps, he would see the
way.
He went to his blankets, but sleep did not come to him. The wolf stood
on guard. Beatrice Neilson had fallen into happy dreams long since, but
there was further wakefulness in Hiram Melville's newer cabin, farther
up-creek. Ray Brent and Chan Heminway still sat over their cups, the
fiery liquid running riot in their veins, but slumber did not come
easily to-night. And when Beatrice was asleep, Neilson stole down the
moonlit moose trail and joined his men.
"I've brought news," he began, when the door had closed out the stars
and the breath of the night. Chan, his small eyes glazed from strong
drink, staggered to his feet to offer his chair to his chief. Brent,
however, was in no mood for servility to-night. He had done man's work
in the early evening; and his triumph and his new-found sense of power
had not yet died in his body. Perhaps he had learned the way to all
success. There was a curious sullen defiance in the blearing gaze over
his glass.
"What's your news?" Ray's voice harshened, possessing a certain quality
of grim levity. "I guess old Hiram's brother hasn't come to life again,
has he?"
It was a significant thing that both Chan and Neilson looked oppressed
and uneasy at the words. Like all men of low moral status they were
secretly superstitious, and these boasting words crept unpleasantly
under their skins. It is never a good thing to taunt the dead! Ray had
spoken sheerly to frighten and shock them, thus revealing his own
fearlessness and strength; yet his voice rang louder than he had meant.
He had no desire for it to carry into the silver mystery of the night.
"The less you say about Hiram's brother the better," Neilson answered
sternly. "We've thrashed it out once to-night." He straightened as he
read the insolence, the gathering insubordination in the other's
contemptuous glance; and his voice lacked its old ring of power when he
spoke again. "Jumpin' claims is one thing and murder is another."
Ray, spurred on by the false strength of wickedness, drunk with his new
sense of power, was already feeling the first surge of deadly anger in
his veins. "I suppose if you had been doin' it, you'd let that old whelp
take back this claim, worth a quarter million if it's worth a cent. Not
if I know it. It was the only way--and the safe way too."
"Safe! What if by a thousandth chance some one would blunder on to that
body you left in the brush? What if some sergeant of mounted police
would say to his man, 'Go get Ray Brent!' Where would you be then?
You've always been a murderer at heart, Brent--but some time you'll slip
up--"
"Only a fool slips up. Don't think I didn't figure on everything. As you
say, there's not one chance in a thousand any one will ever find him. If
they do, there wouldn't be any kind of a case. Likely the old man hasn't
got a friend or relation on earth. I've searched his pockets--there's
nothing to tell who he is. We'll have our claim recorded soon, and it
would be easy to make him out the claim-jumper rather than us--"
"Wait just a minute before you say he ain't got any friends, or at least
acquaintances. That's what I came to see you about to-night." Neilson
paused, for the sake of suspense. "Beatrice came up to-night, as agreed,
and she had a prospector with her--and he knew old Hiram's brother."
A short, tense silence followed his words, and Ray stared into his cup.
It might be that just for an instant the reckless light went out of his
eyes and left them startled and glazing. Then he got to his feet. "Then
God Almighty!" he cried. "What you waiting for? Why don't you croak him
off before this night's over?"
"Wait, you fool, till you've heard everything," Neilson replied.
"There's no hurry about killing. As I told you, the less work of that
kind we do, the more chance we've got of dying in our beds. It may be
reasonable for one prospector to disappear, but some one's going to be
suspicious if two of 'em do. I think I've already handled the matter."
"I'd handle it, and quick too," Ray protested.
"You'd handle yourself up a gallows, too. He doesn't seem to be a close
friend of this old man; he just seems to have met up with him at the
river, and the old man steered him up here. He asked me where the old
man's claim was, and said he wanted to go over and see him. He was
taking Hiram's wolf and his gun up to him. I told him I hadn't heard of
the claim, that it must be farther inside, and I think I put it over. He
ain't got the least suspicion. What he'll do is hang around here a
while, I suppose, prospecting--and likely enough soon forget all about
the old devil. I just came down here to tell you he was here and to
watch your step."
"Then the first thing up," Chan Heminway suggested, "is to bury the
stiff."
"Spoke up like a fool!" Ray answered. "Not till this man is dead or out
of the country. It's well hidden, and don't go prowling anywheres near
it. If he's the least bit suspicious, or even if he's on the lookout for
gold, he'd likely enough follow you. But there's one thing we can
do--and that quick."
"And what's that?"
"Start Chan off to-morrow to the office in Bradleyburg and record this
claim in our names. We've waited too long already."
"Ray, you're talking like a man now," Neilson agreed. "You and I stay
here and work away, innocent as can be, on the claim. Chan, put that
bottle away and get to bed. Take the trail down first thing to-morrow.
Then we can laugh at all the prospectors that want to come."