It was late the night of the big feast at Post Fort O' God that
MacDonnell, the factor, sent for Challoner. Challoner was preparing for
bed when an Indian boy pounded on the door of his shack and a moment
later gave him the message. He looked at his watch. It was eleven
o'clock. What could the Factor want of him at that hour, he wondered?
Flat on his belly near the warm box stove Miki watched his new-found
master speculatively as he pulled on his boots. His eyes were wide open
now. Challoner had washed from him the blood of the terrific fight of
that afternoon.
"Something to do with that devil of a Durant," growled Challoner,
looking at the battle-scarred dog. "Well, if he hopes to get YOU again,
Miki, he's barking up the wrong tree. You're MINE!"
Miki thumped his hard tail on the floor and wriggled toward his master
in mute adoration. Together they went out into the night.
It was a night of white moonlight and a multitude of stars. The four
great fires over which the caribou had roasted for the savage barbecue
that day were still burning brightly. In the edge of the forest that
ringed in the Post were the smouldering embers of a score of smaller
fires. Back of these fires were faintly outlined the gray shadows of
teepees and tents. In these shelters the three hundred halfbreeds and
Indians who had come in from the forest trails to the New Year carnival
at the Post were sleeping. Only here and there was there a movement of
life. Even the dogs were quiet after the earlier hours of excitement
and gluttony.
Past the big fires, with their huge spits still standing, Challoner
passed toward the Factor's quarters. Miki sniffed at the freshly picked
bones. Beyond these bones there was no sign of the two thousand pounds
of flesh that had roasted that day on the spits. Men, women, children,
and dogs had stuffed themselves until there was nothing left. It was
the silence of Mutai--the "belly god"--the god who eats himself to
sleep each night--that hovered strangely over this Post of Fort O' God,
three hundred miles from civilization.
There was a light in the Factor's room, and Challoner entered with Miki
at his heels. MacDonnell, the Scotchman, was puffing moodily on his
pipe. There was a worried look in his ruddy face as the younger man
seated himself, and his eyes were on Miki.
"Durant has been here," he said. "He's ugly. I'm afraid of trouble. If
you hadn't struck him--"
Challoner shrugged his shoulders as he filled his own pipe from the
Factor's tobacco.
"You see--you don't just understand the situation at Fort 0' God," went
on MacDonnell. "There's been a big dog fight here at New Year for the
last fifty years. It's become a part of history, a part of Fort O' God
itself, and that's why in my own fifteen years here I haven't tried to
stop it. I believe it would bring on a sort of--revolution. I'd wager a
half of my people would go to another post with their furs. That's why
all the sympathy seems to be with Durant. Even Grouse Piet, his rival,
tells him he's a fool to let you get away with him that way. Durant
says that dog is HIS."
MacDonnell nodded at Miki, lying at Challoner's feet.
"Then he lies," said Challoner quietly.
"He says he bought him of Jacques Le Beau."
"Then Le Beau sold a dog that didn't belong to him."
For a moment MacDonnell was silent. Then he said:
"But that wasn't what I had you come over for, Challoner. Durant told
me something that froze my blood to-night. Your outfit starts for your
post up in the Reindeer Lake county to-morrow, doesn't it?"
"In the morning."
"Then could you, with one of my Indians and a team, arrange to swing
around by way of the Jackson's Knee? You'd lose a week, but you could
overtake your outfit before it reached the Reindeer--and it would be a
mighty big favour to me. There's a--a HELL of a thing happened over
there."
Again he looked at Miki.
"GAWD!" he breathed.
Challoner waited. He thought he saw a shudder pass through the Factor's
shoulders.
"I'd go myself--I ought to, but this frosted lung of mine has made me
sit tight this winter, Challoner. I OUGHT to go. Why--(a sudden glow
shot into his eyes)--I knew this Nanette Le Beau when she was SO HIGH,
fifteen years ago. I watched her grow up, Challoner. If I hadn't been
married--then--I'd have fallen in love with her. Do you know her,
Challoner? Did you ever see Nanette Le Beau?"
Challoner shook his head.
"An angel--if God ever made one," declared MacDonnell through his red
beard. "She lived over beyond the Jackson's Knee with her father. And
he died, froze to death crossing Red Eye Lake one night. I've always
thought Jacques Le Beau MADE her marry him after that. Or else she
didn't know, or was crazed, or frightened at being alone. Anyway, she
married him. It was five years ago I saw her last. Now and then I've
heard things, but I didn't believe--not all of them. I didn't believe
that Le Beau beat her, and knocked her down when he wanted to. I didn't
believe he dragged her through the snow by her hair one day until she
was nearly dead. They were just rumours, and he was seventy miles away.
But I believe them now. Durant came from their place, and I guess he
told me a whole lot of the truth--to save that dog."
Again he looked at Miki.
"You see, Durant tells me that Le Beau caught the dog in one of his
traps, took him to his cabin, and tortured him into shape for the big
fight. When Durant came he was so taken with the dog that he bought
him, and it was while Le Beau was driving the dog mad in his cage to
show his temper that Nanette interfered. Le Beau knocked her down, and
then jumped on her and was pulling her hair and choking her when the
dog went for him and killed him. That's the story. Durant told me the
truth through fear that I'd have the dog shot if he was an out-and-out
murderer. And that's why I want you to go by way of the Jackson's Knee.
I want you to investigate, and I want you to do what you can for
Nanette Le Beau. My Indian will bring her back to Port O' God."
With Scotch stoicism MacDonnell had repressed whatever excitement he
may have felt. He spoke quietly. But the curious shudder went through
his shoulders again. Challoner stared at him in blank amazement.
"You mean to say that Miki--this dog--has killed a man?"
"Yes. He killed him, Durant says, just as he killed Grouse Piet's
wolf-dog in the big fight to-day. UGH!" As Challoner's eyes fell slowly
upon Miki, the Factor added: "But Grouse Piet's dog was better than the
man. If what I hear about Le Beau was true he's better dead than alive.
Challoner, if you didn't think it too much trouble, and could go that
way--and see Nanette--"
"I'll go," said Challoner, dropping a hand to Miki's head.
For half an hour after that MacDonnell told him the things he knew
about Nanette Le Beau. When Challoner rose to go the Factor followed
him to the door.
"Keep your eyes open for Durant," he warned. "That dog is worth more to
him than all his winnings to-day, and they say his stakes were big. He
won heavily from Grouse Piet, but the halfbreed is thick with him now.
I know it. So watch out."
Out in the open space, in the light of the moon and stars, Challoner
stood far a moment with Miki's forepaws resting against his breast. The
dog's head was almost on a level with his shoulders.
"D'ye remember when you fell out of the canoe, Boy?" he asked softly.
"Remember how you 'n' the cub were tied in the bow, an' you got to
scrapping and fell overboard just above the rapids? Remember? By Jove!
those rapids pretty near got ME, too. I thought you were dead,
sure--both of you. I wonder what happened to the cub?"
Miki whined in response, and his whole body trembled.
"And since then you've killed a man," added Challoner, as if he still
could not quite believe. "And I'm to take you back to the woman. That's
the funny thing about it. You're going back to HER, and if she says
kill you--"
He dropped Miki's forefeet and went on to the cabin. At the threshold a
low growl rose in Miki's throat. Challoner laughed, and opened the
door. They went in, and the dog's growl was a menacing snarl. Challoner
had left his lamp burning low, and in the light of it he saw Henri
Durant and Grouse Piet waiting for him. He turned up the wick, and
nodded.
"Good evening. Pretty late for a call, isn't it?"
Grouse Piet's stolid face did not change its expression. It struck
Challoner, as he glanced at him, that in head and shoulders he bore a
grotesque resemblance to a walrus. Durant's eyes were dully ablaze. His
face was swollen where Challoner had struck him. Miki, stiffened to the
hardness of a knot, and still snarling under his breath, had crawled
under Challoner's bunk. Durant pointed to him.
"We've come after that dog," he said.
"You can't have him, Durant," replied Challoner, trying hard to make
himself appear at ease in a situation that sent a chill up his back. As
he spoke he was making up his mind why Grouse Piet had come with
Durant. They were giants, both of them: more than that--monsters.
Instinctively he had faced them with the small table between them. "I'm
sorry I lost my temper out there," he continued. "I shouldn't have
struck you, Durant. It wasn't your fault--and I apologize. But the dog
is mine. I lost him over in the Jackson's Knee country, and if Jacques
Le Beau caught him in a trap, and sold him to you, he sold a dog that
didn't belong to him. I'm willing to pay you back what you gave for
him, just to be fair. How much was it?"
Grouse Piet had risen to his feet. Durant came to the opposite edge of
the table, and leaned over it. Challoner wondered how a single blow had
knocked him down.
"Non, he is not for sale." Durant's voice was low; so low that it
seemed to choke him to get it out. It was filled with a repressed
hatred. Challoner saw the great cords of his knotted hands bulging
under the skin as he gripped the edge of the table. "M'sieu, we have
come for that dog. Will you let us take him?"
"I will pay you back what you gave for him, Durant. I will add to the
price."
"Non. He is mine. Will you give him back--NOW?"
"No!"
Scarcely was the word out of his mouth when Durant flung his whole
weight and strength against the table. Challoner had not expected the
move--just yet. With a bellow of rage and hatred Durant was upon him,
and under the weight of the giant he crashed to the floor. With them
went the table and lamp. There was a vivid splutter of flame and the
cabin was in darkness, except where the moon-light flooded through the
one window. Challoner had looked for something different. He had
expected Durant to threaten before he acted, and, sizing up the two of
them, he had decided to reach the edge of his bunk during the
discussion. Under the pillow was his revolver. It was too late now.
Durant was on him, fumbling in the darkness for his throat, and as he
flung one arm upward to get a hook around the Frenchman's neck he heard
Grouse Piet throw the table back. The next instant they were rolling in
the moonlight on the floor, and Challoner caught a glimpse of Grouse
Piet's huge bulk bending over them. Durant's head was twisted under his
arm, but one of the giant's hands had reached his throat. The halfbreed
saw this, and he cried out something in a guttural voice. With a
tremendous effort Challoner rolled himself and his adversary out of the
patch of light into darkness again. Durant's thick neck cracked. Again
Grouse Piet called out in that guttural, questioning voice. Challoner
put every ounce of his energy into the crook of his arm, and Durant did
not answer.
Then the weight of Grouse Piet fell upon them, and his great hands
groped for Challoner's neck. His thick fingers found Durant's beard
first, then fumbled for Challoner, and got their hold. Ten seconds of
their terrific grip would have broken his neck. But the fingers never
closed. A savage cry of agony burst from Grouse Piet's lips, and with
that cry, ending almost in a scream, came the snap of great jaws and
the rending snarl of fangs in the darkness. Durant heard, and with a
great heave of his massive body he broke free from Challoner's grip,
and leapt to his feet. In a flash Challoner was at his bunk, facing his
enemies with the revolver in his hand.
Everything had happened quickly. Scarcely more than a minute had passed
since the overturning of the table, and now, in the moment when the
situation had turned in his favour, a sudden swift and sickening horror
seized upon Challoner. Bloody and terrible there rose before him the
one scene he had witnessed that day in the big cage where Miki and the
wolf-dog had fought. And there--in that darkness of the cabin--
He heard a moaning cry and the crash of a body to the floor.
"Miki, Miki," he cried. "Here! Here!"
He dropped his revolver and sprang to the door, flinging it wide open.
"For God's sake get out!" he cried. "GET OUT!"
A bulk dashed past him into the night. He knew it was Durant. Then he
leapt to the dark shadows on the floor and dug his two hands into the
loose hide at the back of Miki's neck, dragging him back, and shouting
his name. He saw Grouse Piet crawling toward the door. He saw him rise
to his feet, silhouetted for a moment against the starlight, and
stagger out into the night. And then he felt Miki's weight slinking
down to the floor, and under his hands the dog's muscles grew limp and
saggy. For two or three minutes he continued to kneel beside him before
he closed the cabin door and lighted another lamp. He set up the
overturned table and placed the lamp on it. Miki had not moved. He lay
flat on his belly, his head between his forepaws, looking up at
Challoner with a mute appeal in his eyes.
Challoner reached out his two arms.
"Miki!"
In an instant Miki was up against him, his forefeet against his breast,
and with his arms about the dog's shoulders Challoner's eyes took in
the floor. On it were wet splashes and bits of torn clothing.
His arms closed more tightly.
"Miki, old boy, I'm much obliged," he said.