A STARTLING DISCOVERY
It was getting light the next morning when the reinforced party entered
a belt of thicker timber where they first clearly realized the fury of
the storm. The trees were small and sprang from a frozen muskeg, so
that they could not be uprooted, but the gale had snapped the trunks
and laid them low in swaths. Even in the spots where some had
withstood its force the ground was strewn with split and broken
branches, and to lee of them the snow had gathered in billowy drifts.
The scene of ruin impressed the men, who were forced to make long
rounds in search of a passage for the sled.
"About as fierce a blizzard as I remember," Sergeant Lane remarked.
"We were held up three days, and thought ourselves lucky in making a
ravine with a steep bank; but the wind couldn't have been quite so
strong back north a piece. There'd have been two names less on the
roster if we'd been caught down here."
Harding thought this was probable. He had had a protecting rock at his
back, but in the valley there was no shelter from the storm that had
leveled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the
wilds could hardly have escaped. As he stumbled among the wreckage,
Harding thought about the man whose footsteps they had seen near the
Indian village. Unless he had found some secure retreat he must have
had to face the fury of the gale. Harding felt convinced that the man
was Clarke. It was curious that he should have been living alone among
the empty tepees, but Harding imagined that he was in some way
accountable for the Indians' departure, and he wondered where he was
going when he crossed the range. There was a mystery about the matter,
and if an explanation could be arrived at it would be of interest to
him and his friends. Even before Clarke had sent them into the muskeg
when he knew it was practically impassable, Harding had entertained a
deep distrust of him.
Blake called him to help in dragging the sled over an obstacle, and the
difficulties of the way afterward occupied his attention. When they
found clearer ground they made good progress, and, late in the
afternoon, seeing a rocky spur running out from the hillside, they
headed for it to look for a sheltered camping place. There was still
some daylight, but a cold wind had sprung up, blowing the loose snow
into their faces.
As they neared the spur, the dogs swerved, as if attracted by
something, and the half-breed struck the nearest dog and drove them on.
"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led
them off, and he's not given to playing tricks."
"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the sergeant suggested. "I didn't
notice anything, but they have a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into
camp."
They found a nook among the rocks, and Emile loosed the dogs and threw
them some frozen fish while the men had supper. It was a heavy,
lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the
spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading,
they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a
sweep of chill, lifeless gray. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane
looked round the camp.
"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."
"I leaf zem _la bas_," explained Emile, waving his hand toward a
neighboring hollow. Then, moving a few paces forward, he exclaimed:
"Ah! _les coquins_!"
"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew said. "I think I know where to
find them."
He left the camp with Emile, and presently they heard the half-breed
threatening the dogs; then Walthew's voice reached them and there was a
hoarse and urgent tone in it. Springing up, they ran back along the
trail and found Emile keeping off the dogs while Walthew bent over a
dark object that lay half revealed in the clawed up snow. At first
Harding saw only a patch or two of ragged fur that looked as if it
belonged to an animal; then with a shock he caught the outline of a
man's shoulder and arm. The rest of the party gathered round,
breathless after their haste, and when Lane spoke there was grave
authority in his voice.
"Give me a hand, boys. We have to get him out."
They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was
sensible of a curious strained expectation. Soon the body lay clear of
the snow, and the dim light fell on the frozen face.
"It's Clarke!" Blake cried.
"Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised."
"Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp.
Benson answered him.
"Yes; I knew him pretty well. He lived at Sweetwater, where we're
going. I can give you any particulars you want."
"I'll ask you later." The sergeant knelt down and carefully studied
the dead man's pose. "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and
died of exposure; but that's a thing I've got to ascertain. I'll want
somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."
None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order
Blake and Harding joined them, and Harding afterward held the fur coat.
Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what
seemed needless care, though he first turned his back toward the
others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body, and the men stood
watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the
spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the
sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale
glimmer of the snow, and the white patch of the face was faintly
distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking
down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew
trails of it about.
"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.
"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the
worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.
"Well," the sergeant answered dryly, "it's my duty to make
investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been
a knife cut or a bullet hole. One of you had better bring up the sled.
We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose
rocks along the foot of the spur."
The sled was brought and Clarke was gently placed on it, wrapped in his
fur coat. Then they took the traces and started for the ridge, where
they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It
was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of
relief.
"Well," he said, "that's done, and he'll lie safely there. Rough on
him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in
it. I guess we'll get back to camp."
They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sled, and for a
while after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire,
where the light fell on the book in which he wrote with a pencil held
awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He
had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the
man. Gifted with high ability, he had, through no fault of his own,
been driven out of a profession in which he was keenly interested, and
made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but
it had ended in a tragic manner; and this was made all the more
impressive because Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped the
same fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air,
and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and the dusky
trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that
daunted him.
Harding's reflections also centered on the dead man, and he had food
for thought. There was a mystery to be explained. He imagined that he
had a clue to it in his pocket, though he could not follow it up for
the present. He waited with some anxiety until Lane closed his book.
"Now," said the sergeant, "there are one or two points I want
explained, and as you know the man, it's possible that you can help me.
How did he come to be here with only about three days' rations?"
"I can answer that," said Harding. "He was in the habit of staying at
the Indian village we told you of. We saw tracks coming from it when
we were there the day before the blizzard began."
"A white man's tracks? Why did you go to the village?"
"I believe they were. We went to look for provisions, and didn't get
them, because the place was empty."
"Then how do you account for the fellow's being there alone?"
"I can't account for it," Blake said quietly.
Lane turned to Harding. The American had a theory, but he was not
prepared to communicate it to the police.
"It's certainly curious," he said evasively.
"We'll start for the village to-morrow."
"As the Indians are away, there won't be much to be learned," Benson
suggested.
"They may have come back. Anyway, it's my business to find out all I
can."
Soon afterward they went to sleep; and, rising an hour or two before
daylight, they broke camp and turned back across the hills. The march
was rough and toilsome, and when they camped at night fatigue and
drowsiness checked conversation, but Blake and his comrades were
sensible of a difference in Lane's manner. It had become reserved, and
he had a thoughtful look. Reaching the village one evening, they were
surprised to find that some of the Indians had returned. After supper
Lane summoned them into the tepee he occupied. Emile interpreted, but
he had some difficulty in making himself understood, for which Harding
was inclined to be thankful.
The sergeant began by explaining the authority and business of the
North-West Police, of whom it appeared one or two of the Indians had
heard. Then he made Emile ask them if they knew Clarke. One of them
said that they did, and added that he stayed with them now and then.
Lane next asked why they took him in, and the Indian hesitated.
"He was a big medicine man and cured us when we were ill," he answered
cautiously.
"Do you know these white men?" Lane asked, indicating Blake's party.
An Indian declared that they had never seen them, though he added that
it was known that they were in the neighborhood. Being questioned
about this, he explained that about the time of Clarke's arrival one of
the tribe had come in from the North, where he had met a half-breed who
told him that he had traveled some distance with three white men who
were going to the settlements. Knowing the country, they had
calculated that the white men could not be very far off.
Harding felt anxious. He saw where Lane's questions led, and realized
that the sergeant meant to sift the matter thoroughly. There was not
much cause to fear that he and his friends would be held responsible
for Clarke's death; but he suspected things he did not wish the police
to guess; and the Indians might mention having seen a white man's
footprints on the occasion when he had forcibly taken Clarke away.
Owing perhaps to their difficulty in making themselves understood,
nothing, however, was said of this.
"How was it you left the white man in your village by himself?" Lane
asked.
The Indians began to talk to one another, and it was with some trouble
that Emile at last elicited an answer.
"It is a thing that puzzles us," said one. "The white man came alone
and told us he had seen tracks of caribou three days' journey back. As
we had no meat, and our fish was nearly done, six of us went to look
for the deer."
"Six of you? Where are the rest? These tepees would hold a good many
people."
"They are hunting farther north," the Indian explained. "When we got
to the place the white man told us of, we could see no caribou tracks.
As he was a good hunter, we thought this strange; but we went on,
because there was another muskeg like the one he spoke of, and we might
not have understood him. Then the snow came and we camped until it was
over, and afterward came back, finding no deer. When we reached the
tepees, he had gone, and we do not know what has become of him. We
could not follow because the snow had covered his trail."
"He is dead," Lane said abruptly. "I found him frozen a few days ago."
Their surprise was obviously genuine, and Lane was quick to notice
signs of regret. He imagined that Clarke had been a person of some
importance among them.
"Tell them I don't want them any more," he said to Emile, and when the
Indians went out he turned to Benson. "Give me all the information you
are able to about the man."
Benson told him as much as he thought judicious, and Lane sat silent
for a while.
"There is no reason to doubt that he came to his death by
misadventure," he decided. "I don't quite understand what led him to
visit these fellows; but, after all, that doesn't count."
"It isn't very plain," Benson replied. "Is there anything else you
wish to know?"
"No," said Lane, looking at him steadily. "You can take it that this
inquiry is closed; we'll pull out the first thing to-morrow." He
beckoned Walthew. "Now that we're here, we may as well find out what
we can about these fellows, and how they live. It will fill up our
report, and they like that kind of information at Regina."
When the police had left the tepee Harding turned to his companions
with a smile.
"Sergeant Lane is a painstaking officer, but his shrewdness has its
limits, and there are points he seems to have missed. It would have
been wiser not to have let Clarke's coat out of his hands until he had
searched it."
"Ah!" Blake exclaimed sharply. "You emptied the pockets?"
"I did. My action was hardly justifiable, perhaps, but I thought it
better that the police shouldn't get on the track of matters that
haven't much bearing on Clarke's death. I found two things, and
they're both of interest to us. We'll take this one first."
He drew out a metal flask, and when he unstoppered it a pungent smell
pervaded the tepee.
"Crude petroleum," he explained. "I should imagine the flash-point is
low. I can't say how Clarke got the stuff when the ground's hard
frozen, but here it is."
"Isn't a low flash-point a disadvantage?" Benson asked. "It must make
the oil explosive."
"It does, but all petroleum's refined, and the by-products they take
off, which includes gasoline, fetch a remarkably good price. Shake a
few drops on the end of a hot log and we'll see how it lights."
A fire burned in a ring of stones in the middle of the tepee, and
Benson carefully did as he was told. Hardly had the oil fallen on the
wood before it burst into flame.
"As I thought!" exclaimed Harding. "I suspect the presence of one or
two distillates that should be worth as much as the kerosene. We'll
get the stuff analyzed later; but you had better stopper the flask,
because we don't want the smell to rouse Lane's curiosity. The
important point is that, as I've reasons for believing the oil is fresh
from the ground, Clarke must have found it shortly before the blizzard
overtook him. That fixes the locality, and we shouldn't have much
trouble in striking the spot when we come back again." His eyes
sparkled. "It's going to be well worth while; this is a big thing!"
Blake did not feel much elation. He had all along thought his comrade
too sanguine; though he meant to back him.
"In a way, it was very hard luck for Clarke," he said. "If you're
right in your conclusions, he's been searching for the oil for several
years; and now he's been cut off just when it looks as if he'd found
it."
"You don't owe him much pity. What would have happened if we hadn't
met the police?"
"It's unpleasant to think of. No doubt we'd have starved to death."
"A sure thing!" said Harding. "It hasn't struck you that this was what
he meant us to do."
Blake started.
"Are you making a bold guess, or have you any ground for what you're
saying?"
"I see you'll have to be convinced. Very well; in the first place, the
man would have stuck at nothing. I've already tried to show you that
he had something to gain by Benson's death. I suspected when we took
you away from him that you were running a big risk, Benson."
"I was running a bigger one before that, if you can call a thing a risk
when the result's inevitable," Benson replied. "The pace I was going
would have killed me in another year or two, and even now I'm half
afraid----" He paused for a few moments, with somber face and knitted
brows. "I believe you're right, Harding," he went on thoughtfully;
"but you haven't told us how he proposed to get rid of me."
"I'm coming to that. There was, however, another member of this party
who was in his way, and he made his plans to remove you both."
"You mean me?" Blake broke in. "I don't see how he'd profit by my
death."
"First, let's look at what he did. As soon as he reached the village,
he heard that we had started from the Hudson Bay post. It wouldn't be
difficult to calculate how long the food we could carry would last, and
he'd see that the chances were in favor of our calling at the village
for provisions. Presuming on that, he sent his friends away to look
for caribou which they couldn't find. They admitted that they were
puzzled, because he was a good hunter. Then he cleared out by himself;
and I believe that if there was any food left in the place he carefully
hid it."
Harding took out a letter and handed it to Blake.
"That," he said, "will show you how he would have profited. I found it
in his pocket."
Blake started. It was Colonel Challoner's handwriting, and was
addressed to Clarke.
"Read it," Benson advised; "it's justifiable."
Blake read it aloud, holding the paper near the fire, where the light
showed up the grimness of his face:
"'_In reply to your letter, I have nothing further to say. I believe I
have already made my intentions plain. It would be useless for you to
trouble me with any further proposals._'"
Blake folded the letter and put it into his pocket before he spoke.
"I think I see," he said very quietly. "The man has been trying to
bleed the Colonel, and has got his answer."
"Is that all?" Harding asked.
"Well, I believe it proves that your conclusions are right. I won't go
into particulars, but where my uncle and cousin are threatened I'm, so
to speak, the leading witness for the defense, and it wouldn't have
suited Clarke to let me speak. No doubt, that's why he took rather
drastic measures to put me out of the way."
"Then you mean never to question the story of the Indian affair?"
"What do you know about it?" Blake asked curtly.
Harding laughed.
"I know the truth. Haven't I marched and starved and shared my plans
with you? If there had been any meanness in you, wouldn't I have found
it out? What's more, Benson knows what really happened, and so does
Colonel Challoner. How else could Clarke have put the screw on him?"
"He doesn't seem to have made much impression; you have heard the
Colonel's answer." Blake frowned. "We'll drop this subject. If
Challoner attached any importance to what you think Clarke told him,
his first step would have been to send for me.
"I expect you'll find a letter waiting for you at Sweetwater," Harding
replied.
Blake did not answer, and soon afterward Sergeant Lane came in with
Walthew.