ON THE TRAIL OF THE WAR BAND
Connie Morgan and Ick Far were on special patrol, the object of which
was to thread certain rivers and creeks to their sources in hope of
finding a pass between some tributary of upper Stewart River and a
tributary of Wind River. The wilderness mail route between Dawson
and far-off Fort McPherson, way up near the shore of the Arctic, was
both devious and dangerous, and had already been responsible for one
terrible tragedy of the wilds. Therefore, the department desired a
more direct and a safer route; and Special Constable Connie Morgan
and Ick Far, the weather-hardened Indian scout, after twenty days of
fruitless search among the high-flung peaks of the continental
backbone, stood at the head of a little valley and gazed at a rough
mountain wall down which a tiny stream cascaded from ledge to ledge
to plunge, almost at their feet, into a seething cauldron of white
water.
"Go oop?" asked the scout.
Connie shook his head. "No," he replied, eyeing the precarious
ascent, "it would be all we could do to make it even now, in the
summer. How could a mail patrol climb it in the winter--with a dog
outfit besides?"
"No kin do," opined the Indian, with a grin. "Mebbe-so we find um
nudder pass." And, turning, he led the way over the back trail
toward the point, ten miles below, where they had left their canoe at
the head of birch-bark navigation.
The ascent of the creek had taken four days, its descent took two.
And on the evening of the second day they grounded the canoe on a
wide bar, where the creek flowed into a larger tributary of the
Stewart.
Hardly had the two set foot upon shore before Ick Far's attention
became riveted upon some marks in the gravel--marks that, in the
twilight, were hardly discernible to Connie--being merely a
displacement of pebbles here and there among the myriads of pebbles
that formed the bar. To Connie these marks meant nothing. Game was
plentiful along the creeks--some animal had probably crossed here.
Besides, there was "Soapy" White's trading post a few miles below,
and several outfits of prospectors. The boy was much surprised at
Ick Far's evident concern. Forward and back, he walked, along the
water line, leaning far over and examining minutely each foot of
gravel. Finally he turned to Connie:
"Injun cross here," he reported.
"Well, what if he did?" asked the boy.
"Mooch Injun! Two--t'ree sun 'go, she camp on de woods. Come." He
turned and, following the sign in the gravel, led the way into the
thicket of scrub timber that fringed the bar. A few moments later
they came upon the abandoned camp--the dead ashes of a dozen small
fires over which the passing Indians had cooked a hurried meal.
Figuring four or five Indians to the fire, Connie realized that a
considerable party had been on the move.
"What do you make of it, Ick?" he asked. "What are they up
to--hunting--fishing?"
The scout shook his head and busied himself with a minute inspection
of the ground.
"Dem Mooseheads," he announced, holding in his hand a peculiarly
shaped slate knife blade which he picked from the ashes at the edge
of a fire. "On de black montaine," he explained, "de Moosehead, she
git de stone for de knife."
"But--what are the Mooseheads doing way down here?"
"War ban'. Dem Moosehead, she _kultus_ Injun. Some tam' she lak
fight. Come down an' fight dem Brushwood, on Lansing Creek."
"The Brushwoods!" exclaimed Connie. "The Brushwoods won't fight!"
Ick Far grinned: "Da's w'y de Moosehead lak for fight um. De
Brushwood run hide in de timbaire--in de rocks--on de montaine. Den
de Moosehead she mak' de beeg yell. She shoot de gun. She bus' de
_cache_. She steal de Brushwood feesh, an' de dog, an' all she kin
car' 'way from de camp. She t'ink she heap _skookum_ Injun. Den she
gon' back home, she mak' de beeg fire on de black montaine, an' git
de _kloochmen_ all 'roun' an' mak' de beeg talk--heap fine fightin'
mans--heap brave Injun--_Skookum tumtum_!" As the old Indian talked,
Connie thought rapidly.
"How far is Lansing Creek?" he asked.
"'Bout forty--feefty mile."
"Can we run this river in the night? Five or six hours ought to put
us at the mouth of the Lansing."
The Indian shook his head vigorously: "No! No! No! Too mooch--w'at
y'u call, _skookum chuck_--too mooch rapids! Daylight we start--come
Lansing Creek, nine 'clock--ten 'clock."
"Roll in, then. Tomorrow, we'll have a _real_ job."
"W'at y'u goin' do?"
"Do! We're going to run those thieving Mooseheads back where they
belong--that's what we're going to do!"
Ick Far nodded: "Mebbe-so not wan' for go back. Mebbe-so ain' 'fraid
for leetle p'lice."
"Want to go back! Well, they're going whether they want to or not.
I'll show 'em who's running this country! I guess they won't try to
buck the Mounted!"
Ick Far refrained from comment; but in his eye smouldered the gloom
of foreboding.
The trail of the Mooseheads led down stream in the direction of
Lansing Creek. Having come overland along the ridges, the marauding
band brought no canoes and their progress was slow, as the
conformation of the valley necessitated frequent fording of the river
to avoid impassable barriers. Again and again, as the canoe shot
down stream, Connie and the scout saw signs of these crossings upon
gravel bars and clay banks, and at each crossing the trail grew
fresher.
Two weeks before, while ascending the river, the officers had passed
the tepees of isolated families of Brushwoods, who had strayed to the
larger river to fish. They had passed, also, three different outfits
of prospectors and the post of "Soapy" White, a free-trader whose
record in his dealings with the Indians of many tribes was described
on the books of the Mounted as "shady."
The tepees of the Indians were missing, now. At each deserted camp
the two landed, carefully examined the ground, and read signs of
hurried flight and the abandonment of the poor effects of the
campers--effects that the Mooseheads, not deeming of sufficient value
to carry away, had ruthlessly destroyed, leaving only charred
remnants of burned tepees and nets, and the broken fragments of
utensils.
The white prospectors had fared no better. Their camps were deserted
and their goods carried away or burned, but, as yet, Ick Far had been
unable to find any evidence of bloodshed.
"Dem all skeep oot. Brushwood, she skeep for Lansing. Mebbe-so we
fin' dem white men. Tak' um 'long. She be glad for git crack at dem
Moosehead." And, in a short time, Ick's prophecy was fulfilled, for
the canoe was greeted by a shout from a niche in the rocks of a
narrow canyon, and two heads with bearded faces peered over the rim
of a natural rock barrier. Ick Far shot the canoe shoreward and the
men came out of their fortress--a short man, and a tall man.
"Come on!" cried Connie. "Bring your rifles and all the shells
you've got, and we'll dig out after those Indians."
"Well, f'r th' love o' Pete!" exclaimed the short man. "It's a kid
an' a _Siwash_! What d'ye mean, dig out after them Injuns? Great
sufferin' cats! They's a milliun of 'em!'
"No, there aren't," contradicted Connie. "There are only fifty or
sixty at the most--hurry up! I'm Special Constable Morgan, of the
Mounted, and I'm going to round 'em up."
"What, you? The Mounted! Holy mackerel! I thought that unyform
looked f'miliar, but, seein' it onto a kid, that-a-way, it th'ow'd me
off complete. But, how in time _y'u_ goin' to round up them here
Injuns?'
"Come along and see. I need your help. We'll show 'em. Where are
the other white men?"
"Got acrost th' ridge," answered the tall man, who glanced into his
partner's face, and then dubiously at the two in the canoe.
"Shove off!" commanded Connie. "These specimens are afraid to tackle
it, and we can't waste time." Ick Far placed the end of his paddle
against the bank, but before he could bear his weight on it, the tall
man stepped forward.
"Hold on, kid, we ain't afraid. Y'u got us wrong--dead wrong. We're
peaceable parties when they's any chanst to be, but when a hull pack
o' howlin' red-skins comes a-kihootin' down th' crick an'
confisticates our outfit, an' trees us up a rock ledge, it's time
sunthin' was did. We can't figger out how such a little shaver
happens to be a-wearin' that unyform, but if y'u're good enough f'r
th' Mounted y'u're good enough f'r we--eh, Toad?" The other
emphatically assented and as they took their places the tall man
further elucidated:
"I'm Tex Gordon, which my pardner, here, he's Toad Jones, owin' of
him bein' short an' ugly, that-a-way, an' warty. Toad's hide's a
reg'lar garden f'r warts--but inside, he's all to th' good. Wisht we
had couple more paddles."
Once in the current, there was small need for paddles, and an hour
later, riding straight and true through the rock-tossed waves of a
white water rapid, the canoe, under the skilful guidance of Ick Far,
shot into comparatively smooth water, and Connie's shoulders suddenly
stiffened. There on the bank, unmolested by the marauding Indians,
stood "Soapy" White's trading post.
"Land here!" cried the boy, sharply. And a moment later, the canoe
grounded in front of the log building. Hardly had its nose touched
the gravel before the boy leaped ashore and made straight for the
door, closely followed by Ick Far and the two prospectors. Without
ceremony, Connie pushed open the door and was met by the leering face
of "Soapy" himself, who sat propped against a bale of blankets upon
his counter. The man's blotched face and bleared eyes told that he
had been drinking heavily, but, at the sight of the uniform he pulled
himself together and favoured the newcomers with a thick-lipped,
vacuous grin. Connie wasted no time:
"Where are those Indians?" he jerked out, sharply.
"Wot Injuns--yer mean them Brushwoods up ther crick?"
"You know what Indians! Come, I'm not here to fool with _you_!
Speak up--or you'll wish you had!"
The smile left the man's face and he glanced uneasily from the trim
figure in uniform to the two prospectors. Then his lips moved and he
growled an answer: "Passed here at sun-up."
"What did they camp here for? Where are they heading for? And why
did they leave you alone?" The questions came hard, and quick--like
shots from an automatic.
The man answered in confusion: "Camped here to trade. Why shouldn't
they leave me 'lone--wash y'u mean, leave 'lone, anyhow? They went
on down the crick. They camped here to trade, wash y'u s'pose----"
"Trade what?"
"Trade--wash y'u s'pose, trade? I got a tradin' license, ain't I?"
Connie's eyes swept the room. He pointed to a shelf: "Those shells,
Ick--take 'em all!"
The scout walked over to a shelf and began to take down boxes of
cartridges.
"You sold a lot of shells, didn't you?" flashed the boy. "When we
went up the river you had about two hundred boxes, now you have about
thirty."
"Well, wot if I did?"
Connie cut him short: "All right, boys, bring the shells and come on.
How about grub? Pack what we need down to the canoe."
"Hey! Don't I git paid?" whined "Soapy," who watched as the three
made up packs from the shelves.
"Requisitioned," snapped Connie.
"Sign a requisition, then," demanded "Soapy," who had risen to his
feet.
"I'll sign nothing!" exclaimed the boy, shaking his fist in the man's
face. "And what's more, I'm coming back here and tend to your
case--get out of my way!"
"All aboard, boys--come alive!" he cried and, pushing past the
swaying, blinking figure by the counter, made for the canoe.
On Lansing Creek, a mile above its mouth, the spur of a timbered
ridge terminates abruptly in a high promontory around which the creek
makes a sharp curve, forming a horseshoe bend. And upon this spur,
whose timber formed some slight protection from the bitter winds of
winter, a small band of the Brushwoods had set up their village of
tepees. They are a peaceful people, lazy and self-satisfied, living
upon game and fish, and the barter of fur. To supply their need for
firewood, lodge-poles, and timber for sleds and _caches_, the Indians
had cleared the trees from the ridge for a space of several hundred
yards between the village on the extreme end of the spur and the
mountains that towered upon the land side. And this was the village
the Mooseheads had undertaken to plunder.
Long before Ick Far beached the canoe at the mouth of the Lansing,
the sound of scattering shots reached the ears of its occupants.
"They've run onto th' Brushwoods!" exclaimed Toad. "They's a-goin'
to be some scrappin' along this here crick, an' if we aim to do any
good we'd better dive into it--listen at that!" Even as the man
spoke, the shots suddenly burst into a furious fusilade. Volley
after volley came rattling down the creek, and at the sound a strange
sense of elation possessed Connie Morgan, his heart felt light and
his small hands gripped tightly his carbine as he curbed a desire to
dash madly into the thick of the fray. Just one short mile away a
real battle was raging--a battle that was his to command, and that he
must win against fearful odds. The thought steadied his nerves and
his jaw clamped firm. The canoe was drawn from the water and
_cached_ in the thicket.
"They're a-wastin' shells!' exclaimed Tex Gordon.
"Dem droonk--'Soapy' White, she trade um de firewater," explained Ick
Far.
Connie nodded: "I knew it," he said, quietly. "That's why I told him
I would tend to his case later." He dug the butt of his carbine
viciously into the gravel. "I'll fix his clock! I'll take him down
to Dawson and he'll stand trial, not only for boot-legging, but for
murder--and I'll see to it that he gets a separate trial for every
person--white or red, that's killed or wounded in this fight! We've
been after him for a long time, and I guess what we've got on him now
will hold him for a while."
A short council was held and the four decided to slip through the
bush to a point opposite the spur, from whence the scout assured them
he could gain access to the village by means of an obscure foot trail
that zigzagged up the face of the cliff.
The three found it no easy task to follow Ick Far through the scrub,
dodging silently from bush to bush, making swift, low dashes across
open spaces, or flattening themselves among the rocks of the creek
bank. Nearly an hour was consumed in traversing the distance that
brought them to the crest of a low hill which commanded a view of the
village--or rather of the timber-crowned ridge where the village had
been. For no tepees were visible, evidently having been pulled down
to render a less conspicuous target for the bullets of the enemy, or
because the lodge-poles were needed to strengthen the barricade that
was being erected across the base of the horseshoe at the edge of the
clearing, upon the opposite edge of which the attacking party had
massed and was firing volley after volley with the evident intention
of intimidating the Brushwoods. The four onlookers noted with
satisfaction that the besieged Indians were not returning the fire,
but were working like beavers in the strengthening of their
barricade. So precipitous were the escarpments of the ridge upon the
three sides bounded by the creek that any attack from this quarter
was out of the question; and Ick Far pointed out the narrow foot
trail that showed as a faint tracery upon the face of the rock wall.
"Me go oop. Tell de Brushwood we com'. You stay here. I wave um
blanket, you com' oop."
Connie nodded: "Go ahead--and hurry. Before the Mooseheads find out
there is a path on this side."
Swift and silent as a shadow, the Indian scout made his way to the
creek, forded it, and began the ascent of the foot trail, while from
their position among the rocks of the hilltop, the three watched his
movements with breathless interest.
"Looks like a fly a-crawlin' up a wall," whispered Toad Jones.
"P-s-s-s-s-t," the sound hissed sharply between Tex Gordon's clenched
teeth, and his hand pressed Toad closer behind his rock. And not a
moment too soon, for there, not twenty yards distant, also intently
watching Ick Far's ascent, crouched two half-naked, paint-smeared
Mooseheads. Even as those on the hilltop looked, the savages, rifles
in hand, slipped noiselessly into the shelter of another rock and
shortened their range on the climbing scout by five yards. As Connie
drew back the hammer of his carbine, he noted the scowling faces and
the ugly, painted bodies--noted, too, the swift, gliding movements
that would carry them within easy range long before Ick Far could
possibly gain the top of the ridge. There was a soft movement beside
him, and two muffled 'clicks' told him that the prospectors also had
cocked their rifles.
[Illustration: "There, close at hand, crouched two half-naked,
paint-smeared Mooseheads."]
"Wait," whispered the boy, "don't shoot till you have to. I'm going
to give them a chance to surrender." He stood upright, carbine in
hand and, although the backs of the two Indians were, by this time,
almost directly toward him, both whirled on the instant. At the same
time, behind their rocks, the eyes of Tex Gordon and Toad Jones
squinted along the barrels of their rifles until the sights found the
exact centre of the great yellow circle that adorned the breast of
each Indian. For a moment the two bucks stared in astonishment at
the slight, uniformed figure that had seemingly sprung from the earth
itself, then, without warning, both rifles flew up--two reports
sounded as one, and two thin puffs of smoke dissolved into the
air--from the muzzles of the prospectors' rifles. One Indian pitched
forward and crashed heavily to the ground, where he lay without a
sound, but the other, dropping his rifle, clutched frantically at his
shoulder and staggered backward among the rocks.
"Better le' me finish him," pleaded Toad Jones. "A doggone skeeter
lit plumb on th' notch o' my hine sight jest as I pulled, er they'd a
be'n another good Injun--you bet!" But Connie shook his head.
"We'll take him with us. I want some information, and I guess Ick
Far can make him talk."
"Ye're th' doctor," the man replied, with reluctance, as they
approached the wounded Indian, who had sagged against an upstanding
rock.
"We won't need to tie that hand," grinned Toad, pointing to the
Indian's right arm which dangled loosely from the shoulder. "Come
along ye murderin' houn'!" he cried jerking the savage to his feet.
"An' no foolin', neither." As he talked, he produced a stout caribou
hide thong, which he knotted skilfully about the Indian's good wrist,
and deftly inserted a short stick into the knot. "Guess this here
little persuader'll break ye to lead all right," he remarked, as the
captive flinched under the pain of a tentative twist of the stick.
"Hullo! There's our frien' with his blanket!"
"Let's hike, then," urged Connie, stooping to recover the cartridges
from the body of the dead Indian. "Bring the rifles," he ordered.
"We may need 'em."
When the three reached the village with their prisoner, the
Brushwoods could scarcely be restrained from meting out swift
vengeance upon him--five members of the tribe having been killed and
a half-dozen wounded during the first attack. But Connie stood firm
for the protection of his captive, whom he turned over to Ick Far for
examination. Two hours later the scout reported:
"'Soapy' White, she ver' bad mans--_hyas kultus_. She sen' runner to
de Moosehead. Say: 'De Brushwood got um plent' skin hoi' over from
las' weenter.' Say: 'Com' an' tak' de skin an' run de Brushwood
'cross de montaine, an' tak' de village. Ver' mooch game--ver' mooch
fur where de Brushwood hunt.' Say: 'She giv' de Moosehead plent'
firewater.'
"De Moosehead she hav' ver' bad year. Too mooch no rabbit--too mooch
no feesh--too mooch no fur. Com' 'cross de montaine for run de
Brushwood out an' keel heem. 'Soapy,' White, she giv' de Moosehead
plent' firewater--plent' shell. He say de Brushwood don' trade wit'
heem no more--go down Yukon, trade on de A.C. store--das w'y 'Soapy'
White, she don' lak' de Brushwood no more.'
"I'll fix _him_!" exclaimed Connie, with blazing eyes. "But, first,
let's see how we stand here."
A hurried inspection of the barricade showed that, properly manned,
it would prove a very effective fort--constructed as it was, of
poles, and rocks, and newly-fallen trees. The fighting force Connie
counted to be nineteen, exclusive of the women, children, and old men.
The captured Indian said there had been fifty of his own tribe, but
that several had been drowned in the river after drinking liberally
of 'Soapy' White's liquor, and several more killed and wounded in the
first attack on the village.
"They've got us at least two to one," said Connie, "but we'll hold
'em off! We've got the fort!"
"Besides, an' accordin' to which," interrupted Toad Jones, "we got
the best end of it--they's twict as many fer us to shoot at. Ye kin
hit 'bout forty men a heap easier'n what ye kin twenty er nineteen.'
"'Cordin' to how the grub holds out," said Tex Gordon. "I reckon we
kin slip a man down the trail at night fer water. But, grub--that's
the main thing!" The man's words were cut short by a loud cry from
the front--a cry that brought the whole force of defenders to the
barricade with a rush. And then--a wild chorus of yells and savage
whoops from beyond the barrier--the crash and blaze of many rifles,
and the nasty spat and thud of bullets striking close.
_The Mooseheads were charging!_