THE PURSUER ARRIVES
He was awakened by a man bending over him and holding a lighted match
to his face. Careless as usual of preserving his life, he did not
attempt to rise or defend himself, but simply gazed back indifferent
and a little bewildered. He did not recognise the man; he was an utter
stranger. As if wearied with an inspection which did not interest him,
he turned his eyes away, and found that the room had become dark. How
many hours he had slept, he could not calculate; perhaps nine or ten.
He wondered what had made the night return so quickly. He looked
toward the window, and saw that it was blinded with snow; and, as he
listened, could hear the roaring of the wind, and, in the lull which
followed, the rustling and settling down of the flakes. Then the match
went out, and neither of them could perceive the other's face. Granger
arose and pushed back the shutter of the stove, that so they might get
a little light. "I needn't ask you to make yourself at home," he said;
"you've done that already."
The stranger did not reply, but surveyed him closely all the while.
"You must have had good company out there to be so silent now that you
have arrived."
Then the man spoke. "What's your name?" he asked abruptly. "Is it
Granger?"
"I was always told so, and have as yet found no good reason for
believing otherwise."
"Then this is the store of Garnier, Parwin, and Wrath, to which I was
directed by Robert Pilgrim of God's Voice?"
"That is right, but I don't often have the pleasure of entertaining
guests from God's Voice."
The stranger paused in doubt, as though choosing the best words to
say; then he blurted out, "But you're a gentleman?"
"I hope so."
"An Oxford man?"
"Yes."
"What college?"
"Corpus."
"Did you row in the Eight?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. At what time?"
"When Corpus went up five places and bumped the House on the last
night."
"I was stroke in the 'Varsity boat that year, and rowed at six in the
Christ Church Eight that night."
"Then you must be Strangeways?"
"Yes, Corporal Strangeways of the Northwest Mounted Police, but
Strangeways of the Oxford boat at one time. I fancied I knew you; you
rowed at seven for Corpus, and it was you who won that race."
"I and seven others," laughed Granger; "but what brings you up here at
this time?"
"We'll talk about that later. At present I'm hungry; I've hardly had a
meal since I left God's Voice."
"Then you're travelling in haste?"
"Yes, in haste."
Granger set to work to prepare a meal, while Strangeways talked to him
of the Cornmarket, the Turl, and the Hinkseys, running over the
familiar geography for the sheer pleasure of recalling kindly Oxford
names. Presently he asked him if he remembered the little maid who had
served in the river-inn of the King's Arms at Sanford. Granger had had
a summer love-affair with that same maid, as had many a young
water-man before and after him. One quiet Sunday evening, when her
fickle passion had reached its short-lived height, he had even been
allowed the felicity of accompanying her to vespers at the quaint old
Norman Church, which lay snuggled away in woods behind the Thames.
They had returned to the inn by a roundabout way, through the meadows
beneath the twilight, speaking all manner of intense things, and, very
wonderfully, believing both themselves and their sayings to be
sincere. When he had entered his skiff and pushed out from the bank,
she had called him back and royally permitted him to give her his
first and, as it proved, only kiss. But he had not known that, and had
rowed elated Oxfordwards between the hayfields, dreaming his ecstasy
on into the future--when it had already achieved its climax, and
slipped out of his life. Since then it had come to seem very simple
and absurd, as do all love affairs, however august, which are lived
down--for no love affair was ever outlived. So, because he had been
fond of her, he was glad to listen to Strangeways, even when he
related her newer conquests over more recent undergrads, and her later
romantic history. By all accounts she was a modern Helen of Troy,
uncontaminate, forever fair and forever juvenile.
And all the while he was listening, Granger was planning by what
means he might detain Strangeways, and hazarding what progress
Spurling had made by this time in his escape. "A life for a life," he
thought; "and Spurling once saved my life. Until I have cancelled that
debt, even though Mordaunt has been slain, I will stand by him."
Throughout the winter months all meals were the same at Murder Point,
consisting of black tea, salt bacon, and bannocks, which are a kind of
hard biscuit, made of flour and water mixed to a thick paste and then
baked. This diet becomes pretty monotonous, but is the traveller's
universal fare in Keewatin. In those far regions men are not
particular how or what they eat; of necessity they abandon the
refinements of civilisation as needless and cumbrous. To-day, however,
partly to protract his stay and so give Spurling time, partly to
assert his waning gentility, the memory of which in its heyday
Strangeways shared, he attempted to be lavish, to set a table, and to
entertain. For cloth he spread a dress-length of gaudy muslin, such as
Indians purchase for their squaws. He opened some tins of canned goods
that he might provide his guest with more than one course. He built up
his fire, and commenced to cook. All this used up time; and the
expending of time was what he most desired.
When the meal was finished Strangeways rose up restlessly, as though
he had just remembered his errand, and went to the door to see what
progress the storm had made. The moment the door was opened the wind
swept in, driving a fall of snow before it.
"It seems to me," said Granger, "that you're going to be snow-bound
for a time. This'll make travelling dangerous, for the thaw has
already weakened the ice in places and now the snow'll cover them
over, making them appear safe. It's strange, for blizzards don't often
happen so late as this."
"Well, there's one comfort," said Strangeways, "it's the same for all
alike; if I'm delayed, so is someone else."
Granger turned his back on him, and walked over to the window where he
stood tapping on the glass, attempting to dislodge the snow which had
spread itself out like a blanket across the panes. "Poor devil," he
said, "I pity him, whoever he is. He can find no place of shelter in
all the three hundred and twenty miles which stretch between God's
Voice and Crooked Creek, unless he comes here or falls in with some
trapper's camp."
"Then you have had no one here lately?"
"No, I haven't seen an Indian for over a month. They don't visit me so
late in the winter as this; they wait for the open season, when they
can bring in their furs by water."
"But the man I'm speaking of is white. He drives a team of five grey
huskies, the leader of which has a yellow face and a patch of
brindled-brown upon its right hindquarters. Haven't you seen such an
one go by within the last twenty-four hours?"
Granger shook his head; "Perhaps you've passed him on the way," he
suggested; "if he knew that you were following him, he may have dodged
you purposely and doubled back."
"He knew all right; it was because he knew that I was following that
he fled. I can hardly have passed him, for he was seen by a half-breed
ten miles from God's Voice, and I've travelled slowly and kept a
careful watch between there and here. Besides I tracked his trail to
within an hour's journey of the Point, until the snow came down and
obliterated it. He was going weakly at the last; both man and dogs
must have been spent."
"Then he must be somewhere to the westward, between the spot where you
lost his trail and here."
"Perhaps, but the argument against that is that his trail was at least
twelve hours old. Anyhow, I shall have to wait until this blizzard is
over. During that time he may struggle in from the west, or, if he has
gone by, may be driven back here for shelter by the gale."
Granger had not thought of that contingency, that Spurling might be
driven back by the weather, might push open the door at any moment and
give him the lie before Strangeways. Perhaps a look of fear passed
across his face, which betrayed him. At any rate, the next thing he
heard was Strangeways, saying to him in a careless voice, "Of course,
between gentlemen it is scarcely necessary to ask you whether you are
telling the truth!"
"It is scarcely necessary."
"Then I beg your pardon for asking."
"You needn't. You've got to do your duty irrespective of caste;
whatever I once was, you can see for yourself what I am."
"Yes, a gentleman down on his luck; but still a gentleman. Strange how
one gets knocked about by life, isn't it? I little thought when I
caught a glimpse of you, leaning on your oar exhausted at the end of
that race, that the next time we should meet would be up here. It's
curious the things a fellow remembers. Our boats were alongside, just
off the Merton barge; the first thing I saw when I recovered and sat
up on my slide was your face, deadly pale, almost within hand-stretch.
I don't recall ever to have seen you again until I struck that match
an hour ago and held it to you, and you opened your eyes; then it all
came back. When you were sleeping you looked haggard, just about the
same as you did then. If I'd seen you awake, I don't suppose I should
have remembered. . . . I didn't even know where Keewatin was in those
days. If anyone had told me that it was a village near Jericho I
should have believed him. I daresay you were nearly as ignorant; and
now we're here in your shack."
Granger, anxious to keep Strangeway's attention from his pursuit, and
his own thoughts occupied, inquired, "And what brought you into the
Northwest Territories?"
"Oh, the usual thing--a girl. She was ward to my father, and was to
inherit a considerable property when she came of age. I was in love
with her, and my father was keen that I should marry her; there was
only one hindrance, that her opinion didn't coincide with ours. I
found out that my father was trying to break her spirit, and force her
to his will. I couldn't allow that; so, having nothing better to do, I
left home and came to Canada for a while. Mind you, I'm not condemning
my father; he thought that he was doing the best for both our sakes.
But I wish he'd left us alone; if he had, I daresay it would have come
out all right. She was one of those girls of whom the physiognomists
say, 'Can be led by kindness, but cannot be driven.' The moment she
was ordered to do a thing, which in the ordinary course of events she
might have chosen to do of her own free will, she refused and hated
it.
"When I got to Montreal I was confronted by that stupid superstition
of the Canadians, that every young Englishman who has had a better
education than themselves, and is possessed of a private income from
the old country, must be a remittance-man and a ne'er-do-well--that
he's been sent out because he wasn't wanted by his family. I tried to
get employment; not that I needed it, but because I wanted to work.
The moment I opened my lips and didn't speak dialect or slang, and
displayed hands which were not workman's hands, I was shown out. So I
drifted west to Calgary and, after doing a little ranching there,
enlisted in the Mounted Police."
"Do you like it?"
"Oh, yes, it's rather a lark, arresting the people who at first
affected to despise you. I can always keep myself cheerful by the
humour of that. If you've lost your sense of the ridiculous, you'd
better join the Northwest Mounted Police--for an Englishman the cure's
certain."
"And how about the girl?"
"She did a Gilbert and Sullivan trick. After I'd left home my father
guessed the reason of my departure, and instead of giving her a rest,
redoubled his efforts to make her marry me, that so he might bring me
back. He was fond of both of us; we'd been brought up together, and he
couldn't bear the idea of either of us being separated from himself.
He made an awful mess of things, poor old gentleman; he persecuted her
with his arguments to such an extent that one morning he woke up and
found that she had vanished. He made all sorts of inquiries, but to
the day of his death could never get any news of her whereabouts."
Strangeways paused and commenced to light his pipe. Granger, who had
become interested in the story, waited a minute for him to proceed,
but when he had kindled his tobacco and still sat smoking in silence,
"Well, and what next?" he asked.
"That is all," said Strangeways; "now tell me about yourself."
"I went into the Klondike with the gold-rush of nearly five years ago.
I travelled with a man named Spurling, and a young chap named Jervis
Mordaunt, whom we chummed up with in our passage over the Skaguay." He
was conscious that Strangeways had jerked out his foot and was looking
hard at him. He paid no attention to that, but proceeded leisurely
with his tale. He conceived that it would answer his purpose better,
in order that he might make the corporal unsuspicious of his share in
Spurling's escape, to speak of him in a hostile manner, and to mention
all the small and private faults which he could place to his
discredit. He told a story of personal disputes between himself and
his partners over the working of claims, which left the impression
that Spurling and Mordaunt had always sided together against himself,
and that finally he, getting sick of the climate, and quarrellings,
and his continuous bad luck, had come outside, travelled to Winnipeg,
and taken service with Garnier, Parwin, and Wrath, because he was in
danger of starving. Of El Dorado, or his real reason for leaving the
Yukon, he said nothing.
When he had ended, Strangeways, who had never for a second removed his
gaze, inquired in a hoarse, strained voice, "And this man Mordaunt,
what was he like?"
"Oh, he was a slim little fellow; we nicknamed him 'The Girl' because
of his ways, and because he was so slight."
"How old was he?"
"He couldn't have been more than eighteen when we first met him, for
he never had to shave."
"Did he ever tell you anything about himself, where he came from, who
were his family, or anything like that?"
"Not that I remember; he was always very close about himself. But what
makes you ask these questions? Do you think that you recognise him?"
Strangeways rose up and paced the room, betraying his agitation, but
when he spoke his voice was level and restrained. "By God, I hope
not," he said.
Every moment Granger dreaded that he would hear him say that Mordaunt
was dead, and yet he wanted certainty. He watched Strangeways pacing
up and down, and longed to question him, yet was fearful that in so
doing he would betray his own secret. At last he could bear the
suspense no longer; that regular walking to and fro tortured him, it
was like the constant swinging of a pendulum and made him giddy to
look at. When he spoke, it was in a voice so shrill that it surprised
himself.
"Tell me once and for all," he cried, "has anything happened to him?
Is he dead?"
Strangeways halted, and regarded him with a look half-stern,
half-compassionate.
"As for Spurling, you hated him, did you not?" he inquired.
Granger clenched his hands and his voice trembled. "I hated him so
much," he said, "that there were times when I would gladly have struck
him dead."
"Then, why didn't you?"
Granger started; the question was spoken so fiercely, and was so
searching and direct. It aroused him to a sense of his danger, and
helped him to recover himself.
"In the first place you would have hanged me, and in the second there
was Mordaunt." As soon as he had said it, he knew that he had made a
slip.
"And why Mordaunt?"
He hesitated a minute, gathering himself together. He could feel the
scrutiny of Strangeways' eyes and was conscious that he was breathing
hard.
The question was repeated, "And why Mordaunt?"
"Because Mordaunt was such a clean fellow that I couldn't do anything
shabby in his presence," he said.
"How clean?" Strangeways persisted.
"Why, in every way; he was so honourable."
"But I thought you said just now that he always sided with Spurling
when it came to a dispute?"
"So he did in a sense. He never seemed to think that the thing we
quarrelled about was worth while, and treated it all with a well-bred
contempt. Spurling was usually the one who was unjust, and I the one
who complained; so I was usually the one to start the wrangle.
Therefore, though he despised Spurling, he always seemed to blame me
for my pettiness."
Strangeways turned on him his honest, manly gaze, as if he were about
to ask again, "Is that the truth?" But he did not say it. Granger felt
a cur for lying, but he was determined to fight for Spurling's life,
and, if that were necessary, for his own revenge.
"And you have not seen Spurling go by the Point?" asked Strangeways.
"No." He said it quite ordinarily, as if he were answering a
commonplace. Then he realised that he had been caught in a trap and
had not manifested enough surprise. He slowly raised up his eyes,
shame-facedly, like a schoolboy detected cribbing, when the master
steals up behind.
"I'm afraid, after all, that you are not a gentleman," was all that
Strangeways said.
Granger shrank back and flushed as if he had been struck across the
face; he did not attempt to defend himself or expostulate. The wind
had died down outside; it was evident that the storm had spent itself.
In the silence which followed he could hear the padding steps of the
huskies going round the house, and the sound of them sniffing about
the door. Strangeways, who had been fastening on his snowshoes
preparatory to departure, walked across the room and raised the latch.
He stepped out, leaving the door open behind him. A bar of moonlight
leapt instantly inside, as it had been a fugitive who had been kept
long waiting. Then he heard the voice of Strangeways calling,
"Granger, Granger."
He rose up hurriedly, thinking that perhaps Spurling had been driven
back by the blizzard and was returning to his danger. When he reached
the threshold he saw only this--the moon tossing restlessly in a
cloudy sky, shining above a shadowy land of white; Strangeways
standing twenty paces distant with his back towards him; and, seated
on their haunches between Strangeways and the threshold, five lank
grey huskies, one of which had a patch of brindled-brown upon its
right hindquarters and a yellow face.