Jolly Roger did not answer, but crawled through the hole and found the
sledge in the outer darkness. He heard Peter coming after him, and he
saw Porter's bloodless face in the illumination of the alcohol lamp,
where he waited to help him with the dunnage. In those seconds he
fought to get a grip on himself. A quarter of an hour ago he had
laughed at the thought of the law. Never had it seemed to be so far
away from him, and never had he been more utterly isolated from the
world. His mind was still a bit dazed by the thing that had happened.
The police had not trailed him. They had not ferreted him out, nor had
they stumbled upon him by accident. It was he who had gone out into the
night and deliberately dragged them in! Of all the trickery fate had
played upon him this was the least to be expected.
His mind began to work more swiftly as in darkness he cut the _babiche_
cordage that bound the patrol dunnage to the sledge. "N" Division, he
told himself, was away over in the Athabasca country. He had never
heard of Porter, nor of Superintendent Tavish, and inasmuch as the
outfit was evidently a special escort to Fort Churchill it was very
likely that Porter and his companions would not be thinking of outlaws,
and especially of Jolly Roger McKay. This was his one chance. To
attempt an escape through the blizzard was not only a desperate hazard.
It was death.
There were only two packs on the sledge, and these he passed through
the hole to Porter. A few moments later he was holding a flask of
liquor to the lips of the gray-bearded man, while the girl looked at
him with eyes that were widening as the snow-sting left them. Tavish
gulped, and his mittened hand closed on the girl's arm.
"I'm all right, Jo," he mumbled. "All right--"
His eyes met McKay's, and then took in the snow walls of the dug-out.
They were deep, piercing eyes, overhung by shaggy brows. Jolly Roger
felt the intentness of their gaze as he gave the girl a swallow of the
brandy, and then passed the flask to Porter.
"You have saved our lives," said Tavish, in a voice that was clearer.
"I don't just understand how it happened. I remember stumbling in the
darkness, and being unable to rise. I was behind the sledge. Porter and
Breault were dragging it, and Josephine, my daughter, was sheltered
under the blankets. After that--"
He paused, and Jolly Roger explained how it all had come about. He
pointed to Peter. It was the dog, he said. Peter had insisted there was
someone outside, and they had taken a chance by going in search of
them. He was John Cummings, a fox trapper, and the storm had caught him
fifty miles from his cabin. He was traveling without a dog-sledge, and
had only a pack-outfit.
Breault, the third man, had regained his wind, and was listening to
him. One look at his dark, thin face told McKay that he was the
wilderness man of the three. He was staring at Jolly Roger in a strange
sort of way. And then, as if catching himself, he nodded, and began
rubbing his frosted face with handfuls of snow.
Porter had thrown off his heavy coat, and was unpacking one of the
dunnage sacks. He and the girl seemed to have suffered less than the
other two. Jo, the girl, was looking at him. And then her eyes turned
to Jolly Roger. They were large, fine eyes, wide open and clear now.
There was something of splendid strength about her as she smiled at
McKay. She was not of the hysterical sort. He could see that.
"If we could have some hot soup," she suggested. "May we?"
There was gratitude in her eyes, which she made no attempt to express
in words. Jolly Roger liked her. And Peter crept up behind her, and
watched her as she followed Breault's example, and rubbed the cheeks of
the bearded man with snow.
"There's an alcohol stove in the other pack," said Breault, with his
hard, narrow eyes fixed steadily on Jolly Roger's face. "By the way,
what did you say your name was?"
"Cummings--John Cummings."
Breault made no answer. During the next half hour Jolly Roger felt
stealing over him a growing sense of uneasiness. They drank soup and
ate bannock. It grew warm, and the girl threw off the heavy fur garment
that enveloped her. Color returned into her cheeks. Her eyes were
bright, and in her voice was a tremble of happiness at finding warmth
and life where she had expected death. Porter's friendliness was almost
brotherly. He explained what had happened. Two rascally Chippewyans had
deserted them, stealing off into darkness and storm with both dog teams
and one of their sledges. After that they had fought on, seeking for a
drift into which they might dig a refuge. But the Barren was as smooth
as a table. They had shouted, and Miss Tavish had screamed--not because
they expected to find assistance--but on account of Tavish falling in
the storm, and losing himself. It was quite a joke, Porter thought,
that Superintendent Tavish, one of the iron men of the service, should
have given up the ghost so easily.
Tavish smiled grimly. They were all in good humor, and happy, with the
possible exception of Breault. Not once did he laugh or smile. Yet
Jolly Roger noted that each time he spoke the others were specially
attentive. There was something repressive and mysterious about the man,
and the girl would cut herself short in the middle of a laugh if he
happened to speak, and the softness of her mouth would harden in an
instant. He understood the significance of her gladness, and of
Porter's, for twice he saw their hands come together, and their fingers
entwine. And in their eyes was something which they could not hide when
they looked at each other. But Breault puzzled him. He did not know
that Breault was the best man-hunter in "N" Division, which reached
from Athabasca Landing to the Arctic Ocean, or that up and down the two
thousand-mile stretch of the Three River Country he was known as
_Shingoos_, the Ferret.
The girl fell asleep first that night, with her cheek on her father's
shoulder. Breault, the Ferret, rolled himself in a blanket, and
breathed deeply. Porter still smoked his pipe, and looked wistfully at
the pale face of Josephine Tavish. He smiled a bit proudly at McKay.
"She's mine," he whispered. "We're going to be married."
Jolly Roger wanted to reach over and grip his hand.
He nodded, a little lump coming in his throat.
"I know how you feel," he said. "When I heard her calling out there--it
made me think--of a girl down south."
"Down south?" queried Porter. "Why down south--if you care for her--and
you up here?"
McKay shrugged his shoulders. He had said too much. Neither he nor
Porter knew that Breault's eyes were half open, and that he was
listening.
Jolly Roger held up a hand, as if something in the wailing of the storm
had caught his attention.
"We'll have two or three days of this. Better turn in, Porter. I'm
going to dig out another room--for Miss Tavish. I'm afraid she'll need
the convenience of a private room before we're able to move. It's an
easy job--and passes the time away."
"I'll help," offered Porter.
For an hour they worked, using McKay's snowshoes as shovels. During
that hour Breault did not close his eyes. A curious smile curled his
thin lips as he watched Jolly Roger. And when at last Porter turned in,
and slept, the Ferret sat up, and stretched himself. McKay had finished
his room, and was beginning a tunnel which would lead as a back door
out of the drift, when Breault came in and picked up the snowshoe which
Porter had used.
"I'll take my turn," he said. "I'm a bit nervous, and not at all
sleepy, Cummings." He began digging into the snow. "Been long in this
country?" he asked.
"Three winters. It's a good red fox country, with now and then a silver
and a black."
Breault grunted.
"You must have met Cassidy, then," he said casually, without looking at
McKay. "Corporal Terence Cassidy. This is _his_ country."
Jolly Roger did not look up from his work of digging.
"Yes, I know him. Met him last winter. Red headed. A nice chap. I like
him. You know him?"
"Entered the service together," said Breault. "But he's unlucky. For
two or three years he has been on the trail of a man named McKay. Jolly
Roger, they call him--Jolly Roger McKay. Ever hear of him?"
Jolly Roger nodded.
"Cassidy told me about him when he was at my cabin. From what I've
heard I--rather like him."
"Who--Cassidy, or Jolly Roger?"
"Both."
For the first time the Ferret leveled his eyes at his companion. They
were mystifying eyes, never appearing to open fully, but remaining half
closed as if to conceal whatever thought might lie behind them. McKay
felt their penetration. It was like a cold chill entering into him,
warning him of a menace deadlier than the storm.
"Haven't any idea where one might come upon this Jolly Roger, have you?"
"No."
"You see, he thinks he killed a man down south. Well, he didn't. The
man lived. If you happen to see him at any time give him that
information, will you?"
Jolly Roger thrust his head and shoulders into the growing tunnel.
"Yes, I will."
He knew Breault was lying. And also knew that back of the narrow slits
of Breault's eyes was the cunning of a fox.
"You might also tell him the law has a mind to forgive him for sticking
up that free trader's post a few years ago."
Jolly Roger turned with his snowshoe piled high with a load of snow.
"I'll tell him that, too," he said, chuckling at the obviousness of the
other's trap. "What do you think my cabin is, Breault--a Rest for
Homeless Outlaws?"
Breault grinned. It was an odd sort of grin, and Jolly Roger caught it
over his shoulder. When he returned from dumping his load, Breault said:
"You see, we know this Jolly Roger fellow is spending the winter
somewhere up here. And Cassidy says there is a girl down south--"
Jolly Roger's face was hidden in the tunnel.
"--who would like to see him," finished Breault.
When McKay turned toward him the Ferret was carelessly lighting his
pipe.
"I remember--Cassidy told me about this girl," said Jolly Roger. "He
said--some day--he would trap this--this man--through the girl. So if I
happen to meet Jolly Roger McKay, and send him back to the girl, it
will help out the law. Is that it, Breault? And is there any reward
tacked to it? Anything in it for me?"
Breault was looking at him in the pale light of the alcohol lamp,
puffing out tobacco smoke, and with that odd twist of a smile about his
thin lips.
"Listen to the storm," he said. "I think it's getting worse--Cummings!"
Suddenly he held out a hand to Peter, who sat near the lamp, his bright
eyes fixed watchfully on the stranger.
"Nice dog you have, Cummings. Come here, Peter! Peter--Peter--"
Tight ringers seemed to grip at McKay's throat. He had not spoken
Peter's name since the rescue of Breault.
"Peter--Peter--"
The Ferret was smiling affably. But Peter did not move. He made no
response to the outstretched hand. His eyes were steady and
challenging. In that moment McKay wanted to hug him up in his arms.
The Ferret laughed.
"He's a good dog, a very good dog, Cummings. I like a one-man dog, and
I also like a one-dog man. That's what Jolly Roger McKay is, if you
ever happen to meet him. Travels with one dog. An Airedale, with
whiskers on him like a Mormon. And his name is Peter. Funny name for a
dog, isn't it?"
He faced the outer room, stretching his long arms above his head.
"I'm going to try sleep again, Cummings. Goodnight! And--Mother of
Heaven!--listen to the wind."
"Yes, it's a bad night," said McKay.
He looked at Peter when Breault was gone, and his heart was beating
fast. He could hear the wind, too. It was sweeping over the Barren more
fiercely than before, and the sound of it brought a steely glitter into
his eyes. This time he could not run away from the law. Flight meant
death. And Breault knew it. He was in a trap--a trap built by himself.
That is, if Breault had guessed the truth, and he believed he had.
There was only one way out--and that meant fight.
He went into the outer room for his pack and a blanket. He did not look
at Breault, but he knew the man's narrow eyes were following him. He
left the alcohol lamp burning, but in his own room, after he had spread
out his bed, he extinguished the light. Then, very quietly, he dug a
hole through the snow partition between the two rooms. He waited for
ten minutes before he thrust a finger-tip through the last thin crust
of snow. With his eye close to the aperture he could see Breault. The
Ferret was sitting up, and leaning toward Porter, who was sleeping an
arm's length away. He reached over, and touched him on the shoulder.
Jolly Roger widened the snow-slit another inch, straining his ears to
hear. He could see Tavish and the girl asleep. In another moment Porter
was sitting up, with the Ferret's hand gripping his arm warningly.
Breault motioned toward the inner room, and Porter was silent. Then
Breault bent over and began to whisper. Jolly Roger could hear only the
indistinct monotone of his voice. But he could see very clearly the
change that came into Porter's face. His eyes widened, and he stared
toward the inner room, making a movement as if to rouse Tavish and the
girl.
The Ferret stopped him.
"Don't get excited. Let them sleep."
McKay heard that much--and no more. For some time after that the two
men sat close together, conversing in whispers. There was an exultant
satisfaction in Porter's clean-cut face, as well as in Breault's. Jolly
Roger watched them until Breault extinguished the second lamp. Then he
lightly plugged the hole in the partition with snow, and reached out in
the darkness until his hand found Peter.
"They think they've got us, boy," he whispered, "They think they've got
us!"
Very quietly they lay for an hour. McKay did not sleep, and Peter was
wide awake. At the end of that hour Jolly Roger crept on his hands and
knees to the doorway and listened. One after another he picked out the
steady breathing of the sleepers. Then he began feeling his way around
the wall of his room until he came to a place where the snow was very
soft.
"An air-drift," he whispered to Peter, close at his shoulder. "We'll
fool 'em, boy. And we'll fight--if we have to."
He began worming his head and shoulders and body into the air-drift
like a gimlet. A foot at a time he burrowed himself through, heaving
his body up and down and sideways to pack the light snow, leaving a
round tunnel two feet in diameter behind him. Within an hour he had
come to the outer crust on the windward side of the big snow-dune. He
did not break through this crust, which was as tough as crystal-glass,
but lay quietly for a time and listened to the sweep of the wind
outside. It was warm, and very comfortable, and he had half-dozed off
before he caught himself back into wakefulness and returned to his
room. The mouth of his tunnel he packed with snow. After that he wound
the blanket about him and gave himself up calmly to sleep.
Only Peter lay awake after that. And it was Peter who roused Jolly
Roger in what would have been the early dawn outside the snow-dune.
McKay felt his restless movement, and opened his eyes. A faint light
was illumining his room, and he sat up. In the outer room the alcohol
lamp was burning again. He could hear movement, and voices that were
very low and indistinct. Carefully he dug out once more the little hole
in the snow wall, and widened the slit.
Breault and Tavish were asleep, but Porter was sitting up, and close
beside him sat the girl. Her coiled hair was loosened, and fallen over
her shoulders. There was no sign of drowsiness in her wide-open eyes as
they stared at the door between the two rooms. McKay could see her hand
clasping Porter's arm. Porter was talking, with his face so close to
her bent head that his lips touched her hair, and though Jolly Roger
could understand no word that was spoken he knew Porter was whispering
the exciting secret of his identity to Josephine Tavish. He could see,
for a moment, a shadow of protest in her face, he could hear the quick,
sibilant whisper of her voice, and Porter cautioned her with a finger
at her lips, and made a gesture toward the sleeping Tavish. Then his
fingers closed about her uncoiled hair as he drew her to him. McKay
watched the long kiss between them. The girl drew away quickly then,
and Porter tucked the blanket about her when she lay down beside her
father. After that he stretched out again beside Breault.
Jolly Roger guessed what had happened. The girl had awakened, a bit
nervous, and had roused Porter and asked him to relight the alcohol
lamp. And Porter had taken advantage of the opportunity to tell her of
the interesting discovery which Breault had made--and to kiss her.
McKay stroked Peter's scrawny neck, and listened. He could no longer
hear the storm, and he wondered if the fury of it was spent.
Every few minutes he looked through the slit in the snow wall. The last
time, half an hour after Porter had returned to his blanket, Josephine
Tavish was sitting up. She was very wide awake. McKay watched her as
she rose slowly to her knees, and then to her feet. She bent over
Porter and Breault to make sure they were asleep, and then came
straight toward the door of his room.
He lay back on his blanket, with the fingers of one hand gripped
closely about Peter.
"Be quiet, boy," he whispered. "Be quiet."
He could see the shutting out of light at his door as the girl stood
there, listening for his breathing. He breathed heavily, and before he
closed his eyes he saw Josephine Tavish coming toward him. In a moment
she was bending over him. He could feel the soft caress of her loose
hair on his face and hands. Then she knelt quietly down beside him,
stroking Peter with her hand, and shook him lightly by the shoulder.
"Jolly Roger!" she whispered. "Jolly Roger McKay!"
He opened his eyes, looking up at the white face in the gloom.
"Yes," he replied softly. "What is it, Miss Tavish?"
He could hear the choking breath in her throat as her fingers tightened
at his shoulder. She bent her face still nearer to him, until her hair
cluttered his throat and breast.
"You are--awake?"
"Yes."
"Then--listen to me. If you are Jolly Roger McKay you must get
away--somewhere. You must go before Breault awakens in the morning. I
think the storm is over--there is no wind--and if you are here when day
comes--"
Her fingers loosened. Jolly Roger reached out and somewhere in the
darkness he found her hand. It clasped his own--firm, warm, thrilling.
"I thank you for what you have done," she whispered. "But the law--and
Breault--they have no mercy!"
She was gone, swiftly and silently, and McKay looked through the slit
in the wall until she was with her father again.
In the gloom he drew Peter close to him.
"We're up against it again, _Pied-Bot_," he confided under his breath.
"We've got to take another chance."
He worked without sound, and in a quarter of an hour his pack was
ready, and the entrance to his tunnel dug out. He went into the outer
room then, where Josephine Tavish was awake. Jolly Roger pantomimed his
desire as she sat up. He wanted something from one of the packs. She
nodded. On his knees he fumbled in the dunnage, and when he rose to his
feet, facing the girl, her eyes opened wide at what he held in his
hand--a small packet of old newspapers her father was taking to the
factor at Fort Churchill. She saw the hungry, apologetic look in his
eyes, and her woman's heart understood. She smiled gently at him, and
her lips formed an unvoiced whisper of gratitude as he turned to go. At
the door he looked back. He thought she was beautiful then, with her
shining hair and eyes, and her lips parted, and her hands half reaching
out to him, as if in that moment of parting she was giving him courage
and faith. Suddenly she pressed the palms of her fingers to her mouth
and sent the kiss of benediction to him through the twilight glow of
the snow-room.
A moment later, crawling through his tunnel with Peter close behind
him, there was an exultant singing in Jolly Roger's heart. Again he was
fleeing from the law, but always, as Yellow Bird had predicted in her
sorcery, there were happiness and hope in his going. And always there
was someone to urge him on, and to take a pride in him, like Josephine
Tavish.
He broke through the dune-crust at the end of his tunnel and crawled
out into the thick, gray dawn of a barren-land day. The sky was heavy
overhead, and the wind had died out. It was the beginning of the brief
lull which came in the second day of the Great Storm.
McKay laughed softly as he sensed the odds against them.
"We'll be having the storm at our heels again before long, _Pied-Bot_,"
he said. "We'd better make for the timber a dozen miles south."
He struck out, circling the dune, so that he was traveling straight
away from the first hole he had cut through the shell of the drift.
From that door, made by the outlaw who had saved them, Josephine Tavish
watched the shadowy forms of man and dog until they were lost in the
gray-white chaos of a frozen world.