The Eskimos were advancing at a trot now over the open space. Philip
was amazed at their number. There were at least a hundred, and his
heart choked with a feeling of despair even as he pulled the trigger
for his first shot. He had seen the effect of Olaf's shot, and
following the Swede's instructions aimed for his man in the nearest
group behind the main line. He did not instantly see the result, as a
puff of smoke shut out his vision, but a moment later, aiming again, he
saw a dark blotch left in the snow. From his end of the crevice Olaf
had seen the man go down, and he grunted his approbation. There were
five of the groups bearing tree trunks for battering-rams, and on one
of these Philip concentrated the six shots in his rifle. Four of the
tree-bearers went down, and the two that were left dropped their burden
and joined those ahead of them. Until Philip stepped back to reload his
gun he had not noticed Celie. She was close at his side, peering
through the gun-hole at the tragedy out on the plain. Once before he
had been astounded by the look in her face when they had been
confronted by great danger, and as his fingers worked swiftly in
refilling the magazine of his rifle he saw it there again. It was not
fear, even now. It was a more wonderful thing than that. Her wide-open
eyes glowed with a strange, dark luster; in the center of each of her
cheeks was a vivid spot of color, and her lips were parted slightly, so
that he caught the faintest gleam of her teeth. Wonderful as a fragile
flower she stood there with her eyes upon him, her splendid courage and
her faith in him flaming within her like a fire.
And then he heard Anderson's voice:
"They're behind the ridge. We got eight of them."
In half a dozen places Philip had seen where bullets had bored the way
through the cabin, and leaning his gun against the wall, he sprang to
Celie and almost carried her behind the bunk that was built against the
logs.
"You must stay here," he cried. "Do you understand! HERE!"
She nodded, and smiled. It was a wonderful smile--a flash of tenderness
telling him that she knew what he was saying, and that she would obey
him. She made no effort to detain him with her hands, but in that
moment--if life had been the forfeit--Philip would have stolen the
precious time in which to take her in his arms. For a space he held her
close to him, his lips crushed to hers, and faced the wall again with
the throb of her soft breast still beating against his heart. He
noticed Armin standing near the door, his hand resting on a huge club
which, in turn, rested on the floor. Calmly he was waiting for the
final rush. Olaf was peering through the gun-hole again. And then came
what he had expected--a rattle of fire from the snow-ridge. The
PIT-PIT-PIT of bullets rained against the cabin in a dull tattoo.
Through the door came a bullet, sending a splinter close to Armin's
face. Almost in the same instant a second followed it, and a third came
through the crevice so close to Philip that he felt the hissing breath
of it in his face. One of the dogs emitted a wailing howl and flopped
among its comrades in uncanny convulsions.
Olaf staggered back, and faced Philip. There was no trace of the
fighting grin in his face now. It was set like an iron mask.
"GET DOWN!" he shouted. "Do you hear, GET DOWN!" He dropped on his
knees, crying out the warning to Armin in the other's language.
"They've got enough guns to make a sieve of this kennel if their
ammunition holds out--and the lower logs are heaviest. Flatten yourself
out until they stop firing, with your feet toward 'em, like this," and
he stretched himself out on the floor, parallel with the direction of
fire.
In place of following the Swede's example Philip ran to Celie. Half way
a bullet almost got him, flipping the collar of his shirt. He dropped
beside her and gathered her up completely in his arms, with his own
body between her and the fire. A moment later he thanked God for the
protection of the bunk. He heard the ripping of a bullet through the
saplings and caught distinctly the thud of it as the spent lead dropped
to the floor. Celie's head was close on his breast, her eyes were on
his face, her soft lips so near he could feel their breath. He kissed
her, unbelieving even then that the end was near for her. It was
monstrous--impossible. Lead was finding its way into the cabin like
raindrops. He heard the Swede's voice again, crying thickly from the
floor:
"Hug below the lower log. You've got eight inches. If you rise above
that they'll get you." He repeated the warning to Armin.
As if to emphasize his words there came a howl of agony from another of
the dogs.
Still closer Philip held the girl to him. Her hands had crept
convulsively to his neck. He crushed his face down against hers, and
waited. It came to him suddenly that Blake must be reckoning on this
very protection which he was giving Celie. He was gambling on the
chance that while the male defenders of the cabin would be wounded or
killed Celie would be sheltered until the last moment from their fire.
If that was so, the firing would soon cease until Blake learned results.
Scarcely had he made this guess when the fusillade ended. Instead of
rifle-fire there came a sudden strange howl of voices and Olaf sprang
to his feet. Philip had risen, when the Swede's voice came to him in a
choking cry. Prepared for the rush he had expected, Olaf was making an
observation through the gun-crevice. Suddenly, without turning his
head, he yelled back at them:
"Good God--it's Bram--Bram Johnson!"
Even Celie realized the thrilling import of the Swede's excited words.
BRAM JOHNSON! She was only a step behind Philip when he reached the
wall. With him she looked out. Out of that finger of forest they were
coming--Bram and his wolves! The pack was free, spreading out
fan-shape, coming like the wind! Behind them was Bram--a wild and
monstrous figure against the whiteness of the plain, bearing in his
hand a giant club. His yell came to them. It rose above all other
sound, like the cry of a great beast. The wolves came faster, and then--
The truth fell upon those in the cabin with a suddenness that stopped
the beating of their hearts.
Bram Johnson and his wolves were attacking the Eskimos!
From the thrilling spectacle of the giant mad-man charging over the
plain behind his ravenous beasts Philip shifted his amazed gaze to the
Eskimos. They were no longer concealing themselves. Palsied by a
strange terror, they were staring at the onrushing horde and the
shrieking wolf-man. In those first appalling moments of horror and
stupefaction not a gun was raised or a shot fired. Then there rose from
the ranks of the Kogmollocks a strange and terrible cry, and in another
moment the plain between the forest and the snow-ridge was alive with
fleeing creatures in whose heavy brains surged the monstrous thought
that they were attacked not by man and beast, but by devils. And in
that same moment it seemed that Bram Johnson and his wolves were among
them. From man to man the beasts leapt, driven on by the shrieking
voice of their master; and now Philip saw the giant mad-man overtake
one after another of the running figures, and saw the crushing force of
his club as it fell. Celie swayed back from the wall and stood with her
hands to her face. The Swede sprang past her, flung back the bar to the
door, and opened it. Philip was a step behind him. Prom the front of
the cabin they began firing, and man after man crumpled down under
their shots. If Bram and his wolves sensed the shooting in the ferocity
of their blood-lust they paid no more attention to it than to the cries
for mercy that rose chokingly out of the throats of their enemies. In
another sixty seconds the visible part of it was over. The last of the
Kogmollocks disappeared into the edge of the forest. After them went
the wolf-man and his pack.
Philip faced his companion. His gun was hot--and empty. The old grin
was in Olaf's face. In spite of it he shuddered.
"We won't follow," he said. "Bram and his wolves will attend to the
trimmings, and he'll come back when the job is finished. Meanwhile
we'll get a little start for home, eh? I'm tired of this cabin. Forty
days and nights--UGH! it was HELL. Have you a spare pipeful of tobacco,
Phil? If you have--let's see, where did I leave off in that story about
Princess Celie and the Duke of Rugni?"
"The--the--WHAT?"
"Your tobaeco, Phil!"
In a dazed fashion Philip handed his tobacco pouch to the Swede.
"You said--Princess Celie--the Duke of Rugni--"
Olaf nodded as he stuffed his pipe bowl.
"That's it. Armin is the Duke of Rugni, whatever Rugni is. He was
chased off to Siberia a good many years ago, when Celie was a kid, that
somebody else could get hold of the Dukedom. Understand? Millions in
it, I suppose. He says some of Rasputin's old friends were behind it,
and that for a long time he was kept in the dungeons of the fortress of
St. Peter and St. Paul, with the Neva River running over his head. The
friends he had, most of them in exile or chased out of the country,
thought he was dead, and some of these friends were caring for Celie.
Just after Rasputin was killed, and before the Revolution broke out,
they learned Armin was alive and dying by inches somewhere up on the
Siberian coast. Celie's mother was Danish--died almost before Celie
could remember; but some of her relatives and a bunch of Russian exiles
in London framed up a scheme to get Armin back, chartered a ship,
sailed with Celie on board, and--"
Olaf paused to light his pipe.
"And they found the Duke," he added. "They escaped with him before they
learned of the Revolution, or Armin could have gone home with the rest
of the Siberian exiles and claimed his rights. For a lot of reasons
they put him aboard an American whaler, and the whaler missed its plans
by getting stuck in the ice for the winter up in Coronation Gulf. After
that they started out with dogs and sledge and guides. There's a lot
more, but that's the meat of it, Phil. I'm going to leave it to you to
learn Celie's language and get the details first-hand from her. But
she's a right enough princess, old man. And her Dad's a duke. It's up
to you to Americanize 'em. Eh, what's that?"
Celie had come from the cabin and was standing at Philip's side,
looking up into his face, and the light which Olaf saw unhidden in her
eyes made him laugh softly:
"And you've got the job half done, Phil. The Duke may go back and raise
the devil with the people who put him in cold storage, but Lady Celie
is going to like America. Yessir, she's going to like it better'n any
other place on the face of the earth!"
It was late that afternoon, traveling slowly southward over the trail
of the Coppermine, when they heard far behind them the wailing cry of
Bram Johnson's wolves. The sound came only once, like the swelling
surge of a sudden sweep of wind, yet when they camped at the beginning
of darkness Philip was confident the madman and his pack were close
behind them. Utter exhaustion blotted out the hours for Celie and
himself, while Olaf, buried in two heavy Eskimo coats he had foraged
from the field of battle, sat on guard through the night. Twice in the
stillness of his long vigil he heard strange cries. Once it was the cry
of a beast. The second time it was that of a man.
The second day, with dogs refreshed, they traveled faster, and it was
this night that they camped in the edge of timber and built a huge
fire. It was such a fire as illumined the space about them for fifty
paces or more, and it was into this light that Bram Johnson stalked, so
suddenly and so noiselessly that a sharp little cry sprang from Celie's
lips, and Olaf and Philip and the Duke of Rugni stared in wide-eyed
amazement. In his right hand the wolf-man bore a strange object. It was
an Eskimo coat, tied into the form of a bag, and in the bottom of this
improvision was a lump half the size of a water pail. Bram seemed
oblivious of all presence but that of Celie. His eyes were on her alone
as he advanced and with a weird sound in his throat deposited the
bundle at her feet. In another moment he was gone. The Swede rose
slowly from where he was sitting, and speaking casually to Celie, took
the wolf-man's gift up in his hands. Philip observed the strange look
in his face as he turned his back to Celie in the firelight and opened
the bag sufficiently to get a look inside. Then he walked out into the
darkness, and a moment later returned without the bundle, and with a
laugh apologized to Celie for his action.
"No need of telling her what it was," he said to Philip then. "I
explained that it was foul meat Bram had brought in as a present. As a
matter of fact it was Blake's head. You know the Kogmollocks have a
pretty habit of pleasing a friend by presenting him with the head of a
dead enemy. Nice little package for her to have opened, eh?"
After all, there are some very strange happenings in life, and the
adventurers of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police come upon their
share. The case of Bram Johnson, the mad wolf-man of the Upper Country,
happened to be one of them, and filed away in the archives of the
Department is a big envelope filled with official and personal
documents, signed and sworn to by various people. There is, for
instance, the brief and straightforward deposition of Corporal Olaf
Anderson, of the Fort Churchill Division, and there is the longer and
more detailed testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Raine and the Duke of
Rugni; and attached to these depositions is a copy of an official
decision pardoning Bram Johnson and making of him a ward of the great
Dominion instead of a criminal. He is no longer hunted. "Let Bram
Johnson alone" is the word that had gone forth to the man-hunters of
the Service. It is a wise and human judgment. Bram's country is big and
wild. And he and his wolves still hunt there under the light of the
moon and the stars.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Golden Snare, by James Oliver Curwood