MR. ZACHARY SMITH SMOKES
It was the third morning of the travellers' sojourn in Mr. Smith's
dugout. Two long idle days had been spent in the foetid atmosphere of
the trapper's half-buried house. During their enforced stay neither
Grey nor his subordinates had learnt much of their reticent host. It
is doubtful if they had troubled themselves much about him. He had
greeted them with a sort of indifferent hospitality, and they were
satisfied. It was not in the nature of their work to question the
characters of those whom they encountered upon their journey. To all
that he had Mr. Zachary Smith had made them welcome; they could expect
no more, they needed no more. Now the day had arrived for their
departure, for the storm had subsided and the sun was shining with all
its wintry splendour.
The three men leisurely devoured an early morning breakfast.
Mr. Smith was quite cheerful. He seemed to be labouring under some
strange excitement. He looked better, too, since the advent of his
guests. Perhaps it was the result of the ample supplies of canned
provisions which the two men had lavished unsparingly upon him. His
face was less cadaverous; the deep searing furrows were less
pronounced. Altogether there was a marked improvement in this solitary
dweller in the wild. Now he was discussing the prospects of the
weather, whilst he partook liberally of the food set before him.
"These things aren't like most storms," he said. "They blow themselves
out and have done with it. They don't come back on you with a change
of wind. That isn't the way of the blizzard. We've got a clear spell
of a fortnight and more before us--with luck. Now, which way may you
be taking, gentlemen? Are you going to head through the mountains for
the main trail, or are you going to double on your tracks?"
"We are going back," said Grey, with unpleasant emphasis. Any allusion
to his mistake of the road annoyed him.
Chillingwood turned his head away and hid a smile.
"I think you will do well," replied the trapper largely. "I know these
hills, and I should be inclined to hark back to where you missed the
trail. I hope to cover twenty miles myself to-day."
"Your traps will be buried, I should say," suggested Robb.
"I'm used to that," replied the tall man quietly. "Guess I shan't have
much difficulty with 'em." He permitted himself the suspicion of a
smile.
Grey drew out his pipe and leisurely loaded it. Robb followed suit.
Mr. Zachary Smith pushed his tin pannikin away from before him and
leaned back.
"Going to smoke?" he asked. "Guess I'll join you. No, not your plug,
thanks. I'm feeling pretty good. My weed'll do me. You don't fancy to
try it?"
"T. and B.'s good enough for me," said Grey, with a smile. "No, I
won't experiment."
Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.
"Can I?"
Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.
"Guess not, thanks. What's good enough for my chief is good enough for
me."
The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide pouch of native
workmanship. He emptied out a little pile of greenish-brown flakes
into the palm of his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff,
suggestive of discoloured bran. This he poured into the bowl of a
well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which he carefully and with
accuracy adjusted into the corner of his mouth.
"If you ever chance to have the experience I have had in these
mountains, gentlemen," he then went on slowly, as gathering into the
palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and
fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, "I think you'll find the
use of the weed which grows on this hillside," with a jerk of his head
upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, "has
its advantages."
"Maybe," said Grey contemptuously.
"I doubt it," said Robb, with a pleasant smile.
The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe and emitted a cloud of
pungent smoke from between his lips. The others had lit up. But the
odour of the trapper's weed quickly dominated the atmosphere. He
talked rapidly now.
"You folks who travel the main trails don't see much of what is going
on in the mountains--the real life of the mountains," he said. "You
have no conception of the real dangers which these hills contain. Yes,
sir, they're hidden from the public eye, and only get to be known
outside by reason of the chance experience of the traveller who
happens to lose his way, but is lucky enough to escape the pitfalls
with which he finds himself surrounded. I could tell you some queer
yarns of these hills."
"Travellers' tales," suggested Grey, with a yawn and a disparaging
smile. "I have heard some."
"Yes," said Robb, "there are queer tales afloat of adventures
encountered by travellers journeying from the valley to the coast. But
they're chiefly confined to wayside robbery, and are of a very sordid,
everyday kind. No doubt your experiences are less matter-of-fact and
more romantic. By Jove, I feel jolly comfy. Not much like turning
out."
"That's how it takes me," said Smith quietly, but with a quick glance
at the speaker. "But idleness won't boil my pot. It's a remarkable
thing that I've felt wonderfully energetic these last few days, and
now that I have to turn out I should prefer to stop where I am. I
s'pose it's human nature."
He gazed upon his audience with a broad smile.
At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated the thick sides
of the dugout. Rainy-Moon was preparing for the start. Doubtless the
brilliant change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers
of the north.
"That's curious-smelling stuff you're smoking," said Grey, rousing
himself with an effort after a moment's dead silence. "What do you
call it?"
"Can't say--a weed," said Zachary Smith, glancing down his nose towards
the bowl of his pipe. "Not bad, is it? Smells of almonds--tastes like
nutty sherry."
Grey stifled a yawn.
"I feel sleepy, d----d sleepy. Wonder if Rainy-Moon has got the sleigh
loaded."
Smith emitted another dense cloud of smoke from between his pursed
lips; he seemed wrapt in the luxurious enjoyment of his smoke. Robb
Chillingwood's eyelids were drooping, and his pipe had gone out. Quite
suddenly the trapper's eyes were turned on the face of Grey, and the
smoke from his pipe was chiefly directed towards him.
"There's time enough yet," he said quietly. "Half-an-hour more or less
won't make much difference to you on the road. You were talking of
travellers' tales, and I reckon you were thinking of fairy yarns that
some folks think it smart to spin. Well, maybe those same stories have
some foundation in fact, and ain't all works of imagination. Anyhow,
my experience has taught me never to disbelieve until I've some good
sound grounds for doing so."
He paused and gazed with a far-off look at the opposite wall. Then a
shadowy smile stole over his face, and he went on. His companions'
heads had drooped slowly forward, and their eyes were heavy with
sleep. Grey was fighting against the drowsiness by jerking his head
sharply upwards, but his eyes would close in spite of his efforts.
"Well, I never thought that I'd get caught napping," continued Smith,
with a chuckle. "I thought I knew these regions well enough, but I
didn't. I lost my way, too, and came near to losing my life----"
He broke off abruptly as Robb Chillingwood slowly rolled over on
his side and began to snore loudly. Then Smith turned back to Leslie
Grey, and leaning forward, so that his face was close to that of
the officer, blew clouds of the pungent smoke right across the
half-stupefied man's mouth and nostrils.
"I lost other things," he then went on meditatively, "but not my life.
I lost that which was more precious to me. I lost gold--gold! I lost
the result of many weary months of toil. I had hoarded it up that I
might go down to the east and buy a nice little ranch, and settle down
into a comfortable, respectable man of property. I didn't even wait
until the spring opened so that I could take the river route. No, that
wasn't my way, because I knew it would cost a lot of money and I
wasn't overburdened with wealth. I had just enough----"
He puffed vigorously at his pipe. Grey's head was now hanging forward
and his chin rested on his chest.
There came the sound of Rainy-Moon's voice adjuring the dogs outside
the door of the dugout. The trapper's eyes flashed evilly in the
direction of the unconscious Indian.
"----to do what I wanted," he resumed. "No more--no less; and I set
out on foot." He was anxiously watching for Grey's collapse. "Yes, I
was going to tramp to the sea-coast through these mountains. I hit the
wrong trail, decoyed by a false track carefully made by those who
waited for me in these hills."--Grey was swaying heavily and his
breathing was stertorous.--"I met my fate and was robbed of my gold.
I was drugged--as you poor fools are being drugged now. When it was
too late I discovered how it was done, and determined to do the same
thing by the first victim that fell into my clutches. I tried the weed
and soon got used to its fumes. Then I waited--waited. I had set my
decoy at the cross-roads, and you--you--came."
As the trapper ceased speaking Grey slowly rolled over, insensible.
In a moment the watching man was upon his feet. His whole face was
transfigured. Alertness was in every movement, in every flash of his
great eyes. He moved quickly across the floor of the hut and took two
shallow pannikins from the sack which lay upon the floor, dropped some
of the flaky weed into the bottom of each one, and then from the stove
he scraped some coals of fire into them. The fire set the dry weed
smouldering, and the thick smoke rose heavily from the two tins. These
he placed upon the ground in such a position that his hard-breathing
victims should thoroughly inhale the fumes. Thus he would make doubly
sure of them.
This done he stood erect and gazed for some seconds at the result of
his handiwork; he was satisfied, but there was no look of pleasure on
his face. He did not look like a man of naturally criminal instincts.
There was nothing savage about his expression, or even callous. His
look merely seemed to say that he had set himself this task, and, so
far, what he had done was satisfactory in view of his object. He
turned from the heavy-slumbering men and his eyes fell upon the two
small gold chests. Instantly his whole expression changed. Here was
the keynote to the man's disposition. Gold! It was the gold he
coveted. At all costs that gold was to be his. His eyes shone with
greed. He moved towards the boxes as though he were about to handle
them; but he paused abruptly before he reached them. The barking of
the dogs and the strident tones of the Indian's voice outside arrested
him. He suddenly remembered that he had not yet completed his work.
Now he moved with unnecessarily stealthy steps over to the darkest
corner of the hut, to where a pile of rough skins stood. The steady
nerve which had hitherto served him seemed in a measure to have
weakened. It was a phase which a man of his disposition must
inevitably pass through in the perpetration of a first crime. He was
assailed by a sensation of watching eyes following his every movement;
with a feeling that another presence than those two slumbering forms
moved with him in the dim light of the dugout. He was haunted by his
other self; the moral self.
From beneath the pile of furs he drew a heavy revolver which he
carefully examined. The chambers were loaded.
Again came the sound of the dogs outside. And he even fancied he heard
the shuffling of Rainy-Moon's moccasins over the beaten snow just
outside the door. He turned his face in the direction. The expression
of his great hungry eyes was malevolent. Whatever moral fear might
have been his, there could be no doubt that he would carry his purpose
out. He gripped his pistol firmly and moved towards the door.
As his hand rested on the latch he paused. Just for one instant he
hesitated. It seemed as though all that was honest in him was making
one final appeal to the evil passions which swayed him. His eyelids
lowered suddenly, as though he could not even face the dim light of
that gloomy interior. It was the attitude of one who fully realizes
the nature of his actions, of one who shrinks from the light of honest
purpose and prefers the obscure recesses of his own moral darkness.
Then with an effort he pulled himself together; he gripped his nerve.
The next moment he flung wide the door.
A flood of wintry sunshine suffused the interior of the dugout. The
glare of the crystal white earth was dazzling to a degree, and the
hungry-looking trapper stood blinking in the light. His pistol was
concealed behind him. The sleigh was before the door. Rainy-Moon stood
on the far side of the path in the act of hitching the dogs up. One of
the animals, the largest of them all, was already harnessed, the
others were standing or squatting around, held in leash by the
Indian.
When he heard the door open Rainy-Moon looked up from his work. He was
standing with his back to the precipice which bordered the narrow
ledge. His great stolid face expressed nothing but solemn gravity. He
grunted and turned again to his work.
Like a flash the trapper's pistol darted from behind him, and its
report rang out echoing and re-echoing amongst the surrounding hills.
There was an answering cry of pain from the harnessed dog, and
Rainy-Moon with a yell stood erect to find himself gazing into the
muzzle of the revolver. The expression of the trapper's face was
relentless now. His first shot had been fired under the influence of
excitement, and he had missed his object and only wounded the dog. Now
it was different.
Again the pistol rang out. Rainy-Moon gave one sharp cry of pain and
sprang backwards--into space. In one hand he still gripped the leashes
of the dogs. The other clutched wildly at the air. For one instant his
fall was broken by his hold upon the four dogs, then the suddenness of
his precipitation and his weight told, and the poor beasts were
dragged over the side of the chasm after him.
The whole dastardly act was but the work of a moment.
The next all was silence save for the yelping of the wounded dog lying
upon the snow.
The trapper stood for a moment framed in the doorway. The horror of
his crime was upon him. He waited for a sound to come up to him from
below. He longed to, but he dared not, look over the side of the
yawning chasm. He feared what awful sight his eyes might encounter.
His imagination conjured up pictures that turned him sick in the
stomach, and a great dread came over him. Suddenly he turned back into
the hut and slammed the door.
The wounded dog had not changed its attitude. The moments sped by.
Suddenly the poor beast began to struggle violently. It was a huge
specimen of the husky breed, exceptionally powerful and wolfish in its
appearance. The wretched brute moaned incessantly, but its pain only
made it struggle the harder to free itself from its harness. At length
it succeeded in wriggling out of the primitive "breast-draw" which
held it. Then the suffering beast limped painfully away down the path.
Fifty yards from the hut it squatted upon its haunches and began to
lick its wounded foot. And every now and then it would cease its
healing operation to throw up its long muzzle and emit one of those
drawn-out howls, so dismal and dispiriting, in which dogs are able to
express their melancholy feelings.
At length the hut door opened again and the trapper came out; he was
equipped for a long journey. Thick blanket chaps covered his legs, and
a great fur coat reached to his knees. His head was buried beneath a
beaver cap, which, pressed low down over his ears, was overlapped by
the collar of his coat. He carried a roll of blankets over his
shoulder and a pack on his back. As he came out into the sunshine he
looked fearfully about him. There stood the loaded sleigh quite
undisturbed. The harness alone was tumbled about by reason of the
wounded dog's struggles. And there was a pool of canine blood upon the
snow, and a faint trail of sanguinary hue leading from it. The man
eyed this and followed its direction until he saw the dog crouching
down further along the path. But he was not thinking of the dog. He
turned back to the sleigh, and his eyes wandered across, beyond it, to
the brink of the precipice. The only marks that had disturbed the
smooth white edge of the path were those which had tumbled the snow
where the dogs had been dragged to their fate. Otherwise there was no
sign.
The man stepped forward as though to look down to the depths below,
but, as he neared the edge, he halted shudderingly. Nor did his eyes
turn downwards, he looked around him, above him--but not down. He
gazed long and earnestly at the hard, cold, cloudless sky. His brow
frowned with unpleasant thought. Then his lips moved, and he muttered
words that sounded as though he were endeavouring to justify his acts
to himself.
"The gold was mine--honestly mine. It was wrested from me. It may be
Christian to submit without retaliation. It is not human. What is a
neche's life--nothing. Pooh! An Indian life is of no value in this
country. Come on, let's go."
He spoke as though he were not alone. Perhaps he was addressing that
moral self of his which kept reminding him of his misdeeds. Anyhow, he
was uncomfortable, and his words told of it.
He stooped and adjusted his snow-shoes, after which he gripped his
long staff and slowly began his journey down the hill.
He quickly got into his stride, that forward, leaning attitude of the
snow-shoer; nor did he glance to the left or right.
Straight ahead of him he stared, over the jagged rampart of mountains
to the clear steely hue of the sky above. He was leaving the scene of
his crime; he wished also to leave its memory. He gave no heed to the
trail of blood that stained the whiteness of the snow beneath his
feet; his thoughts were not of the present--his present; his mind was
travelling swiftly beyond. The whining of the dog as he passed him
fell upon ears that were deaf to all entreaty.
The crystal-covered earth glided by him; the long, reaching stride of
the expert snow-shoer bore him rapidly along.
He paused in the valley below and took fresh bearings. He intended to
strike through the heart of the mountains. The Pass was his goal, for
he knew that there lay the main trail he sought.
He cast about for the landmarks which he had located during his long
tenancy of the dugout. Not a branch of a tree rustled. Not a breath of
air fanned the steaming breath which poured from his lips. His mind
was centred on his object, but the nervous realization of loneliness
was upon him.
Suddenly the awful stillness was broken. The man bent his head in a
listening attitude. The sound came from behind and he turned sharply.
His movement was hurried and anxious. His nerves were not steady. A
long-drawn-out wail rose upon the air. Fifty yards behind stood the
wounded hound gazing after him as if he, too, were endeavouring to
ascertain the right direction. The creature was standing upon three
legs, the fourth was hanging useless, and the blood was dripping from
the footless limb.
The man turned away with an impatient shrug and stepped out briskly.
He knew his direction now, and resolutely centred his thoughts upon
his journey. Past experience told him that this would tax all his
energy and endurance, and that he must keep a clear head, for he was
not a native of the country, nor had he the instinct of one whose life
had been passed in a mountainous world. Once he turned at the sound of
a plaintive whining, and, to his annoyance, he saw that the dog was
following him. A half-nervous laugh escaped him, but he did not pause.
He had hitherto forgotten the creature, and this was an unpleasant
reminder.
An hour passed. The exhilarating exercise had cleansed the atmosphere
of the murderer's thoughts. Once only he looked back over his shoulder
as some memory of the dog flashed across his brain. He could see
nothing but the immaculate gleam of snow. Something of the purity of
his surroundings seemed to communicate itself to his thoughts. He
found himself looking forward to a life, the honest, respectable life,
which the burden he carried in his pack would purchase for him. He saw
himself the owner of vast tracts of pasture, with stock grazing upon
it, a small but comfortable house, and a wife. He pictured to himself
the joys of a pastoral life, a community in which his opinions and
influence would be matters of importance. He would be looked up to,
and gradually, as his wealth grew, he would become interested in the
world of politics, and he would----
He was dragged back to the present by a memory of the scene at the
dugout, and quite suddenly he broke into a cold perspiration. He
increased his pace, nor did those pleasant visions again return to
him. It was well past noon when at last he halted for food and rest.
He devoured his simple fare ravenously, but he gained no enjoyment
therefrom. He was moody. At that moment he hated life; he hated
himself for his weak yielding to the pricks of conscience; he hated
the snow and ice about him for their deadening effect upon the world
through which he was passing; he hated the dreadful solitude with
which he was surrounded.
Presently he drew out a pipe. He looked at it for one instant, then
raised it to his nose. He smelt it, and, with a motion of disgust and
a bitter curse, he threw it from him. It reeked of the weed he had
found at the dugout.
Now he was seized with a feverish restlessness and was about to rise
to his feet. Suddenly, out on the still, biting air wailed the
familiar long-drawn note of misery. To his disturbed fancy it came
like a dreadful signal of some awful doom. It echoed in undulating
waves of sound, dying away hardly, as though it were loth to leave its
mournful surroundings. He turned in the direction whence it proceeded,
and slowly into view limped the wounded husky, yelping piteously at
every step.
At that moment the man was scarcely responsible for what he did. He
was beside himself with dread. The solitude was on his nerves, this
haunting dog, his own reflections, all had combined to reduce him to
the verge of nervous prostration. With the last dying sound his heavy
revolver was levelled in the direction of the oncoming hound. There
was a moment's pause, then a shot rang out and the dog stood quite
still. The bullet fell short and only kicked up the snow some yards in
front of the animal, nor did the beast display the least sign of fear.
The man prepared to take another shot, but, as he was about to fire,
his arm dropped to his side, and, with a mirthless laugh, he put the
pistol away.
"The d----d cur seems to know the range of a gun," he muttered, with
an uneasy look at the motionless creature. His words were an apology
to himself, although perhaps he would not have admitted it.
The dog remained in its rigid attitude. Its head was slightly lowered,
and its wicked grey eyes glared ferociously. Its thick mane bristled,
and it looked like a gaunt, hungry wolf following upon the trail of
some unconscious traveller. So long as the man stood, so long did the
dog remain still and silent. But as the former returned to his seat,
and began to pack up, the dog began to whine and furtively draw
nearer.
Although he did not look up the man knew that the animal was coming
towards him. When he had finished packing he straightened himself; the
dog was within a few paces of him. He called gently, and the animal
responded with a whimper, but remained where it was. Its canine mind
was evidently dubious, and the man was forced to take the initiative.
Whatever may have been his intention in the first place, he now
exhibited a curious display of feeling for one who could plan and
perpetrate so dastardly a crime as that which he had committed at the
dugout. Human nature is a strange blending of good and evil passions.
Two minutes ago the man would, without the least remorse, have shot
the dog. Now as he reached him, and he listened to the beast's
plaintive cries, he stretched out his arm and stroked its trembling
sides, and then stooped to examine the wounded limb. And, stranger
still, he tore off a portion of the woollen scarf that circled his
waist and proceeded to bandage up the shattered member. The dog
submitted to the operation with languid resignation. The foot of one
hind leg had been entirely torn away by a revolver shot, and only the
stump of the leg was left. The poor beast would go on three legs for
the rest of his life.
When the man had finished he rose to his feet, and a bitter laugh
shocked the silence of the snow-bound world.
"There, you miserable cur. It's better like that than to get the cold
into it. I've had some; besides, I didn't intend to damage you. If
you're going to travel with me you'd best come along, and be d-----d
to you."
And he walked back to where his pack and blankets lay, and the dog
limped at his heels.