SNOW-BLIND
BY ALBERT M. TREYNOR
AUTHOR OF HANDS UP
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
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Copyright, 1928, 1929
By ALBERT M. TREYNOR
Published, February, 1929
Second printing, April, 1929
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
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CONTENTS
I “Are You There?”
II After Many Years
III Dismal Trail
IV A Ghostly Voyageur
V The Girl in Handcuffs
VI The Great Owl Murder
VII In the Royal Scarlet
VIII Follow On
IX Grandfather’s Red Blankets
X Always Fire First
XI “Saut Sauvage”
XII Sergeant in Command
XIII Last-stand Outpost
XIV Squatter’s Rights
XV The Night Harriers
XVI The Honorable Murderer
XVII Vanishing Footprints
XVIII The Man Hunters
XIX Lost Loot
XX Scarlet and Gold
XXI Heading North
XXII Oogly
XXIII Brothers-in-Arms
XXIV There Were Three
XXV Inspector Tearl
XXVI One Whole Man
XXVII Hell Bent
XXVIII Snow-blind
XXIX Cocky-bird
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SNOW-BLIND
CHAPTER I
“ARE YOU THERE?”
“This,” said the bland voice on the air, “is Station WBZ, Springfield,
Massachusetts, broadcasting greetings from the home folks to the
far-advanced outposts of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I have a
letter for Sergeant Buck Tearl at Port-o’-Prayer in North Saskatchewan.
Good evening, Sergeant. Are you there?”
And then the message went into space on the waves of the ether. Like a
ripple on a pond, widening to the shores, the voice ranged all
directions to reach an audience half a world away. It was heard, no
doubt, by many lonesome chaps with ear-phones clamped to their heads:
trappers in snow-buried shacks, scattered over a hundred thousand miles
of forest and mountain and blizzard-scourged tundra; factors and
bush-rovers at the remotest fur-factories; whalers in stout ships,
nipped in the polar drift; frost-bitten policemen in barrack and camp,
stationed here and there in the great midnight around the curve of the
arctic circle, the uttermost videttes of the northern law.
“It is a queer message,” pursued the radio announcer in his pleasantly
modulated speech. “Maybe the man for whom it is meant hears me and will
understand. Here it is:
“Sergeant Buck Tearl, R.C.M.P., Port-o’-Prayer.” There was a momentary
pause and the voice cleared itself of a faint husk--a strangely personal
and familiar sound that for a moment seemed to bring the speaker out of
distance and invisibility into the very presence of the listener.
The man at the microphone went on with the letter.
“The dead do not always die,” he read. “If you can find Kablunak’s band
of A-hi-ag-muit Esquimaux, who winter, they say, on Queen Maud Sea, make
them tell you the truth.”
“I don’t know whether I pronounce the Esquimaux names correctly,” ended
the announcer, “but anyhow, that’s the letter, and it’s signed--Diane.”
Of course the broadcaster could not know whether Sergeant Tearl had a
radio receiver or was tuned-in that night on the wavelength of WBZ. Nor
could he have guessed that there was another man named Tearl, who
happened to be listening-in at this very moment, and in whose quiet New
York apartment that cryptic message arrived like an exploding grenade to
rearrange violently the whole of his future life.
Kitchener Tearl found WBZ by accident when in an idle moment he had
given the radio dial a careless spin. This much was fate or coincidence,
or whatever mischievous force it is that is constantly unsettling
people’s nicely settled affairs. But all that happened afterwards
followed as naturally and inevitably as blood follows the knife or youth
after its own reckless bent or birds take the course of the southerning
sun.
The greater part of the broadcasted messages in themselves were not of
much interest to an eavesdropper.
“Mother sends love.” “Father’s rheumatism is better.” “Bella wonders if
you remember her.” “Did you get the socks we sent last July?” “Baby
Nellie, born August second, is waiting for her first glimpse of Uncle
Jack.” Small, homely, intimate matters such as these were discussed in
the hearing of the rest of the world and flung off into the night to end
up under the crackle of the northern lights.
The messages would not have made Kitchener Tearl forget an engagement he
had made for that evening; it was the visioning of the men who were
receiving them. His imagination soared off to far, strange places which
he had never seen, nor ever expected to see, but which were names that
had been thrillingly real to him since his earliest days of boyhood.
The whirr of the elevator outside the foyer of his apartment, the rumble
of traffic coming up from the pavements of Park Avenue, were lost in the
sorcery of his straying thoughts in other, greater sounds: The grumble
of ice-floes, the slash of sleet on cabin walls, the rabid cry of the
wolf pack, the wind in the pines.
His lean, hard-kept body was sprawled motionless in his chair as he
listened and stared into immeasurable distances with one keen eyebrow
quizzically upcocked, seeing not the bright window-squares in the
apartment building across the way, but big timber and ice barrens and
mountains stacked behind mountains and the auroral glimmer on the Arctic
sky.
The fascination of the northland for Kitchener Tearl was a part of the
tradition of his blood and kind. One of his grandfathers long ago had
been a factor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and he died with his
moccasins on in the frozen forests of Keewatin.
William Tearl, Kitchener’s father, had followed the trails that had been
broken ahead of him by Factor Jacob Tearl. He was an inspector in the
old Royal Northwest Mounted Police.
The story of Inspector Bill Tearl was left a grim, unwritten chapter in
the territorial records. Somewhere in the Ottawa files, after his name
and service reports, was set down in fading red ink the word--“missing.”
One night, more than twelve years ago, Bill Tearl had walked out from a
sub-post somewhere in the then-uncharted Vermilion River country, and
was never seen nor heard of again.
Tearl’s Yankee-born wife happened to be visiting in New York at the time
of the inspector’s disappearance. With her were her three children,
Gerald, who was sixteen years old, Kitchener, twelve, and Jane, an
elfish, jewel-eyed girl of nine.
An inheritance of money from her own side of the family had enabled Mrs.
Tearl to provide for the three fatherless youngsters, to send them one
after another to college, and to plan for a life of future comfort. And
then, the year Jerry graduated from the university, where he won renown
as one of the most ferocious half-backs who ever tore cleat-marks in the
Yale bowl, his charming mother was taken ill and suddenly died, and
Jerry became the head of the Tearls.
The two grown-up brothers and the growing sister went on living
together, a bit quarrelsomely, but with a fierce and undying loyalty.
Jerry gave promise of becoming as great a man in the business world as
he had been on the college gridirons. But tragedy once more stepped in
to decimate the family ranks.
The ex-line-plunger was notoriously quick-tempered. Nobody had ever
found out what it was all about, but he got into a fearful argument with
a man on a Broadway street corner, and had three-quarters killed that
man with his bare hands. A warrant of atrocious assault was issued by
the nearest magistrate, but Jerry left town a couple of jumps ahead of
the police. Kitchener and Jane never heard another word from him. Like
his father before him, he had abruptly quitted his place in the world to
be engulfed in the mystery of the passing years.
This had happened a long while ago. Kitchener was now twenty-four, the
elder of the remaining Tearls. In all this time he might have lost the
image of his prodigious brother in casual forgetfulness. But in his case
the hero-worship that had grown in the heart of boyhood still lingered
with all the sweetness of the earliest memories. The hearing of the name
Tearl choked him with a surging of emotion such as he would have felt if
his brother’s sinewy hand had been laid suddenly upon his shoulder.
When Kitchener’s sister came home at one o’clock that morning from some
sort of a party she had been attending somewhere or other, she found the
floor of the living room carpeted with her father’s old police maps,
while her brother crawled over them on his hands and knees, a strange
look in his dark, eager eyes.
“What the deuce, Kit?” she demanded from the doorway.
“I think I know where Jerry is,” he said.
Jane dropped the wrap from her fine arms and shoulders and came into the
room. “What?” she ejaculated.
Kitchener stood up and showed her the message he had taken down on
paper.
“Diane!” read Jane, womanlike, noticing first of all the woman in the
case. “Who’s Diane?”
“She sent the message over the radio. I’ve never heard of her before.”
Jane wrinkled her short nose as she perused her brother’s hasty scrawl.
“Who’s Buck Tearl?”
“Sounds like Jerry to me,” declared Kitchener.
“Why?” Jane had grown calm and skeptical. “Why would it be Jerry, when
it’s Buck?”
“There are not many Tearls in the world,” Kitchener reminded her. “It
isn’t like Smith or Einstein or O’Toole or Jones. As far as the nickname
goes, a man like Jerry would be apt to pick one up wherever he went. And
it just naturally ought to be ‘Buck.’
“Funny I never thought of it before,” he mused. “Knowing Jerry as I did,
I can’t understand now why I never guessed it. He went back where he
belonged, of course--the north and the Mounties.” Kitchener faced his
sister in tense excitement, “It’s Jerry, you can bet on it. He joined
up, and naturally by now he’d be a sergeant at least.”
Jane laughed, and then stopped and sighed. “We’re an odd outfit,” she
said, “each of us wasting our affections on the one up ahead. Dad
thought grandfather was a stupendous man, and Jerry worshiped Dad, and
you adore Jerry, and here am I, the last, with nothing to do but to be
simply foolish about you.”
He squeezed her graceful shoulders, and then turned away. “Don’t be an
ass,” he said.
“Can I help it?” she grinned.
“Listen here!” he said soberly. “Did you get the possible meaning of
that message?”
“About so-and-so’s Esquimaux?”
“No,” he returned, “the other part,” and repeated the line: “‘The dead
do not always die.’ Does that by any chance make you think of Dad?”
She looked startled for an instant, and then closed her firm mouth and
shook her head. “No. Why should it? You’d be crazy to get any such
ideas. Dad went--mother used to say--_écarté_--lost, frozen in the
drifts, and was never found. Or perhaps he was ambushed by some outlaw
he was after. Whatever happened, it was the end.”
“Are you so sure it was the end?”
“As sure as I can ever be in this life.”
“I’m not.” Kitchener gathered up the tattered police maps, refolded them
gingerly, and restored them to the keeping of the old mahogany highboy.
“You don’t know everything,” he remarked over his shoulder. “For
instance, you never heard of the Tearl annuity.”
“The which?” she asked.
“The year Dad was lost,” Kitchener informed her, “an express money order
for five thousand dollars was delivered at our address here in town. The
envelope that contained it was mailed in San Francisco, postmarked
January first. There was no writing--no mark to identify the sender.”
The girl stared with a quick contraction of her jade-tinged eyes. “You
mean--?” she began, and then left the rest unasked.
“I don’t know,” answered her brother. “I only know that another five
thousand came the next January and the next, and so on, every year, as
regularly as the months rolled around. One draft was sent from Portland,
another from Sitka, one from St. Johns, Newfoundland, two from Quebec,
one from Kamchatka, Siberia.”
“You’ve tried to trace the sender?”
“Mother first, then Jerry. Lately I’ve been trying. No use! If our
unknown friend were a skulking criminal he could have taken no greater
pains to keep his tracks covered.”
“You think it could have been--” The girl’s speech checked for an
instant on a failing breath, and then she ended in a whispered word,
“Dad?”
“Who knows? If he were alive and could send money he could have written
to us. You were old enough to remember what he was like. It wouldn’t
have been like him to duck his family. No matter what had happened to
him, he surely would have sent us word. And yet--”
Kitchener took a turn the length of the room, and then came back to
stand head-high above his sister. When he was in deadly earnest over
something his left eyebrow had an unaccountable habit of cocking itself
at the jauntiest angle, as though he had thought up something funny to
say. Jerry used to tell him he looked at such moments like a wily,
black-headed crow getting ready to guffaw over his sins.
Jane knew that expression of old, and she knew that whatever notion was
sticking in his head, all the world could not shake it out. “Hello,
Cocky-bird!” she exclaimed. “What’s up now?”
“I’m going to find Jerry,” he said.
No Tearl was ever much astonished by anything another Tearl ever decided
to do. She faced him anxiously, but without the least show of surprise.
“When?” was all she said.
“As soon as I can pull out.”
“But you’re by no means certain that Sergeant Buck Tearl is Jerry.”
“Yes, I am. And if by any chance he didn’t receive to-night’s message, I
want to see that he gets it. And I want to see Jerry.”
“You know what it means, of course. The rail head doesn’t go near
Port-o’-Prayer. The rivers will be frozen up there. No canoes. You
haven’t been in the forests since you were twelve. You’ll have to walk,
my boy!” Her smile did not quite hide the dismay that had suddenly
drenched her eyes. “You’ll never make it.”
“That money,” he pursued, without looking at his sister. “We never spent
any of it because we didn’t know whether it was ours to spend. Mother
put it in the bank. She called it the mystery fund. She deposited five
thousand every January--then Jerry--then I. I only learned about it a
short while before Jerry left. Didn’t think it was anything to bother
you with. But I’m telling you now. There’s sixty thousand dollars all
told, plus the interest. I’ll turn the book over to you. Whatever you do
about it is your own business.”
“It’s all settled, then? You’re going?”
“I don’t see any way out of it,” said Kitchener.
Jane’s hands reached up to smooth her brother’s raven-black hair. Then
she stood a-tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “If you think not,” she said,
“there’s no way out of it.”