CHAPTER I

Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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THE HEART OF UNAGA

BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

AUTHOR OF "_The Triumph of John Kars_," "_The Law Breakers_," "_The Way

of the Strong_," _etc._

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons

COPYRIGHT, 1920

BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

Made in the United States of America

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

PART I

I.--JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS

II.--THE PASSING OF A DREAM

III.--THE GOING OF STEVE

IV.--UNAGA

V.--MARCEL BRAND

VI.--AN-INA

VII.--THE HARVEST OF WINTER

VIII.--BIG CHIEF WANAK-AHA

IX.--THE VISION OF THE SPIRE

X.--THE RUSH OUTFIT

XI.--STEVE LISTENS

XII.--REINDEER

XIII.--"ADRESOL"

XIV.--MALLARD'S

XV.--THE SET COURSE

PART II

I.--AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS

II.--THE SPRING OF LIFE

III.--MANHOOD

IV.--KEEKO

V.--A DUEL

VI.--THE KING OF THE FOREST

VII.--SUMMER DAYS

VIII.--THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS

IX.--THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON

X.--THE FAREWELL

XI.--THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN

XII.--KEEKO RETURNS HOME

XIII.--THE FAITH OF MEN

XIV.--THE VALLEY OF DREAMS

XV.--THE HEART OF UNAGA

XVI.--KEEKO AND NICOL

XVII.--THE DEVOTION OF A GREAT WOMAN

XVIII.--THE VIGIL

XIX.--THE STORE-HOUSE

XX.--THE HOME-COMING

XXI.--THE GREAT REWARD

The Heart of Unaga

PART I

CHAPTER I

JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS

Steve Allenwood raked the fire together. A shower of sparks flew up and

cascaded in the still air of the summer night. A moment later his

smiling eyes were peering through the thin veil of smoke at the two

dusky figures beyond the fire. They were Indian figures, huddled down on

their haunches, with their moccasined feet in dangerous proximity to the

live cinders strewn upon the ground.

"Oh, yes?" he said. "And you guess they sleep all the time?"

The tone of his voice was incredulous.

"Sure, boss," one of the Indians returned, quite unaffected by the tone.

The other Indian remained silent. He was in that happy condition between

sleep and waking which is the very essence of enjoyment to his kind.

Inspector Allenwood picked up a live coal in his bare fingers. He

dropped it into the bowl of his pipe. Then, after a deep inhalation or

two, he knocked it out again.

"'Hibernate'--eh? That's how we call it," he said presently. Then he

shook his head. The smile had passed out of his eyes. "No. It's a dandy

notion. But--it's not true. They'd starve plumb to death. You see,

Julyman, they're human folks--the same as we are."

The flat denial of his "boss" was quite without effect upon Julyman.

Oolak, beside him, roused himself sufficiently to turn his head and

blink enquiry at him. He was a silent creature whose admiration for

those who could sustain prolonged talk was profound.

"All same, boss, that so," Julyman protested without emotion. "Him same

like all men. Him just man, squaw, pappoose. All same him

sleep--sleep--sleep, when snow comes," Julyman sucked deeply at his pipe

and spoke through a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Julyman not lie. Oh, no.

Him all true. When Julyman young man--very young--him father tell him of

Land of Big Fire. Him say all Indian man sleeping--so." He leant over

sideways, with his hands pressed together against his cheek to

illustrate his meaning. "Him father say this. Him say when snow come All

Indian sleep. One week--two week. Then him wake--so." He stretched

himself, giving a great display of a weary half-waking condition. "Him

sit up. The food there by him, an' he eat--eat plenty much. Then him

drink. An' bimeby him drink the spirit stuff again. Bimeby, too, him

roll up in blanket. Then him sleep some more. One week--two week. So.

An' bimeby winter him all gone. Oh, him very wise man. Him no work lak

hell same lak white man. No. Him sleep--sleep all him winter. An' when

him wake it all sun, an' snow all gone. All very much good. Indian man

him go out. Him hunt the caribou. Him fish plenty good. Him kill much

seal. Make big trade. Oh, yes. Plenty big trade. So him come plenty old

man. No him die young. Only very old. Him much wise man."

The white man smiled tolerantly. He shrugged.

"Guess you got a nightmare, Julyman," he said. "Best turn over."

Steve had nothing to add. He knew his scouts as he knew all other

Indians in the wide wilderness of the extreme Canadian north. These

creatures were submerged under a mental cloud of superstition and

mystery. He had no more reason to believe the story of "hibernating"

Indians than he had for believing the hundred and one stories of Indian

folklore he had listened to in his time.

Julyman, too, considered the subject closed. He had said all he had to

say. So the spasm of talk was swallowed up by the silence of the summer

night.

The fire burned low, and was replenished from the wood pile which stood

between the two teepees standing a few yards away in the shadow of the

bush which lined the trail. These men, both white and coloured, had the

habit of the trail deeply ingrained in them. But then, was it not their

life, practically the whole of it? Stephen Allenwood was a police

officer who represented the white man's law in a district as wide as a

good-sized European country, and these scouts were his only assistants.

They were at headquarters now enjoying a brief respite from the endless

trail which claimed all their life and energies. And such was the nature

of their work, and so absorbing the endless struggle of it, that their

focus of holiday-making was little better than sitting over a camp-fire

at night smoking, and occasionally talking, and waiting for the call of

nature summoning them to their blankets.

It was a wonderful night, still and calm, and with a radiance of

starlight overhead. There was the busy hum of insect life from the

adjacent woods, a deep murmur from the sluggish tide of the great

Caribou River which drained the country for miles around. The occasional

sigh that floated upon the air spoke of lofty pine crests bending under

a light top breeze which refrained from disturbing the lower air. The

night left the impression of unbreakable peace, of human content, and a

world where elemental storms were unknown.

But the impression was misleading, as are all such impressions in

nature's wild, and where the human heart beats strongly. There was no

content in the grey eyes of the white man as he sat gazing into the

heart of the fire. Then, too, not one of them but knew the cruel moods

of the great Northland.

A wonderful companionship existed between these men. It was something

more than the companionship of the long trail. They had fought the

battle of life together for eight long years, enduring perils and

hardships which had brought them an understanding and mutual regard

which no difference in colour, or education could lessen. For all the

distinction of the police officer's rank and his white man's learning,

for all the Indians were dark-skinned, uncultured products of the great

white outlands, they were three friends held by bonds which only the

hearts of real men could weld.

The territory over which Steve Allenwood exercised his police control

was well-nigh limitless from a "one-man" point of view. From his

headquarters, which lay within the confines of the Allowa Indian Reserve

on the Caribou River, it reached away to the north as far as the Arctic

Circle. To the west, only the barrier of the great McKenzie River marked

its limits. To the south, there was nothing beyond the Reserve claiming

his official capacity, except the newly grown township of Deadwater, two

miles away. Eastwards? Well, East was East. So far as Inspector

Allenwood knew his district had no limits in that direction, unless it

were the rugged coast line of the Hudson's Bay itself.

His task left Steve Allenwood without complaint. It was never his way to

complain. Doubtless there were moments in his life when he realized the

overwhelming nature of it all. But he no more yielded to it than he

would yield to the overwhelming nature of a winter storm. That was the

man. Patient; alive with invincible courage and dispassionate

determination. Square, calm, strong, like the professional gambler he

always seemed to have a winning card to play at the right moment. And

none knew better than his scouts how often that card had meant the

difference between a pipe over the warm camp-fire and the cold comfort

of an icy grave.

Julyman was troubled at the unease he observed in the white man's eyes.

It had been there on and off for some days now. It had been there more

markedly earlier in the evening when the white man had helped his girl

wife into the rig in which Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, was

driving Dr. and Mrs. Ross, and their two daughters, to the dance which

was being given down at the township by the bachelors of Deadwater.

Since then the look had deepened, and Julyman, in spite of his best

efforts, had failed to dispel it. Even his story of a race of

"hibernating" Indians had been without effect.

But Julyman did not accept defeat easily. And presently he removed the

foul pipe from his thin lips, and spat with great accuracy into the

heart of the fire.

"Bimeby she come," he said, in his low, even tones, while his black,

luminous eyes were definitely raised to the white man's face. "Oh, yes.

Bimeby she come. An' boss then him laff lak hell. Julyman know. Julyman

have much squaw. Plenty."

Steve started. For a moment he stared. Then his easy smile crept into

his steady eyes again and he nodded.

"Sure," he said. "Bimeby she come. Then I laff--like hell."

Julyman's sympathy warmed. He felt he had struck the right note. His

wide Indian face lit with an unusual smile.

"Missis, him young. Very much young," he observed profoundly. "Him lak

dance plenty--heap. It good. Very good. Bimeby winter him come. Cold lak

hell. Missis no laff. Missis not go out. Boss him by the long trail. So.

Missis him sit. Oh yes. Him sit with little pappoose. No dance. No

nothin'. Only snow an' cold--lak hell."

This time the man's effort elicited a different response. Perhaps he had

over-reached. Certainly the white man's eyes had lost the look that had

inspired the Indian. They were frowning. It was the cold frown of

displeasure. Julyman knew the look. He understood it well. So he went no

further. Instead he spat again into the fire and gave himself up to a

luxurious hate of Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, whom all Indians

hated.

Julyman was only a shade removed from his original savagery. There were

times when he was not removed from savagery at all. This was such a

moment. For he abandoned himself to the silent contemplation of a vision

of the heart of the Indian Agent roasting over the fire before him. It

was stuck on the cleaning-rod of his own rifle like a piece of bread to

be toasted. Furthermore his was the hand holding the cleaning-rod. He

would willingly throw the foul heart to the camp dogs--when it was

properly cooked.

His vision was suddenly swept away by a sound which came from somewhere

along the trail in the direction of Deadwater. There was a faint,

indistinct blur of voices. There was also the rattle of wheels, and the

sharp clip of horses' hoofs upon the hard-beaten road. He instinctively

turned his head in the direction. And as he did so Steve Allenwood stood

up. Just for a moment the white man stood gazing down the shadowed

trail. Then he moved off in the direction of his four-roomed log house.

Left alone the Indians remained at the fireside; Oolak--the

silent--indifferent to everything about him except the pleasant warmth

of the fire; Julyman, on the contrary, angrily alert. He was listening

to the sounds which grew momentarily louder and more distinct. And with

vicious relish he had already distinguished Hervey Garstaing's voice

amongst the rest. It was loud and harsh. How he hated it. How its tones

set the dark blood in his veins surging to his head.

"Why sure," he heard him say, "the boys did it good. They're bright

boys."

In his crude fashion the scout understood that the Agent was referring

to the evening's entertainment. It was the soft voice of Mrs. Ross which

replied, and Julyman welcomed the sound. All Indians loved the "med'cine

woman," as they affectionately called the doctor's wife.

"It was the best party we've had in a year," she cried enthusiastically.

"You wouldn't have known old Abe's saloon from a city hall at Christmas

time, with its decorations and its "cuddle-corners" all picked out with

Turkey red and evergreens. And you girls! My! you had a real swell time.

There were boys enough and to spare for you all. And they weren't the

sort to lose much time either. The lunch was real elegant, too, with the

oysters and the claret cup. My! it certainly was a swell party."

The wagon had drawn considerably nearer. The quick ears of the Indian

had no difficulty with the language of the white folk. His main source

of interest was the identity of those who were speaking. And, in

particular, he was listening for one voice which he had not as yet been

able to distinguish. Hervey Garstaing seemed to do most of the talking.

And how he hated the sound of that voice.

"Why, say, Dora," he heard him exclaim in good-natured protest, as the

outline of the team loomed up out of the distance. "I don't guess Mrs.

Allenwood and I sat out but two dances. Ain't that so, Nita?"

Julyman's ears suddenly pricked. He may have been an uncultured savage,

but he was a man, and very human. And the subtle inflection, as the

Agent addressed himself to Steve Allenwood's wife, was by no means lost

upon him.

"Three!"

The answer came in chorus from the two daughters of the doctor. And it

came with a giggle.

"Oh, if you're going to count a supper 'extra,' why--Anyway what's three

out of twenty-seven. There's no kick coming to that. Guess a feller

would be all sorts of a fool----"

"If he didn't take all that's coming his way at a dance," broke in the

doctor's genial voice, with a laugh.

The wagon was abreast of him, and Julyman's eyes were studiously

concerned with the glowing heart of the fire. But nothing escaped them.

Nothing ever did escape them. He closely scanned the occupants of the

wagon. Dr. and Mrs. Ross were in the back seat, and their two daughters

were facing them. Hervey Garstaing was driving, and Nita Allenwood was

sitting beside him. It was all just as it had been earlier in the

evening when he had seen them set out for Deadwater.

Oh, yes. It was all the same--with just a shade of difference. Nita was

sitting close--very close to the teamster. She was sitting much closer

than when Steve, earlier in the evening had tucked the rug about her to

keep the chill summer evening air from penetrating the light dancing

frock she was wearing. They were both tucked under one great buffalo

robe now. It was a robe he knew to be Hervey Garstaing's.

As the vehicle passed the fire Dr. Ross flung a genial greeting at the

two Indians. Julyman responded with a swift raising of his eyes, and one

of his broad, unfrequent smiles. Then, as the wagon passed, his eyes

dropped again to the fire.

He knew. Oh, yes, he knew. Had he not sat with many squaws who seemed

desirable in his eyes? Yes, he had sat just so. Close. Oh, very close.

Yes, he was glad his boss had taken himself off. Maybe he was looking

down into the depths of the basket which held the little white pappoose

back there in his home. It was good to look at the little pappoose when

there was trouble at the back of a father's eyes. It made the trouble

much better. How he hated the white man, Hervey Garstaing.

* * * * *

For once Julyman's instincts were at fault. He had read the meaning of

Steve Allenwood's sudden departure in the light of his own

interpretation of the trouble he had seen in the man's grey eyes. He was

entirely wrong.

Steve had heard the approaching wagon, and he knew that his wife and the

other folk were returning from the dance. But almost at the same instant

he had detected the sound of horses' hoofs in an opposite direction. It

was in the direction of his home. Julyman had missed the latter in his

absorbed interest in the return of these folk from Deadwater.

Steve reached the log home in the bluff at the same moment as a horseman

reined up at his door. The man in the saddle leant over, peering into

the face of the Inspector. The darkness left him uncertain.

"Deadwater post?" he demanded abruptly.

Steve had recognized the man's outfit. The brown tunic and side-arms,

the prairie hat, and the glimpse of a broad yellow stripe on the side of

the riding breeches just where the man's leather chapps terminated on

his hips. These things were all sufficient.

"Sure."

"Inspector Allenwood, sir?"

The man's abrupt tone had changed to respectful inquiry.

"I'm your man, Corporal."

The Corporal flung out of the saddle.

"Sorry I didn't rec'nize you, sir," he said saluting quickly. "It's

pretty dark. It's a letter from the Superintendent--urgent." He drew a

long, blue envelope from his saddle wallets and passed it to his

superior. "Maybe you can direct me to the Indian Agent, Major Garstaing,

sir. I got a letter for him."

Steve Allenwood glanced up from the envelope he had just received.

"Sure. Best cut through the bluff. There's a trail straight through

brings you to his house. It's mostly a mile and a half. Say, you'll need

supper. Get right along back when you've finished with him. When did you

start out?"

"Yesterday morning, sir."

The Inspector whistled.

"Fifty miles a day. You travelled some."

The Corporal patted his steaming horse's neck.

"He's pretty tough, is old Nigger, sir," he said, with quiet pride. "Mr.

McDowell wanted me to pick up a horse at Beaufort last night, but I

wouldn't have done any better. Nigger can play the game a week without a

worry. Guess I'll get on, sir, and make back after awhile. That the

barn, sir?" he went on, pointing at a second log building a few yards

from the house, as he swung himself into the saddle again. "I won't need

supper. I had that ten miles back on the trail. I off-saddled at an

Indian lodge where they lent me fire to boil my tea."

Steve nodded.

"Very well, Corporal. There's blankets here in the office when you come

back. This room, here," he added, throwing open the door. "I'll set a

lamp for you. There's feed and litter for your plug at the barn. Rub him

down good."

"Thank you, sir."

The man turned his horse and headed away for the trail through the

bluff, and Steve watched him go. Nor could he help a feeling of

admiration for the easy, debonair disregard of difficulties and hardship

which these men of his own force displayed in the execution of their

work. In his utter unself-consciousness he was quite unaware that

wherever the police were known his own name was a household word for

these very things which he admired in another.

He passed into his office and lit the lamp. Then he seated himself at

the simple desk where his official reports were made out. It was a

plain, whitewood table, and his office chair was of the hard Windsor

type.

He tore open his letter and glanced at its contents. It was from his own

immediate superior, Superintendent McDowell, and dated at Fort Reindeer.

It was quite brief and unilluminating. It was a simple official order to

place himself entirely at the disposal of Major Hervey Garstaing, the

Indian Agent of the Allowa Indian Reserve--who was receiving full

instructions from the Indian Commissioner at Ottawa--on a matter which

came under his department.

He read the letter through twice. He was about to read it for a third

time, but laid it aside. Instead he rose from the table and moved

towards the door as the wagon from Deadwater drew up outside.

CHAPTER II

THE PASSING OF A DREAM

Steve and his wife were in the parlour of their little home. It was the

home which Steve had had built to replace his bachelor shanty, and which

together they had watched grow, and over the furnishing of which they

had spent hours of profound thought and happy discussions.

The office was entirely separate, that is, it had its own entrance door

and no communication with the rest. The private quarters consisted of

three rooms. The parlour, a bedroom for Steve and Nita, and, leading out

of the latter, a small apartment sacred to the tiny atom of humanity

which they had christened Coqueline, and whom the man, from the moment

his eyes had been permitted to gaze upon her, some fifteen months

earlier, regarded as the most perfect, wonderful, priceless treasure in

the world. Beyond this, a simple lean-to kitchen provided all they

needed for their creature comfort.

It was all characteristic of the Northern world. The walls were of

lateral logs, and the roof was of a similar material, while the entire

interior was lined with red pine match-boarding. It was strong, and

square, and proof against the fiercest storm that ever blew off the

Arctic ice, which was all sufficient in a country where endurance was

man's chief concern.

Nita was seated in the rocking-chair which Steve had set ready for her

beside the stove, whose warmth was welcome enough even on a summer

night. She was sipping a cup of steaming coffee which he had also

prepared. But there was nothing of the smiling delight in her eyes which

the memory of her evening's entertainment should have left there.

The man himself was standing. He was propped against the square table

under the window. He was smoking, and watching the girl wife he idolized

as she silently munched the slice of layer cake which he had passed her.

He was wondering if the long-expected, and long-feared moment of crisis

in their brief married life had arrived. He had watched its approach for

weeks. And he knew that sooner or later it must be faced. He was even

inclined to force it now, for such was his way. Trouble was in her eyes,

and he felt certain of its nature. Nita was not made of the stuff that

could withstand the grind of the dour life of the Northland which he

loved.

They had been married about three years and Nita had as yet spoken no

actual word of complaint. But the complaint was there at the back of her

pretty eyes. It had been there for months now. Steve had watched it

grow. And its growth had been rapid enough with the passing of the first

months of the delirious happiness which had been theirs, and which had

culminated in the precious arrival of their little daughter Coqueline.

"Guess you must have had a real good time," Steve said, by way of

breaking the prolonged silence.

For reply the girl only nodded.

The contrast between them was strongly marked. Nita was

pretty--extremely pretty, and looked as out of place in this land she

was native to as Steve looked surely a part of it. But her charm was of

that purely physical type which gains nothing from within. Her eyes

were wide, child-like, and of a deep violet. Her hair was fair and

softly wavy. Her colouring had all the delicacy which suggested the

laying on by an artist's brush, and which no storm or sun seemed to have

power to destroy. Her slight figure possessed all those perfect contours

which are completely irresistible in early youth. Furthermore these

things were supported to the utmost by the party frock she was wearing,

and over which she had spent weeks of precious thought and labour.

Steve was of the trail. Face and body were beaten hard with the endless

struggle of it all. His rough clothing, which had no relation to the

smart Inspector's uniform he was entitled to wear, bore witness to the

life that claimed him. His only claim to distinction was the sanity and

strength that looked out of his steady grey eyes, the firmness and

decision of his clean-shaven lips, and his broad, sturdy body with its

muscles of iron.

"You'll be tired, too," he went on kindly. "You'd best get to bed when

you've had a warm. I'll fix the chores."

He moved from his position at the table, and, passing out into the

lean-to kitchen, returned a moment later with a small saucepan which he

placed on the shining top of the stove.

"Mrs. Ross seems to figure it was all sorts of a swell party," he went

on. "She guesses the boys must have worried themselves to death fixing

Abe's saloon so it didn't look like--Abe's saloon."

The man's smile was gently humorous. For once he had not the courage to

pursue the downright course which his nature prompted. Little Coqueline

was foremost in his thoughts. Then there was the memory of all the

happiness his home meant to him, and he feared that which undue

precipitancy might bring about.

The girl looked up from the stove. Her eyes abandoned their intense

regard with seeming reluctance.

"It was all--wonderful. Just wonderful," she said in the tone of one

roused from a beautiful dream.

"Abe's saloon?"

Steve's incautious satire suddenly precipitated the crisis he feared.

The girl's eyes flashed a hot look of resentment. He was laughing at

her. She was in no mood to be made sport of, or to have her words made

sport of. She sat up with a start and leant forward in her chair in an

attitude that gave force to her sharp enquiry.

"And why not?" she demanded, her violet eyes darkening under the frown

of swift anger which drew her pretty brows together. "Why not Abe's

saloon, or--or any other place?" She set her coffee cup on the floor

with a clatter, and her hands clasped the arms of her chair as though

she were about to spring to her feet. "Yes," she continued, with

increasing heat, "why not Abe's saloon? It's not the place. It's not the

folk, even. Those things don't matter. It's the thing itself. The whole

thing. The glimpse of life when you're condemned to existence on this

fierce outworld. It's the meaning of it. A dance. It doesn't sound much.

Maybe it doesn't mean a thing to you but something to laugh at, or to

sneer at. It's different to me, and to other folks, who--who aren't

crazy for the long trail and the terrible country we're buried in. The

decorations. The flags. Yes, the cheap Turkey red, and the fiddler's

music--a half-breed fiddler--and the music of a pianist who spends most

of his time getting sober. The folks who are all different from what we

see them every day. Tough, hard-living, hard-swearing men all hidden up

in their Sunday suits, and handing you ceremony as if you were some

queen. Then the sense of pleasure in every heart, with all the cares and

troubles of life pushed into the background--at least for a while. These

things are a glimpse of life to us poor folk who spend all our years in

the endless chores of an inhospitable country. You can smile, Steve. You

can sneer at Abe's saloon. But I tell you you haven't a right to just

because these things don't mean a thing to you. There's nothing means

anything to you but your work----"

"And my wife, and my kiddie, and my--home."

The man's deep voice broke in sharply upon the light, strident tones of

the angry girl. He spoke while he stirred the contents of the saucepan

he had placed on the stove. But the interruption only seemed to add fuel

to the girl's volcanic flood of bitter feeling. A laugh was the prompt

retort he received.

"Your wife. Oh, yes, I know. You'd have her around all the time in her

home, slaving at the chores that would break the spirit of a galley

slave. Oh, it's no use pretending. It's got to come out. It's here," she

rushed on, pressing her hands hysterically against her softly rounded

bosom. "The dream is past. All dreams are past. I'm awake now--to this,"

she indicated the room about her, simple almost to bareness in its

furnishing, with a gesture of indescribable feeling. "It's all I've got

to waken to. All I've got to look forward to. I've tried to tell myself

there's a good time coming, when I can peer into the great light world,

and snatch something of the joy of it all. I've tried, I've tried. But

there isn't. It's the cold drear of this northland. It's chores from

daylight to dark, and all the best years of life hurrying behind me as

if they were yearning to make me old before I can get a chance to--live.

I'm sick thinking. Show me. What is there? You're an Inspector, and we

get a thousand dollars a year, and the rations we draw from the Indian

Agency. You'll never get a Superintendent. You've no political pull,

shut off up here well nigh in sight of the Arctic ice. I'm twenty-two

with years and years of it before me, and all the time I'll need to go

on counting up my cents how I can get through till next pay-day comes

around. Don't talk to me of your wife."

The injustice of the girl's unreasoning complaint was staggering. But it

smote the heart of the man no less for that. Whatever his inward

feelings, however, outwardly he gave no sign. He did not even raise his

eyes from the saucepan he was stirring with so much deliberation and

care.

"You're wrong, little girl," he said with quiet emphasis, and without

one shadow of the emotion that was stirring behind the words. "You're

dead wrong. You've got all those things before you. The things you're

crazy for. And when they come along I guess they'll be all the sweeter

for the waiting, all the better for the round of chores you're hating

now, all the more welcome for the figgering you need to do now with the

cents we get each month. You don't know how I stand with Ottawa. I do.

There's just two years between me and the promotion you reckon I can't

get. That's not a long time. Then we move to a big post where you can

get all the dancing you need, and that won't be in Abe's saloon. You

know that when my old father goes--and I'm not yearning for him to

go--he'll pass me all he has, which is fifty thousand dollars and his

swell farm in Ontario."

He paused and dipped out some of the contents of the saucepan in the

spoon he was stirring it with. He tested its temperature. Then he went

on with his preparations.

"Is there a reasonable kick coming to any woman in those things?" he

demanded. "You knew most of what I'm telling you now when you guessed

you loved me enough to marry me, and to help me along the road I'd

marked out. Have I done a thing less than I promised?" he went on

passing back to the table and picking up the glass bottle lying there,

and removing its top. "If I have just tell me, and I'll do all I

know--" He shook his head. "It's all unreasonable. Maybe you're tired.

Maybe----"

"It isn't unreasonable," Nita cried sharply. "That's how men always say

to a woman when they can't understand. I tell you I'm sick with the

hopelessness of it all. You aren't sure of your promotion. You haven't

got it yet. And maybe your father will live another twenty years. Oh,

God, to think of another twenty years of this. Do you know you're away

from home nine months out of twelve? Do you know that more than half my

time I spend guessing if you're alive or dead? And all the time the

grind of the work. The same thing day after day without relief." She

watched the man as he poured the contents of the saucepan into the

bottle, and her eyes were hot with the state of hysterical anger she had

worked herself into. "Oh," she cried with a helpless, despairing

gesture, as Steve returned the saucepan to the table. "I'm sick of it

all. I hate it all, when I think of what life could be. The thought of

it drives me mad. I hate everything. I hate myself. I hate----"

"Stop it!"

Steve thrust the stopper into the neck of the bottle. He had turned. His

steady eyes were sternly compelling. They were shining with a light Nita

had never witnessed in them before. She suddenly became afraid. And her

silence was instant and complete. She sat breathlessly waiting.

"I've done with this fool talk," Steve cried almost roughly. "I've

listened to too much already. I'm not figgering to let you break things

between us. There's more than you and me in it. There's that poor

little kiddie in the other room. Say, I've seen this coming. I've seen

it coming--weeks. I've seen a whole heap that hurts a man that loves his

wife, and guesses he wants to see her happy. I've seen what isn't good

for a father to see, either. You've told me the things you guess you

feel, and now I'm going to tell you the things I feel. You reckon the

things I say about your good time coming are hot air. They're not. But

you've got to get fool notions out of your head, and work for the things

you want, the same as I reckon to. I'm out to make good--for you.

Understand, for you, and for little Coqueline. I'm out to make good with

all that's in me. And it don't matter a curse to me if all hell freezes

over, I'm going to make good. Get that, and get it good. It's a sort of

life-line that ought to make things easy for you. There's just one thing

that can break my play, Nita. Only one. It's your weakening. It's up to

me to see you don't weaken. You need to take hold of the notion we're

partners in this thing. And don't forget I'm senior partner, and my word

goes. Just now my word is kind of simple. If you don't feel like

carrying on for me, you need to remember there's our little Coqueline.

She's part of you. She's part of me. And she's got a claim on you that

no human law can ever rob her of. Well, the proposition between us has

two sides. My side means the trail, and the job that's mine. I need to

face it with a clear head, and an easy mind. My side means I got to get

busy with every nerve in my body to get you an ultimate good time, and

see you get all you need to make you good an' happy. That's the one

purpose I dream about. Maybe your side's different. But I don't guess

it's any easier. You've got to wait around till those things come along.

But you've got more to do than that. You've got to play this old game

right. Your work's by this home. It don't matter if it's winter or

summer, if it's storming or sunshine. You've got to do the chores you're

guessing you hate, and you need to do them right, and willingly. We're

man and wife. And these chores are yours by all the laws of God, and the

Nature that made you the mother of our little Coqueline. You've got to

cut this crazy notion for fool pleasures right out, till the pleasure

time comes around. That time isn't yet. The woman who lets her child and

her home suffer for joy notions isn't worth the room she'll take in hell

later. Well, see and get busy, and let's have no more fool talk and

crazy notions. Here, take this," he went on, in his deliberate, forceful

way, thrusting the baby's feeding bottle into the girl's hands. "That's

the kiddie's feed. Guess I fixed it because--well, maybe because you're

tired. Take it to her. Give it to her. And, as long as you live don't

you ever forget she's the right to your love, and to my love, and every

darn thing we know to make things right for her."

The force of the man was irresistible. It was something the girl had

never witnessed before. She had only known the husband, devoted, gentle,

almost yielding in his great love. The man that had finished talking now

was the man Julyman regarded above all others.

Nita took the bottle thrust into her hands, and, without a word, she

rose from her chair and passed into the bedroom which the baby's room

adjoined.

Steve watched her go. His hungry eyes followed her every movement. His

heart was torn by conflicting emotions. His love told him that he had

been harsh almost to brutality, but his sense warned him he had taken

the only course which could hope to achieve the peace and happiness

which was Nita's right as well as his own.

He had meant to fight for these things as he would fight on the trail

against the forces of Nature seeking to overwhelm him. He would yield

nothing. For all his words had cost him he was conscious of the

rightness of the course he had taken. But he was fighting a battle in

which forces were arrayed against him of which he was wholly unaware.

As Nita passed into the bedroom the sound of footsteps outside broke the

silence of the room. A moment later he turned in response to a knock on

his door.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later Steve was seated at the desk in his office. He was in

the company of Major Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent. The Corporal,

from Reindeer, was already rolled up in the blankets which were spread

out in the corner of the room. His work had been accomplished. He was

physically weary. And, judging by the sound of his regular breathing,

Nature had claimed her own the moment his head had touched the carefully

folded overcoat which served him for a pillow.

The bare severity of the room was uninviting. There was little display

in the work of the police. Utility and purpose was the keynote of their

lives and at the year's end the tally of work accomplished was the thing

that mattered.

Steve preferred to receive the Indian Agent in his office. Garstaing had

never been an intimate of his. Their relations were official, and just

sufficiently neighbourly for men who lived within two miles of each

other in a country where human companionship was at a premium.

The office table stood between them. The spare chair beyond the desk

always stood ready for a visitor, and Garstaing had accepted it. Steve

had moved the oil lamp on one side, that their view of each other might

be uninterrupted.

They were both smoking, and Garstaing was doing the talking. At all

times Steve preferred that his visitors should do most of the talking.

"I guessed I best come right along," he said, regarding the other

closely. "You see, I'll be handin' out Treaty Money to the darn neches

to-morrow morning. It'll take me best part of the day." He removed the

pipe from his rather wide mouth, and held it poised significantly. "This

thing won't stand keeping. It's--murder. There's two of 'em, I guess.

Traders. Marcel Brand and his partner, Cyrus Allshore. Those are

the names. Can't say I've heard of 'em before. Both of 'em

dead--murdered--up there somewhere around the Unaga country. It's the

Indians or Eskimo, whatever they are, who've done it."

"Yes."

Steve's gaze was directed searchingly at his visitor's good-looking

face. At the moment it almost seemed as if he were regarding the man

rather than his mission. And Garstaing was a somewhat interesting

personality. It should have been a pleasant personality, if looks were

any real indication. Garstaing was distinctly handsome. He was dark, and

his swift-moving dark eyes looked always to be ready to smile. Then he

possessed a superbly powerful body. But the threatened smile rarely

matured, and when it did it added nothing of a pleasant nature for the

student of psychology.

In age the two men were well matched, but they had little else in

common. Garstaing's reputation, at least amongst men, was not a happy

one. He was known to be a hard drinker. He was hot-headed and

pleasure-loving. Furthermore he was given to an overbearing intolerance,

in the indulgence of which his position as Indian Agent yielded him wide

scope.

He ruled the Indians with an iron hand, and for all the stories of his

cruelty and complete unscrupulousness which reached beyond the confines

of the reserve and the bitter hatred of the Indians he remained complete

master of the situation.

There was little enough which Steve had not heard of the unsavouriness

of this man's administration. He by no means gave credence to all of it,

but it was not without effect upon his personal attitude towards him.

"I'm not wise to your instructions," Garstaing went on as Steve offered

no further comment, "but mine are pretty clear, and they are straight

from my Commissioner."

"I've to place myself entirely at your disposal."

Steve's reply came without any hesitation. His tone suggested unconcern.

Garstaing's dark eyes snapped. Then they smiled their approval. It was

that smile which added nothing pleasant to his personality.

"I guessed it was that way from the instructions they handed me," he

said. Then he withdrew a bunch of papers from an inner pocket, and

opened them, and selected a particular sheet. "Here it is," he said, and

promptly read out an extract from the letter. "'You will at once place

yourself in touch with the police in your district, and see that the

whole matter is investigated--forthwith.'"

He glanced up as he uttered the final word.

"You know what that means?" he enquired, searching the eyes that were so

profoundly observing him across the table.

Steve nodded.

"Sure."

"It means you'll have to make the Unaga country right away."

"Sure."

Again came Steve's monosyllabic agreement.

"It means one hell of a long trip," the Agent went on.

"Two years."

The simple finality of the police officer's reply left the other

speechless for the moment. The tone of it amazed him. He had hastened

across from the Agency directly he had received the Corporal's dispatch,

not because he had to pay out Treaty Money in the morning, not because

the whole matter would not keep even a week if necessary. Instantly on

reading his instructions from the Indian Commissioner all thought of the

crime to be investigated had passed out of his mind. His thoughts had

flown to Steve Allenwood, and from him they had passed on to another. A

vision of a sweet face with deep, violet eyes, and softly waving fair

hair had leapt to his mind. Furthermore he still retained the sensation

of a soft, warm hand which had been clasped within his under cover of

the friendly fur robe as he drove the wagon back from the dance at

Deadwater.

Two years. The man had spoken with as much indifference as if he had

been contemplating a trip of two days. Garstaing drew a deep breath,

and, returning his pipe to his capacious mouth ignited a match over the

lamp chimney and re-lit it. Then, with a quick, nervous movement he

picked up a separate bunch of the papers on the table before him and

flung them across to his host.

"There you are," he cried, "that's the whole darn official story. You

best keep it awhile, and read it. I got orders to hand you all you need.

Indians, dog-team, rations. Any old thing you fancy. But--" he paused.

His quick-moving eyes became suddenly still. They were gazing directly

into those of the husband beyond the table. "You'll need to start

out--right away."

Steve rose from his seat with a nod.

"I shall know when to start," he replied shortly.

Then he raised his arms above his head and stretched himself luxuriously

while Garstaing sat watching him, endeavouring to penetrate the man's

tremendous barrier of reserve. But it remained impenetrable, and there

was nothing left for him but to comply with his host's tacit invitation.

He, too, rose from his seat.

"You best take a copy of the story," he said, as Steve moved towards the

door. "Anyway I'll need the original later."

He was talking because the other compelled him to talk. And because he

had that in his mind which made it impossible for him to remain silent.

Steve opened the door and peered out. The night was brilliantly

star-lit. Garstaing was close behind him.

"It's tough on you, Allenwood," he said in a tone intended to express

sympathy. "Two years. Gee!"

Steve's only reply was to move aside to let him pass out. It was as

though Garstaing's expression of sympathy had at last found a weakness

in his armour of reserve. His movement had been abrupt--startlingly

abrupt.

"So long," he said coldly.

Just for one moment their eyes met. Steve's were frigidly non-committal.

There was neither friendliness nor dislike in them. There was no emotion

whatsoever. Garstaing's were questioning, searching, and full of an

impulse that might have meant anything. But it was the police officer

who controlled the situation, and the headstrong, intolerant Indian

Agent who was obeying. He passed out, and his "So long" came back to the

man in the doorway as the night swallowed him up.

Steve moved back to the table. In his deliberate fashion he leant over

the lamp chimney and blew the light out. Then he passed out of the room

and closed the door gently. He paused for a moment outside, and stood

gazing in the direction which he knew Garstaing had taken. Presently he

raised one hand and passed it across his broad forehead. It remained

for a moment pressed against the skin, which had suddenly become coldly

moist. His fingers searched their way up through his abundant dark hair.

It was a movement that expressed something like helpless bewilderment.

"Two years!" he muttered. "Two years!"

Then his arm dropped almost nervelessly to his side.

CHAPTER III

THE GOING OF STEVE

There are some personalities which never fail to permeate their

neighbourhood with their presence. Of such was Dr. Ian Ross. His

presence never failed to impress itself. The moment he crossed the

threshold of his home the household became aware of it. There was his

big voice, his deep-throated husky laugh. There was that strong-hearted

kindly humanity always shining in his deep-set, blue eyes.

He had returned from his surgery at the agency for his midday meal, and

his abundant toned hail reached his wife in a remote bedroom in the

almost luxurious home which he had had set up amidst the spruce woods

lining the Deadwater trail.

"Ho, Millie!" he cried. "Ho you, Mill!" he called again, without waiting

for any response.

"I'll be right along, Mac," came back the cheerful reply.

"Fine. But don't stop to change your gown, there's a good soul. Guess

it's feed time, anyway. And not so much 'Mac.' Guess I'm Ross of the

Ross of Ardairlie, which is in the Highlands of Scotland, which is part

of a small group of islands, which are dumped down in the Atlantic off

the west coast of Europe. Maybe--you've heard tell."

The man flung his wide-brimmed hat on a side table in the hall with a

comfortable laugh. Then seating himself in a big chair, he ran his

fingers through his crisp iron-grey hair.

He was a raw-boned, powerfully built man who seemed by nature the beau

ideal for the healing of a race of savages who regard disease as

inevitable, a visitation by the powers of evil, and something which must

be submitted to in patience lest worse befall. Almost brusque of manner,

forceful, he was as strong and kindly of heart as he was skilful. He was

a product of the best Scottish school of medicine, and one of those rare

souls whose whole desire in life is the relief of human suffering.

Fortune had favoured him very practically. He had ample private means

which enabled him to accept the paltry salary the Government offered him

to take charge of a herd of its coloured children up on the Caribou

River. Furthermore he had had the good fortune to marry a Canadian woman

whose whole heart was wrapped up in him and his life's purpose.

So these two, with their two young children, had made their way north.

The man had set up an ample, even luxurious home on the confines of the

reserve, and they had settled down to battle with the exterminating

diseases, which, since the civilizing process set in, the Indian seems

to have become heir to. So far the battle had raged, for ten years, and

it looked likely to last far beyond Ian Ross's lifetime.

Whatever other successes and failures he had had during that time he had

achieved an affection from his patients quite as great as the hatred

achieved by Hervey Garstaing in less than half that number of years.

The plump round figure of Millie Ross rustled into the hall.

"Where's Dora?"

The man's question came without turning from the sunlit view beyond the

doorway. A wonderful stretch of undulating wood-clad country lay spread

out before him. It was a waste of virgin territory chequered with

woodland bluffs, with here and there the rigid Indian teepee poles

supporting their rawhide dwellings, peeping out from all sorts of

natural shelters.

"Dora? Why, Dora's over with Nita Allenwood. That child spends most of

her time there now."

Millie's cheerful, easy manner was perhaps the greatest blessing of Ian

Ross's life. Her happy good temper spoke of a perfectly healthy body,

and a mind full of a pleasant humour.

Dr. Ross withdrew a timepiece from his pocket.

"Now?" he cried. "Oh, you mean because of Steve's going off on the long

trail. Five days isn't it before he goes?" He chuckled in his pleasant,

tolerant fashion. "Sort of sympathetic butting in, isn't it? Guess heart

and sense never were a good team. I'd say Dora's chock full of heart."

"And it's just as well for someone around this house to have a bunch of

heart that can feel for other folks," Millie retorted promptly. "Say,

you, Mac, there's two days past since word went round of Steve's going,

and you haven't done a thing. Not a thing but continue to make life

miserable for those poor neches who can't help themselves, and have to

spend their play time in swallowing the dope you can't make filthy

enough to please your notions of humanity."

The man laughed up into the smiling, admonishing eyes of the woman who

meant so much to him.

"Hell!" he cried. "What would you have me do? Isn't it my job to see

those poor devils right? Why, they'd lap up dope till you couldn't tell

'em from a New York drug store. The fouler it tastes the more surely

they come back for more. I'd say I've lengthened the sick list of this

reserve till you'd think it was a Free Hospital, and there wasn't a

healthy neche, squaw, or pappoose north of 60 deg.."

Millie picked up the hat he had flung on the side table and hung it on a

peg of the coat rack.

"What would I have you do?" she said, ignoring the rest of his remarks

for the thought in her mind, and coming back to his chair and resting

her plump hand on his crisp hair. "Why something else besides think of

these scalliwag Indians. I'm all worried to death about Nita Allenwood

and Steve."

The man stirred uneasily under the caressing fingers.

"So am I," he cried brusquely. "Well?"

"That's just what it isn't," Millie had withdrawn her hand. She moved to

the doorway and gazed out into the sunlight. "I want to do something and

just don't know how to do it. I know you hate folks who 'slop over.' But

just think of the position. Steve's going to be away for two years,

according to his reckoning. They've sent Corporal Munday to take over

his post in his absence. What--what on earth is Nita to do in his

absence? She'll get her rations, and her pay, and all that. But--she

can't live around the post sort of keeping house for this boy--Munday.

She can't live there by herself anyway. Think of her by that shack with

her kiddie. Two years, here in a country----Besides--"

"'Besides' nothing," exclaimed the man with that curious irritation of a

troubled mind. "Is there need of 'besides' when you think of a

good-looker girl who's barely twenty-two, with as dandy a baby as I've

ever set eyes on, and who I helped into daylight, sitting around without

her husband in a country that's peopled with white men whose morals

would disgrace a dog-wolf? Two years! Why, it makes me sweat thinking.

If that feller Steve don't see my way of looking at things I'm going to

tell him just what his parents ought to've been."

"And what's your way of thinking, Mac?" enquired his wife with the

confidence of certain knowledge.

"My way? My way?" the man exploded, his blue eyes widening with

incredulity. "Why, the way he's got to look. The way sense lies. That

girl and her kiddie have got to come right along here and camp with us

till the boy gets back. There's going to be no darn nonsense," he added

threateningly, as though Millie were protesting. "She's going to come

right here, where you can keep your dandy eye on her till----"

"Eyes--plural, Mac." Millie's smile was a goodly match for the summer

day.

The doctor flung his head back in a deep-throated guffaw.

"Have it your own way," he cried. "One or two, they don't miss much.

Anyway, I guessed I'd put it to you before I went over to fix things

up."

"Sure," laughed Millie comfortably. "You most generally ask my consent

before you get busy." Then, in a moment, she became serious. "But you're

right, Mac," she said. "Dora and I have been talking that way ever since

we heard. And Mabel swears she's going to write the Commissioner of

Police all she thinks about it, and that's 'some.' It's cruel sending

off a married man on a trip like that without fixing things for his

wife. You see and fix things, Mac. Nita's just as welcome as a ray of

sunshine right here with us. It's a shame! It's a wicked downright

shame! And Steve ought to know better than to stand for it. He ought

to----"

"He can't kick." The man shook his head. "He's looking to get a

superintendentship. A kick would fix that for good. No, he's got no kick

coming. You need to understand the Police force right. It's no use

talking that way. It's the work of the force first, last, and all the

time. Everything else is nowhere, and the womenfolk, whom they

discourage, last of all. And mind you, they're right. You can't run a

family, and this hellish country at the same time. If the Police weren't

what they were it would need seventy thousand of them instead of seven

hundred to make this territory better than a sink of crime for every low

down skunk who can't keep out of penitentiary anywhere else. This thing

has me so worried I haven't appetite enough to care it's gone my feed

time by a quarter hour. Isn't Miss Prue through with the darn potatoes,

or--something?"

Millie laughed indulgently.

"I'll get along and see. You see, Miss Prue's a good and God-fearing

squaw, when she isn't smoking her pipe or sitting asleep over the

cook-stove. Anyway, I'll chase her up," and she bustled off in the

direction of the kitchen.

Left to himself Ian Ross forgot entirely that he was awaiting his

dinner. His deep-set eyes were turned to the view beyond the door, and

his thoughts were still further afield. He was thinking of the pretty,

eager face he had watched at the bachelors' dance at Deadwater. He was

thinking of the men who had approached Nita with the ceremony which had

so delighted her. He was old enough and wise enough to appreciate fully

the dangers she would be confronted with in Steve's absence, dangers

which it was more than likely Steve could not realize.

He liked Steve. For all their disparity of years a great friendship

existed between them. Steve was a man who would succeed in anything he

undertook. The doctor was sure of that. But--and this was the matter

that troubled him most--Steve had utter and complete faith in his wife,

the same as he had in all those who possessed his regard. Steve was a

man of single, simple purpose. Strong as a lion in the open battle where

the danger was apparent, but in the more subtle dangers of life he was a

child.

Well, there were men in their world who constituted just one of those

grave subtle dangers to Steve in Steve's absence. Ian Ross shared with

everybody else the hatred of Hervey Garstaing. He had seen Garstaing and

Nita together at the dance. He had seen them together at other times.

Oh,--he had never seen anything that was not perhaps perfectly

legitimate. But he knew Hervey Garstaing better than most people at

Deadwater. He saw far more of him than he desired. And Hervey was a

good-looking man. Nita was young and full of a youthful desire for a

good time. And then Hervey was also an unscrupulous hound whom it would

have given the doctor the greatest pleasure in life to shoot.

* * * * *

Ian Ross laughed out loud as he strode through the woods on his way to

the police post. A thought had occurred to him which pleased his simple

mind mightily. It was not a very profound thought. And the humour of it

was difficult to detect. But it pleased him, and he had to laugh, and

when he laughed the echoes rang. It had occurred to him that it took a

man of real brain to be a perfect "damn fool."

The inspiration of his thought was undoubtedly Steve Allenwood. Steve

Allenwood and his affairs had occupied his thoughts all the morning, and

had interfered with a due appreciation of the dinner he had just eaten.

He was perturbed, and Millie had set the match to the powder train of

his emotions and energies. His admiration for Steve was as unstinted as

his sympathy for the call that had been suddenly made on him. But he

knew Steve, and realized the difficulties that lay before him in

carrying out the programme of kindly purpose Millie and he had worked

out over their midday meal. It was this which had brought him to the

conclusion which had inspired his laugh.

In that brief instant the complete silence of the woods about him had

been broken up in startling fashion. No shot from a rifle, no mournful

cry of timber-wolf could disturb the spell of nature like the jarring

note of the human voice.

But it had another effect. It elicited a response no less startling to

the man who had laughed.

"Ho you, Mac!"

Ian Ross halted. He had recognized the voice instantly.

"That you, Steve?"

"Sure," came back the reply.

Instantly the Scotsman's lack of self-consciousness became apparent.

"How in hell did you know it was me?"

It was the turn of the invisible police officer to laugh.

"Guess there's only one laugh like yours north of 60 deg.--less a bull moose

can act that way." Then he went on. "Sharp to your left. I'm down here

on the creek. I was making your place and this way cuts off quite a

piece."

Ross turned off at once and his burly figure crashed its way through the

barrier of delicate-hued spruce. A moment later he was confronting the

officer on the bank of the creek.

Steve's smile was one of cordial welcome.

"I was figgering to get you before you went back to the agency," he said

in explanation.

The doctor's eyes twinkled.

"And I was guessing to get you--before I went."

Steve nodded.

"We were chasing each other."

"Which is mostly a fool stunt."

"Mostly."

They stood smiling into each other's eyes for a moment.

"You were needing me--particular?" Steve enquired after a pause.

Ross glanced down at the gurgling water of the shallow stream as it

passed over its rough gravel bed.

"I was needing a yarn. Nothing amiss at the post? You wanted

me--particular?"

The smile in Steve's eyes deepened.

"No. I was needing a--yarn."

The doctor's twinkling eyes searched the clearing. A fallen tree was

sprawling near by, with its upper boughs helping to cascade the waters

of the stream. He pointed at it.

"Guess we don't need to wear our legs out."

Steve laughed shortly.

"That's where the neches beat us every time. You need to sit at a

pow-wow."

"Sure. Their wise men sit most all the time."

They moved over to the tree trunk, and Ross accepted the extreme base of

it and sat with his back against the up-torn roots. Steve sat astride

the trunk facing him. Then by a common impulse the men produced their

pipes. Steve's was alight first and he held a match for the other.

"You were chasing me up?" he said. "Nothing on the Reserve?"

"No." The doctor's pipe was glowing under the efforts of his powerful

lungs. "Most of the neches are sleeping off the dope. It's queer how

they're crazy for physic. How's Nita and the kiddie? I haven't seen

Nita since the dance."

Steve's smile died out quite suddenly. The doctor's observant eyes lost

nothing of the change, although the sunshine on the dancing waters

seemed to absorb his whole attention.

"Guess little Coqueline absorbs more bottles to the twenty-four hours

than you'd ever guess she was made to fit," Steve replied with a half

laugh. "She kind of reminds you of one of those African sand rivers in

the rainy season. Nita's the same as usual. She had a good time at the

dance."

"Yes." The doctor bestirred himself and withdrew his gaze from the

tumbling waters. "You had something to say to me," he demanded abruptly,

his blue eyes squarely challenging.

Steve nodded. A half smile lit his steady eyes.

"Sure. And--it isn't easy."

The Scotsman returned the half smile with interest.

"I haven't noticed it hard for folks to talk, unless it is to tell of

their own shortcomings. Guess you aren't figgering that way. Maybe I can

help you. I'd hate to be setting out on a two years' trip and leaving

Millie to scratch around without me."

Steve's eyes lit.

"That's it, Doc," he said with a nod which told the other of the

emotions stirring under his calm exterior. "Two years!" He laughed

without any amusement. "It may be more, a hell of a sight. Maybe even I

won't get back. You see, you never can figger what this north country's

got waiting on you. It's up in the Unaga country. And I guess it's new

to me. I'd say it's new to anyone. It's mostly a thousand miles I've got

to make, right up somewhere on the north-west shores of Hudson's Bay."

"A--thousand miles! It's tough." Dr. Ross shook his head.

"An' it comes at a bad time for me," Steve went on thoughtfully. "Still,

I guess it can't be helped. You see, it's murder! Or they reckon it is.

A letter got through from Seal Bay. That's on the Hudson coast. The

Indian Department don't know where it comes from. It seems to have been

handed in by an Indian named Lupite. The folks tried to get out of him

where he came from, but I guess he didn't seem to know. Anyway he didn't

tell them. He said Unaga, and kind of indicated the north. Just the

north. Well, it isn't a heap to go on. Still, that's the way of these

things. I've got to locate the things the folks at Seal Bay couldn't

locate. It seems there's a biggish trading post way up hidden somewhere

on the plateau of Unaga. It was run by two partners, and they had a sort

of secret trade. The man at Seal Bay--Lorson Harris--reckons it's a hell

of an important trade. The names of these traders were Marcel Brand--a

chemist--and Cy Allshore, a pretty tough northern man. These fellers

used to come down and trade at Seal Bay. Well, I don't know much more

except this letter came into Seal Bay--it's written in a woman's hand

and in English--to say her husband, Marcel Brand, and this, Cy Allshore,

have been murdered. And she guesses by Indians. She don't seem dead

sure. But they've been missing over a year. I'm just handing you this so

you'll know the sort of thing I'm up against. And I've got to leave

Nita, and my little baby girl, for two years--sure."

The kindly doctor nodded. He removed his pipe, and cleared his throat.

His eyes were alight with a ready smile that was full of sympathy.

"Say, you haven't got to worry a thing for them that way," he said.

"It's tough leaving them. Mighty tough. I get all that. And it sort of

makes me wonder. But--Say, it's queer," he went on. "I was coming right

along over to help fix things for you. And I was scared to death

wondering how to do it without butting in. You were coming along over to

me to set the same sort of proposition, and were scared to death I'd

feel like turning you down. One of these days some bright darn fool'll

fix up mental telepathy to suit all pocket-books. It'll save us all a

deal of worry when that comes along. Now if that mental telepathy were

working right now it would be handing the things passing in your head

something like this: 'Why in hell can't that damned dope merchant, and

that dandy woman who don't know better than to waste her time being his

wife, come right along and fix something so Nita and the kiddie ain't

left lonesome and unprotected while I'm away.' That's the kind of

message I'd be getting from you. And you'd be getting one from me

something in this way: 'If I don't screw up the two measly cents' worth

of courage I've got, and go right across to Steve, and put the

proposition Millie and I are crazy to make, why--why, Millie'll beat my

brains out with a flat iron, and generally make things eternally

unpleasant.' Having got these messages satisfactorily you and I would

have set out--on the same path, mind. We'd have met right here: I should

have said, 'Steve, my boy, your little gal Nita and that bright little

bit of a bottle worrier you call your baby are coming right over to make

their homes with Millie, and the gals, and me, till you get back. We're

going to do just the best we know for them--same as we would for our

own. It's going to be a real comfort for us to have them, and something

more than a pleasure, and if you don't let 'em come--well, we'll be most

damnably disappointed!' And you, being a straight, sound-thinking man in

the main, but with a heap of notions that aren't always sound, but

which you can't just help, would say: 'See, right here, Doc, I don't

approve boosting my burdens on other folks' shoulders. That's not my

way, but anyway I'll be mighty thankful not to disappoint you, and to go

away feeling my bits of property aren't lying around at the mercy of a

country, and a race of folk that'll always remain a blot on any

Creator's escutcheon!' Having said all this we'd likely go on talking

for awhile about the folks and things we know, such as the men of our

acquaintance who reckon they're white, and the rotten acts they do

because rye whisky and the climate of the Northland's killed the only

shreds of conscience they ever had. And then--why, maybe then we just

part, and go back to our work feeling what darn fine fellers we are, and

how almighty glad we are we aren't as--the other folk."

The smile which the doctor's whimsical manner had provoked in Steve's

eyes was good to see. An overwhelming gratitude urged him to verbal

thanks, but somehow a great feeling deep down on his heart forbade such

expression.

"You mean--all that, Doc?" he said almost incredulously at last.

The other raised his broad loose shoulders expressively.

"I wish it was more."

Steve breathed a deep sigh. He shook his head. Then, with an impulsive

movement, he thrust out one powerful hand.

Just for one moment the two men gripped in silence.

"I'll fix it with Nita," Steve said, as their hands fell apart.

"Yep. And Millie and the gals will go along over. She can't refuse

them."

Steve flashed a sharply enquiring look into the other's eyes.

"Why should she want to?" he demanded.

The doctor suddenly realized the doubt he had implied. His own train of

thought had found unconscious expression.

"There isn't a reason in the world," he protested, "except--she's a

woman."

But his reply, for all its promptness, entirely missed its purpose. It

failed completely to banish the trouble which had displaced the smile in

Steve's eyes.

When Steve spoke his voice was low, and he seemed to be speaking to

himself rather than to his companion.

"That's so," he said at last. And Ian Ross knew there was more in

Steve's mind than the fear of the common dangers to which his wife and

child would be exposed in his absence. How much he did not know. Perhaps

he had no desire to know. Anyway, being a man of some wisdom, being

possessed of a home, and a wife, and family of his own, he applied

himself assiduously to the pipe which never failed to soothe his

feelings, however much they might be disturbed.

* * * * *

It was exactly a week from the time he had received his instructions

that Steve's preparations were completed and the hour of his departure

came round.

The afternoon was well advanced. Already the brilliant sun was drooping

towards the misty range of lofty hills which cut the western skyline in

the region of the Peace River country. Steve's horse was saddled and

bridled, and tethered to the post outside the office door, where

Corporal Munday was seated upon the sill awaiting the departure.

The "outfit" was already on the trail. That had left at sunrise. Its

preparations had been simple, and even spare. But it was adequate. Steve

and his Indians knew to the last fraction the requirements of a journey

such as lay before them. Year in, year out, they were accustomed to

preparations for the long trail. This was longer than usual. That was

all.

The officer's plans were considered to the last detail. Nothing that

could be foreseen was neglected. Every stage of the journey to the Unaga

country was measured in his mind, both for time and distance. Only the

elements were perforce omitted from his calculations. This was in the

nature of things. The elemental side of his undertaking was

incalculable.

His way lay due north for a while along the course of the great Caribou

River. This would bring him to the half-breed settlement at the Landing

on the great lakes. It would also take him through the country of the

Hiada Indians. Arrived at Ruge's trading post at the Landing, his horses

and police, half-spring wagons would be left to the trader's care, for

beyond this point their services would be dispensed with.

The second stage of the journey would be by water and portage. In this

neighbourhood, where the wilderness of sparsely travelled country opened

out, he would make for the headwaters of the beautiful Theton River. The

river of a hundred lakes draining a wide tract of wooded country. It was

a trail which was not unfamiliar; for his work not infrequently carried

him into the territory of peaceful Caribou-Eater Indians, who so often

became the victims of the warlike, hot-headed Yellow-Knives.

The river journey he calculated should bring him to Fort Duggan at the

height of summer, and it was without any feeling of enthusiasm that he

contemplated that fly-and-mosquito-ridden country at such a time of

year. But it was necessary, and so he was left without alternative. Fort

Duggan was the deserted ruin of an old-time trading post, it was the

home of the Shaunekuk Indians who were half Eskimo. It was also the

gate of the mystery land of Unaga.

Unaga! The riddle of the wide northern-world. The land from which weird,

incredible stories percolated through to the outside. They were stories

of wealth. They were stories of savage romance. They were stories of the

weird, terrible, and even monstrous. It was a land so unexplored as to

be reputed something little better than a sealed book even to the

intrepid Arctic explorer, who, at so great an expenditure of physical

effort and courage, rarely accomplishes more than the blazing of a trail

which seals up again behind him, and adds his toll to the graveyard

which claims so many of the world's dauntless souls.

Unaga! The land unknown to the white man. And yet--news had come of the

murder of two white men within its secret heart. Therefore the machinery

of white man's law was set in motion, and the long, lean arm was

reaching out.

Not less than a thousand miles of weary toil and infinite peril lay

before Steve and his two Indian helpers. And a second thousand miles

before the little home at Deadwater could hope to see him again. It was

an overwhelming thought. Small blame to the heart that quailed before

such an undertaking.

Steve had no thought for the immensity of the labour confronting him. He

had no thought for anything but the purpose of his life. He knew that

successful completion of the work before him would set the seal to his

ambitions. He would then be able to lay at the feet of the girl who was

the mother of his child the promotion to Superintendentship which should

take her away from the dreary life of hardship which he knew to be so

rapidly undermining that moral strength which was not abundantly hers.

These were the moments of the man's farewell to all that made up the

spiritual side of his earthly life. It might be a final farewell. He

could not tell. He knew the perils that lay ahead of him. But a great,

passionate optimism burned deep down in his heart and refused him

thought of disaster.

He was in the partially dismantled parlour with Nita and his baby girl.

The last detail for the future of these two had been considered and

prepared. At the moment of his going, Nita, too, would bid farewell to

the post. And the precious home, the work of months of happy labour,

would be passed on to the service of Steve's successor.

It was a moment that would surely live in the hearts of both. It was a

moment when tearful eyes would leave to memory a picture perhaps to

lighten the dreary months to come, a sign, a beacon, a consolation and

support, a living hope for the painful months of separation when no word

or sign could pass between them. They were moments sacred to husband and

wife, upon which no earthly eyes have right to gaze.

The door opened and Steve passed out into the smiling sunshine. His

steady eyes were dull and lustreless. His firm lips were a shade more

tightly compressed. For the rest his limbs moved vigorously, his step

lacked nothing of its wonted Spring.

As he left the doorway his place was taken by Nita, who bore the waking

infant Coqueline in her arms. Both were dressed ready to pass on to

their new home.

Steve was clad for the summer trail, and his leather chapps creaked, and

his spurs clanked as he passed round to the tying post at which his

horse was tethered. Force of habit made him test the cinchas of his

saddle before mounting.

He spoke over his shoulder to the man who had risen to his feet at his

coming.

"Guess you got everything right, Corporal?" he said.

"Everything, sir."

"Good. My diary's right up to date," Steve went on. "Things are quiet

just now. They'll get busy later."

He swung into the saddle and held out a hand.

"So long," he said, as the Corporal promptly gripped it.

"So long, sir. And--good luck."

"Thanks."

The horse moved away and Steve passed round to Nita. He drew rein

opposite the door but did not dismount.

"Let's--get another peck at her, Nita," he said, and it almost seemed as

if the words were jerked from under the restraint he was putting on

himself.

The girl had no words with which to answer him. Her eyes were wide and

dry. But from her pallor it was obvious deep emotion was stirring. She

came to his side, and held the baby up to him, a movement that had

something of the tragic in it.

The father swept his hat from his head and bent down in the saddle, and

gazed yearningly into the sleeping child's cherubic face. Then he

reached lower and kissed the pretty forehead tenderly.

"She'll be getting big when I see her again," he said, in a voice that

was not quite steady.

Then a passionate light flooded his eyes as he looked into the face of

his girl wife.

"For God's sake care for her, Nita," he cried. "She's ours--and she's

all we've got. Here, kiss me, dear. I can't stop another moment, or--or

I'll make a fool of myself."

The girl turned her face up and the man's passionate kisses were given

across the small atom which was the pledge of their early love. Then

Steve straightened up in the saddle and replaced his hat. A moment

later he had vanished within the woods through which he must pass on his

way to Ian Ross and his wife, to whom he desired to convey his final

word of thanks.

Nita stood silent, dry-eyed gazing after him. He was gone, and she knew

she would not see him again for two years.

* * * * *

The woodland shadows were lengthening. The delicate green of the trees

had lost something of its brightness. Already the distance was taking on

that softened hue which denotes the dying efforts of daylight.

Nita was passing rapidly over the footpath which would take her to her

new home. She was alone with her child in her arms, and carrying a small

bundle. Her violet eyes were widely serious, the pallor of her pretty

cheeks was unchanged. But whatever the emotions that inspired these

things she lacked all those outward signs of feeling which few women,

under similar circumstances, could have resisted. There were no tears.

Yet her brows were puckered threateningly. She was absorbed, deeply

absorbed, but it was hardly with the absorption of blind grief.

She paused abruptly. The startled look in her eyes displayed real

apprehension. The sound of someone or something moving in the

low-growing scrub beside her had stirred her to a physical fear of

woodland solitudes she had never been able to conquer.

She stood glancing in apprehension this way and that. She was utterly

powerless. Flight never entered her head. Panic completely prevailed.

A moment later a man thrust his way into the clearing of the path.

"Hervey!"

His name broke from Nita in a world of relief. Then reaction set in.

"You--you scared me to death. Why didn't you speak, or--or something?"

Hervey Garstaing stood smilingly before her. His dark eyes hungrily

devouring her flushed face and half-angry eyes.

"You wouldn't have me hollering your dandy name, with him only just

clear of Ross's house? I'm not chasing trouble."

"Has Steve only just gone?"

"Sure. I waited for that before I came along."

The man moistened his lips. It was a curiously unpleasant operation.

Then he came a step nearer.

"Well, Nita," he said, with a world of meaning in eyes and tone. "We're

rid of him for two years--anyway."

The girl started. The flush in her cheeks deepened, and the angry light

again leapt into her eyes.

"What d'you mean?" she cried.

The man laughed.

"Mean? Do you need to ask? Ain't you glad?"

"Glad? I--" Suddenly pallor had replaced the flush in the girl's cheeks,

and a curious light shone in eyes which a moment before had been alight

with swift resentment. "--I--don't know."

The man nodded confidently, and drew still closer.

"That's all right," he said. "I do."

CHAPTER IV

UNAGA

It was the last of the night watch. The depths of the primeval forest

were alive with sound, those sounds which are calculated to set the

human pulse athrob. Steve Allenwood crouched over the fire. He was

still, silent, and he squatted with his hands locked about his knees.

The fitful firelight only served to emphasize the intensity of

surrounding darkness. It yielded little more than a point of attraction

for the prowling, unseen creatures haunting the wild. The snow outside

was falling silently, heavily, for it was late in the year, and October

was near its close! Here there was shelter under the wide canopy which

the centuries had grown.

As yet the falling temperature was still above zero. Later it would be

different. The cap on the man's head was pressed low over his ears, and

his summer buckskin shirt had been replaced by the furs which would

stand between him and the fierce breath of winter during the long months

to come. His eyes were wide. Every sense was alert. For all he was

gazing into the fire, he was listening, always listening to those sounds

which he dared not ignore for one single moment.

The sounds were many. And each had a meaning which he read with a

sureness that was almost instinctive. The deep unease of the myriads of

bare tree-trunks about him, supporting their snow-laden canopy, told

him of the burden which the pitiless northern heavens were thrusting

upon them. It also told him of the strength of the breeze which was

driving the banking snow outside. The not infrequent booming crash of a

falling tree spoke of a burden already too great to bear. So with the

splitting of an age-rotted limb torn from the parent trunk.

Of deeper significance, and more deadly, is the sound which never dies

out completely. It is a sound as of falling leaves, pattering softly

upon the underlay of rotting cones and dead pine needles. Its insistence

is peculiar. There are moments when it is distant. And moments, again,

when it is near, desperately near.

It is at times such as the latter that the man at the fire unlocks his

hands. With a swift movement, he reaches down to the fire and seizes a

blazing brand. For a moment a trail of fire arcs against the black

depths of the forest and falls to the ground. Then, with a hasty

scuttling, the sounds die away in the distance, and a fierce snarling

challenge is flung from the safer depths.

The challenge is without effect. The man rises swiftly to his feet, and,

a moment later, the smouldering firebrand is gathered up, and all signs

of fire where it has fallen are stamped out. Again he returns to the

comforting warmth to continue his watch, whilst his companions sleep on

securely in their arctic, fur-lined bags.

But the threat is real and deadly. Woe betide the foolish human soul who

ignores it, or fails to read it aright. The eyes of the forest are wide

awake. They are everywhere watching. They are there, in pairs,

merciless, savage eyes, only awaiting opportunity. It is the primeval

forest world where man is no more than those other creatures who seek to

support the life that is thrust upon them.

These things were only a few of the voiceless hauntings which never

ceased. Steve and his companions knew them all by heart. Every sound,

every cadence told its tale. Every danger, with which they were

surrounded, was calculated to a fraction and left them undisturbed.

Slowly the power of the firelight lessened. For all the stirring and

replenishing, the flickering blaze yielded before the steadily growing

twilight, and presently it sulkily abandoned the unequal contest. The

dawn had come.

It was sufficient. Steve rose from his seat and stretched himself. Then,

moving over to the wood pile he replenished the fire and set the camp

kettle to boil. After that he passed on to the two figures still

sleeping under their furs.

Oolak was the first to reach full wakefulness, and he promptly crawled

from his sleeping-bag. Steve's instructions were brief and to the point.

"Fix the dogs," he ordered. And Oolak grunted his simple acquiescence.

As Julyman broke from his spell of dreaming Steve indicated the camp

kettle.

"I've set it to boil. I'll take a look outside," he said.

He passed on without waiting for reply and his way followed the track

which the sled had left in the rotting underlay, where over night it had

been laboriously hauled into the shelter of the woods.

His movements were vigorous. The bulk of his outer clothing robbed him

of much of such height as he possessed, but it added to the natural

appearance of muscular sturdiness which was always his. His mission was

important, for on his accurate reading of the elemental conditions

depended immediate movements, and safety or disaster for his expedition.

As he neared the break in the forest, through which their course lay,

the twilight gave before the light of day, and through the aisles of

bare tree-trunks ahead he beheld the white carpet which night had laid.

Nearly a foot of snow had fallen, and everywhere under its burden the

foliage drooped dismally in the perfect morning light.

These things, however, were without serious concern. Steve knew that for

the next seven months the earth would lie deep buried under its winter

pall. That was the condition under which most of his work was carried

on. It was the sunrise, and the wind, which must tell him the things he

desired to know.

Passing beyond the shadowed aisles he moved out over the soft snow,

where the crisp breeze swept down through the break. He was a few

hundred yards from the summit of the high ridge over which, for miles,

to the north and south, the primeval forest spread its mantle. It was a

barrier set up and shutting off the view of the final stage of his

journey; that final stage towards which he had laboured for so many

weeks. He had reached so nearly the heart of Unaga, and beyond,

somewhere towards the shores of Hudson's Bay lay that winter goal where

he hoped to find the friendly shelter of the home of the seal-hunting

Eskimo who peopled the regions.

He ploughed his way through the snow towards the summit of the ridge.

* * * * *

For all his outward calm Steve Allenwood was deeply stirred. For all he

knew the wide Northland, with its mystery, its harshnesses, the sight

that met his gaze from the summit of the ridge was one that left him

wondering, and amazed, and not a little overwhelmed.

The immensity of it all! The harsh, unyielding magnificence! The bitter

breath from the north-east stung his cheeks with its fierce caresses. He

felt like a man who has stolen into the studio of a great artist and

finds himself confronted with a canvas upon which is roughly outlined

the masterly impression of a creation yet to be completed. It seemed to

him as if he were gazing upon the bold, rough draft of the Almighty

Creator's uncompleted work.

The blazing arc of the rising sun was lifting over the tattered skyline,

and its light burnished the snow-crowned glacial beds to an almost

blinding whiteness. As yet it only caught the hill tops within its

range. The hollows, the shadowed woodlands, remained lost beneath the

early morning mists. It gave the impression of gazing down upon one vast

steaming lake, out of which was slowly emerging ridges of white-crested

land chequered with masses of primeval forest.

In all directions it was the same; a hidden world having laboriously to

free itself from the bondage of the mists.

The churning mists rolled on. They cleared for a moment at a point to

let the sunlight shafts illuminate some sweep of glacial ice. Then they

closed down again, swiftly, as though to hide once more those secrets

inadvertently revealed. The sun rose higher. The movement of the mists

became more rapid. They thinned. They deepened once more. And with every

change the sense of urgent movement grew. It was like the panic movement

of a beaten force. The all-powerful light of day was absorbing, draining

the moisture-laden shadows, and reducing them to gossamer.

It was with the final passing of the mists that a sharp ejaculation

broke from the watching man. It verily seemed to have been wrung from

him. His gaze was fixed at a point of the broken skyline. A great cloud

lay banked above the rising crest of the snowy barrier. It was stirring.

It was lifting. Slowly. Reluctantly.

The moments passed. It was like the rising of the curtain upon a

wonderful stage picture. Unlike the mists the cloud did not disperse. It

lifted up, up before the man's amazed eyes, and settled a dense dark

mass to crown that which it had revealed.

"Gee!"

The startled monosyllable was thrilling with every emotion of wonder.

A spire towered over the serrated skyline. Its height was utterly beyond

Steve's calculation. Its final peak was lost amidst the heavy cloud.

Sheer up it rose. Sheer above its monstrous surroundings. It rose like

the spire of some cathedral of Nature's moulding, and dwarfed the world

about it. It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendour

outspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock.

"Boss--look!"

It was the first intimation of Julyman's presence. Steve accepted it

without question. He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld. The Indian

was at his side pointing at the monstrous tower.

"Him Unaga--Unaga Spire. Julyman know. Him Father wise man. Him tell of

Unaga Spire. Him hot. Him hot lak hell. Him all burn up snow--ice. Him

burn up all thing. Come. It not good. Him Unaga Spire!"

* * * * *

A wide declining expanse stretched out before them as Steve and Julyman

swung along over the snow. They were following the track of a dog train,

leaving behind them the added tracks of their own snow-shoes to mark the

way. Ahead of them lay another short rise whose crest was dotted with

timber bluffs. It was beyond this they hoped to discover the winter

shelter they were seeking. Somewhere behind them the indomitable Oolak,

silent, enduring, was shepherding their own dog train over their tracks.

The end of the month had come and their fortunes were at a crisis. A

thousand miles of territory had been covered since the early summer day

when Steve had bade farewell to his wife and child.

The effort had been tremendous. Far more tremendous than these men knew.

And the story of the journey, the endurance, the hardship of it, would

have made an epic of man's silent heroism. With Steve each hardship,

each difficulty encountered had been a matter of course. Accident was a

thing simply to be avoided, and when avoidance was impossible then to be

accepted without complaint. And these things had been so many.

Now the wide Northland had been traversed from west to east and they had

crossed the fierce bosom of Unaga's plateau. The reality of it was no

better and only little worse than had been anticipated. It had been a

journey of hills, everlasting hills, and interminable primordial

forests, with dreary breaks of open plains. Each season had brought its

own troubles, with always lying ahead the deadly anticipation of the

winter yet to come.

It was the thought of this, and the indications everywhere about them,

that had spurred Steve to hunt down the sled track upon which they had

miraculously fallen.

They moved on in silence for a long time. Such was the way of these men.

The great silences had eaten into their bones. The life and labours of

the trail would have been intolerable amidst the chatter of useless

talk.

The rolling swing of their gait carried them swiftly to their vantage

ground, and hope stirred Steve to give expression to his thoughts.

"It would be queer to find those fancy 'Sleeper Indians' of yours," he

said.

Julyman cast a glance over his left shoulder in the direction of the

steely north. Somewhere back there far beyond his view stood the great

Spire of Unaga, and the black cloud hovering about its crest. It had

been left far, far behind them, but it still remained a memory.

"No Sleeper Indian man," he said decidedly. Then he added with a final

shake of his head: "Oh no."

Steve laughed. It was not often these men laughed on the trail. Just

now, however, the excitement of hope had robbed the white man of

something of his habit.

"Guess your yarn didn't just locate them. Where d'you reckon they are?"

Julyman slackened his gait as they breasted the final rise where the

sled track vanished over the brow of the hill. His dark, questioning

eyes were turned enquiringly upon his boss, and he searched the smiling

face that looked back at him out of its framing of heavy fur. He feared

to be laughed at. He pointed at the northern horizon.

"Him--Unaga," was all he said.

Steve followed the direction of the mitted hand pointing northward, and

the smile died out of his eyes. That strange Spire filled his memory

still in spite of himself. Something of the Indian's awe communicated

itself to him.

But he thrust it from him and gazed out ahead again, searching the

tracks they were following.

"We'll find something, anyway," he said presently. "This track's not

half a day old. There's folks beyond the rise. Say, maybe we can winter

hereabouts, and work along the coast. The coast line's warmer. It never

hits zero on the coast till you make inside the Arctic Circle. We'll get

back to home next winter. It'll be good getting back to your squaws on

Caribou, eh?"

There was a note in Steve's voice which did not fail to impress itself

on the Indian's keen understanding. He knew his boss was thinking of his

own white squaw and the pretty blue eyes of the pappoose which made the

father forget every trouble and concern when he gazed down into them.

Oh, yes, Julyman understood. He understood pretty well every mood of his

boss. And who should understand them if he did not? Men on the trail

together learn to read each other like a book.

"Squaws him trash!" exclaimed the Indian. And he spat to emphasize his

cynical opinion.

"Some squaws," corrected Steve.

Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mere

slits before the biting drift of the wind.

"All squaw," he said doggedly. Then he went on. "Squaw him all smile.

Him soft. Him mak dam fool of Indian man. Squaw no good--only mak

pappoose, feed pappoose. Raise him. All the time squaw mak pappoose. Him

not think nothin' more. Just pappoose. Indian man think all things. Him

squaw only mak pappoose an'--trouble."

"Trouble?" Steve's smile was alight with humour.

The Indian nodded.

"All time," he said decidedly. "No man, no pappoose, then squaw him mak

trouble all time. It all same. Him find man sure. All man dam fool.

Squaw mak him dam fool. Julyman stand by teepee. Him tak rawhide. Him

say, 'do so!' Squaw him do. Julyman mak long trail. Him not care. Him

come back him find plenty much other squaw. So!"

The Indian's watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead. But he

had seen. The humour had completely vanished out of Steve's eyes. So had

his smile. Julyman's purpose was not quite clear. He loved and revered

his chief. He had no desire to hurt him. But Steve knew that the man

had been saying what he had said for his benefit.

"You're a damn scoundrel, Julyman," he said, and there was less than the

usual tolerance in his tone.

The Indian shrugged under his furs.

"Julyman wise man," he protested. "All the time white man say, 'one

squaw.' It good! So! It fine! Indian man say one--two--five--ten squaw.

Then him not care little dam!"

Steve made no reply. The man's cynicism was sufficiently brutal to make

it impossible to reply without heat. And Steve had no desire to quarrel

with his chief lieutenant. Besides, he was deeply attached to the

rascal. So they swung up the last sharp incline in the voiceless manner

in which so much of their work was done.

It was Steve who reached the brow first, and it was his arm, and his

voice that indicated the discoveries beyond.

"Right!" he exclaimed. "Look, Julyman," he went on pointing. "A lodge. A

lodge of neches. And--see! What's that?" There was excitement in the

tone of his question. "It's--a fort!" he cried, his eyes reflecting the

excitement he could no longer restrain. "A--post! A white man's trading

post! What in hell! Come on!"

He moved on impetuously, and in a moment the two men were speeding down

the last incline.

The last recollection of the Indian's deplorable philosophy had passed

from Steve's mind. His eyes were on the distant encampment. He had been

prepared for some discovery. But never, in his wildest dreaming, had he

anticipated a white man's trading post.

It was something amazing. As far as Steve could reckon they were

somewhere within a hundred miles of the great inland sea. It might be

thirty miles. It might be sixty. He could not tell. Far as the eye could

see there was little change from what they had been travelling over for

weeks. Appalling wastes of snow, and hill, and forest, with every here

and there a loftier rise supporting a glacial bed. There were

watercourses. Oh, yes, rivers abounded in that wide, unknown land. But

they were frozen deeply, and later would, freeze doubtless to their very

beds.

But here was a wide shallow valley with a high range of hill country

densely forest clad forming its northeastern boundary. The hither side

was formed by the low rising ground over which they had just passed. The

hollow passed away, narrowing more deeply to the southeast, and lost

itself in the dark depths of a forest. To the north-west the valley

seemed to wander on amidst a labyrinth of sharp hills, which, in the

distance, seemed to grow loftier and more broken as they merged

themselves into the range Steve believed supported the mysterious Spire

of Unaga.

The point of deepest interest and wonder was that which lay in the heart

of the valley less than three miles further on. Numberless small bluffs

chequered the open and suggested the parentage of one which stood out

amongst them, wide, and dark, and lofty. Here there was a long wavering

line of low bush reaching out down the heart of the valley indicating

the course of a river. It was on this river bank, snuggled against the

fringe of the great pine bluff that a cluster of dome-roofed habitations

were plainly visible.

But the wonder of all stood a short distance away to the right where the

woods came down towards the river. It was a wide group of buildings of

lateral logs, with log roofs, and surrounded by a stockade of similar

material. The touch of the white man's hand was unmistakable. No race of

northern Indians or Eskimo could have built such a place.

They sped on over the snow unconscious of the increase of their speed.

And as they approached each man realized the same thought. There was no

sign of life anywhere. There was not even a prowling dog to be seen

searching amongst the refuse of the encampment.

As they drew nearer they failed to discover any addition to the solitary

track they were following. It was curious. It was almost ominous. But

its significance was lost in the thought that here at least was shelter

for themselves against the real winter yet to come.

They reached the banks of the river. It was a good-sized creek frozen

solid, and already deep buried under snow. Without a pause they crossed

to the other side and broke their way through the scrubby snow-laden

bush on the opposite bank.

"Hello!"

The two men came to an abrupt halt. They were confronting a small child

of perhaps five or six years. He was clad in furs from head to foot. A

pretty, robust, white-skinned child, wide-eyed, and smiling his frankly

cordial greeting.

CHAPTER V

MARCEL BRAND

For a moment astonishment robbed Steve of speech. Julyman was, perhaps,

less affected. He stood beside his boss grinning down at the apparition

till his eyes were almost entirely hidden by their closing lids, and his

copper skin was wrinkled into a maze of creases.

Steve's ultimate effort was a responsive, "Hello!"

It seemed to meet with the child's approval, for he came trustfully

towards the strangers.

"Mummy's sick," he informed them, gazing smilingly up into the white

man's face. "The Injuns is all asleep. Pop's all gone away. So's Uncle

Cy. Gone long time. There's An-ina and me. That's all. I likes

An-ina--only hers always wash me."

The whole story of the post was told. The direct childish mind had taken

the short cut which maturity would probably have missed.

Steve had recovered himself, and he smiled down into the pretty, eager,

up-turned face.

"What's your name, little man?" he asked kindly.

"Marcel," the boy returned, without the least shyness.

Steve stooped down into a squatting position, and held out his hands

invitingly. There could be no mistaking his attitude. There could be no

mistaking the appeal this lonely little creature made to his generous

manhood.

"That all? Any other?"

The boy came confidently within reach of the outstretched arms, and, as

the man's mitted hands closed about him, he held up his face for the

expected caress. Steve bent his head and kissed the ready lips.

"'Es, Brand. Marcel Brand," the boy said in that slightly halting

fashion of pronouncing unaccustomed words.

Steve looked up with a start. His eyes encountered the still grinning

face of the scout.

"Do you hear that?" he demanded. "Marcel Brand. It's--it's the place

we're chasing for. Gee! it's well nigh a miracle!"

Quite suddenly he released the child and stood up. Then he picked the

little fellow up in his strong arms.

"Come on, old fellow," he said quickly. "We'll go right along up and see

your Mummy."

And forthwith he started for the frowning stockade under its mantle of

snow.

Once in Steve's arms the child allowed an arm to encircle the stranger's

neck. It was an action of complete abandonment to the new friendship,

and it thrilled the man. It carried him back over a thousand miles of

territory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and other

infant caresses.

"'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?"

Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readily

given his, and now he looked for the natural return.

Steve laughed delightedly.

"Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood. 'Uncle' Steve. And this

is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys.

Don't we, Julyman?"

The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed

features as he moved along beside his boss.

"Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em--plenty, much."

"Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scout

and in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.

Steve noted the change. He understood it. White and colour. This child

had been bred amongst Indians, and his parents were white. It was always

so. Even in so small a child the distinction was definite. He replied

for Julyman, while the Indian only continued to grin.

"Julyman only sleeps at night," he said.

But Marcel pointed at the domed huts which looked so like a collection

of white ant heaps.

"All Indians sleeps. All winter. My Pop says so. So does Uncle Cy. They

sleeps all the time. Only An-ina don't sleep. 'Cep' at night. I doesn't

sleep 'cep' at night. Indians does."

The white man and Indian exchanged glances. Julyman's was triumphant.

Steve's was negatively smiling. He looked up into the child's face which

was just above his level.

"These Indians sleep all winter?" he questioned.

"'Es, them sleeps. My Pop says they eats so much they has to sleep.

An'," he went on eagerly, stumbling over his words, "they's so funny

when they's sleep. They makes drefful noises, an' my Pop says they's

snores. He says they's dreaming all funny things 'bout fairies, an'

seals, an' hunting, an' all the things thems do's. They's wakes up

sometimes. But sleeps again. Why does they sleep? Why does them eat so

much? It's wolves eats till they bursts, isn't it, Uncle Steve?"

Steve pressed the little man closer to him. That "Uncle Steve" so

naturally said warmed his heart to a passionate degree. The little

fellow's mother was sick and he knew that his father and Uncle Cy were

dead; murdered somewhere out in that cold vastness. What had this bright

happy little life to look forward to on the desolate plateau of the

Sleeper Indians.

"Wolves are great greedy creatures," he said. "They eat up everything

they can get. They're real wicked."

"So's Injuns then."

Steve laughed at the childish logic, as the little man rattled on.

"I's hunt wolves when I grows big. I hunts 'em like Uncle Cy, an' seals,

too. I kills 'em. I kills everything wicked. That's what my Pop says. He

says, good boys kills everything bad, then God smile, an' all the

people's happy."

They reached the stockade which the practised eye of Steve saw to be

wonderfully constructed. Not only was its strength superlative, but it

was loopholed for defence and he knew that such defences were not

against the great grey wolves of the forest or any other creatures of

the wild. They were defences against attack by human marauders, and he

read into them the story of hostile Indians, and all those scenes which

had doubtless been kept carefully hidden from little Marcel's eyes.

Furthermore he realized that the post was of comparatively recent

construction. Perhaps it was five or ten years old. It could not have

been more. It entirely lacked that appearance of age which green timbers

acquire so readily under the fierce Northern storms. And it set him

wondering at the nature of the lure which had brought men of obvious

means, with wife and child, to the inhospitable plateau of Unaga.

He set the boy on the ground while he removed his snow-shoes. Then, hand

in hand, the little fellow led him round to the gateway which opened out

in full view of the valley.

It was a wide enclosure, and its ordering and construction appealed to

the man of the trail. There was thought and experience in every detail

of it. There was, too, the obvious expenditure of money and infinite

labour. The great central building stood clear of everything else. It

was long and low, with good windows of glass, and doors as powerful as

human hands could make them. To the practical eyes of the Northern man

it was clearly half store and half dwelling house, built always with an

eye to a final defence.

Beyond this there were a number of outbuildings. Some were of simple

Indian construction. But three of them, a large barn, and two buildings

that suggested store-houses, were like the house, heavily built of logs.

But he was given little time for deep investigation, for little Marcel

eagerly dragged him towards the door of the store. To the man there was

something almost pathetic in the child's excitement and joy in his new

discovery. His childish treble silenced the bristling dogs that leapt

out at them in fierce welcome. And his imperious command promptly

reduced them to snuffing suspiciously at the furs of the scout and the

white man whom they seemed to regard with considerable doubt. He

chattered the whole time, stumbling over his words in his eager

excitement. He was endeavouring to impart everything he knew to this

newly found friend, and, in the course of the brief interval of their

approach to the house Steve learned all the dogs' names, their

achievements, what little Marcel liked most to eat, and how he disliked

being washed by An-ina, and how ugly his nurse was, and how his father

was the cleverest man in the world, and how he made long journeys every

winter to look for something he couldn't find.

It was all told without regard for continuity or purpose. It seemed to

Steve as if the little fellow was loosing a long pent tide held up from

lack of companionship till the bursting point had been reached.

As they came to the house, however, a sudden change came over the scene.

The door abruptly opened, and a tall, handsome squaw, dressed in the

clothes of rougher civilization, stood regarding them unsmilingly. To

his surprise she was not only beautiful but quite young.

The boy's chatter ceased instantly and his face fell. One small mitted

hand approached the corner of his pretty mouth, and he regarded the

woman with quaint, childish reproach. It was only for a moment, however.

With a sudden brightening of hope he turned and gazed up appealingly at

his new friend.

"Don't let hers wash us, Uncle Steve," he implored.

* * * * *

Deep distress looked out of Steve's steady eyes. He was gazing at a

wreck of beautiful womanhood lying on the bed. There was no doubt of the

beauty of this mother of little Marcel. It was there in every line of

the pale, hollow cheeks, in her clear, broad brow. In the great, soft

grey eyes which were hot with fever as they gazed at him out of their

hollow settings. Then the abundant dark hair, parted now in the centre,

Indian fashion, and flooding the pillow with its masses. It was dull and

lustreless, but all its beauty of texture remained.

She had summoned him at once to her sick room through An-ina. And in her

greeting had briefly told him of the trouble which had befallen her.

"Maybe you'll think it queer my receiving you this way," she said, in a

tired voice, "but I can't just help myself. You see, I can't move hand

or foot." Then a pitiful smile crept into the wistful eyes. "It happened

two weeks ago. Oh, those two weeks. I was felling saplings with An-ina

in the woods out back. Maybe a woman can't do those things right.

Anyway, one fell on me, and it just crushed me to the ground, and held

me pinned there. I thought I was dead. But I wasn't. I was only broken.

Maybe I'll die here--soon. An-ina got me clear and carried me home. And

now--why, if it wasn't for my little Marcel I'd be glad--so glad to be

rid of all the pain."

The note of despair, the tragedy in the brief recital were overwhelming.

The full force of them smote Steve to the heart, and left him incapable

of expression, beyond that which looked out of his eyes. Words would

have been impossible. He realized she was on her deathbed. It required

only the poor creature's obvious intense sufferings to tell him that. It

was a matter of perhaps hours before little Marcel would be robbed of

his second parent.

The brief daylight was pouring in through the double glass window of the

room. It lit an interior which had only filled him with added wonder at

these folks, and the guiding hand which inspired everything he beheld.

The furnishing of the room was simple enough. But it was of the

manufacture of civilization, and he could only guess at the haulage it

had required to bring it to the heart of Unaga. Then there was distinct

taste in the arrangement of the room. It was the taste of a woman of

education and refinement, and one who must have been heart and soul with

her husband, and the enterprise he was embarked upon.

An-ina had left him there to talk with the mother of those things which

it was her care should not reach the ears of little Marcel.

Steve told her at once that he was a police officer, and that he was on

a mission of investigation into the--he said "disappearance"--of Marcel

Brand, who, he explained, was supposed to be a trader, with his partner

Cyrus Allshore, somewhere in the direction north of Seal Bay in the

Unaga country. He told her that he had travelled one thousand miles

overland to carry out the work, and that something little short of a

miracle had brought him direct to her door.

And the woman had listened to him with the eagerness of one who has

suddenly realized a ray of hope in the blackness of her despair.

After his brief introduction she breathed a deep sigh and her eyes

closed under the pain that racked her broken body.

"Then my message got through," she said, almost to herself. "Lupite must

have reached Seal Bay." Then her eyes opened and she spoke with added

effort. "I didn't dare to hope. It was all I could do," she explained.

"Lupite said he'd get through or die. He was a good and faithful neche.

I--I wonder what's happened him since. He's not got back, and--the

others have all deserted me. There's no one here now but An-ina, and my

little boy, and," she added bitterly, "What's left of me. Oh, God, will

it never end! This pain. This dreadful, dreadful pain."

After a moment of troubled regard, while he watched the cold dew of

agony break upon her brow, Steve ventured his reply.

"Yes. It must have got through, I guess," he said. "It must have reached

the Indian Department at Ottawa. They sent it right along to the man at

the Allowa Reserve where I'm stationed, and communicated with the

police. That's how I received my instructions. They said your husband

was supposed to be--murdered. And his partner, too."

"I put that in my letter," the woman said quickly. "I just had to. You

see--" she broke off. But after a brief hesitation she went on. "But I

don't know. I don't know anything that's happened really. He went away

on a trip eighteen months ago, with Cy. It was to Seal Bay, with trade.

He ought to have been back that fall. I haven't had a word since. I've

been eighteen months here alone with An-ina, and--these Sleepers. He

might have met with accident. But it's more likely murder. These

Sleepers suspected. They were frightened he'd found out. You see, this

stuff--this Adresol--is sacred to them. They would kill anyone who found

out where they get it from."

A spasm of pain contorted her drawn face and again her eyes closed under

the agony. She re-opened them at the sound of Steve's voice.

"Will you tell me, ma'm?" he said.

Steve's manner was gentle. His sympathy for this stricken creature was

real and deep. She was a woman, suffering and alone in a God-forsaken

land. The thought appalled him.

For some moments his invitation remained without response. The woman lay

there unmoving, inert. Only was life in her hot eyes, and the trifling

rise and fall of the bed covering as she breathed. Obviously she was

considering. Perhaps she was wondering how much she had a right to tell

this officer. She was completely without guidance. If her husband had

been alive doubtless her lips would have remained sealed. But he was not

there, and she knew not what had become of him. Then there was little

Marcel, and she knew that when she left that bed it would be only for a

cold grave on this bleak plateau of Unaga.

Steve waited with infinite patience. He felt it to be a moment for

patience. Suddenly she began to talk in a rapid, feverish way.

"Yes, yes," she cried. "I must tell you now, and quickly. Maybe when

you've heard it all you'll help me. There's no one else can help me.

You see, it's my boy--my little boy. He's all I have in the world--now.

He's the sun and light of my life. It's the thought of him alone, with

only An-ina, in this terrible land that sets me well-nigh crazy. The

police. I wonder. Would they look after him? Could you take him back

with you when I'm dead? Do they look after poor orphans, poor little

bits of life like him? Or is he too small a thing in the work they have

to do? I pray God you'll take him out of this when I'm dead."

Steve strove to keep a steady tone. The appeal was heartrending.

"Don't you fret that way, ma'm," he cried earnestly. "If those things

happen you reckon are going to, I'll see that no harm, I can help, comes

to him. He's just a bright little ray of light, and I guess God didn't

set him on this earth to leave him helpless in such a country as this."

A world of relief in the mother's eyes thanked him.

"I--I--" she began, and the man promptly broke in.

"You needn't try to thank me ..." Steve's manner was gravely kind.

"Maybe when you've told me things I'll be able to locate your husband.

And maybe he isn't dead."

The woman's eyes denied him hopelessly.

"He's dead--sure," she said. "Whatever's happened he's--dead. Say,

listen, I'd best try and tell you all from the start," she went on, with

renewed energy. "It's the only way. And it's a straight story without

much shame in it. My husband, Marcel Brand, is a Dane, with French blood

in his veins. He's a great chemist, who learned everything the Germans

could teach him. He absorbed their knowledge, but not their ways. He was

a good and great man, whose whole idea of life was to care for his wife

and child, and expend all his knowledge to help the world of suffering

humanity. It was for that reason that seven years ago he realized all he

possessed, and, taking Cy Allshore as a partner, came up here."

"To help suffering humanity?"

Incredulity found expression almost before Steve was aware of it.

"Yes, I know. It sounds crazy," the sick woman went on. "But it isn't.

Nothing Marcel ever did was crazy. All his life he has been studying

drugs, and his studies have taken him into all sorts of crazy corners of

the world. Thibet, Siberia, Brazil, Tropical Africa, India, and

now--Unaga. It was he who discovered Adresol, that wonderful, priceless

drug, which if it could only be obtained in sufficient quantities would

be the greatest boon to humanity for--as he used to say himself--all

time. Oh, I can't tell you about that," she exclaimed wearily, "guess it

would need someone cleverer than I. But it's that brought us here, and

kept us here for seven years. And maybe we'd have spent years more. You

see, Marcel was years hunting over the world for the stuff growing in

quantities. It was a chance story about these Indians he'd listened to

that brought him here first, and when he discovered they were using the

stuff, he believed it was the hand of Providence guiding him. With the

use of it he found the Indians hibernated each winter, and yet remained

healthy, robust creatures, retaining their faculties unimpaired, and

living to an extreme old age."

"I'd heard of the 'Sleepers,' ma'm," Steve admitted. "But," he added,

with a half smile, "I couldn't just believe the yarn."

"Oh, it's surely real," the woman returned promptly. "You can see for

yourself. We call them the Ant Indians, because of their queer huts.

They're all around the fort, and they're sleeping now, with their food

and their dope near by for each time they wake. Yes, you can see it all

for yourself. They look like dead things."

After another agonized spasm she took up her story more rapidly, as

though fearing lest her strength should fail and she would be left

without sufficient time to finish it.

"When Marcel came here he found himself up against tremendous

difficulties. Oh, it wasn't the climate. It wasn't a thing to do with

the country. It was the Indians themselves. He found they held the drug

sacred, and the secret of their supply something more precious than life

itself. It's the whole key to his death. Oh, I know it. I am sure, sure.

He found that these mostly peaceful creatures were ready to defend their

secret to the uttermost. No money could buy it from them, and they

violently resented Marcel's attempts in that direction. For awhile the

position was deadly, as maybe the defences we had to set up outside have

told you. Marcel had blundered, and it was only after months of trouble

he remedied it, and came to an understanding with these folk. They were

won over by the prospect of trade, and agreed to trade small quantities

of weed provided we would make no attempt to look for the source of

their supply."

"Maybe we're to be blamed," she hurried on, "I don't know. Anyway,

Marcel reckoned he was working for the good of humanity. He saw his

opportunity in that agreement. The Indians were satisfied. Their good

nature re-asserted itself, and all went smoothly with our trade in seals

and the weed. But our opportunity lay in the winter. In the sleep-time

of this folk. Maybe the Indians reckoned their secret was safe in

winter. The storming, the cruel terror of winter which they dared not

face would surely be too much for any white man. Maybe they thought

that way, but if they did they were wrong. Marcel determined to use

their sleep time to discover the secret he needed. He and Cy were ready

for any chances. They would stand for nothing. That was their way. So,

with our own boys, they made the long trail every winter.

"But they failed. Oh, yes, they failed." The woman sighed. "Sometimes it

was climate beat them. Sometimes it wasn't. Anyway they never found the

growing stuff. They never got a clue to its whereabouts. Maybe it was

all buried up in snow. We always reckoned on that. The winter passed,

and with each year that slipped away the chances seemed to recede

farther and farther. Then all of a sudden the Indians got suspicious

again. That was three years ago. I just don't know how it happened.

Maybe one of our boys gave it away. Anyhow they turned sulky. That was

the first sign. Then they refused to trade their weed. Then we knew the

trouble had come. But Marcel was ready for them. He was ready for most

things. He refused to trade their seals if they refused their weed. It

was a bad time, but we finally got through. You see they needed our

trade, once having begun it, and in the end Marcel managed to patch

things up. But they frankly told us they knew of our winter expeditions

to rob them, and, if they were continued, they would kill us all, and

burn up the post. Well, things settled down after that and trade went

on. But it wasn't the same. The Indians became desperately watchful, and

for one whole winter half of them didn't sleep. I knew trouble was

coming.

"Then came the time when Marcel had to make a trip to Seal Bay. He'd

postponed it as long as he could. But our stuff had accumulated, and we

had to get rid of it, and so, at last, he was forced to go. The post was

well fortified, as you've seen, and we were liberally supplied with

means of defence. Lupite was faithful, and I could rely on my other

fighting neches. So Marcel and Cy set out, and--well, there's nothing

more to tell," she said wearily. "They've both disappeared, vanished.

And they should have been back more than a year ago. In desperation I

sent the message by Lupite. He's not returned either, and, one by one,

all our own Indians have deserted me. Oh," she went on passionately,

"it's no accident that's happened. Marcel has been killed, murdered by

these miserable folk, and all his years of work have gone for nothing.

Why they haven't killed me and little Marcel, I can't think. Maybe they

think we're of no account without Marcel. Maybe they find our store

useful. For I've carried on the trade ever since Marcel went. But now my

supplies are running out and when the Indians wake up and find that is

so--but I shall be already dead. Poor little Marcel. But--but you won't

let that happen, will you? It--it is surely God's hand that has sent you

here now."

The woman's voice died out in a sob, and her eyes closed upon the tears

gathered in them. It was the final weakening of her courage. For all its

brevity, for all it was told in such desperate haste, the story lost

nothing of its appeal, nothing of its pathos.

It left Steve feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.

At that moment he would have given all he possessed for the sound of the

deep, cheerful voice of Ian Ross in that room of death.

Mrs. Brand's eyes remained closed, and her breathing laboured under her

failing strength. She had put forth a tremendous effort, and the

reaction was terrible. The ghastly hue of her cheeks and lips terrified

Steve. He dreaded lest at that moment the final struggle was actually

taking place.

He waited breathlessly. He had risen from his seat. The feeble throb of

the pulse was visibly beating at the woman's temples. He knew he could

do nothing, and, presently, as the eyes showed no sign of re-opening, he

turned, and stole out to summon An-ina.

CHAPTER VI

AN-INA

The brief daylight had nearly passed. Accompanied by its fiery

Satellites the sun was lolling moodily to its rest. Steve was searching

the near distance for a sight of Oolak and the dog train, which should

shortly arrive at the post. There was deep reflection in his whole

attitude, in the keen lines of his strong face, in the far-off look in

his steady eyes. Beside him little Marcel, in his warmth-giving bundle

of furs, was emulating the attitude of his new "uncle." He, too, was

searching the distance. He, too, was still and silent. Perhaps, even, in

his childish way, he was striving to read the pages of the mystery book,

which the bleak, snowbound prospect represented.

Beyond the low ridge of crystal whiteness, less than three miles

distant, the land rose steadily, ridge on ridge. It looked like a series

of giant steps blotched and chequered with dark patches of forest which

contained so many secrets hidden from the eyes of man. As the distance

gained the crystal of it all mellowed softly till a deep purple

dominated the whole prospect.

The wintering sun had almost completed its course. At this season of the

year it simply passed low above the horizon towards the west, like a

rolling ball of fire, until, weary of its effort, it submerged again

beyond the broken line of the hills. And each day that passed, its

course dropped lower and lower.

It was a stern enough picture for all winter had not yet finally closed

its doors upon the dying season. And none could know better the meaning

of its frowning than Steve.

"Wot's us looking at, Uncle Steve?"

The childish treble piped its demand without the boy withdrawing his

gaze from the grim picture of winter's approach.

In a moment Steve's pre-occupation vanished. He smiled down on the

fascinating little bundle of furs as he replied.

"Oolak, old fellow, Oolak, and Uncle Steve's outfit. Guess he's got

uncle's bed, and all his food."

"Wot food?"

Interest in such a subject superceded all interest in the sunset. Little

Marcel's eyes were eagerly enquiring as they gazed up into those of his

new found friend.

"Why, there's some frozen black-tail deer. Maybe there's a jack rabbit

or so. Then I guess there's biscuit, and coffee, and tea, and maybe even

sugar."

The boy nodded appreciatively.

"I likes 'em," he said. Then after a moment. "I likes plenty sugar.

There's sugar at the store. My Mummy, hers keep it for me cos I likes

'em."

Steve understood. He interpreted the announcement in his own fashion. He

knew that stores were running short, and that those others, those two

devoted women, were hoarding the last remains of their sugar for the

little life that needed it.

He turned abruptly towards the horizon again. Perhaps he did not desire

the eyes of the child to witness the feeling he had stirred.

He need have had no fear. At that moment the boy's treble shrilled with

excitement.

"Look, Uncle Steve!" he cried pointing. "Him's Oolak. Wiv dogs, an'

sled, an' food, an' everything. Him's coming down--"

But he waited for no more. He waited for no reply. He waited for no

guiding mandate. He raced off across the frozen surface of the snow as

fast as his jolly little legs could carry him. It seemed as if he

considered anything or anyone belonging to "Uncle Steve" to be also part

of his small life, and was entitled to all the welcome he could give.

Steve watched the little fellow with a tender smile. He was so small, so

full of happy life and engaging simplicity. Then he had such a wonderful

picture face, with its fringe of curling hair which thrust its way out

from under the thick, arctic helmet of fur which was part of his outer

clothing. For a moment, as he bundled over the snow like a brown woolly

ball, Steve wondered how he managed it, so encased was his small figure

in seal-skin. But he did, and his high-pitched greeting to the man with

the dog train floated back upon the still, cold air as he floundered

farther and farther away.

"Hello!--hello!--hello!"

The greeting came back at intervals. And Steve wondered at the feelings

of the silent Oolak when he heard that voice, and saw that baby figure

sprinting and wobbling over the snow towards him.

"Missis gone--dead."

"Gone--dead!"

Steve turned with a start. He was looking into the handsome face of the

squaw, An-ina, whose words he had echoed.

"Missis all gone--dead!" the squaw repeated with a solemn inclination of

the head.

But the re-affirmation was unneeded. Full confirmation was in her wide

dark eyes, which were full of every grievous emotion short of tears.

Tears were something of which her stoic Indian nature was incapable.

But Steve knew well enough the weight of grief which lay behind the

stricken expression which looked out of the enveloping hood of the

woman's tunic of seal.

For a moment he gazed into An-ina's face in helpless silence. For the

moment the tragedy of the whole thing left him groping. He knew this

woman had come to him seeking guidance. In that moment of disaster he

felt that the destiny of little Marcel and his devoted nurse had been

flung into his hands.

"Come," he said with swift decision. "We'll get right back--to her."

* * * * *

Steve was at the bedside. He was bending low over the still, calm

figure, so straight, so rigid under the blanket covering. He was reading

for himself, and in his own way, the brief account of those last moments

when her spirit had yielded before those other overwhelming powers it

had been impossible to resist.

Every disfiguring line of suffering had passed out of the beautiful,

youthful face. For all the marble coldness which had taken possession of

it Steve realized something of the splendid, smiling, courageous

womanhood which had struggled so recklessly in support of the man for

whom she had given up her life. And the full force of the tragedy of it

all found a deep echo of pitying admiration in his heart. It seemed to

him that the hand of Providence had fallen hard, and, in his human

understanding, with more than questionable justice.

His examination completed he turned to the dusky creature at his side.

"I guess her sufferings are over--sure. Her poor soul's gone to join her

man, and the boy's just--alone."

The squaw's dark eyes were soft with that velvet look so peculiar to

the Indian woman in moments of deep emotion.

"Maybe it best so," she said, in a manner which bespoke long association

with white folk. "Him good woman. Him suffer much--so much. Poor--poor

Missis. It not him fault. Oh, no. Him think all the time for her man,

an' little Marcel. Oh, yes. Not think nothing else all time. This devil

man come. Him kill her man. She not know. Poor Missis. She not think.

Only so she please her man. So this devil man kill her man. So."

"What d'you mean?"

The man's gaze was compelling. Its steady light searched the soft eyes

of the squaw. The woman withstood his gaze unflinchingly. Then she

suddenly bent across, and drew the coverlet up, and tenderly hid the

face of the dead. Then she looked up again into Steve's face.

"Come," she said quietly. "I tell you."

Without waiting for reply she led the way out of the room into the store

beyond, with its bare counter, and shelves, and bins so meagrely

supplied. Steve followed without a word. He had suddenly realized that

as yet he knew only a part of the story of these people. There was more

to be told.

The store displayed much the same purpose and care which everything else

about the work of Marcel Brand revealed. The completeness of it all must

have been surprising, had not Steve understood that the chemist had come

here to carry his life's work to its logical completion. There were

signs everywhere of capacity, and unstinted expenditure of money. But

the haulage of it all. The thought was always in Steve's mind. The great

stove in the corner of the long, low room. The carpentered shelvings,

and drawers, and cupboards. The counter, too, no makeshift barrier set

up for the purposes of traffic, but with every sign of skilled

workmanship about it. He felt certain that all these things must have

been borne up the slopes of the great table-land, hauled overland, or by

water, from the workshops of civilization.

Habit was strong and An-ina moved at once to the great stove radiating

its pleasant warmth. Steve took up his position opposite her.

The squaw began at once. She had nothing to conceal from this man who

represented the law of the white men. Besides, was she not thinking of

the boy who had stolen so closely into her mother heart?

"An-ina not say to Missis all," she said, in her simple way. "Oh, no.

Missis much afraid. Much suffer. Him sick--much sick. No man--then all

gone. She 'fraid. She all break up her heart. Marcel not come. Why? Why?

An-ina know. She hear from Indian man. All Indian man know. Marcel him

all killed dead. Indian man not kill him. Oh, no. Cy Allshore him kill

him. Marcel him kill Cy too. Both kill each one. Oh, yes. Cy devil man.

Cy think him kill up Marcel. Then him have Missis--have all things. Oh,

yes. Indian man know. Indian man find both, all killed dead. Indian man

tell An-ina. An-ina say no tell Missis. Maybe she all kill dead--too.

Yes? An-ina love Missis. Love her much. She no hurt Missis. So she not

say. Oh, no."

The searching eyes of Steve never left the woman's dusky face for a

moment. They were boring their way to pierce the unemotional exterior

for the truth that lay behind.

"Say, just stop right there," he commanded. "I need to get this right.

You reckon this feller Cy--Cy Allshore was out for plunder--murder. You

guess he kind of loved your Missis, and she didn't know. He reckoned to

kill Marcel, and steal all this, and--his wife. That so?"

"Sure. That so."

"How d'you know?"

"An-ina see. An-ina have two eyes. She see all thing. Oh, yes."

"Tell me."

"How An-ina tell? She not know. She woman. She see. That all. Cy him

hard. Him have bad eye for woman. Him think money all time. Him say,

'An-ina you good squaw.' Him say, 'Cy have no squaw. Cy like squaw.'

An-ina say, no! She know. Then him hate An-ina. Him hate An-ina plenty,

big. An-ina say nothing. She not 'fraid. Cy know she maybe kill him.

Then him talk much with Missis. An-ina watch. Yes. Missis not know. Him

good woman. An-ina know. Cy bad. An-ina think her mak big talk with

Marcel. Her say much. No. Her not mak big talk. Marcel him kill Cy. Then

all thing here--no good. Oh, yes. So An-ina say nothing. So him Cy an'

Marcel go long trail. Marcel him not think nothin'. Him dream--dream.

All time dream. Cy think bad all time.

"So." An-ina shrugged expressively. "Much long time. No Cy. No Marcel.

Then Indian man mak big talk. Him say Indian man come by the big water.

What you call him?"

"Hudson's Bay?"

"No, no. Not so big water."

"Chesterfield Inlet?"

The woman's eyes cleared of their perplexity.

"So. Chest-fiel' Inlet. Him big water. Indian man come with much seal.

Him mak camp. Bimeby him mak big trail for Unaga. Then him find him

trail. Cy an' Marcel. Him follow him trail, an' bimeby him come big,

deep place. Cy an' Marcel, all gone--dead. Him dogs all gone--dead. An'

wolves eat up all flesh. Oh yes."

"How did they recognize the bones?"

"Him sled, him outfit. All 'Sleeper.' Indian man know."

"And you reckon Cy Allshore killed Marcel--murdered him?"

There was a sharpness in Steve's demand that suggested doubt. He did not

doubt the woman's story. It was her assertion that Cy had murdered his

partner. He saw no evidence for her assumption. He felt that she had

given run to her own personal feelings against the man.

"That so. I tell you," An-ina returned composedly. She read his doubt

and understood. "I not lie. Oh, no. Indian man wise. Sleeper man wise.

Not bad. No. They find him bones. All eat clean. They see big place.

They look an' look. No fall. Oh, no. No break 'em all up. No. Him say

Marcel wise man. Cy wise man. Not care for wolf. Oh, no. So him look

much. Him take him bone an' look. Him find him head--two. Maybe

Marcel--maybe Cy. Him find him hole. Little hole--big hole. Same like

each. Then him find gun. Two much little gun. Two big gun. Little gun

him both shoot. Two time--three time. Him say big fight--plenty. So. It

easy. Oh, yes. Marcel him no fight plenty. Oh, no. Him so as brother

with Cy. Cy him not so. An-ina know. Cy him steal, steal, so," An-ina

bent her lithe body in an attitude of stealing upon a victim. "Then him

little gun go--one I Marcel know. Him quick like lightning. Him

brave--much brave. Then him little gun go--one. So. Both all kill

up--dead."

For all the broken way of her talk, An-ina carried conviction. She knew

both men. And her woman's heart and mind had read Cy Allshore to the

dregs of what she believed was an infamous heart. Steve knew the danger

of accepting her story without reserve. He was convinced of her

sincerity. It would have been impossible to doubt. But----

The sound of little Marcel's piping voice reached them from the outside.

Steve turned and glanced out of the window. Oolak was bringing in his

train, with its five powerful dogs. Julyman with a club was busy, with

little Marcel's assistance, beating off the ferocious welcome of dogs of

the post.

For a moment he watched the boy's amazing efforts. Then as the tumult

subsided he turned again to the patient woman awaiting his verdict.

"You're a good woman, An-ina," he said simply. "You've told me the whole

thing as you see it. Well, I guess I can't ask more. Anyway I'm camping

here for the winter, an' during that time I'll need to wake some of

these 'sleepers.' I've got to get out and see what happened at that 'big

place.' Later on, when the snow goes, why--Say, I guess there isn't a

thing to keep you and little Marcel around here--now."

CHAPTER VII

THE HARVEST OF WINTER

Steve was confronted with six months of desperate winter on the plateau

of Unaga. It was an outlook that demanded all the strength of his simple

faith. He was equal to the tasks lying before him, but not for one

moment did he underestimate them.

For all the harshness of the life which claimed him Steve's whole nature

was imbued with a saneness of sympathy, a deep kindliness of spirit that

left him master of himself under every emotion. The great governing

factor in his life was a strength of honest purpose. A purpose, in its

turn, prompted by his sense of right and justice, and those things which

have their inspiration in a broad generosity of spirit. So it was that

under all conditions his conscience remained at peace.

It was supported by such feelings that he faced the tasks which the

desperate heart of Unaga imposed upon him. He had the care of an

orphaned child, he had the care of that child's Indian nurse, and the

lives and well-being of his own two men charged up against him. He also

had the investigations which he had been sent to make, and furthermore,

there was his own life to be preserved for the woman he loved, and the

infant child of their love, waiting for his return a thousand miles

away. The work was the work of a giant rather than a man; but never for

one moment did his confidence fail him.

The days following the arrival at the post were urgent. They were days

of swift thought and prompt action. The open season was gone, and the

struggle for existence might begin without a moment's warning. Steve

knew. Everyone knew. That is, everyone except little Marcel.

The boy accepted every changing condition without thought, and busied

himself with the preparations of his new friends. It had no significance

for him that all day long the forest rang with the clip of the felling

axe. Neither did the unceasing work of the buck-saw, as it ploughed its

way through an endless stream of sapling trunks, afford him anything

beyond the joy of lending his assistance. Then, too, the morning survey

of the elemental prospect, when his elders searched the skies, fearing

and hoping, and grimly accepting that which the fates decreed, was only

one amongst his many joys. It was all a great and fascinating game, full

of interest and excitement for a budding capacity which Steve was quick

to recognize.

But the child's greatest delight was the moment when "Uncle Steve"

invited him to assist him in discovering the economic resources of his

own home. As the examination proceeded Steve learned many things which

could never have reached him through any other source. He obtained a

peep into the lives of these people through the intimate eyes of the

child, and his keen perception read through the tumbling, eager words to

the great truths of which the child was wholly unaware. And it was a

story which left him with the profoundest admiration and pity for the

dead man who was the genius of it all.

Not for one moment did Steve permit a shadow to cross the child's sunny,

smiling face. From the first moment when the responsibility for Marcel's

little life had fallen into his hands his mind was made up. By every

artifice the boy must be kept from all knowledge of the tragedy that

had befallen him. When he asked for his mother he was told that she was

so sick that she could not be worried. This was during the first two

days. After that he was told that she had gone away. She had gone away

to meet his father, and that when she came back she would bring his

"pop" with her. A few added details of a fictitious nature completely

satisfied, and the child accepted without question that which his hero

told him.

He was permitted to see nothing of the little silent cortege that left

the post late on the second night. He saw nothing of the grief-laden

eyes of An-ina as she followed the three men bearing their burden of the

dead mother, enclosed in a coffin made out of the packing cases with

which the fort was so abundantly supplied. He had seen the men digging

in the forest earlier in the day, and had been more than satisfied when

"Uncle Steve" assured him they were digging a well. Later on he would

discover the great beacon of stones which marked the "well." But, for

the moment, while the curtain was being rung down on the tragedy of his

life, he was sleeping calmly, and dreaming those happy things which only

child slumbers may know.

Good fortune smiled on the early efforts at the fort For ten days the

arch-enemy withheld his hand. For ten days the weary sun was dragged

from its rest by the evil "dogs" which seemed to dominate its movements

completely. But each day their evil eyes grew more and more portentious

and threatening as they watched the human labourers they seemed to

regard with so much contempt.

Then came the change. It was the morning of the eleventh day. The "dogs"

had hidden their faces and the weary sun remained obscured behind a mass

of grey cloud. The crisp breeze which had swept the valley with its

invigorating breath had died out, and the world had suddenly become

threateningly silent.

A few great snowflakes fluttered silently to the ground. Steve was at

the gateway of the stockade, and his constant attendant was beside him

in his bundle of furs. The man's eyes were measuring as they gazed up at

the grey sky. Little Marcel was wisely studying, too.

"Maybe us has snow," he observed sapiently at last, as he watched the

falling flakes.

"Yes. I guess we'll get snow."

Steve smiled down at the little figure beside him.

"Wot makes snow, Uncle Steve?" the boy demanded.

"Why, the cold, I guess. It just freezes the rain in the clouds. And

when they get so heavy they can't stay up any longer, why--they just

come tumbling down and makes folk sit around the stove and wish they

wouldn't."

"Does us wish they wouldn't?"

"Most all the time."

The child considered deeply. Then his face brightened hopefully.

"Bimeby us digs, Uncle Steve," he said. "Boy likes digging."

Steve held out a hand and Marcel yielded his.

"Boy'll help 'Uncle Steve,' eh?"

"I's always help Uncle Steve."

The spontaneity of the assurance remained unanswerable.

Steve glanced back into the enclosure. Then his hand tightened upon the

boy's with gentle pressure.

"Come on, old fellow. We'll get along in, and make that stove, and--wish

it wouldn't."

He led the way back to the house.

The snowfall grew in weight and density. Silent, still, the world of

Unaga seemed to have lost all semblance of life. White, white, eternal

white, and above the heavy grey of an overburdened sky. Solitude,

loneliness, desperately complete. It was the silence which well nigh

drives the human brain to madness. From minutes to hours; from inches to

feet. Day and night. Day and night. Snow, snow all the time, till the

tally of days grew, and the weeks slowly passed. It almost seemed as if

Nature, in her shame, were seeking to hide up the sight of her own

creation.

For three silent weeks the snow continued to fall without a break. Then

it ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the fort buried well nigh

to the eaves. The herald of change was a wild rush of wind sweeping down

the valley from the broken hills which formed its northern limits. And,

within half an hour, the silence was torn, and ripped, and tattered, and

the world transformed, and given up to complete and utter chaos. A

hurricane descended on the post, and its timbers groaned under the added

burden. The forest giants laboured and protested at the merciless

onslaught, while the crashing of trees boomed out its deep note amidst

the shriek of the storm. As the fury of it all rose, so rose up the

snowfall of weeks into a blinding fog which shut out every sight of the

desolate plateau as though it had never been.

* * * * *

Five weeks saw the extent of winter's first onslaught. And after that

for awhile, the battle resolved itself into a test of human endurance,

with the temperature hovering somewhere below 60 deg. below zero. For a few

short hours the sun would deign to appear above the horizon, prosecute

its weary journey across the skyline, and ultimately die its daily death

with almost pitiful indifference. Then some twenty hours, when the world

was abandoned to the starry magnificence of the Arctic night, supported

by the brilliant light of a splendid aurora.

It was during this time that Steve pursued his researches into the lives

of these people. He was sitting now in the laboratory, which was a

building apart from all the rest. It was the home of the chemist's

research. It was equipped with wonderful completeness. Besides the

shelves containing all the paraphernalia of a chemist's profession, and

the counter which supported a distilling apparatus, and which was

clearly intended for other experiment as well, there was a desk, and a

small wood stove, which was alight, and radiating a pleasant heat.

It was the desk which held most interest for Steve. It was here he

looked to find, in the dead man's papers, in his letters, in his records

and books, the answer to every question in his mind.

For some hours he had been reading from one of the volumes of the man's

exhaustive diary. It was a living document containing a fascinating

story of the chemist's hopes and fears for the great objects which had

led to his abandonment of the civilized world for the bitter heights of

Unaga. And in every line of it Steve realized it could only have been

written by a man of strong, deep conviction and enthusiasm, a man whose

purpose soared far above the mere desire for gain. He felt, in the

reading, he was listening to the words of a man who was all and more,

far more, than his wife had claimed for him.

At last the fire in the stove shook down and he became aware of the work

of busy shovels going on just outside. He pulled out his watch, and the

yellow light of the oil lamp told him that he had been reading for

nearly three hours. Setting a marker in the book he closed it

reluctantly, and prepared to return the litter of documents to the

drawers which stood open beside him.

At that moment the door opened, and the tall figure of the squaw An-ina

stood in the framing.

"Him supper all fixed," she announced, in her quietly assured fashion.

Steve looked up, and his eyes gazed squarely into the woman's handsome

face. He was thinking rapidly.

"Say An-ina," he began at last. "I've been reading a whole heap. It's

what the man, Brand, wrote. He seems to have been a pretty great

feller."

The woman nodded as he paused.

"Heap good man," she commented.

Her eyes lit with an emotion there could be no misunderstanding. For all

the savage stock from which she sprang the dead white man had claimed a

great loyalty and devotion.

"You see, An-ina," Steve went on, "I came along up here to chase up the

murder of two men. My work's to locate all the facts, arrest the

murderers, take them back to where I come from, and make my report."

"Sure. That how An-ina mak it so."

The woman's eyes were questioning. She was wondering at the meaning of

all this preliminary. And she was not without disquiet. She had come to

realize that, with the death of her mistress, only this man and his

scouts stood between her and disaster. She could not rid herself of the

dread which pursued her now. Little Marcel was a white child. This man

was white. She--she was just a squaw. She was of the colour of these

"Sleeper" Indians. Would they take the child of her mother heart from

her, and leave her to her fate amongst these folk who slept the whole

winter through?

"Yes," Steve was gazing thoughtfully at the light which came from under

the rough cardboard shade of the lamp. "Well, the whole look of things

has kind of changed since I've--" he indicated the papers on the

desk--"taken a look into all these."

"Him read--much. Him look--always look. So."

Steve nodded.

"That's so. Well, I've got to get busy now, and do the things I was sent

up to do. But it seems likely there's going to be no murderer to take

back with me. It looks like a report of two men dead, by each other's

hand, a woman dead through accident, and you, and little Marcel left

alive. That being so I guess I can't leave you two up here. Do you get

that?" He set his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands.

"There's the boy, he's white," he said, watching the squaw's troubled

face. "He's got to go right back with me, when my work's done. And

you--why, you'd best come, too. I'd hate to rob you of the boy. You'll

both need to come right along. And the big folk will say what's to be

done with you when we get back. How do you say?"

The trouble had completely vanished from the woman's eyes. It was like

the passing of a great shadow. Their velvet softness radiated her

thankfulness, her gratitude.

"It good. Much good," she cried, with a sudden abandonment of that stoic

unemotional manner which was native to her. "An-ina love white boy. She

love him much. Boy go? Then An-ina all go dead. An-ina wait. So storm

devil him come. Then An-ina go out, and sleep, sleep, and not wake never

no more. An-ina keep boy? Then An-ina much happy. An-ina help white man

officer. An-ina strong. Mak long trail. An-ina no sick. No mak tire.

Work all time. An' help--much help white man officer. So."

Steve's smiling eyes indicated his acceptance of the woman's

protestations.

"That's all right," he said. Then he went on after a moment's thought:

"Now, you know these folk. These 'Sleepers.' Do you know their

lingo--their language? I've got to make a big pow-wow with their head

man. I guess that can't be done till they wake. You figger they wake at

intervals, and they dope themselves again. If that's so, I've got to get

their big chief right at that time. D' you guess you could take me right

along to get a look at these folk, and, after that, fix things so I can

grab their big man first time he wakes?"

The woman nodded at once, and her eyes wore a contented smile.

"Sure. An-ina know. Show him white man officer. Oh, yes. Show him all

this folk. Oh, yes. When? Now? Oh, yes. Him not snow. It good. Then

sometime An-ina watch. She watch, watch, all time, and when him wake,

an' eat, then him white man come an' mak pow-wow. Good?"

"Fine." Steve returned all the papers to the drawers in the desk and

stood up. "Guess I'll eat right away, and after that we'll get along an'

take a peek at these folks. The boys got the snow clear outside?"

"Him dig much. Snow plenty gone."

"Good. And little Marcel?" Steve enquired, with a tender smile. "Has he

been digging?"

The squaw's eyes lit.

"Oh, yes, him boy dig. An' Julyman, an' him Oolak all laff. Boy dig all

time, everywhere." An-ina laughed in her silent way. Then she sobered,

and a great warmth shone in her eyes. "Boss white man officer love him

boy? Yes?"

Steve nodded in his friendly way.

"Oh, I guess so," he admitted. "You see, I've got a little girl baby of

my own way back--where I come from."

"So."

There was no mistaking the understanding in the woman's significant

ejaculation.

* * * * *

Steve and An-ina passed out into the wonderful glowing twilight. There

was no need for the sun in the steely glittering heavens. The full

moonlight of the lower latitudes was incomparable with the Arctic night.

From end to end in a great arc the aurora lit the world, and left the

stars blazing impotently. The cold was at its lowest depths, and not a

breath of wind stirred the air. Up to the eyes in furs the two figures

moved out beyond the stockade into the shadowed world.

The squaw led the way, floundering over the frozen snow-drifts with the

gentle padding sound of her moccasined feet. Steve kept hard behind her

yielding himself entirely to her guidance.

Out in the open no sign remained of the dome-roofed settlement of the

Sleepers. The huts had served to buttress the snow for the blizzard.

They were buried deep under the great white ridges which the storm had

left.

It was something upon which Steve had not calculated. And he swiftly

drew the squaw's attention.

"Say," he cried, pointing at the place where the huts had been visible,

"I kind of forgot the snow."

The squaw's eyes were just visible under her fur hood. Their brightness

suggested a smile.

"No 'Sleeper' man by this hut. Oh, no," she exclaimed decidedly. "No

winter, then him 'Sleeper' man live by this hut. Winter come, then him

sleep by woods. Much hut. Plenty. All cover, hid-up. Come, I show."

Steve was more than relieved. The snow had looked like upsetting all his

calculation.

Once clear of the banked snow-drifts, which rose to the height of the

stockade, they moved rapidly over the crusted surface towards the dark

wall of woods which frowned down upon them in the twilight, and, in a

few moments, the light of the splendid aurora was shut out, and the

myriad of night lights were suddenly extinguished.

"Keep him much close," An-ina cried, her mitted hand grasping Steve by

the arm. "Bimeby him bush go all thick. An-ina know."

They trudged on, and as they proceeded deeper and deeper into the

darkness of the forest, Steve's eyes became accustomed. The snow broke

into patches, and soon they found themselves more often walking over the

underlay of rotting pine cones than the winter carpet of the Northern

world. The temperature, too, rose, and Steve, at least, was glad to

loosen the furs from about his cheeks and nose.

Half an hour of rapid walking proved the squaw's words. The lank

tree-trunks, down aisles of which they had been passing, became lost in

a wealth of dense undergrowth. It was here that the woman paused for her

bearings. But her fault was brief, and in a few moments she picked up

the opening of a distinct but winding pathway. The windings, the

entanglement of the growth which lined it, made the path seem

interminable. But the confidence and decision of his guide left Steve

without the slightest doubt. Presently his confidence was justified.

The path led directly to the entrance of a stoutly constructed

habitation. Even in the darkness Steve saw that the hut exactly occupied

a cleared space. The surrounding bush, in its wild entanglement,

completely overgrew it. The result was an extraordinarily effective

hiding. Only precise knowledge could ever have hoped to discover it.

An-ina paused at the low door and pointed beyond.

"Track him go long way. More hut. Much, plenty. Oh, yes. Much hut. This,

big man chief. All him fam'ly. Come."

She bent low, and passed into the tunnel-like entrance, built of closely

interlaced Arctic willow. A dozen paces or more brought them to a

hanging curtain of skins. The woman raised this, and held it while Steve

passed beyond. A few paces farther on was a second curtain, and An-ina

paused before she raised it.

"So," she said, pointing at it. "All him Sleepers."

Steve understood. And with a queer feeling, almost of excitement, he

waited while the woman cautiously raised the last barrier. He scarcely

knew what to expect. Perhaps complete darkness, and the sound of

stertorous, drugged slumber. That which was revealed, however, came as a

complete surprise.

The first thing he became aware of was light, and a reeking atmosphere

of burning oil. The next was the warmth and flicker of two wood fires.

And after that a general odour which he recognized at once. It was the

same heavy, pungent aroma that pervaded the fort where the dead chemist

stored the small but precious quantities of the strange weed he traded.

They stepped cautiously within, and stood in silent contemplation of the

fantastic picture revealed by the three primitive lights. They emanated

from what looked like earthenware bowls of oil, upon which some sort of

worsted wicks were floating. These were augmented by the ruddy flicker

of two considerable wood fires, which burned within circular embankments

constructed on the hard earthen floor.

The lights and fires were a revelation to the man, and he wondered at

them, and the means by which they were tended. But his speculations were

quickly swallowed up by the greater interest of the rest of the scene.

The hut was large. Far larger than might have been supposed; and Steve

estimated it at something like thirty feet long by twenty wide. The roof

was thatched with reedy grass, bound down with thongs of rawhide to the

sapling rafters. The ridge of the pitched roof was supported by two

tree-trunks, which had been cut to the desired height, and left rooted

in the ground, while the two ends of it rested upon the end walls. The

walls themselves were constructed of thick mud plaster, overlaying a

foundation of laced willow branches. The whole construction was of

unusual solidity, and the smoke-blackened thatch yielded two holes,

Indian fashion, through which the fire smoke was permitted exit.

But Steve's main interest lay in the drug-suspended life which the place

contained. It was there, still, silent. It lay in two rows down the

length of either side of the great interior. In the dim light he counted

it. There were forty-two distinct piles of furs, each yielding the rough

outline of a prone human figure beneath it. Each figure was deathly

still. And the whole suggested some primitive mortuary, with its

freight, awaiting identification.

For many moments Steve remained powerless to withdraw his fascinated

gaze. And all the while he was thinking of Julyman, and the story he had

been told so long ago. He remembered how he had derided it as beyond

belief.

At last the fascination passed, and he turned his gaze in search of

those things which made this extraordinary scene possible. They were

there. Oh, yes. Julyman had not lied. No one had lied about these

creatures of hibernation. Piles of food were set out in earthenware

bowls, similar to the bowls which contained the floating lights. Then

there were other vessels, set ready to hand beside the food, and he

conjectured their contents to be the necessary brew of the famous drug.

An-ina's voice broke in upon his reflections.

"Him all much sleep," she said. "No wake now. Bimeby. Oh, yes."

She spoke in her ordinary tone. She had no fear of waking these "dead"

creatures.

"Tell me," Steve said after a pause, "who keeps these fires going? Who

watches them? And those oil lights. Do they burn by themselves?"

An-ina made a little sound. It was almost a laugh.

"Him light burn all time. Him seal oil," she explained. "Indian man much

'fraid for devil-man come. Him light keep him devil-man 'way all time.

Winter, yes. Summer, yes. Plenty oil. Only wind mak him blow out. Fire,

oh yes. When him wakes bimeby him mak plenty fire. Each man. Him sit by

fire all time eat. Then him sleep once more plenty. Each man wake, each

man mak fire. So fire all time. No freeze dead."

"None awake now," demurred Steve lowering his voice unconsciously.

"Oh, no," returned the squaw. "No man wake now. Bimeby yes. H'st!"

The woman's sudden, low-voiced warning startled Steve. Her Indian eyes

had been quicker than his. There was a movement under the fur robes of

one of the curious heaps in the distance, to the left, and she pointed

at it.

Steve followed the direction indicated. Sure enough there was movement.

One of the men had turned over on his back.

"Him wake--bimeby," whispered the squaw. "Come!"

She moved towards the doorway, and Steve followed closely. In a moment

they had passed the curtained barriers out into the fresh night air.

Steve paused.

"Would that be the headman?" he demanded.

An-ina shook her head.

"Him headman by door. Him sleep where we stand. Him sleep by door. Him

brave. Keep devil-man away. So."

"I see," Steve moved on down the path. "Well, we'll get right back. I'm

going to reckon on you, An-ina. Each day you go. When the headman wakes

you speak with him. You tell him white man officer of the Great White

Chief come. He looks for dead white men. You must tell him to keep awake

while you bring white man officer. See?"

"Sure. An-ina know. An-ina mak him fix all so."

CHAPTER VIII

BIG CHIEF WANAK-AHA

The enclosure of the fort was at last cleared of snow. It was now ready,

waiting for the elements to render abortive in a few short hours the

labour of many days. Julyman and Steve had spent the brief daylight in

setting up a snow-break before the open sheds which housed the sleds and

canoes. Oolak was at the quarters of the train dogs at the back of the

store. These were his charge. He drove them, he fed them, and cared for

them. And his art lay in his nimble manipulation of the club, at once

the key to discipline, and his only means of opening up a way to their

savage intelligence. Steve shared in every labour and none knew better

than he the value of work and discipline under the conditions of their

long imprisonment upon the bitter plateau.

Daylight had merged into twilight, and the cold blaze of the Northern

night had again enthroned itself. It was on the abandonment of his own

labours that Steve's attention was at once drawn to others going on

beyond the wall of the stockade. And forthwith he passed out of the

gates to investigate.

That which he discovered brought a smile to his eyes. From the summit of

a drift, which stood the height of the timbered walls, he found himself

gazing down upon the quaintly associated figures of little Marcel and

his nurse. They were busy, particularly the boy. Amidst a confusion of

coiled, rawhide ropes An-ina, hammer in hand, was securing a rope end

to the angle of the wall, while Marcel, with tireless vocal energy, was

encouraging and instructing her to his own complete satisfaction.

The sturdy, busy little figure, so overburdened with its bulk of furs,

was always a sight that delighted Steve. The childish enthusiasm was so

inspiriting, so heedless, so lost to everything but the sheer delight of

existence.

While he stood there the rope was made secure and the squaw's efforts

ceased. Instantly the scene changed. The high spirits of the boy sought

to forestall the next move. With unthinking abandon he flung himself

upon the pile of ropes, and manfully struggled to gather them into his

baby arms. The result was inevitable. In a moment hopeless confusion

reigned and An-ina was to the rescue disentangling him. It was in the

midst of this that Marcel became aware of Steve's presence. The moment

he was successfully freed he abandoned his nurse for the object of his

new worship.

"Us makes life-line," he panted, scrambling up the snow-drift. "Boy fix

it all a way through the forest to 'Sleeper' men."

Steve reached out a helping hand, and hauled the little fellow up to his

side.

"Ah. I was guessing that way," he said. "And An-ina was helping boy,

eh?"

"Oh, 'ess. An-ina help. An-ina always help boy. And boy help Uncle

Steve."

Steve led the way down. An-ina was waiting with smiling patience.

"Setting out a line to the Sleepers' camp?" he said, as they reached the

woman's side.

An-ina nodded and began to coil the ropes afresh.

"It much good," she said. "Bimeby it storm plenty. So. Each day An-ina

mak headman hut. When him wake then white man officer go mak big talk.

Storm, it not matter nothin'. No."

"Fine," Steve agreed warmly. "You're a good squaw, An-ina."

His approval had instant effect.

"Him good? An-ina glad," she observed contentedly.

An-ina moved on towards the forest bearing her burden of ropes, paying

out the line as she went.

Steve watched her, his steady eyes full of profound thought.

"Us helps An-ina, Uncle Steve?" enquired the boy doubtfully.

The man had almost forgotten the mitted hand he was still clasping. Now

he looked down into the up-turned, enquiring eyes.

"I don't guess An-ina needs us for awhile," he said. Then, after a

pause: "No," he added. "Boy's worked hard--very hard. Maybe we'll go

back to the fort. And--Uncle tell boy a story? Eh?"

Steve had no need to wait for the torrent of verbal appreciation that

came. The boy's delight at the prospect was instant. So they forthwith

abandoned the snow-drifts for the warm interior of the store.

Their furs removed, Steve settled himself on the bench which stood

before the stove. The room was shadowed by the twilight outside, but he

did not light a lamp. There was oil enough for their needs in the

stores, but eventualities had to be considered, and rigid economy in all

things was necessary.

The picture was complete. The dimly lit store, with its traffic counter

deserted, and its shelves sadly depleted of trade. The staunch,

plastered and lime-washed walls, which revealed the stress of climate in

the gaping cracks that were by no means infrequent. The hard-beaten

earth floor swept clean. The glowing stove that knew no attention from

the cleaner's brush. Then the two figures on the rough bench, which was

worn and polished by long years of use.

The completion of the picture, however, lay in the personalities for

which the rest was only a setting. Steve, in his buckskin shirt and

moleskin trousers, which divested him of the last sign of his

relationship to the force which administered the white man's law. His

young face so set and weather-tanned, so full of decision and strength,

and his eyes, far gazing, like those of the men of the deep seas. And

the boy upon his knee, his little hands clasping each other in his lap.

With his curling, fair hair, and his wide, questioning eyes gazing up

into the man's face. With his small body clad from head to foot in the

beaded buckskin, which it was his nurse's joy to fashion for him. There

was a wonderfully intimate touch in it all. It was a touch that

powerfully illustrated the lives of those who are far removed from the

luxury of civilization, and who depend for every comfort, even for their

very existence, upon those personal physical efforts, the failure of

which, at any moment, must mean final and complete disaster.

"Tell boy of bears, an' wolves, an' Injuns, an' debble-men, wot An-ina

hers scairt of."

The demand was prompt and decided.

"An-ina scared of devil-men?" Steve smilingly shook his head. "It's only

stupid 'Sleeper' men scared of devil-men. Anyway there's no devil-men.

Just wolves, and bears, that boy'll hunt and kill when he grows up."

"But hers says ther's debble-men," the boy protested, his eyes wide with

awe.

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Uncle Steve knows. He knows better than Indians.

Better than An-ina. Boy always remember that."

"Oh, 'ess, boy 'members."

The child impulsively thrust an arm about the man's neck and Steve's arm

tightened unconsciously about the little body.

"Tell us 'tory," the child urged.

Steve's contemplative eyes were upon the glowing stove.

"What'll it be about?" he said at last. Then, as though suddenly

inspired, "Why, I know, sure. It's about a little boy. A real bright

little boy. Oh, I guess he was all sorts of a boy--like--like Marcel."

"Wot's 'all sorts'?" the child demanded.

"Why, just a sample of all the good things a boy can be. Same as you."

The explanation seemed sufficient, and Marcel's eyes were turned

dreamily upon the red patch on the side of the stove.

"'Ess," he agreed.

"Well, Uncle Steve travelled a great, long way. It was dreadful hard.

There were bears, and wolves, I guess, and queer Indian folk, and

rivers, and lakes, and forests; forests much bigger and darker than

boy's ever seen."

"Wos thems bigger than the Sleepers' forest?" The challenge was

instantly taken up.

"Oh, yes."

"An' darker, an' fuller of debble-men?"

"Much darker, and there were no devil-men, because there just aren't

any."

"No. Course not," the boy agreed readily.

"That's so. Well, Uncle Steve came a long, long way, and his dogs were

tired, and his Indians were tired----"

"Wos thems like Julyman an' Oolak?"

"Yes. That's who the Indians were. Uncle always has Julyman and Oolak.

Well, he came to a valley where he found a little boy. All sorts of a

boy. And he liked the little boy, and the little boy liked him. Didn't

he?"

"'Ess."

"Well, the little chap was alone."

"Didn't hims have no An-ina?"

"Oh, yes. He had his nurse. But his Pop had gone away, and so had his

Mummy. So he was kind of alone. Well, the little boy and Uncle Steve

became great friends. Oh, big friends. Ever so big. And Uncle Steve

didn't want ever to leave the little boy. And I don't guess the little

boy ever wanted to leave Uncle Steve. But then you see there was the Pop

and Mummy, who'd gone away, and of course the boy liked them ever so

much. So Uncle Steve was in a dilemma."

"Wot's 'd'lemma'?"

"Why just a 'fix.' Like boy was in when he got all mussed up with the

ropes just now."

"Wos you mussed up with ropes?"

"Oh, no. Only in a 'fix.'"

"'Ess." The briefest explanations seemed to satisfy.

"Well, Uncle Steve guessed the Pop an' Mummy wouldn't come back for ever

so long, maybe not till the boy was grown up. So he guessed he'd take

the little boy--such a jolly little chap--with him, back to his home,

where there was a nice Auntie, and a little baby cousin. A little girl,

such a pretty little dear, all eyes, and fat cheeks, that sort of tell

you life's the bulliest thing ever. Well, he took him to his home, such

a long, long way, over snow, and over rivers and lakes, where there's

fishes, and through forests where there's wolves, an' bears----"

"Does hims see any debble-mens?"

"No. Because Uncle Steve says there just aren't any."

"But An-ina sezes ther' is."

"An-ina's a squaw."

"'Ess."

"Well, after long time this funny little fellow finds his new Auntie,

and he loves his little cousin right away, and he has such a bully time

with her. They play together. Such games. She pulls his hair and laughs,

and the boy, who's such a bright little kid, likes it because she's a

little girl, and they grow, and grow up together, and then--and

then----"

"Does hims marry her, an' live happy ever after?"

The question was disconcerting. But Steve did his best.

"Well, I can't just say, old fellow," he demurred. "You see, I hadn't

fixed that."

"But they allus does in my Mummy's 'tories," came the instant protest.

"Do they? Well, then I guess these'll have to," the man agreed. "We'll

fix it that way."

"'Ess. An' then----"

But the prompting failed in its purpose.

"An' then? Why--I guess that's just all. You see, when folks get

married, and live happy ever after, there's most generally no more story

to tell. Is there?"

"No." Then the child sat up. His appetite had been whetted. "Tell boy

'nother 'tory. Great big, long one. Ever so long."

Steve shook his head.

"Guess Uncle Steve's not great on yarns," he admitted. "You see, I was

kind of thinking. Say, how'd boy like to go with Uncle Steve, and see

the nice Auntie, and the little dear, with lovely, lovely curly hair and

blue eyes, and cheeks like--like----"

"'Ess. Us goes," the child cried, with a sudden enthusiasm. "Us finds

all the lakes, an' rivers, an' forests, an' wolves, an' bears, an' the

little dear. Boy likes 'em. Us goes now?"

The headlong nature of the demand set Steve smiling.

"Well, I guess we can't go till winter quits," he said. "We'll need to

wait awhile till it's not dark any more. Then we'll take An-ina. And

Julyman. And Oolak. And the dogs. How's that? Then, after awhile, when

boy's Pop and his Mummy come back, then maybe we'll come right back,

too. Eh?"

The anticipation of it all was ravishing to the child mind, and the boy

resettled himself.

"'Ess," he agreed, with a great sigh. "An' the little dear, an' the nice

Auntie. Us all come back." Then with infantile persistence he returned

to his old love. "More 'tory," he demanded. "'Bout debble-mens." Then,

as an after-thought: "Wot isn't, cos Uncle says they doesn't, an' An-ina

says him is when he wasn't, cos he can't be."

Steve sprang to his feet with a great laugh, bearing the little fellow

in his strong arms. He had accomplished his task and all was well.

"No more 'tory," he cried setting him on the ground. "All us men have

work to do. We need to help An-ina. Come on, old fellow."

And with a great feeling of relief and contentment he began the

re-adjustment of the furs which protected the little life which had

become so precious to him.

* * * * *

For all the nights were almost interminable, and the days so desperately

short time passed rapidly. It was nearly three weeks later that the

patient, indefatigable An-ina brought the word Steve awaited.

The daylight had passed, engulfed by the Arctic night which had added a

dull, misty moon to its splendid illumination. The temperature had

risen. Steve knew a change was coming. The signs were all too plain. He

knew that the period of peace had nearly run its course, and the

elements were swiftly mobilizing for a fresh attack.

He was standing in the great gateway considering these things when

An-ina came to him. She appeared abruptly over the top of the great

snow-drift, which had been driven against the angle of the stockade. The

soft "pad" of her moccasined feet first drew his attention, and

immediately all thought of the coming storm passed from his mind.

"Him big chief wake all up," she announced urgently, as she reached his

side.

"Did you speak to him?"

The man's enquiry was sharpened by responsive eagerness. The squaw

nodded.

"An-ina say, 'Boss white man officer come mak big talk with big chief,

Wanak-aha. Him look for dead white man by the big water. Yes.' Him big

chief say, 'White man officer? Him not know this man. Who?' An-ina say

much--plenty. Big chief all go mad. Oh, much angry. Then An-ina mak big

talk plenty. She say, 'Big Chief not mak big talk, then boss white man

officer of Great White Chief come kill up all Indian man.' Big chief

very old. Him all 'fraid. Him shake all over like so as seal fat. Much

scare. Oh, yes." She laughed in her silent fashion. "So him say, 'Boss

white man officer come, then Big Chief Wanak-aha mak plenty big talk.'

Then him sleep. Oh, yes."

The woman's amusement at the chief's panic was infectious. Steve smiled.

"I guess we'll go right along," he said. Then he indicated the moon with

its misty halo. "Storm."

Again An-ina nodded.

"Him storm plenty--sure," she agreed. "Boss come quick?"

"Right away."

A moment later An-ina was leading the way up the long slope of the

snow-drift, returning over the tracks which her own moccasins had left.

* * * * *

The atmosphere of the hut was oppressive. It reeked with the smoke of

wood fire. It was nauseating with a dreadful human foulness. But over

all hung the sickly sweet odour of the Adresol drug, which oppressed the

brain and weighted down the eyelids of those who had just left the pure

cold air beyond the curtained doorway.

Steve was not without a feeling of apprehension. He was in the presence

of the active operation of the subtle drug. He had read the dead

chemist's papers. He knew the deadly exhalations of the weed when

growing, or when in an undried state. He also knew that distillation

robbed it of its poisonous effect, but for all that, the sickly

atmosphere left him with a feeling of nausea.

He and An-ina were sitting beyond one of the two wood fires that had

been replenished. The old chief, Wanak-aha, was squatting on his

haunches amongst his frowsy fur robes at the opposite side. He was a

shrivelled, age-weazened creature whose buckskin garments looked never

to have been removed from his aged body. His years would have been

impossible to guess at. All that was certain about him was that his

mahogany face was like creased parchment, that his eyes peered out in

the dim light of the hut through the narrowest of slits, that he was

alert, vital to an astounding degree, and that he suggested a foulness

such as humanity rarely sinks to.

An-ina was speaking in the tongue native to the old man, who was

replying in his monosyllabic fashion while he kept all his regard for

the stern-eyed white man, who, the squaw was explaining, represented all

the unlimited power of the white peoples.

Steve waited in patience for the completion of these necessary

preliminaries, and acted his part with the confidence of wide

experience. And presently An-ina turned to him. Her eyes were serious,

but there was a smile behind her words.

"Him say him much big friend for white man," she said, in her broken

way. "Him love all white man so as a brother. White man mak plenty good

trade with Indian man. It much good. So him big chief plenty friend. Oh,

yes."

Steve inclined his head seriously.

"Tell him that's all right," he said. "Tell him white man good friend,

too. White man love all Indian man. Tell him all white man children of

Great White Chief. When they die Great White Chief know. If Indian man

kill white man then Great White Chief send all thunder and lightning and

kill up all Indian man. Tell him Great White Chief know that two white

men all killed dead by great waters. He know Chief Wanak-aha's young men

find them. Great White Chief knows Indian man didn't kill them, but, as

he knows where they are, he must show the Great White Chief's Officer

where they are, so he can take their bones back to their own country, or

bury them as he sees fit. If Chief Wanak-aha does not tell White

Officer, and his young men don't show him this place, then the thunders

and lightning will come and kill up all Indian 'Sleeper' men."

An-ina interpreted rapidly. And by the length of her harangue, and by

the attitude of the old man, Steve shrewdly suspected she was adding

liberal embellishments such as her own savage mind suggested as being

salutory. It was always so. An Indian on the side of the police was

merciless to his own people.

The old man replied with surprising energy, and it was obvious to Steve

that panic had achieved all he desired. So he was content to watch

silently while the soft-voiced woman, with unsmiling eyes, spurred the

little, old, great man to decisions which it is more than probable only

real fear could have hastened.

At last An-ina ceased speaking. She turned to Steve who received the net

results she had achieved in concrete form.

"It much good," she said, without permitting the smallest display of

feeling before the watchful eyes of the old chief. "Him say all as

An-ina tell boss white man officer. Young men find dead white men all

kill up. In great, deep place by big waters. So. Him say when winter him

all go then young men take boss white man officer, show him all. Help

him much plenty. All him dog-train, all him young man for boss white man

officer. Yes. Not so as snow him not go. Not find. All kill dead, sure.

'Sleeper' man sleep plenty. Then him all wake. Boss white man say 'go.'

Yes."

The purpose of the visit was achieved. Steve desired nothing more. These

Indians would take him to the place where the two white men had fought

out the old, old battle for a woman. Yes, he was convinced now that

An-ina's original story was the true one. His visit to these squalid

creatures had served a double purpose. The old man's willingness to

comply with his demands amply convinced him that the wife's belief had

no foundation in the facts. Had the Indians murdered Marcel Brand and

his partner, the whole attitude of the chief must have been very

different.

It was some moments before he replied. It was necessary that he should

play his part to the end. So he appeared to consider deeply before he

accepted the chief's offer.

At length he raised his eyes from the flickering blaze of the fire. He

gazed round the dimly lit room where the Indians lay about in their

deathlike slumber. There was a stirring as of waking in a far corner,

and for awhile he contemplated the direction. Then, at last, his eyes

came back to the crumpled face of the old man awaiting anxiously his

reply.

"Tell him," he said, addressing the squaw without withdrawing his gaze

from the face of the old man, "that the officer of the Great White Chief

will wait till the snow goes. Tell him he'll need to have his young men

ready then to make the trail. And when they've shown the officer all

they've found, and told him all they know, then the officer will tell

the Great White Chief that the 'Sleeper' men are good men, who deserve

all that is good. Tell him, there will be no thunder or lightning. And

if white men come again to the fort and find it as it has been left,

nothing taken, nothing destroyed, then maybe they'll bring good trade

for the Indian men, and presents for the big chief. But if they come and

find that one little thing has been destroyed or stolen, then the

thunder and lightning will speak, and there'll be no more Indians."

* * * * *

When Steve and An-ina emerged from the woods utter and complete darkness

reigned. The world had been swallowed up under an inky pall. The moon,

the brilliant stars, the blazing northern lights--all were extinguished,

and not a ray of light was left to guide them the last few hundred yards

to safety. Furthermore snow was falling. It was falling in great flakes

half as big as a man's hand.

The life-line which the woman had set up was all that stood between them

and complete disaster.

CHAPTER IX

THE VISION OF THE SPIRE

Winter with all its deadly perils had become a memory. Life was supreme

again on the plateau of Unaga. It was in the air, in the breezes

sweeping down from the Northern hills, where the crystal snow caps no

longer had power to inspire distrust. It was in the flowing waters of

the river. It was in the flights of swarming wildfowl, winging to fresh

pastures of melting snows. It was in the new-born grass blades,

thrusting up their delicate heads to rid the world of winter's

unsightliness. The animal world, too, was seeking to alleviate the pangs

of semi-starvation to which it had so long been condemned. The sense of

gladness was stirring, lifting the world upon a glorious pinacle of

youthful hope.

Gladness was in An-ina's heart as she moved over the dripping grass,

bearing the water fresh dipped from the river whose banks were a-flood

in every direction. Was not the darkness of winter swallowed up by the

brilliant sunlight? Was not the child of her heart trudging manfully at

her side, firmly grasping the bucket handle in a vain belief in the

measure of his help? Was not the moment rapidly approaching, when the

white man officer would return with the young men of the Sleepers from

the "deep place" by the "big waters?" Would not the day soon come when

the trail to the southlands would again be broken? And would she not

gaze once more upon the pleasant lands that gave her birth? Oh, yes. She

knew. It was a great rush to the promised home, far from the desperate

life on the plateau of Unaga, with the child, whose dancing eyes and

happy smile were like a ray of sunshine amidst the shadows of her life.

Morning and night, now, An-ina looked for the return of those who had

set out before the break of the winter. A month had passed since Steve's

going. She was quite alone with her boy, with the wakened Indians

preparing for their labours of the open season. The "white man officer"

would return. An-ina had no fear for him even on the winter trail of

Unaga. He would return, and then--and then--And so she watched and

waited, and worked with all the will of her simple, savage heart.

It was no easy task that lay ahead. An-ina knew that. Steve had told her

much during those dark days of winter. He had spoken of a thousand

miles. What was a mile? She did not know. A sun. A moon. These things

she knew. But his tone she understood. And she knew what he meant when

he declared his intention of beating schedule, and his determination not

to spend another winter on Unaga if it were the last trail he ever made.

She was ready. And, in her simple woman's way she beguiled the days of

waiting with speculation as to the white woman who had inspired in this

white man's heart so great a desire.

Life was more than good to An-ina just now. She was young. She was

thrilling with the wild emotions of her untamed blood. She was an Indian

of the finest ancestry, but more than all she was a devoted woman. She

had lost a mistress whom she had loved, and a master whom she had been

glad to serve. She had found one to take their places, one whose first

act had been his re-assurance that she should not be robbed of the

child who was her all. There was no one greater in all the world to her

than the "white man officer" whose courage and will she counted as

powers greater than the storms of Unaga.

All day she laboured at her many tasks. And the boy, faithful to his

doctrine of helpfulness, found a world of recreation in his idea. Thus,

with the passing of the sun, they stood together at the gateway of the

fort with eyes searching, as many times they had searched before, for a

sign of the return of the trail men.

"Us wants Uncle Steve."

There was a plaintive appeal in the boy's tone which found an echo in

the woman's heart. She sighed, but her voice was steady as she replied:

"Bimeby him come," she said.

"'Ess. Bimeby him come."

But the boy's agreement lacked conviction. A moment later, with his big

eyes turned to the southeast, the way he had seen the expedition set

out, he went on:

"Boy's Pop didn't come. An-ina said him's do. Boy's Mummy go 'way 'cos

Uncle Steve said her does. Uncle Steve hims all goes, too. Boy want

Uncle Steve."

"Him come bimeby."

The woman had no words with which to comfort. It was not lack of desire.

Though her conviction was unwavering, she, too, in her heart, echoed the

plaint.

For some moments they continued their evening vigil. The eyes of both

searched the growing shadows. And, as was always the case, it was the

child who finally broke the silence.

"Us cries," he said half tearfully.

It was then the Indian in the woman asserted itself.

"Squaw-men him weeps. 'Brave' him fight. No cry. Oh, no. Only fight. Boy

great white 'brave.' Him not cry. No."

Marcel nodded, but his eyes were turned to the hills.

"'Ess. Boy great white 'brave,'" he agreed, in a choking voice. "Boy not

cry--never. What's hims little things all dancing in the fog, An-ina?"

he enquired, his mind suddenly distracted, pointing at a gap between two

low hills, where a thin vapour of fog was slowly rising. "Is them's

debble-mens?"

The keen eyes of the squaw followed the pointing finger. In a moment

there leapt into them a light which required no words to interpret. But

even in her excited joy the Indian calm remained uppermost. She drew

nearer the child, and one of her soft brown hands rested caressingly on

his shoulder.

"Him not devil-men," she said, in a deep tone of exaltation. "Him Uncle

Steve an' all fool 'Sleeper' men. They all come so as An-ina say."

Then the smile in her eyes suddenly transformed her, and her joy could

no longer be denied. She stooped over the small figure and pressed her

lips upon the soft white forehead.

"Us go by river. An-ina hide. Boy hide. Then Uncle Steve come. Boy jump

out. Him say 'Boo!' Uncle Steve all scairt. Much frightened all dead.

So?"

The appeal was irresistible. The boy's excitement leapt. In a moment he

was transformed from a tearful "brave" to a happy, laughing child. He

set off at a run for the river, with An-ina close upon his heels,

utterly regardless of the fact that they were within full view of the

on-coming trail men. This was a detail. The child's enthusiasm permitted

no second thought, and his breathless orders to his nurse were flung

back as he ran. The cover of the bush-lined river was reached, and the

hiding-place was selected just short of the flood water.

The child crouched down trembling with excitement. And the sound of

Uncle Steve's voice giving orders as he came up on the far side of the

water made the suspense almost unendurable. He talked to An-ina, who

crouched at his side. He chattered incessantly. The splash of a canoe,

dropped into the water, was exquisite torture. The dip of paddles set

him well-nigh beside himself. Then, a few moments later, when the light

craft slithered on the mud of the shallows, just beyond the

hiding-place, he felt the psychological moment had come. Out he sprang

at his victim, who was still ankle deep in the water.

"Boo-o-o!" he shrieked, with all the power of his little lungs, and, a

moment later, he was gathered into the caressing arms of a terrified

"uncle."

* * * * *

The work was accomplished. The police officer had fulfilled his mission,

a mission detailed to him coldly, officially, without a shadow of regard

for the tremendous trials entailed, and with only an eye for the

capacity of the officer selected.

So far he had beaten his own schedule. He had calculated his work would

occupy two years from the moment of his going to his return to

Deadwater, but he meant to cut this down by something like six months.

The resolve to do so had been taken during the drear of winter. He had

been haunted by the appealing eyes of the woman he loved, and by the

memory of the soft clutch of baby hands. And his desire had become

irresistible.

Under his new resolve it had become necessary to speed the waking of the

Indians. He had had no scruple. Again he had bearded the chief and

forced his will upon him. For all the old man's fears of the white man's

threats it had been no easy task. But at last he had convinced him of

the hopeless recklessness of denying him. So twenty of the young men

were found who reluctantly enough gave up the last month of their

winter's sleep. And now he had returned with his work accomplished.

Steve had no illusions upon the desperate nature of the rush for home.

He knew the chances he was taking. A week's preparation. He could spare

no more time. A journey on foot of some hundreds of miles. An Indian

carry-all hauled by reindeer for the boy and the camp outfit, the dogs

to be herded without burden till their usefulness could serve. For each

man, and An-ina, the burden of a heavy pack. Such preparations were

wholly inadequate. He knew that. He was staking the courage and

endurance of those he was responsible for against a ruthless,

inhospitable world.

Oh, yes, his eyes were wide to the dangers that lay ahead. He knew them

all. He had visions of a dripping, melting land. He knew the spring

rains with their awesome powers of washout and flood. The blinding,

steaming fogs of the high altitudes. So with the glacial avalanches, and

the terror of thawing tundra, shaking, treacherous, bottomless.

The week passed rapidly and the moment for the "pull-out" came. The

Indians were awake, and their winter quarters in the woods had been

abandoned for the domed igloos of the open season. The fort was alive

with their comings and goings. They were alert for the promised spoils.

Peaceable, kindly, the sturdy undersized people of the outlands were

driven to a supreme selfishness by reason of the conditions under which

they lived. They cared little for anything but that which the white folk

could provide. Without interest or ambitions, beyond such comfort as

they could snatch from life, they desired only to be left in peace. But

with real amiability they wished the stranger well in his going.

The post presented a curious enough scene on the morning of departure.

And to Steve, at least, thought of it was to recur many times in the

great struggle that lay before him. The poles of the carry-all, their

ends trailing upon the ground, loaded with camp outfit and ready for the

boy, stood just within the stockade. The dogs were ready and waiting

under Oolak's charge. Inside the store, Steve supported by Julyman and

An-ina, and the child Marcel, occupied the well-worn bench beside the

stove.

He was receiving the farewell words of the old chief, Wanak-aha, who was

thankful enough to see the last of the disturber of his winter sleep.

The old man was surrounded by his equally aged counsellors, and the

whole deputation squatted ceremonially upon their haunches about him.

The store had been stripped of all supplies. The shelves were bare and

only a litter of packings remained to mark the end of the chemist's

great enterprise.

Steve addressed the chief through An-ina without relaxing his authority.

He told the old man that everything that was good in the store had been

handed over a present to his people for their valuable services to the

Great White Chief. The store was now empty of everything that was good.

He told him that this was the way the Great White Chief always acted

towards those who served him. The things that remained in the store were

only evil things that were full of evil magic. The Great White Chief had

hidden these things deeply, and he had set a spell upon them. This had

been done so that no harm should come to the Indian. In this he was

referring to the contents of the dead man's laboratory. He told him that

the Great White Chief had ordered him to place the store and fort in the

chief's safe keeping. No Indian man was to enter it to destroy it. If he

did the evil spirits would break loose, and death and disaster for the

whole tribe would undoubtedly follow. Therefore he had summoned the

council that Wanak-aha might give his pledge for the safety of the

property of the Great White Chief.

He told them he was going now because he wanted the Indians to live in

peace, with their slumbers undisturbed. He might never come again. He

could not say. But if the Great White Chief sent anybody, it would only

be for the purpose of giving great benefit to the Indians, whom he

undoubtedly regarded as a very wise and good people.

It was a masterly exhibition of Steve's understanding of the savage it

was his work to deal with, and the happy effect was promptly evidenced.

Ten minutes of monosyllabic discussion between the chief and his

counsellors produced the pledge Steve desired, and he knew from the

manner of it that the pledge would be kept to the letter. But it brought

forth something more. An-ina was called upon to interpret an expression

of the friendly spirit in which the Indians parted from the disturber of

their slumbers.

The old man in a long peroration explained all he and his people felt.

They were in no way behind the Great White Chief in their regard, he

assured Steve. They loved the white man, whose ways were not always

Indian ways. He re-affirmed his solemn promise that the fort should be

safe in Indian hands. Furthermore he told him they had no desire to

anger the evil spirits it contained. In conclusion he produced a beaded

seal-skin bag which he asked the white man to accept. It contained, he

explained, the bones of the right hand of one of his ancestors who had

been a great hunter and warrior, and withal a lucky and mighty chief who

was only murdered by his people after a long and fierce reign. This bag,

with its contents, was a sure talisman and guard against the evil

spirits of Unaga, and they were very, very many, and very cruel.

With due solemnity Steve accepted this priceless gift, and, to add to

his display of gratification, he drew little Marcel to him and secured

it about his neck. Then, turning to the chief, he explained. He pointed

at the child, and assured him that the white man regarded his children

before all things--even before his own life. Therefore, to display his

gratitude to the great chief, he bestowed the gift upon the child whose

safety he desired above all things in the world. Approval was unanimous.

To every one of these simple creatures the white man's act was one of

the greatest self-sacrifice. And even in the more enlightened minds of

An-ina and Julyman there was a deep appreciation of the act.

When the council broke up, and the fur-clad Indians moved out, Steve

might well have been forgiven had he felt that his work had been well

and truly done.

With the going of the last Indian he promptly shouldered his pack, and

Julyman and An-ina did the same. A moment later he took the child in his

arms.

"Come," he said, and led the way out of the building.

Ten minutes later the outfit was on the move, and the great adventure,

with the new-born mosquitoes and flies swarming, began in a blaze of

spring sunshine.

* * * * *

Out on a snow-clad ridge, a saddle between two forest-clad hills, a

meagre camp was set. The shelter of woods against the keen north wind

made the resting-place possible. Two weeks of struggle, two weeks of

tremendous effort left the choice of daylight camping ground a matter of

small moment, but just now the bleak ridge had been selected for a

definite reason.

Steve and An-ina were standing out in the gap, with little Marcel

between them. Oolak was somewhere within the woods, tending his savage

dogs. Julyman was hugging the fire, with complete disregard for all but

its precious warmth.

Those in the gap were staring out at the north-east with eyes held

fascinated by the wonder of it all. It was the Spire, the amazing Spire

of Unaga rearing its mighty crest out of the far-off distance. Even the

child was awed to silence by the spell of the inspiring vision.

They were gazing upon a world of fire and smoke. And the fire was

belching out of the bowels of the earth and lighting up the whole

skyline far and wide. It was a scene no words could adequately describe.

It was a scene to awe the stoutest heart. The whole country in the

distant north seemed to lie prostrate at the mercy of a world of

devouring flame.

CHAPTER X

THE RUSH OUTFIT

"Curse 'em!"

Ian Ross raised a hand and swept it across the back of his muscular

neck. Then he wiped his palm on his cord breeches leaving there the

stain of his own blood, and the crushed remains of hundreds of

mosquitoes.

"Get a look at that," he cried, in genial disgust.

The man riding at his side turned and laughed without mirth. His eyes

remained serious.

"Sure," he said indifferently. "We've got to get 'em, this time of year,

Doc. We need a head breeze."

"Got to get? What we're getting is hell--plumb hell," exploded the

Scotsman.

The other nodded.

"Sure. But there's worse hell on the trail, and it isn't us who's got

it."

The rebuke was without offence. But it was sufficient. In a moment Ross

was flung headlong back to the haunting thoughts of the great effort he

and his companion were engaged upon.

"Another day--and no sign," he said.

"No."

There was no great display, yet the doctor's words, and the monosyllabic

reply, were deeply significant.

Jack Belton--Inspector Jack Belton--and the doctor were on a "rush

outfit" of rescue. They were riding back to camp after a long day of

search along the banks of the Theton River. Their search was systematic.

Each day they rode out and followed the intricate course of the smiling

river with its endless chain of lakes. Each day their camp broke up and

followed a similar course, but taking the direct and shortest route down

the river. Then, at nightfall, the two men rejoined their outfit, only

to follow a similar procedure next day. Thus they had left the

headwaters far behind, and were steadily working their way down the

river. Somewhere along that river was Steve Allenwood, alive or dead.

They could not guess which. They could not estimate where. It was their

purpose to leave no creek, or lake, or yard of the great river

unexplored, until the secret was yielded up.

"And when we find him, what then?" the doctor exclaimed in a desperate

fashion. "Maybe he's sick. Maybe--whatever it is we've got to heal him,

and break him at the same time. God!"

"Yes." Jack Belton turned his dark eyes on his companion. They were hot

with feeling. "Say, Doc, I'm crazy to find that boy, and find him

cursing the skitters with a wholesome vocabulary, same as you and me.

But I'd hand over my Commission in the force with pleasure to my biggest

enemy rather than pass him the dope you and me need to."

The Scotsman nodded, and the kindly face reflected the bitterness of his

feelings.

"And I handed him my promise, and Millie's," he aid. "He was crazy about

them both--God help him."

"Poor devil!"

The great valley was lit from end to end by the last flaming rays of the

setting summer sun. The green carpet was dotted by a thousand wooded

bluffs, and a wonderful tracery of watercourses caught and reflected

the dying light. Not a breath of air stirred. And the warm, cloudless

evening was alive with the hum of insects, and the incessant chorus of

the frogs at the water's edge. Now and again the far-off cry of coyote

or wolf came dolefully across the trackless grass. For the rest a

wonderful peace reigned--that peace which belongs to the wilderness

where human habitation has not yet been set up.

It had been a tremendous time for both these men, and for those under

the Inspector's command. The whole thing had been an exhibition of human

energy, rarely to be witnessed. It had all been the result of an episode

on a similar, calm summer afternoon, which would remain for all time a

landmark in the doctor's life.

He had been reading in his shanty surgery on the Allowa Reserve. The

stream of his medicine-loving patients had ceased to flow. The little

room was heavy with the reek of his pipe. So he had risen from his chair

and passed to the door for a breath of air. It was then that he was

confronted by a gaudy coloured apparition. An Indian, whose race was

foreign to him, was patiently sitting on the back of a mean-looking

skewbald pony, clad in a parti-coloured blanket of flaming hues. The

moment Ross appeared in the doorway the Indian produced a crumpled,

folded paper from the folds of his blanket and offered it to him without

a word.

He accepted it with a keen curiosity. He unfolded it and glanced at the

handwriting. It was unrecognizable. But that which stirred him to the

depths of his soul, and flooded his heart with something like panic, was

the signature at the bottom of it. It was Steve's--Steve Allenwood.

The perusal of that letter was the work of a few moments. And throughout

the reading Ross was aware--painfully aware--of the aggravating calm of

the man who had written it. But under its unemotional words urgency,

deep, terrible urgency, was revealed. Accident and sickness had hit the

writer hard. His position was desperate. And the final paragraph

epitomized his extremity in no uncertain fashion.

I mean to do all a man can to make the headwaters of the Theton

River. Maybe I'll succeed. I can't say. If I don't you'll

understand. Maybe you'll break it to Nita as easy as you can. If

you can help her, and the kiddie, I'll be mighty thankful. Thank

God the little one won't understand. I'm sending this by a

Yellow-Knife. He reckons he knows Deadwater, and can get through

quick. Please pay him well. I can't get farther than the

headwater--if that. After that--well, it depends on the help that

can reach us.

Optimism and energy were amongst Ian Ross's strongest characteristics.

His decision was taken on the instant. With the aid of an interpreter he

questioned the Yellow-Knife, who knew no language but his own and that

of the Caribou-Eaters.

The man's story was broken but lurid.

The white man, he said, had arrived at Fort Duggan on foot, pursued by

the evil spirits of Unaga. He assured the doctor that these devils had

torn the clothes from him, and left him well-nigh naked. So with all the

party. There was blood on his feet and hands, where the spirits had

sought to devour him. Yes, they had even devoured his shoes. The white

man had a small white pappoose tied on to his back. The child was

sleeping, or sick, or dead. There was a squaw and an Indian with him,

whose bones looked out of their skins, and whose eyes were fierce and

wild like those who have looked the evil spirits in the face. These two

living-dead were hauling a sort of sled. And on the sled was another

Indian who was broken, and maybe dead. No, there were no dogs, no

outfit. It was just as he said. The Shaunekuks were good Indians, and

they gave the strangers food, and milk, and clothes to replace those the

evil spirits had devoured. They also had the canoes which the white man

had left with them a year ago. He, the messenger, was on a visit to the

Shaunekuks at the time, for a caribou hunt. But he abandoned the hunt at

the white man's request, who said he, the doctor, would pay him well.

The man was paid under promise of guiding an outfit back to the Theton

River country, and then began a hustle of a cyclonic nature.

Corporal Munday set out for Reindeer forthwith, and made headquarters in

record time. Within half an hour of his arrival Superintendent McDowell

had issued his orders for a "rush outfit." And three hours later saw it

on the trail. There was no hesitation. There was no question. There was

a comrade in peril, and with him others. There was a woman--although

only a squaw--and a white child. No greater incentive was needed, and

young Jack Belton was selected to lead the "rush" for his known speed

and capacity on the trail.

Something of the feelings stirring found expression in McDowell's final

instructions to his subordinate at the moment of departure.

"I don't care a curse if you kill every darn horse between here and the

Landing," he said. "Commandeer all you need--and plenty. I don't care

what you do. You've got to bring Allenwood back alive, or--or break your

darn neck."

And Belton had needed no urging. He had cut down the month's journey to

the Theton River to something like twenty days. He had foundered six

teams of horses and worn his two men and his scouts well-nigh

threadbare with night and day travel. But the doctor had proved

invincible, as had the Yellow-Knife scout on his skewbald pony, which,

for all its meanness of shape and size, had stood up to it all.

They had already been pursuing the river course for four days, and, so

far, it had withheld its secret. Somewhere out there on those wide

shining waters a man was struggling in a great final effort to defeat

once more the ruthless forces of Nature against which he had battled so

long and so successfully.

And what would victory mean for him? Ross knew. Jack Belton knew. And

their knowledge of that which was awaiting him, should a final triumph

be his, added a deep depression to the silence which had fallen between

them.

The great sun went to its death in a blaze of splendour, and the long

Northern twilight softened the scene with misty, velvet shadows which

crept down from distant hills to the north and south. The woodland

bluffs, too, promptly lost their sharpness of outline, and the green of

the trackless grass mellowed to a delicate softness which seemed to

round off the peace of the airless evening.

Now they picked up the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire, and direction

was promptly changed towards it.

"I sort of feel he'll make it," the Scotsman said abruptly, as though in

simple continuation of his unspoken thought.

"You can't kill--him," replied the other emphatically. "I haven't a

doubt. He guessed he could make the headwaters. He'll make them. I'm

only scared to miss him in the night."

The doctor shook his head.

"I don't fancy that's going to happen. Our camp's always on the main

water, in the open. There's our watch. No. I'm a deal more scared of him

making a day camp, resting. Even then we haven't missed anything large

enough to hide up a skitter."

"No."

Now the spot light of the camp-fire shone out of the soft twilight, and

the sound of voices came back from the water's edge.

"I'm wondering about what he needs to be told," Ross said presently.

"It's for me I guess."

"How's that?"

The younger man turned quickly. The thought of this thing had weighed

heavily with him. He was a police officer who was ready to face any

hardship, any of the hundred and one risks and dangers his calling

demanded. But from the moment he was detailed for his present duty he

had been oppressed by the thought of the story which would have to be

told Steve, and which duty, as leader of the rescue party, he calculated

must certainly fall to his lot. He had known Steve from the moment of

his joining the force. He had worked with him on the trail. He had been

present at his senior's wedding, and he remembered his comrade's

happiness at the consummation of a real love match. And now? The

doctor's words had lifted a great load from his mind.

"There's two sides to be told," Ross said, with a sigh. "There's the

police side, which deals mostly with the Treaty Money, I guess, and

there's that other which should be mine. You see, he left them in my

care. And so there's a big account to be squared between him and me.

Best let me handle the whole rotten thing." Then with a sound that was a

laugh without the least mirth: "It's a doctor's job to hand out

unpleasant dope to a patient. It's a policeman's job to act unpleasant.

Guess the act isn't needed, but the dope is. Yes, it's mine, Belton.

Will you leave it that?"

"I'll be so glad to," the other replied with a sigh of relief, "I don't

know how to tell you about it. It had me scared to death. That's so.

Even McDowell shirked it. He told me Steve had to get the whole yarn

before he got into Reindeer. That's the sort of folk we are. And it's

not a thing to brag about."

The other shook his head.

"It needs good men to hate hurting another," he said. "Guess it's a

scare you don't need to be ashamed of. I'll tell him because I've got

to. I hate it worse than hell. But I owe the hurt to myself for the way

I've--failed his trust."

"I don't see you need to blame yourself, Doc," the youngster returned,

becoming judicial under his relief. "Steve won't, if I know him. This

sort of thing happens right along under a husband's nose. Just as long

as woman's what she is, and there's low down skunks of men around,

why--But, say, there's something doing at the camp!"

He lifted his reins and urged his weary horse into a rapid canter, and

the doctor's horse clung close to its flank. The eager eyes of both were

searching for the meaning of the stir which the youthful Inspector had

detected. And instinctively they gazed out down the broad waters of the

placid river as far as the rapidly deepening twilight would permit.

Simultaneously their eyes rested on two objects, a little indistinct,

floating upon the water. They looked so small in the immensity of the

spread of the river. But even so their outline was familiar enough.

"Canoes!" cried Belton.

"It's him!" came in the deep tones of the doctor.

Five minutes later they were out of the saddle and standing with others

on the grassy river bank watching the steady approach of two canoes,

paddling their way up against the easy, sluggish stream.

Near by were the two four-horsed wagons, and the camp-fire with the

forgotten supper still wafting its pleasant odours upon the breathless

air. Flies, too, and mosquitoes were in abundance. But these, like the

rest, were forgotten. The men of the police outfit had eyes and thoughts

for the canoes only. Each and all were wondering at that which they were

to reveal.

Suddenly a shout broke the profound stillness. It came from the young

officer who could restrain himself no longer.

"Ho, you, Steve!"

The shout carried away over the water. Those on the bank could almost

hear it travel. Then followed what seemed an interminable interval. But

it was seconds only before a faint call came back.

"Hoo-y!"

The policeman was given no opportunity for reply. The doctor's great

husky voice anticipated him.

"Ho, Steve! It's Doc Ross!"

He had recognized the answering voice and flung his excited greeting in

a tumult of feeling.

* * * * *

The canoes drove head on for the river bank.

As Belton and Ross sought to discover the nature of their freight the

coursing blood of excited hope stagnated. There was only the quickening

of apprehension.

A grim, strange figure was confronting them. It was kneeling up in the

prow of the nearest vessel. A wild, straining, desperate light shone

feverishly in eyes looking out of a face lost in a tangle of beard and

whisker. The brows were fiercely depressed, suggesting a bitter

defensive spirit. The eyes were lost in cavernous sockets, and the

cheeks were sunken and scored with lines of ravening hunger. The whole

was clad in the discoloured buckskin of a Northern Indian, with a mat of

untended hair reaching to its shoulders.

The waiting men understood. This was their comrade, the man to whose

succour they had rushed. A tragic story of suffering was in that single

figure, which, paddle in hand, was battling with a burden too great for

any one man to bear. Only he, and the squat figures of Shaunekuk

paddlers were to be seen. For the rest nothing was visible to the

onlookers.

As the canoe grounded on the reed-grown mud the doctor's deep-voiced

"Thank God!" met with no response. The wild-looking figure scrambled off

the boat, and plunged nearly knee-deep into the mud. Those on the bank

seemed to concern him not at all, for he turned, as was perhaps his long

habit, to haul the vessel inshore himself.

But the rescue party forestalled him. The men from the bank, policemen

and Indian scouts, seized the boat, while Ross's friendly hand was laid

on the man's shoulder.

"The boys'll fix things," he said, in a voice deep with intense feeling.

"Best come right up to camp, Steve."

The sound of the husky voice, whose words were not quite steady, brought

a swift turn from Steve. For a moment he stared at the speaker. He

seemed to be striving to restore the broken threads of memory. Finally

he shook his head.

"No," he said. And turned again to the boat.

Ian Ross made no further attempt. He understood. He turned and flung all

his energies into the work of unloading the tragic freight. The wild

figure of Steve had prepared him. And, in a few moments, his

professional mind was absorbed to the exclusion of everything else.

Starvation had nearly defeated the otherwise invincible spirit of Steve.

It was there in the bottom of the light vessels, in the drawn faces and

attenuated bodies of the paddler crew of Shaunekuks. It was in the

display of Steve's side-arms strapped to a strut of the canoe ready to

his hand, with holsters agape, and his loaded guns protruding

threateningly. It was in a similar display in the second boat, which the

well-nigh demented Julyman had commanded. Oh, yes. No words were needed

to tell the story. It was there for all to read.

The rescuers understood the uselessness of questions. Help was needed,

and it was freely given. The urgency of it all held them utterly silent,

except for sharp, brief orders.

Ross and the two teamsters dealt with Steve's boat. Jack Belton and the

camp scouts devoted themselves to the second.

In Steve's boat were the fever-ridden body of An-ina, and the scarcely

living shadow of the child, Marcel. Ross lifted the half-dead woman and

carried her up the bank to the tent which had been set up. Then he

returned in haste for the child. On his way he paused for a moment to

glance at the broken body of Oolak, who was being removed from the

second boat by Jack Belton.

"Guess it's not starvation here," he said significantly.

"No," Belton admitted. "It's a bad smash, I guess. Say----"

The Scotsman glanced back at the river, following the horrified gaze of

his companion. His big heart thrilled with instant pity, and he set off

on the run.

Steve, wild, unkempt, was labouring up from the water's edge, hobbling

painfully on feet that were bound up in great pads of blanket. He was

bearing in his arms the emaciated, unconscious body of the child, and

his whole attitude was one of infinite tenderness, and care, and

disregard for his own sufferings.

The doctor reached the struggling man and held out his arms.

"Give me the little chap," he demanded in his brusque fashion.

Steve turned his head. He stared at him in the fashion of a blind man.

"No!" he said sharply. Then he added with almost insane passion, "Not on

your life!"

CHAPTER XI

STEVE LISTENS

"We've got 'em beat."

The man of healing recovered the sick man's feet with the blanket, and

rolled the old dressings he had just removed into a bundle ready for the

camp-fire outside.

"You mean----"

Steve was lying in his blankets propped into a half-sitting position. A

candle, stuck in the neck of a bottle, lit the tent sufficiently for Ian

Ross to complete his work.

"Why, the evil spirits of Unaga, I guess," he replied, with a forced

lightness. Then he shook his head. "They did their best--sure. Another

week or so and you'd have moved about on stumps the rest of your life.

And I'm reckoning that would have been the best you could have hoped.

It's been a darned near thing."

Steve nodded. His manner was curiously indifferent.

"How's the boy?" he demanded abruptly.

Ross put his instruments away and set the water bowl aside. Then he set

the stoppered bottles back into his case.

"He'll be 'whooping' it up with the boys in a couple of days," he said.

"An-ina?"

"Beating the 'reaper' out of sight."

Steve drew a deep breath.

"Oolak was all to pieces," he said doubtfully.

"He was about as broken as he could be and still hang together. He's

been a tough case." It was the doctor's turn to take a deep breath.

"He'll be a man again. But I wouldn't gamble on his shape. Say, Steve,

it's the biggest bluff I've seen put up against death. Those darn

niggers who toted your boats, they're tickled to death with the food the

boys hand out to them. And as for Julyman he's as near cast iron

as--as--you."

"Yes, it was pretty tough."

"Tough? Gee!"

The doctor's final exclamation was one of genuine amazement.

"It's near three weeks since we hauled the remains of you from that

skitter-ridden river," he went on, "and a deal's happened in that time.

Jack Belton's gone in for stores, and to report. We've shifted camp

where the flies, and bugs, and things'll let you folks forget the darn

river, and the nightmare I guess you dreamt on it. You're all beating

the game, some of you by yards, and others by inches. But you're beating

it. And I'm still guessing at those things you all know like you were

born to 'em. When are you going to hand me the yarn, Steve? When are you

going to feel like thinking about the things that two weeks ago looked

like leaving you plumb crazed?"

Steve knitted his brows. To the man watching him it seemed as if the

sudden recalling of the past was still a thing to be avoided. But his

diagnosis was in error. Steve became impatient.

"Oh hell!" he exclaimed. "Do you need me to hand it you? Do you need me

to tell you the fool stunt I played to beat schedule, and get back to

Nita and the kiddie? Do you need to know about a darn territory that

every Indian north of 60 deg. is scared to death of? A territory only fit

for devils and such folk, like the neches reckon it's peopled with? Do

you want to hear about an outfit that found everything Nature ever set

for the world's biggest fools? Do you want to know about storms that

leave the worst Northern trails a summer picnic, and muskegs and tundra

that leave you searching for something bigger than miles to measure

with, and barren, fly-ridden territory without a leaf or blade of grass

and scored every way at once with rifts and water canyons so you can't

tell the north from the Desert of Sahara? If you do, read the old report

I've been writing. I'll hand you a story that won't shout credit for the

feller who designed it. But it'll tell you of the guts of the folk who

stood behind him every darn step of the way, and made him crazy to get

them through alive. If you'd asked me that two weeks ago I'd have cried

like a babe. Now it's different. You've got a sick woman under your

hands now, Doc, and two copper coloured neches. And when I say they're

the world's best, why--I just mean it."

A deep flush of emotion underlaid the toughened skin of Steve's face. He

was deeply stirred by the thoughts and feelings which the other's demand

had conjured.

The doctor glanced down at the sheets of paper on which Steve had

written his report. But he made no attempt to accept the invitation to

read it. The moment had come to tell this man of that disaster which yet

awaited him. So he had sought to test him in the only fashion that lay

to his hand. The break which had so sorely threatened in the reaction

following upon Steve's rescue had been completely averted, and the

Scotsman felt that now, at last, he was strong enough to bear the truth

which he had denied him on his first enquiry after his wife and child.

The flush died out of Steve's cheeks. The steady eyes were never more

steady as they looked into the strong face before them. He ran his

fingers through his long dark hair, and resettled his shoulders against

the pile of blankets supporting them.

"It kind of startles you to find guts in folks when you're up against

it. You can't help it. Maybe it's conceit makes you feel that way," he

went on quietly. "Those two boys of mine, and An-ina. You couldn't beat

'em. Nothing could. When Oolak dropped over the side of a canyon, with

most of the outfit the reindeer went with him. You see, we'd rid

ourselves of the dogs. We couldn't feed 'em. Well, I guessed the end had

come. But it hadn't. Julyman and An-ina took up the work of hauling,

while I carried Marcel. Only they hauled Oolak instead of the outfit.

They hauled him for nigh on a month, and we lived on dog meat till it

got putrid, and even then didn't feel like giving it up. I didn't have

to worry a thing except for their sanity. You see, they were Indian for

all their grit, and--I just didn't know. It was tough, Doc! Oh, gee! it

was tough! And when you've read the stuff I've doped out for

headquarters you won't need me to talk if you've two cents of

imagination about you. If you'd asked me awhile back, when I asked you

about Nita, and my little girl, and you told me they were good and

happy, and crazy to have me back, as I said, I'd have cried like a kid.

Yes, and I guess you'd have needed a gun to hold me here while you

hacked those slabs off my feet. But it's right now. My head was never

clearer, and there's just one thought in it. It's to get back to

Deadwater."

The doctor listened with a surge of feeling driving through his heart.

His own words, the words he had told to the man whom he knew at the time

to be floundering on the edge of a complete mental breakdown, were

ringing through his brain. He had lied. He had had to lie. And now----

He took refuge in his pipe. He knew he would need it. He filled it from

the pouch which had become common between them and urged Steve to do the

same. In a few moments both men were smoking in an atmosphere of perfect

calm.

"You were pretty bad that time," Ross said steadily. "Yes, I don't guess

you know how bad you were."

"I think I do--now."

The doctor seemed to be absorbed in pressing down the tobacco in his

pipe. He struck another match.

"The strain had been so big the break must have come if you'd had to go

on," he said, blowing smoke till it partly obscured his patient's

unflinching eyes. "You were weak--physically. There was nothing to

support your nerve and brain. It was in your eyes. You scarcely

recognized us. You hardly knew what our presence meant to you. And,

later, the reaction made things even worse for you. A shock, and the

balance would have gone hopelessly. So--I lied to you!"

"You--lied to me?"

The pipe had been suddenly jerked from Steve's lips. He was sitting up.

A sudden fierce light had leapt to his eyes.

The Scotsman, too, had removed his pipe. His eyes were squarely

confronting the other. All his mental force and bodily energy were

summoned to his aid.

"Yes. I had to lie," he said firmly. "It was that or carry you back to

Deadwater a crazy man. I was the doctor then. Guess I'm a man now. Maybe

you won't reckon there's a difference. But there surely is. You see, I'm

not going to lie. I don't need to. Nita isn't at my shanty. She isn't at

Deadwater. Neither is Garstaing. And they've taken your little girl with

them."

"They?"

The man on the blankets had moved again. His knees were drawn up as

though he were about to spring from the sick bed he was still condemned

to.

Ross nodded.

"Yes." Then he pointed at the attitude of the other. "Say, straighten

out, Steve. Push those feet down under the blankets. You're a big man up

against disaster most times. Well, don't forget it. You're up against

disaster now. Sit back, boy, and get a grip on yourself. It's the only

way. I've got to tell you the whole rotten story, and when I've done

I'll ask you to forget the way I had to lie to you. If you can't,

why--it's up to you. My duty was to heal you first, and I don't guess

there's any rules in the game."

Ross was talking for time. He had to be sure. He was ready at a sign to

launch into his story, but he was looking for that sign.

And Steve gave it. It was the only sign the other would accept. Ross was

a powerful man, and Steve was still sick and weak. These things are as

well when a man knows that his purpose means the breaking of a strong

heart. Steve slid his injured feet down under the blankets. His legs

straightened out, and he leant his back against the pillow. But his pipe

was laid aside, and a quickening of his breathing warned the other of

the immense effort for restraint he was putting forth.

"Tell me," he said. Then he added with a sudden note of sharpness,

"Quick!"

The Scotsman nodded.

"It's best that way. Garstaing and Nita bolted. They took your little

girl with them. It's six months ago. When the Indian Treaty Money came

up. Hervey Garstaing waited for that. The Indians never saw it. He

pouched it, and beat the trail, as I said, with Nita and the kiddie.

Say, I needn't tell you more than that. I don't know any more except the

police have been chasing his trail since."

He fumbled in a pocket, and drew out a sealed envelope addressed in a

woman's handwriting, and another that was opened. The sealed envelope he

passed across to Steve. The other he retained.

"She left these two letters in her room," he went on. "That's for you,

and this one was for Millie. Maybe you'll read yours later. This one

you'd best read now. It's just a line as you'll see."

He held the letter out and Steve accepted it. And Ross watched him all

the time as he drew the note from its cover and perused it. The moment

of shock had passed, and the fierce light in Steve's eyes had died out,

leaving in its place a stony frigidity which gave the other a feeling of

unutterable regret. He would have been thankful for some passionate

outburst, some violent display. He felt it would have been more natural,

and he would have known better how to deal with it. But there was none.

Steve returned the letter to its envelope and remained silently

regarding the superscription.

"It's a bad letter," Ross went on. "If I thought Nita had written it

herself I'd say you're well rid of something that would have cursed the

rest of your life. But the stuff that's written there is the stuff that

comes out of Garstaing's rotten head. I'd bet my soul on it. She says

her marriage with you was a mistake. She didn't know. She had no

experience when she married you. She needs the things the world can show

her. The North is driving her crazy. All that muck. It's the sort of

stuff that hasn't a gasp of truth in it. If there was you need to thank

God you're quit of her. No. That hound of hell told her what to say.

Poor little fool. He's got her where he wants her, and she's as much

chance as an angel in hell. She went in the night, and they took a

storming night for it. There was two feet of snow on the ground, and

more falling. How she went we can't guess. There wasn't a track or a

sign in the morning, and it went on storming for days, so even the

police couldn't follow them up. The whole thing was well planned, and

Garstaing took no sort of chances. He got away with nearly fifty

thousand dollars of Indian money, and, so far, hasn't left a trace. We

don't know to this day if he made north, south, east, or west. All we

know are these two letters, that they got away in a 'jumper' and team,

and that Nita and the kiddie were with him."

"Say, Steve," Ross went on after a moment's pause, his voice deepening

with an emotion he could no longer deny. "I handed you a big talk of

seeing your Nita and the little kid safe till you got back. We did all

we knew. Millie and the gals did all they knew. Nita wanted for nothing.

The things that were good enough for my two we didn't reckon good enough

for her, and we saw she had one better all the time. Happy? Gee, she

seemed happy all the time, right up to the night she went. And as for

Coqueline she was the greatest ever. But he'd got her, that skunk had

her, and the thing must have been going on all the time. Still, we never

saw a sign. Not a sign. Millie never liked Garstaing, and he wasn't ever

encouraged to get around our shanty. And we had him there less after

Nita came. There's times I'm guessing it didn't begin after you went.

There's times I think there was a beginning earlier. Millie feels that

way, too. I know it don't make things better talking this way. But it's

what I feel, and think, and it's best to say it right out. I can't tell

you how I feel about it. And anyway it wouldn't make things easier for

you. I promised you, and all I said is not just hot air. I'm sick to

death--just sick to death."

Ross's voice died away, and the silence it left was heavy with disaster.

Steve had no reply. No questions. He seemed utterly and completely

beyond words. His strong eyes were expressionless. He lay there still,

quite still, with his unopened letter lying on the blankets before him.

Ross was no longer observing. His distress was pitiful. It was there in

his kindly eyes, in the purposeless fashion in which he fingered his

pipe. He was torn between two desires. One was to continue talking at

all costs. The other was precipitate, ignominious flight from the sight

of the other's voiceless despair. He knew Steve, and well enough he

realized what the strong wall the man had set up in defence concealed.

But he was held there silent by a force he had no power to deny, so he

sat and lit, and re-lit a pipe in which the tobacco was entirely

consumed.

How long it was before the silence was finally broken he never knew. It

seemed ages. Ages of intolerable suspense and waiting before Steve

displayed any sign beyond the deep rise and fall of his broad chest.

Then, quite suddenly, he reached out for the collected sheets of his

official report. These he laid on the blankets beside the unopened

letter his erring wife had addressed to him. Then he looked into the

face of the man whose blow had crushed the very soul of him. Their eyes

met, and, to the doctor, it seemed that mind had triumphed over the

havoc wrought. Steve's voice came harshly.

"When'll I be fit to move?" he demanded.

"A week--if Belton gets back."

Ross was startled and wondering.

"Belton don't cut any ice."

"But we need the wagon."

The protest, however, was promptly swept aside.

"I tell you it don't cut any ice. I move in a week That's fixed!"

For some moments Steve became deeply absorbed again. Then the watching

man saw the decision in his eyes waver, and his lean hand move up to his

head, and its fingers pass wearily through his long hair.

Then, quite suddenly, a harsh exclamation broke from him.

"Tchah!" he cried. "What's the use?"

With a great effort he seemed to pull himself together. He raised his

eyes, and the pitiful half smile in them wrung the Scotsman's heart.

"Say, Doc, I'm--kind of glad it was you handed me--this. It's hurt you,

too. Hurt you pretty bad. Yes," he went on wearily, hopelessly, "pretty

bad. But I got to thank you. Oh, yes. I want to thank you. I mean that.

For all you've done to help me. But I can't talk about it. I just can't.

That's all. I don't guess you need to read the stuff I've written now.

You see I'll need to make another report."

"Why?"

Ross's interrogation broke from him almost before he was aware of it.

"Why?" Steve's eyes widened. Then they dropped before the questioner's

searching gaze. "Yes," he went on dully. "I'll need to make a fresh one.

There's things--Say," he cried, with sudden, almost volcanic passion.

"For God's sake, why did you get around? Why didn't you leave me to the

dog's death that was yearning for me?" He laughed harshly, mirthlessly.

"Death? There was better than that. I'd have been crazy in days. Plumb,

stark crazy. And I wouldn't have known or cared a thing."

CHAPTER XII

REINDEER

It was the hospital hut at the police headquarters at Reindeer. A

cheerless, primitive place of healing, severe but adequate, as were

most things which concerned the lives of the riders of the plains and

the trail.

Steve was in occupation of the officer's ward, with its single bed, and

its boarded floor bare of all covering and scrubbed to a chilly

whiteness. For days he had contemplated its hygienic lack of comfort.

For days his weary, ceaseless thought had battered itself against

kalsomined walls, while his body, made feverishly restless, had sought

distraction between the hard Windsor chair at the only table, and the

iron bed-cot which seemed to add to his mental sufferings.

He had met his superior. He had supported the official half hour of

congratulations upon work successfully accomplished and a fortunate

escape from disaster without a sign. He had yielded to the post doctor's

ministrations, and satisfied his curiosity with explanations which could

never have been more matter-of-fact. He had been visited by two comrades

of his own rank, who contrived, with the best will in the world, by

deliberate avoidance of anything of an intimate nature, to display to

him their perfect knowledge of his domestic disaster.

All these things he had faced with a heart crying out for mercy, but

with an outward calm that left those whom he encountered guessing. And

something of the general opinion found expression in Superintendent

McDowell's remarks to his subordinate, who filled the office of

acting-adjutant.

"It seems to me, Syme, we needn't have worried a thing," he said.

"Allenwood isn't the feller to get up and shout any time. He's the sort

of boy to take a punch and come up for more. There's no woman got grip

enough on him to break him to small meat. I don't guess there's anything

could fix him that way--and after the way he made this last trip. He's

quite a feller when it comes to grit."

"Yes, sir." Syme smiled into his superior's keen face. "Maybe he doesn't

care. I've heard some fellers are that way after being married a few

years."

The cynicism of the younger man drew a responsive smile in reply. But it

also drew a very definite and decided shake of the head.

Whatever the general opinion, one man knew, one man had witnessed the

momentary baring of a man's soul torn with agony, in the candle-lit tent

on the banks of the Theton River. And now, had he been in Reindeer to

witness, he would have understood the reality of suffering under the

stern, almost forbidding front with which Steve confronted his little

world.

Not a sign did Steve give. His habitual, shadowy smile was ready when he

felt it to be due. He discussed everything that needed discussion with

the apparent interest of a mind wholly unabsorbed. He forced a

cheerfulness which carried conviction, and even drew forth such cynical

comments as those of Inspector Syme. But under it all the agony of mind

was something bordering on the insupportable.

The desolation of his outlook was appalling. And during his weary hours

of solitude the hopelessness of it stirred him to a bitterness that at

moments became almost insanely profane. Shadows, too, crept into his

mind. Ugly shadows that gained power with the passing of days. Had not

such shadows come he must have been more than human. But he was very

simply human, capable of the deepest passion subject to the human heart.

Hate seized upon him with a force even greater perhaps than the passions

that had hitherto swayed him, and hard on the heels of hate came a deep,

burning desire for revenge.

His desire was not against the woman who had wronged and deceived him. A

sort of pitying contempt had replaced the wealth of passionate devotion

he had lavished. His whole desire was against the man. And, curiously

enough, this fevered desire became a sort of palliative drug which left

him with the necessary strength to withstand the pain of his heart.

Slowly at first it took possession of him, but, with each passing day,

it grew, until, at last, it occupied him to the exclusion of everything.

Even the thought of his child, that tender atom of humanity who had been

a living part of him, and whose soft lips and baby hands could never

again become anything more than a memory, was powerless to rob him of

one particle of the cold delight, as, in a hundred ways, he discovered

the broken, dead body of the man who had wronged him within the grasp of

his merciless hands.

But none of this was outwardly visible. It was concealed with the rest.

And so the cynicism of Syme, and the general comfort of those who came

to cheer the sick room of a valued comrade.

So it came that one day, towards the end of Steve's convalescence, the

Superintendent found himself occupying the solitary chair, with Steve

lounging smoking on the be-patterned coverlet of the bed, talking of the

Unaga Indians and their habits of hibernation which sounded so

incredible to the man who had never seen for himself.

Steve had a bunch of mail lying on the bed beside him. He had been

reading when his superior had made his appearance. But his reading had

been discarded while he gave full attention to the man under whom he had

served so long and for whom he possessed no small measure of regard.

Steve had been talking in his deliberate, assured manner, and McDowell,

alert, keen-eyed, half smiling had been listening to the story of a

mysterious weed of marvellous narcotic powers. Curiously enough Steve

had imparted only the briefest outline. He had told nothing of all that

which he had read and discovered in Marcel Brand's laboratory. He had

forgotten even to point the fact that he was a chemist first and only a

trader through circumstances. There were many other things, too, that

Steve omitted. Nor was the reason for the omission clear. It may have

been forgetfulness. It may have been lack of interest. Yet neither of

these suggested the reality.

"Well, it all sounds crazy enough, Allenwood, and I admit if Belton or

Syme had told me the yarn I'd have sent 'em on leave to get a rest.

But--anyway you've handed me a good report and it's gone on down to the

Department without a word altered, and only my own comment added,

which," he went on with smiling goodwill, "I don't guess I need to tell

you about. Meanwhile I'd not be surprised if you hear things. Your

seniority runs high. And this should hand you a jump--"

Steve shook his head.

"I'm not yearning, sir," he said. "But I need to thank you for your

comments without seeing them. I can guess how they run--knowing you."

The Superintendent's eyes had suddenly become seriously searching.

"Not yearning? How--d'you mean?" he demanded.

A slight smile lit Steve's eyes at the abrupt change in the other's

tone.

"You said just now if Belton or Syme had told you my yarn you'd have

handed them leave--for a rest. I'd be glad for you to include my name

with theirs."

"You want leave?"

Steve nodded.

"I'd be glad to have six months' leave pending resignation."

"But--resignation? You want to quit? You?"

McDowell was startled completely out of all official attitude. Such a

thing as Allenwood's resignation from the force had never for a moment

entered his thoughts. It would have been simply unthinkable.

"Yes." Steve was very deliberate. He picked up one of the letters at his

side and tapped it with a forefinger.

"It's this, sir," he said. "You can read this, and--the others. I'd be

glad for you to take them away with you and read them, and then attach

them to my papers asking for my discharge. These letters were waiting me

here, and there's quite a number. They're from my father's attorneys.

You see, sir, he's dead, and I'm his heir. It's only a matter of some

fifty thousand dollars and his farm in Ontario. But I'll have to get

around and fix things."

"Oh, I'm sor--I see," McDowell had recovered from surprise, and promptly

saw his advantage. "But resignation, Steve," he cried, dropping into an

unusual familiarity. "Where's the need? You can get twelve months'

leave, if necessary, to straighten these things out. After that you'll

get back to us a Superintendent, and with money to burn. If you quit

you'll be pitching away years of big work. You'll be sacrificing more.

With means like your father's left you you can get into politics, and

then, through your official associations you don't need to get off the

political ladder till you're tired. Man, it would be crazy. Think."

Steve folded his letters with precise care while McDowell pointed to the

position as he saw it. Then he laid them together in a small pile. And

all the while his eyes remained hidden from the other as though wilfully

avoiding him. Nor, as his superior ceased speaking, did he look up.

"I have thought, sir," he said in level tones. "I've had days--weeks to

think in. Yes, and nights, too." He shook his head. "A year ago the

things you're handing me now would have sounded bully. A year ago I'd

all sorts of notions, just like you're talking now. And I was crazy to

get busy. That was a year ago. I'm still crazy to get busy, but--in a

different way. I've got to get that leave, sir. I've got to make my

resignation."

McDowell had suddenly become aware of an unusual restraint in Steve's

tone. He had also realized the avoidance of his eyes. A wave of

suspicion startled him out of his comfortable equanimity.

"You're entitled to your leave, you're entitled to resign your

commission if you want to," he said with a quick return to his more

official attitude. Then, with a sudden unbending under the pressure of

curiosity and even sympathy: "I'm sorry. I'm darn sorry. You're the one

man in my command I'd just hate to lose. Still--What do you figure to

do?"

"Do?"

The sharp interrogation came with startling force. It came full of a

world of suppressed feeling. Irony, bitterness, harsh, inflexible

purpose. These things and others, which were beyond McDowell's

estimation, rang in that sharp exclamation. Steve laughed, and even to

the Superintendent there was something utterly hateful in the sound that

broke on his ears.

"Just forget you're my superior officer, McDowell," Steve cried, raising

a pair of eyes which blazed with a frigid passion of hate. "Just figure

we're two plain men, no better and no worse than most. You've a wife and

two kiddies, both growing as you'd have them. A schoolgirl and a boy,

and round whom you've built up all your notions of life. I had a wife

and one kiddie, and round them I'd built up all my notions of life.

Well, those notions of life are wrecked. They'd been building years.

Years before I had a wife. To-day they're gone completely. I haven't a

wife, and, God help me, I haven't a kiddie. And this because of one man.

I've got to find that man."

The two men were gazing eye to eye, McDowell's darkly keen and

questioning, Steve's full of irrevocable decision and cold hate.

"And when you--find him?"

Steve made a movement of the hands. It was indescribable but

significant. His lips parted to speak, and, in parting, his even teeth

were unusually bared.

"He's going to die!"

The words were spoken without emotion, without colour. They were quiet,

and carried a conviction that left the other without a shadow of doubt.

"I'm telling you this, McDowell, so you shall know clearly what's on my

mind." Steve went on after a pause. "Maybe you'll feel, as an officer of

police, it's up to you to do everything to prevent what I intend. But I

tell you you can't prevent it. I demand the right of a man from a man, a

husband, and a father. I'm quitting. If you try to hold me it'll make no

difference. You can delay. It'll make no difference. I shall

quit--eventually. And then I shall carry out my purpose. Get that. Then

we'll understand each other."

"We do, Steve." A flush lit the Superintendent's cheek. A deep fire was

alight in his dark eyes. "We understand each other better than you

think. You'll get your discharge just as quickly as I can put it

through. You hadn't said much, and I thought--but I'm glad you've told

me as a man, and not as--an officer."

He stood up from his chair with an abruptness which betrayed something

of his feelings. Steve held out the packet of letters.

"Will you take these, sir?" he said with a return to their official

relations.

McDowell nodded.

"Yes. Say, about that boy and the squaw you brought down. You left them

at Deadwater? It looks like some proposition. We'll need to hand them

over to the Reserve missionary. It's hell these white men, when they get

away north, bringing these bastard half-breeds into the world. What's

the mother? One of those Sleeper Indians?"

For a moment Steve remained gazing out of the window at the view of the

parade ground which the sunlight rendered almost picturesque. He was

thinking of the two reports which he had prepared. The first one that

had been the simple truth, and the second one which had been only partly

the true story, the rest changed in view of his own position. A tender

light for a moment melted the cold hatred of his eyes. He was thinking

of the white boy which he had reported as the bastard of An-ina, with a

view to obviate the official claim on him as a white child.

"Yes," he said. "And I guess we'd need to hand them over to the

missionary for a while. But Doc Ross and his wife were crazy to look

after them. You see, they've a pretty swell place, and they're the best

folks I know. I left them with them, and I'd say we can't do better,

anyway for a while."

"Yes," McDowell agreed. "It'll make things easy. I'll put that into a

letter to the Commissioner and it'll save worrying with the folk of the

Indian Department. Well, so long, Steve. Yes, I'll take these letters,

and put the thing through for you. But when you quit, for God's sake

don't go and mess things. Don't queer one of the best lives it's ever

been my good fortune to have under my command."

Steve's eyes were serious as he watched McDowell move towards the door.

"Don't worry, sir. The queering's done already. Whatever I do will

be--well, just what I've fixed to do. No more and no less."

CHAPTER XIII

"ADRESOL"

The horrible aroma of a gently smouldering smudge fire, battling with

invading mosquitoes; the pleasant smell of tobacco, adding to the

enjoyment of the crisp Northern air; the resplendent sunset, slashing a

broken sky with a sea of multitudinous colours, and lighting a prospect

of verdant woods at the foot of a line of distant hills; a wide,

sheltered stoop with deep-seated rocking-chairs; these things were the

key to the deeper recesses of the hearts of men who have learned to play

the great game of life upon the lonely wastes of a Northern world.

Ian Ross raised a warning finger as the sounds of laughter came from

some distant part of the house behind him. There was a child's laughter,

fresh, happy, and the light laugh of a woman, who has learned, through

her own, the perfect happiness which childhood can inspire in those

whose instincts remain unimpaired.

"Do you need to ask me?" he said, in reply to the other's question.

"That kiddie is just crazy with happiness--so's Millie. Guess she'll be

down along after awhile, when she's quit fooling with him in his bath."

Steve breathed deeply, and his far gazing eyes rested unblinkingly upon

the sunset of a myriad hues. The reek of tobacco hung upon the still

air, and the light veil of smoke from the "smudge" sailed gently across

the view beyond the veranda.

He was full healed now--outwardly. There was little change in him as he

sat back in his deep rocker on the veranda of Ian Ross's house at

Deadwater. His steady eyes looked out with their uncompromising

directness. But there were lines about his eyes and mouth, and between

his level brows, which had been less noticeable twelve months ago. This

was the front which he set up before the eyes of the little world he

knew. In moments of solitude, when no eyes were there to observe, it may

have been different. But he desired neither sympathy nor support. He

desired only to be left to himself, to those purposes which he would

permit nothing to change or interfere with.

He had rid himself of all signs of his connection with the police force

as though he had determined to cut himself off from a period of his life

which had only yielded bitter memories. Nor had he anything about him

reminiscent of the trail, which had been so much a part of his life. He

was clad in the tweeds of civilization, which robbed him of some of that

distinction which the rougher wear had always pronounced.

"I'm glad," he said, and went on smoking in the silent fashion which

only real companionship understands.

After a few moments of voiceless contemplation of the wide view over the

Reservation the Scotsman stirred in his chair. The thoughtful knitting

of his heavy brows relaxed, and he glanced at the preoccupied face of

his companion.

"There's a heap of things I'd like to ask you, Steve," he said bluntly.

"And a whole heap I wouldn't. It's the sort of position I don't

generally reckon to find myself in," he added, with a twinkle in his

deep-set eyes. "You see, I mostly know the things I want to say. Maybe

you've got things you want to tell me, as well as things you don't. It's

up to you."

Steve nodded.

"It's best that way," he said. "Yes, there's things I want to say. And

it's mostly about the boy, and--An-ina. There's other things, too." He

paused. Then he went on: "You see, Doc, I haven't made a heap of

friends. There's about no one, except you. I'd like to talk straight

out. McDowell's a decent enough citizen, but he's not the sort you can

hand out some things to. Jack Belton and those others, well, they're

good enough boys, but--Anyway, it don't cut any ice. You're just

different and I want to hand you what'll maybe make you wish I hadn't.

The first is just this. I want you to forget the things that's

happened--to me. I want you just to tell yourself 'He don't care a

curse.' It won't be the truth, but I want you to act as if it were.

Those things are mine. Just mine. I've set them in a sort of grave, and

it's only going to be my hands that open it, and my eyes that look into

it. You don't need to avoid talk of Nita and little Coqueline if you

feel that way. You can't open that grave. It's mine. And it's deep. You

can't add hurt to that already done."

Steve's eyes were gazing unflinchingly into his companion's, and Ross's

feelings were stirred to their depths by the stern courage underlying

his words. He knew. He understood.

"Yes," he said. "I get that. It's best that way for--the man who can

stand it."

"I'm going East," Steve went on, "and I'll be away maybe a year. Maybe

less, maybe more. I can't say. You see, there's a big lot to be done,

and it depends on how quick I get through. There's my father's affairs

to fix up and--other things."

"Other things?"

"Yes."

Steve's eyes were on the rapidly softening colours of the sunset. Their

far-off look of pre-occupation had returned to them.

"I don't know how I'll come back," he went on after a moment. "Maybe in

a hurry." His brows suddenly depressed. "I can't say. But it'll be for

the boy and An-ina, and, anyway, it'll likely be the last time you'll

see me on this earth. I don't need to tell you more on this thing. Maybe

a time'll come when you'll feel glad you didn't know any more."

"I think--I understand."

Ross breathed heavily through his pipe. He was thinking of the man,

Garstaing. He was thinking of himself in Steve's place. And he felt it

was more than likely that in that case he, too, might desire to return

to his home _in a hurry_, and, perhaps, leave it again for the--last

time.

"Sure. I guessed you'd understand," Steve said. "That's why I'm

talking."

Again followed a brief, thoughtful pause.

"That boy," he went on. "It's him I want to tell you about. He's shown

me how to get a grip on myself. He's a sort of anchor that's held me

safe till the storm's blown itself out. He's been a sort of act of

Providence and the life that's left to me is for him. You get that?"

"I've had it all the time. Maybe you don't remember I tried to take him

from you when you crawled out of that darn canoe."

A shadowy smile hovered in Steve's eyes.

"I remember it--good," he said. "Well, if things should happen so I

don't get back I'll fix it so the boy gets all the stuff my father's

handed me, and I'll ask you to raise him as if he was your own. You

haven't a son, Doc. He won't be a worry. An-ina's his nurse, and he

couldn't have a better. If I come back I'm hoping your Millie won't be

too grieved at parting from him. Can you fix that, too? You see," he

added, "I'm asking you a whole heap."

"You can't ask too much, boy."

Steve's nod thanked the bluff heartiness of the big man.

"Good. Now for the things you don't know, Doc," he went on, his manner

relaxing as he felt that his difficulties were lessening. "You didn't

read the report I'd written. It told the whole story of the boy right. I

tore it up after you'd--told me. I had to. If I hadn't, why, I'd have

lost that anchor God Almighty flung out to me in my trouble. Next to my

own little kiddie I love that boy. He's got into my heart good--what's

left of it. You see, he's white, and he's no folks. That means the State

handing him over to the folks set to deal with the 'strays' of God's

world. It means his being out of my life when I most need him. I

couldn't stand for that. If Nita and my little girl had been here it

wouldn't have been that way. I'd have persuaded them to leave him with

me. With no home to take him to I'd have no case. So I got busy on a

report that made him out the bastard of An-ina and the dead trader. They

can't claim him from his mother, even though she's a squaw. And anyway

I've fixed it with McDowell they both remain with you."

Ross nodded prompt agreement.

"He's a bright kid and I'm glad. Glad for him and glad for you," he said

heartily.

"I hoped that way," Steve went on quickly. "You see, Doc, I didn't tell

you a thing till it was done. I was scared to take a chance." He sighed

a deep relief. "The other things come easy with that fixed. I cut that

report to the bone, and hid up all that concerned the boy. The work they

asked of me was investigation into the death of two white men who were

thought to be traders up in Unaga, where they didn't reckon there were

any white folk. So I told them a yarn that's simple truth, but which

hid up all the things I didn't see putting them wise to. They guessed

these men had been murdered by the Eskimo. Well, they weren't. They

fought to the death for the mother of this boy, and she was a white

woman, and the wife of his father. It was the old game. A game I hope to

play. Only the other man was a partner in the enterprise, and not the

Indian Agent of the Allowa Reserve. I told them of the Indians, too. A

race that sleeps half the year."

"The boy's been talking of them."

Ross sat up. A pair of keen eyes were shrewdly questioning.

Steve nodded.

"I guessed he'd be talking of them."

"The old yarn of hibernating folks," the Scotsman said, his eyes alight

with tolerant amusement.

"Just that. Only, it's no--yarn."

Steve had no responsive smile. His eyes were serious with a conviction

that promptly changed the other's attitude. He searched an inner pocket

and drew forth a neatly tied packet. This he unfastened while the other

watched him curiously.

The wrappings removed, a bunch of something that looked rather like

dried seaweed lay revealed. And a curious sweet odour made itself

apparent on the still air.

Steve passed it across to his companion without comment. And Ross took

it, and, for some thoughtful moments, sat gazing upon the strange

product of the hidden Unaga. Then he gingerly picked up some of the

shrivelled weed for a closer examination, and, a moment later, pressed

it against his nose and inhaled deeply. As he did so, Steve, watching

him, beheld a sudden excited lighting of his eyes.

"You know it, Doc," he said. "I don't need to ask."

Steve spoke quite quietly, and the other continued to contemplate the

stuff in the intent, absorbed fashion of a suddenly startled scientific

mind. At last he withdrew his fascinated gaze.

"'Adresol!'" he exclaimed. And his tone was thrilling with the joy of

the enthusiast.

"Yes."

"You knew it?"

The Scotsman's sharp question was accompanied by the searching of

astonished eyes.

"Sure."

Ross made no attempt to return the weed. It seemed as though he found it

impossible to deny its fascination.

"Tell me about it," he said, fingering the stuff with the tenderness of

an artist contemplating some precious work of delicate craftsmanship.

"It's the key to the hibernating yarn," Steve said. "Yes, I need to hand

it you all. That way you'll understand the things I've got in my mind."

It was a long enough story. Steve was anxious that nothing should be

omitted that could convince the only man who could assist him in

carrying out his plans. Sunset had nearly faded out of the sky by the

time it was finished. He told everything as he knew it both from An-ina

and the mother of Marcel. Also that which he had learned first hand, and

from the diaries of Marcel Brand. The story of the dead chemist who had

abandoned everything, even life itself, in the pursuit of the elusive

weed lost nothing from his wide sympathy. And the crude use of the drug

by the Indians formed a picture full of colour and romance.

Ross absorbed it all, and wonder and interest grew in his mind as he

listened to the story of it.

At the conclusion he re-lit his forgotten pipe.

"And it grows there--in plenty?" he said, in profound amazement.

"Steve, boy, do you know what it means to find a big source of that

stuff? Oh," he cried with a rush of enthusiasm, "it means--it means the

greatest thing for suffering humanity that's been discovered in a

thousand years. Here, I'll tell you. Oh, it's known to us folk, who've

studied dope as a special study. It's been found in places, but not in

much bigger quantities than would dope a fair-sized litter of piebald

kittens. It's sort of like radium, and half a pint of the distilled drug

would be worth over twenty-five thousand dollars. Maybe that'll tell you

how much there is of it on the market. But it's not that. Oh, no, it's a

heap bigger than that, boy. The plant itself is deadly in the green

state. It exhales a poison you couldn't stand for ten seconds. Dried,

its poison is killed stone dead. But it leaves behind it its priceless

narcotic properties. And these are perfectly innocuous, and even

health-giving. I don't need to worry you with the scientific side of it,

but it'll tell you something of what it means when I say it suspends

life, and you don't need to worry about the condition of the person

who's doped with it. You said those darn Indians live to a great age. I

believe it. You see, they live only _six months of the year_. They're

dead the rest. Or anyway their life is suspended. I seem to know the

name of that man Brand. I seem to recall it in association with

'Adresol.' Anyway, the work he's done mustn't be wasted. We'll have to

get an outfit. A big outfit that can't fail to grab the secret of those

neches upon Unaga. There's no small crowd of folk has any right to deny

the rest of the world the benefits of this wonderful drug. We----"

"That's how I reckon," Steve broke in quickly. "But the thing's to be

done the way I've figured."

"How's that?"

Steve was sitting up in his rocking-chair.

"I didn't hand you that stuff and my story of these things for pastime,

Doc. I guess I'd learnt all you've told me from the books and papers of

the boy's father. Knowing you for the man you are, and the way you most

generally try to make a ten-pound heart look like a sparrow's egg by

shouting at folks, I reckoned you'd see with me in this thing. That poor

feller Brand. As you say, his work isn't to be wasted. He's left behind

him a kiddie which hasn't a thing in the world, and if I'm any judge of

things that kiddie was the whole sun, moon, and stars of his life. I'm

thinking of that kiddie now. And I'm thinking of him alone. You're

thinking of a suffering world. If there's twenty-five thousand dollars

for a half pint of that dope the money belongs to the helpless kid of

the man who's given his life to locate it. We don't need an outfit to

get the neches' secret. We don't need a thing. There's just one man

knows how to locate the place where Marcel Brand lived, and that's me.

There's not a living soul, not even Julyman, or Oolak, or An-ina, could

ever make it without me. And I tell you right here there's no one ever

learns it from me. That secret is for Marcel, and I figure to hand it to

him, and all that's coming out of it. That's why I've told you these

things. Now you'll understand what's in my mind when I say that I'm

coming along back when I've settled with Garstaing, or failed to locate

him. If I've settled with him I'll be in a hurry. And I'm going up

north--north where no one can ever hope to follow me, with An-ina, and

Marcel, and maybe Julyman and Oolak again, and I'm going to work this

thing for the rest of my life for--Marcel. It's his, all of it. And

what's left over is for the suffering humanity you're thinking about.

See, here, Doc, you and me, we aren't any sort of twin brothers of

friends. We haven't been raised together. I hadn't a notion of you till

I took charge of this station. But I know a man--a real man. And if

you've the guts I reckon you have, then you'll help me to do the thing

that's going to shut the gates of the hell that's opened to swallow me

up."

"You mean the care of the boy and An-ina?"

"Till I get back. Then you'll hand 'em over without--a kick."

Ross ran his great fingers through his hair, while he sought the last

glow of sunset for inspiration.

"It's a hell of a country--up there," he protested, after a moment. He

was thinking of the child. He was thinking of Millie's possible protests

at sacrificing the child to the terrors of Unaga.

"He was bred there." Steve's eyes were urgent. "It's handing to him the

things his father would have wanted him to have. Think, Doc. By every

moral right the 'Adresol' secret is his. It cost him a father. It cost

him a mother. It would have cost him his life--a white man's life--if it

hadn't been for the hand of Providence sending me along to him. Besides,

it's all here, Doc," he went on tapping his breast. "He's been my

anchor, my small, little anchor, but a mighty powerful one. He's saved

me from all sorts of hell, and I want to hand him the life he's saved in

return. I want to raise him to a great manhood, and hand him a future

that'll stagger half the world. And if I fail I'll have done all a

mortal man can."

The rustle of a woman's dress in the hallway behind them heralded

Millie's approach. Ross stood up hastily. He was just a shade relieved

at the interruption. In a moment the atmosphere was changed from Steve's

passionate urgency to the domestic lightness of a happy wife's presence.

"Why, Mac," she cried, as she stood framed in the doorway, "you two boys

still doping yourselves with smudge and tobacco smoke? That kiddie's

only just gone off to sleep. He's a terrible tyrant, Steve, and just

the sweetest ever."

She glanced quickly from one to the other, and in a moment the smile

died out of her eyes in response to the seriousness she beheld in the

faces confronting her.

"You've got around in the nick o' time," the husband said. "Steve's

going away--East. He'll be back in awhile. Maybe a year. Maybe more. And

when he comes back he--wants the boy. He wants to take him right away,

and to raise him as his own. He reckons he's kind of adrift now, and the

kiddie looks like handing him an anchor. He's yearning to make good for

him, in a way that, maybe we, with our own two, couldn't hope to. We're

guessing it's up to you. A year or so, and then you--hand him to his

'Uncle Steve.'"

Millie turned to the man who had battled for the boy's life. Her kindly

eyes were promptly lit with all a good woman's sympathy. She remembered

the man's passionate devotion to his own. She remembered the terrible

disaster that had overtaken him. Her thought went no further. At the

moment it was incapable of going further.

She turned to the husband awaiting her reply, and there was a suspicious

moisture in her clear smiling eyes.

"Say, Mac," she cried in her half tender, half humourous way, "by the

way you talk folk might guess you were scared to death of the wife who

didn't know better than to take you for better or worse. Steve doesn't

need to worry a thing. You know that. I don't know the rights of his

claim by the laws of the folks who're set to worry us. But there's God's

claim that don't need lawyers to make plain. Little Marcel, bless him,

is his. If he comes, night or day, one year's time or ten, God willing,

he'll be here waiting for him, and I'll hand him over with two of

everything for the comfort of his sweet little body."

CHAPTER XIV

MALLARD'S

The ladder of crime has its bottom rung in Mallard's. Those who essay

the perilous descent inevitably gravitate, sooner or later, at

Mallard's. It was Saney who was responsible for the statement; and Saney

was a shrewd "investigator," and certainly one of the most experienced

amongst those whose lives were spent in an endeavour to beat the

criminal mind of Eastern Canada.

Mallard's was somewhere on the water front of Quebec. It stood in a

backwater where the busy tide of seafaring traffic passed it by. But it

was sufficiently adjacent to permit its clientele swift and convenient

access to the docks, at once a safety valve and the source of its

popularity.

It was nominally a sailors' boarding-house. Heredity also conferred upon

it the dignity of "hotel." Furthermore, its licence carried with it the

privileges of a saloon. But its claims were by no means exhausted by

these things.

According to Saney's view there was no criminal in the country, and very

few of those who were worth while in the criminal world of the United

States, who, at some time in their careers, had not passed through one

of its many concealed exits. It might, in consequence, be supposed that

Mallard's was a more than usually happy hunting-ground for the

investigator of crime. But here again Saney must be quoted. Mallard's,

he said, was a life study, and, even so, three score and ten years was

no more than sufficient for a very elementary apprenticeship. Further,

he considered that Mallard's was the cemetery of all reputations in

criminal investigation.

Outwardly Mallard's was no different from the other houses which

surrounded it. It was part of a block of buildings which had grown up

and developed in the course of a century or more. Its floors were

several, and its windows were set one over the other without any

pretence other than sheer utility. Its main doorway always stood open,

and gave on to a passage, narrow and dark, and usually deserted. The

passage ran directly into the heart of the building where rose a short

staircase exactly filling the breadth of the passage. At the top of the

eight treads of this staircase was a landing of similar width, out of

which turned two corridors at right angles. Beyond these the landing

terminated in a downward stairway, exactly similar to the one by which

it was approached. Beyond this, all description of this celebrated haunt

of crime would be impossible, for the rest was a labyrinth of apparently

useless passages and stairways, ascending and descending, the following

of which was only to invite complete and utter confusion of mind. The

legend ran that the cellars, many floors deep, undermined half a dozen

adjacent streets, and, in the block in which the place stood, no one had

ever been found who could say where the house began and where it ended.

As a refuge for its benighted guests there was always a bed, of sorts, a

meal and drink--at a price. If the visitor were legitimate in his claims

on its hospitality he would fare no worse than a lightened purse at the

time of his departure. If he were other than he pretended then it would

have been better for him to have shunned the darkened passage as he

would a plague spot.

The owner of the place was never seen by the guests. It was

administered, as far as could be judged, by a number of men who only

intruded upon their clients when definite necessity arose. Then the

intrusion was something cyclonic. On these occasions the police were

never called in, and the nature of the disturbance, and the result of

it, was never permitted to reach the outside. Mallard's was capable of

hiding up anything. Its own crimes as well as the crimes of others.

On one of the many floors was a large sort of office and lounging-room.

It had been extended, as necessity demanded, by the simple process of

taking down partition walls. It was low-ceiled and dingy. Its walls were

mostly panelled with dull, shabby graining over many coats of paint. The

floor was bare and unscrubbed, and littered with frowsy-looking wooden

cuspidors filled with cinders. There were many small tables scattered

about, and the rest of the space seemed to be filled up with Windsor

chairs, which jostled one another to an extent that made passage a

matter of patient effort. At one end of the room was a long counter with

an iron grid protecting those behind it. And, in this region there were

several telephone boxes with unusually heavy and sound-proof doors.

For the rest it was peopled by the hard-faced, powerful-looking clerks

behind the iron grid of the counter, and a gathering of men sitting

about at the small tables, or lounging with their feet on the anthracite

stove which stood out in the centre of the great apartment.

It was a mixed enough gathering. There were well-dressed men, and men

who were obviously of the sea. There were the flashily dressed crooks,

whose work was the haunt of sidewalk, and trains, and the surface cars.

There were out and out toughs, careless of all appearance, and with

their evil hall-marked on harsh faces and in their watchful eyes. Then

there were others whom no one but the police of the city could have

placed. There were Chinamen and Lascars. There were square-headed

Germans, and the Dagos from Italy and other Latin countries. There were

niggers, too, which was a tribute to the generosity of Mallard's

hospitality.

Those at the tables were mostly drinking and gambling. Poker seemed to

be the favoured pastime, but "shooting craps" was not without its

devotees. There were one or two groups in close confabulation over their

drinks. While round the stove was a scattering of loungers.

A dark good-looking man, with an ample brown beard, was amongst the

latter. He was reclining with little more than his back resting on the

seat of an armed Windsor chair. His feet, well shod, were thrust up on

the stove in approved fashion. He was smoking a cheap cigar which

retained its highly coloured band, and contemplating the brazen pages of

an early edition of a leading evening paper.

A man beside him, an Englishman, to judge by the make of his clothes and

his manner of speech, had a news sheet lying in his lap. But he was not

reading. His fair face and blue eyes were turned with unfailing interest

on the dull sides of the glowing stove. Occasionally he spoke to his

bearded neighbour, who also seemed to be something of a companion.

"I can't find anything that's likely to be of any use to me," he said.

His speech was curiously refined and seemed utterly out of place in the

office of Mallard's. "I quit London because--It seems to me cities are

all the same. They're all full to overflowing, and the only jobs going

are the jobs no one wants. Why in hell do we congregate in cities?"

The man beside him replied without looking up from his paper.

"Because we've a ten cent sense with a fi' dollar scare." He laughed

harshly. "How long have you been out? Six months? Six months, an' you've

learned to guess hard when you see Saney bumming around, or a uniform in

the crowd. You've learned to wish you 'hadn't,' so you dream things all

night. You're yearning to get back to things as they were before you

guessed you'd fancy them diff'rent, and you find that way the door's

shut tight, and a feller with a darn sharp sword is sitting around

waiting on you. Take a chance, man. Get out in the open. It's big, and

it's good. It's a hell of a sight in front of a city, anyway. If they

get you--well, what of it? You've asked for it. And anyway they're going

to get you some time. You can't get away with the play all the time."

"Yes. I s'pose that's right. It's a big country, and--" The man's fair

brows drew together. The regret was plain enough in his eyes. There was

more weakness than crime in them.

The bearded man tapped the page of the news sheet he was reading with an

emphatic forefinger that was none too clean.

"What in hell?" he exclaimed. "These fellers beat me. Here, look at

that, and read the stuff some darn hoodlum has doped out."

He passed the paper to the Englishman. That at which the other pointed

was the photograph of a man. The letterpress was underneath it.

"Get a good look at the picture. Then read," the other exclaimed, while

his dark eyes searched the Englishman's face.

He waited, watchful, alert. He saw the other's eyes scan the

letterpress. Then he saw them revert again to the picture.

"Well, what d'you make out? Aren't they darn suckers? Look at that job

line in bum ink. Could you get that face from a Limburger cheese? And

the dope? After handing you a valentine that 'ud scare a blind Choyeuse,

and you couldn't rec'nize for a man without a spy glass, they set right

in to tell you he's 'wanted' for things he did in the North-west two and

a haf years ago. The p'lice have been chasing him for two and a haf

years. They've never located him, and he's likely living in the heart of

Sahara or some other darn place by now. And now--now some buzzy-headed

'cop' reckons he's got a line, and dopes out that stuff to warn him

they're coming along, so he can get well away in time. Makes you laff."

There was irritation in the man's tone. There was something else

besides.

The blue-eyed English crook was studying the picture closely.

"It sort of seems foolish," he said at last.

"Foolish? Gee!"

"Still, it is the face of a man, and a good-looking man," he went on.

"And there's something familiar about it, too; I seem to know the face."

Suddenly he looked round, and his pale, searching eyes looked hard at

his companion. "Say, he's not unlike you. He's got the same forehead,

and the same eyes and nose. If you'd got no beard, and your hair was

brushed smooth----"

"Tchah!"

The bearded man reclaimed the paper with a laugh that carried no

conviction.

"The courts 'ud hand me big money damages for a libel like that," he

declared.

"Would they?"

The smiling eyes of the Englishman were challenging. The other shrugged

as well as his attitude would permit, and, emitting a cloud of smoke

from his rank cigar, pretended to continue his reading.

At that moment a stir recurred amongst the "crap-shooters" under one of

the windows, and the Englishman looked round. His alert ears had caught

the sound of Saney's name on the lips of one of the men who had ceased

his play to peer out of the window.

He rose swiftly from his chair and joined the group. The man with the

beard had made no movement. He, too, had heard Saney's name, and a keen,

alert, sidelong glance followed his neighbour's movements.

The other was away some seconds. When he returned his breathing seemed

to have quickened, and a light of uncertainty shone in his eyes.

"It's Saney," he said, without waiting for any question. "He's coming

down the street. I should think he's coming here. He's crossed over as

if he were."

"Alone?"

The bearded man's question was sharp.

"No. There's another fellow with him. He's in plain clothes. A youngish

looking fellow, with a clean shaven face, and a pair of shoulders like

an ox. Looks to me like a cavalryman in mufti. He certainly looks as if

he ought to have a saddle under him. I----"

The other waited for no more. He was on his feet and across the room at

the window in a twinkling. And the smiling eyes of the Englishman gazed

after him. In the other's absence he picked up the paper which had

fallen upon the floor, and looked again at the portrait of the man, and

re-read the letterpress underneath it.

"Hervey Garstaing," he murmured, as though impressing the name upon his

mind. Then he laid the paper quickly aside as the thrusting of chairs

announced his companion's return.

The next few minutes were full of a tense interest for the man who had

only just crossed the border line into the world of crime. The man with

the brown beard passed him by without a word. He thrust the chairs,

which stood in his way, hastily aside. He seemed to have no regard for

anything but his own rapid progress. He was making for the counter with

its iron defences.

The smile in the Englishman's eyes deepened. His interest rose to a wave

of excitement. He felt assured that "things" were about to happen.

A hard-faced clerk with the shoulders of a prizefighter, was waiting to

receive the hurried approach of his client.

These men were always alert and ready at the first sign.

The bearded man's demand came sharply back across the room.

"Guess I need to 'phone--quick!" he said. "I'll take No. 1."

The face of the clerk remained expressionless, but the tone of his reply

had doubt in it.

"No. 1?" he said.

"That's how I said."

"It'll cost you a hundred dollars."

"You needn't hand me the tariff," returned the bearded man with a laugh

that jarred. "Here's the stuff. Only open it--quick."

The onlooker saw the applicant dive a hand into his hip pocket and draw

out a roll of money. He heard the crumple of paper as he counted out a

number of bills. Then, in a moment, his whole attention was diverted to

the entrance door of the room. The swing door was thrust open and two

men pushed their way in.

The man who came first was of medium height and square build. He had a

disarming, florid face, and the bland, good-natured expression of a

genial farmer. The other glanced swiftly over the room. He was the

shorter of the two, and his clean shaven face and his undistinctive

tweed clothing would have left him quite unremarkable but for his air of

definite decision and purpose.

The first man the Englishman recognized as Saney, head of the Criminal

Investigation Department of the province. The other was a stranger.

From the newcomers, the onlooker's attention was suddenly distracted by

the slamming of a heavy door. It was the door of a telephone box, and he

knew it was the door of "No. 1," the use of which had cost his friend

one hundred dollars. He looked for the man with the beard. He had gone.

Saney's inspection of the room was rapid, and every individual

foregathered came under his eye. Then he stepped up to the counter and

spoke to the clerk.

His voice did not carry to the rest of the room, but the clerk's swift

reply was plainly audible.

"I haven't had a sight of him, if that's what he's like," he said,

handing back a photograph. "Still, the place is here for you to go

through if you fancy that way. You know that, Mr. Saney. It's open to

you the whole time."

The officer's reply was inaudible. But the voice of the stranger came

sharply.

"Guess we'll just have a look at the fellow that passed into that 'phone

box as we came in," he said.

Again came the clerk's reply.

"There's no one in them boxes, Mister. I haven't sold a call in haf an

hour," he said with a smile that lent no softening to his watchful eyes.

He stooped and released a series of levers. "Get a peek for yourselves,

gents."

Each door was set ajar and the stranger moved swiftly across and flung

them wide open in rapid succession. The boxes were empty. At "No. 1" he

paused considering. Then he passed within. And, for a few moments, stood

examining the instrument, which was no different from any other 'phone

in any other hotel in the city.

After the examination the two men passed out of the room and the

Englishman watched the smiling contempt that promptly lit the eyes of

the clerk as he looked after them.

Outside on the landing Saney led the way. Nor did the two men speak

until they had passed down the stairs and out into the street.

"Well?"

Saney spoke with an ironical smile lighting his genial eyes.

"You'll search the place?" the other suggested.

Saney shrugged.

"If you feel that way. But it's useless," he said. "I said that to you

before. You've tracked this feller to this city. You've tracked him to

Mallard's. It's taken you nearly two years. We've all been out after

him, and failed. You've succeeded in hunting him down to Mallard's.

Well, I'd say your work's only just started. Maybe he's there right now.

If we searched with a hundred men we couldn't exhaust that darn gopher

nest. If we blocked every outlet we know and don't know, he could still

sit tight and laff at us. No. We need to start right in again. So long

as he's got the stuff, and hangs to Mallard's, he's safe."

"You might have those 'phone boxes torn down. I saw a feller go into one

of them as we came in. I'd swear to that."

Saney nodded.

"So would I. A feller did go in. Maybe it was some guy that didn't fancy

seeing me. Maybe it was your man. It wouldn't help us tearing out those

boxes. We know them. 'No. 1' is a clear way out of that room. Guess the

whole back of it opens into some darn passage, which you could easily

reach from anywhere outside that room. That's the trick of the place.

Short of pulling the place down you can't do a thing that 'ud help. It's

honeycombed with concealed doors, that in themselves don't mean a thing

but a 'get out' of any old room. It's the whole place that's the riddle.

Meanwhile it's a gravitating spot for crooks, and so has its uses--for

us."

* * * * *

The room was sufficiently large, but it was low ceiled and suggested the

basement of an old-fashioned house. It was badly lit, too. Only an

oil-lamp, on a table set with a cold supper for two, sought to discover

the obscure limits of its tunnel-like length.

There was no suggestion of poverty about the place. It was modest. That

was all. Its chief characteristic lay in the fact that it was obviously

the full extent of the present home of its occupants. At the far end

stood a bedstead, and by its side a large wicker hamper. The centre was

occupied by the supper table, and, at the other end, under the window,

which was carefully covered by heavy curtains, stood a child's cot.

For the rest there were the usual furnishings of a cheap apartment

house, where the proprietors only cater for the class of custom which

lives in a state of frequent and rapid migration.

A woman was sitting in front of a small anthracite stove. A book was in

her lap. But she was not reading. Her deep violet eyes were widely

gazing down into the fire glow through the mica front, in that dreaming

fashion which so soon becomes the habit of those condemned to prolonged

hours of solitude.

It was by no means the face of a completely happy and contented woman.

It was a tired face with the weariness which is of the mind rather than

of the body. There were a few tracings of lines about the eyes and the

pretty forehead which were out of place in a woman of her age. Only

anxiety could have set them there. Suspense, an unspoken dread of

something which never ceased to threaten. Now, in an unguarded moment,

when all disguise was permitted to fall from her, they were pronounced,

painfully pronounced.

Her thought was plainly regretful. It was also obviously troubled.

Occasionally she would start and listen as some sound outside penetrated

the profound stillness of the room. It was at these moments that her

glance would turn swiftly, and with some display of anxiety, to the

child's cot where she knew her baby lay sleeping. Once she sprang

nervously to her feet and passed over to the cot. She stood bending over

the child gazing yearningly, hungrily down at the innocent, beautiful

three-year-old life dreaming its hours away without understanding of

that which surrounded it, or that which haunted the mind of its mother.

Then the stove and the wicker chair claimed her again, as did the

suspense of waiting, with its burden of apprehension.

At last relief leapt to the troubled eyes, and, in a moment it seemed,

every line which had been so deeply indicative before was suddenly

smoothed out of her pretty face. The woman sprang from her chair

transformed with an expression of deep relief and content. She glanced

swiftly over the supper table as a key turned in the latch of the door.

A man with a brown beard thrust his way in and glanced swiftly over the

whole length of the room. It was the searching look of a mind concerned,

deeply concerned, with safety. Then his dark eyes came to the woman's

face which was turned upon him questioningly.

"Well?" she demanded.

The monosyllable was full of deep significance. It asked a hundred

questions.

Just for a moment no answer was forthcoming. The man turned from the

woman, and his eyes sought the child's cot. There was no softness in his

regard. It was deeply contemplative. That was all. It was the woman who

displayed feeling as she followed his gaze, and the lighting of her

beautiful eyes was with swift apprehension.

"Something's the matter, Hervey!" she demanded sharply.

The lamplight caught the man's eyes as they came back to her face, and

its rays left them shining with a curious, lurid reflection.

"Matter?" A sharp, impotent oath broke from him. Then he checked his

impulse to rave. "Yes. See here, Nita," he went on, with a restraint

which added deep impressiveness, "we've got to quit. We've got to get

out--quick. Steve's hard on our trail. I've seen him to-day at

Mallard's. He didn't see me. Only my back. But I saw him. He came with

Saney. And there's only one thing I guess to bring Steve to Mallard's.

Saney's never given me a moment's nightmare. But Steve--Steve back from

Unaga, Steve in plain clothes in Quebec _with Saney_, and me sheltering

at Mallard's, tells its own story to anyone with _savee_. It means he's

got a hot scent, and he's following it right up. He's not the sort to

let go of it--easy. It's quit for us--and quit right away."

Nita sighed. She passed a shaking hand across her forehead, and when it

had passed all the tracery of lines had returned and stood out even more

sharply.

"It's come--at last," she said, in a weary, hopeless tone. "It was bound

to. I knew it right along. I told you."

"Oh, yes, you told me," Garstaing retorted, with a sneer that was always

ready when anger supervened. "Guess you told me a whole heap of fool

stuff one time and another. But you needn't reckon we're going to sit

around under things, just because Mister Steve seems to put the fear of

God into you. It's hastened the things I've had in my mind quite awhile.

That's all. We're going to beat it. We're quitting for up north. It was

my notion from the start. Only I weakened with your squeal about the

country. Well, your squeals are no account now. We got to save our

skins. I'm going to beat Mister Steve, and show you he's just the same

as most other folks who've got a grip on the game. We're making north

where, if he gets a notion to follow, he'll need to play the lone hand.

And Steve on a lone hand can't scare me five cents. Up there I'll meet

him. We won't need to live a gopher's life in a cellar. And when he

comes along, if he's the guts you reckon he has, I'll meet him, and kill

him as sure as Hell's waiting for him." The man's hot eyes were suddenly

turned on the distant child's cot, and he nodded at it. "It's that makes

me sick," he cried vehemently. "It's his!"

"She's mine!" Nita cried sharply. "And where I go she goes."

Nita read the man's mood with all the instinct of a mother. Three years

ago when she brought Coqueline into the world the infant claim upon her

had been loose enough. It was different now. Her woman's weakness and

discontent had yielded her a ready victim to the showy promises and good

looks of Hervey Garstaing. But the road they had had to travel since had

been by no means easy. It had been full of disillusionment for the silly

woman. They had lived in fear of the law, in fear of Steve, for over two

years. And the grind of it, for the pleasure-loving wife who had buoyed

herself with dreams of gaiety and delight which her life in the North

had denied her, had driven her back upon the elemental that was only

latent in her. Coqueline was her all now. Nita clung to her baby as the

one indestructible link with that purity of life which no woman, however

fallen, can ever wholly disregard, or forget. The child was a

sheet-anchor for all time. Whatever the future had in store, little

Coqueline was her child, born in wedlock, the pledge of her maiden

dreams.

"Tchah! She's his!" The man's restraint was giving before the brutal,

the criminal, that was the essence of him. "Why in hell should I feed

his brat? Why should I be burdened with it? Can't you see? We've got to

drag her wherever we go, delaying us, an unhallowed worry, and a darn

danger at all times. Cut it out. Pass her along to some blamed orphan

outfit. Leave her to the mule-headed folks who guess their mission in

life is to round up other folks' 'strays.' Steve's not a thing to you

now, Nita, and never will be again. You can't ever go back to him. He'd

kick you out without mercy, if I know Steve. He's hard--hard as hell.

You're mine, my dear, mine for keeps. Steve don't want any woman who's

shared her bed with another feller. You know that well enough. Well,

say, be reasonable. Let the kid go. You don't need her. You and me

together, we can play the game out. I can make good up there. And all I

make you've a half share stake in. It's up to you, kid. Just say the

word, and I'll fix things so that brat can get to an institution. Will

you----?"

"It's no use, Hervey." Nita shook her head decidedly. But his

coarseness, his brutality had had its effect. The violet of her eyes

remained hidden lest it should reveal the terror that lay in her heart.

"We've argued all this before. I'll go where you like, when you like,

but--my baby girl goes with me."

The decision was irrevocable and the man understood the obstinacy which

was so great a part of Nita's character. So he added no further pressure

at the moment. Only his dark eyes regarded her while his thought

travelled swiftly. At last, as he made no reply, Nita raised her eyes to

his face. Her gaze encountered his, and she turned abruptly from the

lurid reflection of the lamplight she beheld in his eyes, to the refuge

of the child's cot, which never failed her.

Garstaing laughed. It was a coarse, hard laugh that meant nothing. He

threw his hat aside.

"Let's eat," he cried. "Then we'll start right in to pack up our outfit.

We're taking no chances. We got to be on the road north by noon

to-morrow. We'll take the kid. Oh, yes, we'll take his precious kid," he

laughed. "But God help you if things happen through it. You know what

this thing means? If Steve and I come up with each other there's going

to be a killing. And murder's a big thing beside pouching the Treaty

Money of a bunch of darn neches."

CHAPTER XV

THE SET COURSE

Delight and excitement were running high. It was a game. In Marcel's

child-mind there was nothing better in the world. And it was An-ina's

invention. It was the gopher hunt.

They often played it in the cool summer evenings. The gophers destroyed

the crops of men, therefore men must destroy the gophers. It was the

simple logic that satisfied the child-hunter's mind. Besides, it was his

own game which An-ina had taught him, and no one else played it in the

same way. Every dead gopher An-ina told him meant more food for the

pappoose on the Reserve. And it was the child's desire that the pappoose

on the Reserve should eat to repletion.

The game entailed the lighting of a fire. That in itself demanded a

hundred excited instructions to the faithful An-ina, who contrived the

fire unfailingly, in her quick Indian way, in spite of them. Then there

was the collection of dried grass which demanded a search and laborious

consideration as to its suitability. Then came the stuffing of it into a

score and more of the principal holes in the selected gopher warren.

During this operation strict silence had to be observed. Then the

crowning moment. Erect, alert, in his woolen jersey and the briefest of

knickers, the child took his stand in the centre, where, with youthful

optimism, he sought to take within his purview the numberless exits for

the panic-stricken quarry. With stick raised, and every nerve quivering

with excitement, he was there to do battle with the destructive foe.

So he waited whilst An-ina advanced with her fire brand. With rapid

breathing and shining eyes the hunter watched as each plugging of dried

grass was fired. The smoke, rising in a circle about him, left him a

picture like some child martyr being burned at the stake.

Her work completed An-ina stood looking on, her beautiful dusky face

wreathed in a smiling delight which the sight of the boy's happiness

never failed to inspire.

A wild shriek. A flourishing and slashing of the stick. A scuttle of

racing moccasined feet. The quarry had broken cover and the chase had

begun!

A dozen gophers with bristling tails bounded clear of the smoke ring.

They scattered in every direction. The boy was in pursuit. Shrieking,

laughing, slashing, headlong he ran, nimble as the gophers themselves.

It was wide open grassland, and An-ina contented herself with watching

from the distance. It was the boy's game. His was the chase. Hers was

the simple happiness of witnessing his enjoyment.

"Gee!"

An-ina started at the sound of the exclamation behind her. She turned,

and her movement had something of the swiftness of some wild animal. But

it was not a defensive movement. There was no apprehension in it. She

knew the voice. It was the voice she had been yearning to hear again for

something over two years.

"Boss Steve!" she cried, and there was that in her wide, soft eyes which

her aboriginal mind made no effort to conceal.

Steve was standing some yards away, with his horse's reins linked over

his arm. As the woman approached he moved forward to meet her. But his

eyes were on the boy, still in vain pursuit of the escaped gophers,

pausing, stalking, completely and utterly absorbed.

The woman realized the white man's pre-occupation. She was even glad of

it. So, in her simple way, she explained.

"This--his game," she said. "He mak' great hunter," she added with

simple pride. "An-ina tell him gophers bad--much. So he say Marcel hunt

'em. Him kill 'em. Him say Uncle Steve say all things bad must be kill."

"He still thinks of--Uncle Steve?"

The enquiry came with a smile. But the man had withdrawn his gaze from

the distant child, and was earnestly searching the woman's smiling face.

"Marcel think Uncle Steve all man," she said quickly. "Uncle Mac, oh,

yes. Auntie Millie, oh, very good. An-ina. Yes. An-ina help in all

things. Uncle Steve? Uncle Steve come bimeby, then all things no

matter."

"Is that so? Does he feel that way? After two years?"

"Marcel think all things for Uncle Steve--always. An-ina tell him Uncle

Steve come bimeby. Sure come. She tell him all time. So Marcel think. He

not forget. No. He speak with the good spirit each night: 'God bless

Uncle Steve, an' send him back to boy.'"

The man's smile thanked her. And a deep tenderness looked out of his

steady eyes as they were turned again in the direction of the distant,

running figure.

"You come back--yes?"

The woman's voice was low. It was thrilling with a hope and emotion

which her words failed to express.

"Yes. I'm back for keeps." Steve's gaze came back to the soft eyes of

the woman. "That is, I'm going back to Unaga--with the boy. Will An-ina

come, too?"

"Boss Steve go back--Unaga?"

A startled light had replaced the softness of the Woman's eyes. Then,

after a moment, as no reply was forthcoming, she went on.

"Oh, yes. An-ina know." She glanced away in the direction where the

police post stood, and a woman's understanding was in the sympathy

shining in her eyes. "White man officer no more. Oh, yes. No little baby

girl. No. No nothing. Only Marcel, an'--maybe An-ina. So. Oh, yes.

Unaga. When we go?"

There was no hesitation, no doubt in the woman's mind. And the utter and

complete self-abnegation of it all was overwhelming to the man.

"You--you're a good soul, An-ina," he said, in the clumsy fashion of a

man unused to giving expression to his deeper feelings. "God made you a

squaw. He handed you a colour that sets you a race apart from white

folk, but he gave you a heart so big and white that an angel might envy.

Yes, I want you An-ina. So does Marcel. We both want you bad.

Unaga--it's a hell of a country, but you come along right up there with

us, and I'll fix things so you'll be as happy as that darn country'll

let you be. Julyman and Oolak are going along with us. They've quit the

police, same as I have. I can't do without them, same as we can't do

without An-ina. We're going there for the boy. Not for ourselves. It's

the weed. We got to do all that Marcel's father reckoned to do. And when

we've done it Marcel will be rich and great. Same as you would have him

be. There's 'no nothing' for me anywhere now but with Marcel. You

understand? You'll help?"

All the softness had returned to the woman's eyes, untaught to hide

those inner feelings of her elemental soul.

"An-ina help? Oh, yes." Then she added with a smile of patient content:

"An-ina always help. She love boy, too. You fix all things. You say

'go.' An-ina go. So we come by Unaga. It storm. Oh, yes. It snow. It

freeze. It no matter. Nothing not matter. Auntie Millie mak' boy and

An-ina speak with the Great Spirit each night. An' He bless you all

time. Him mak' you safe all time. An-ina know--sure."

The frank simplicity of it all left the white man searching for words to

express his gratitude. But complete and utter helplessness supervened.

"Thanks, An-ina," he articulated. And he dared not trust himself to

more.

Diversion came at a moment when he was never more thankful for it. The

shrill treble of the boy reached them across the stretch of tawny,

summer grass.

"Uncle Stee-e-ve! Uncle St-ee-ee-ve!"

Little Marcel was unstinting in all things. His call was not simply

preliminary. His enthusiasm for the hunt was incomparable with his new

enthusiasm. His call of recognition came as he ran towards the object of

his hero-worship, and he ran with all his might.

It was a breathless child that was lifted into Steve's arms and hugged

with an embrace the sight of which added to the squaw's smile of

happiness. The boy's arms were flung about the man's neck with complete

and utter abandonment. An-ina looked on, and no cloud of jealousy

shadowed her joy. She had done all in her power that the white man

should not be forgotten in his absence. The great white man, who was her

king of men. And she had her reward.

The first wild moments of greeting over, the boy's chatter flowed forth

in a breathless torrent. And all the while the man was observing those

things that mattered most to his maturer mind.

Marcel had grown astoundingly in the prolonged interval. The promise of

the sturdy body Steve had so often watched trundling across the snows of

Unaga in its bundle of furs had developed out of all knowledge under the

ample hospitality of Millie Ross's home. Tall, straight, muscular it had

shot up many inches. The boy was probably seven years of age. Steve did

not know for sure. Nor did it signify greatly. The things that mattered

were the ruddy, sunburnt cheeks of perfect health, the big, intelligent

blue eyes, the shapely mouth, and the sunny, wavy hair, all containing

the promise of a fine manhood to come. Then the firm, stout limbs, and

the powerful ribs. That which was in the handsome boyish face was in the

body, too. God willing, the man knew that the coming manhood would be

amply worth.

Slackening excitement brought the boy back to the thing which held his

vital interest, and he told of the great game he and An-ina were engaged

upon. He told of his failures and successes with impartial enthusiasm.

And finally invited his "Uncle" to join in the game.

"No, old fellow," he said. "I've got to get right along down to the

house to see Uncle Mac and Auntie Millie. You see, I've only just got

along from Reindeer. Guess I've been chasing a gopher for two years and

more. But like you I just didn't get him. Some day----"

"You been hunting gophers, Uncle Steve?" The childish interest leapt

afresh.

The man nodded, and his smiling eyes encountered those of the squaw. He

read the understanding he beheld there, and turned quickly to the child

again.

"Sure," he said drily. "But I didn't get him."

"No." The boy turned regretful eyes towards the open, where he, too, had

just failed to bag his quarry. "You kill 'em when you get 'em, Uncle. We

do, don't we, An-ina?" he added, appealing for corroboration.

"We always kills 'em, Uncle Steve," he went on, "'cos gophers are very

bad."

"Yes. Gophers are bad, old fellow. Always kill them. That's how I'd have

done if I'd got the one I was after. But I didn't get him. He ran too

fast for me. Maybe I'll find him another time. You never know. Do you?

Boy and Uncle and An-ina are going a great long way soon. We'll find

better than gophers to hunt, eh?"

"Yes--wolves! Where we go?"

"We go back to the Sleepers--and the old fort."

Steve searched the child's face anxiously as he made the announcement.

He was half afraid of a lingering memory that might jeopardize his

plans, or, at least make their fulfilment more difficult. But he need

have had no fear. The child remembered, but only with delight. And again

the man recognized the guiding hand of the squaw.

"Oo-o, Uncle! Soon? We go soon?" Marcel cried, his eyes shining. "The

forests where the wolves are. And the Sleepers. And the snow comes down,

and we dig ourselves out. And the dogs, and sleds, and--we go soon--very

soon! Can't we go now? Oo-o!"

"Not now, but--soon."

Steve's satisfaction was in the glance of thanks which he flashed into

An-ina's watching eyes.

"But now I must really go along to the house, old fellow," he said, with

a sigh. "Guess boy'll come, too, or maybe he'll go on with his game?"

The question was superfluous. Gopher hunting was a glorious sport, but

walking hand in hand with Uncle Steve back to the house, even though bed

and a bath were awaiting him, was a delight Marcel had no idea of

renouncing.

* * * * *

The plump figure of Millie Ross half filled the doorway, while the

sunset sought out the obscure corners of the comfortably furnished hall

place behind her.

The doctor's great figure was supported on the table on which he had

flung his hat while he welcomed Steve. The latter's arrival had been

quite unheralded, completely unexpected. So long was it since his going

that husband and wife had almost abandoned the thought that some day

they would be called upon to render an account of their stewardship with

regard to young Marcel, and hand over the little human "capital"

originally entrusted to them. It was not to be wondered at. They loved

the boy. They had their two girls, but they had no son. And

Marcel--well, Steve was so long overdue, and his absence had been one

long, unbroken silence. So, all unconsciously, they had come to think

that something had happened, something which had caused him to change

his mind, or which had made it physically impossible for him to return.

Now, after the first warmth and delight of the meeting had passed, a

certain pre-occupation restrained the buoyancy so natural to the

warm-hearted pair.

Steve was seated in the chair beside the table, the chair which the

doctor was wont to adopt when the mosquitoes outside made the veranda

impossible. Perhaps he understood the preoccupation which more

particularly looked out of Millie's eyes. He felt the burden of his debt

to these people, a debt he could never repay; he understood the feelings

which his return must inspire if the child, left in their care, had

become to them a tithe of that which he had become to him. He knew it

was his purpose to tear the child out of their lives. And the wrench

would be no less for the thought that he purposed carrying him off to

those regions of desolation which had already come very near to costing

the child's helpless little life.

So his steady eyes were watchful of the woman's attitude, and he looked

for the sign of those feelings which he knew his return must have set

stirring. He knew that, whatever the big Scotsman felt and thought, the

woman was the real factor with which he must reckon.

With this understanding he frankly laid bare much which he otherwise

would have kept deep hidden. He told these two, who listened in deep

sympathy, the story of his pursuit of the man who had wronged him, from

the beginning to the end. And, in the telling, so shorn of all

unnecessary colouring, the simple deliberateness of his purpose,

contemplated in the coldly passionate desire of an implacable nature,

the story gained a tremendous force, the more so that his pursuit had

ended in failure.

He told them how for nearly a year, after winding up the affairs of his

dead father, which had left him with even a better fortune than he had

expected, he had systematically devoted himself to spreading a wide net

of enquiries. In this process he had to travel some thousands of miles,

and had to write many hundreds of letters, and had spent countless hours

in the official bureau of local police.

He told them how finally he had discovered the trail he, sought in a

remote haunt in the poorer quarters of Winnipeg. This, after many

tortuous wanderings and blind alley searchings, had finally led him to

the waterside of Quebec, and the purlieus of Mallard's, where, under the

guidance of the celebrated Maurice Saney, he ran up against the blank

wall of that redoubtable harbour of crime.

"All this," he said, without emotion, "took me over two years. And I

guess it wasn't till I hit up against Mallard's that I sat down and took

a big think. You see," he went on simply, "I wanted to kill that feller.

I wanted to kill that feller, and take my poor girl back and get back

my little, little baby. I had a notion I might have to hang for the job,

but, anyway, I'd have saved her from a life--well, I'd have saved them

both, and been able to fix them so they didn't need a thing in life.

What happened to me didn't seem to worry any. But when I hit up against

Mallard's, and I'd listened some to Saney I started in to figure. To get

that far had taken me over two years, and big money. There might be

still years of it ahead of me. And when I'd done, was I sure I'd get

Nita and the kiddie back? And if I did, how would I be able to fix them

after all the expense? Then there was Marcel. Maybe it was something

else urging me to quit. Something I wasn't just aware of. I don't know.

I've heard say that a feller who yearns to kill, either kills quick or

goes crazy. There wasn't a thing foolish about me. I hadn't any of the

foolishness of a crazy man. Which is a way of saying the yearning to

kill hadn't the grip on me it had. It was a big fight, but sense--or

something else--won out. I quit for those other things I'd got in my

head. Guess I heard that little feller's 'Hullo!' ringing in my ears.

Same as I heard it up in Unaga. So I cut out the other, and got busy

right away fixing things for the big play I mean to put up for the

kiddie that Providence has left to me. There are times when my whole

body kicks at the thought of that skunk getting away with his play. But

there's others when I'm glad--real glad--I quit. I can't judge the thing

right. I'm sort of torn in different directions. Anyway, there it is.

Maybe the thing I haven't been allowed to do will be done sometime by

the Providence that reckons to straighten out most things as it sees

fit. I hope the way it sees is my way. That's all. Now I'm ready for the

big play. My outfit has gone up by water on Hudson's Bay, a special

charter. It's to be landed and cached on the shores of Chesterfield

Inlet. I've sunk every cent of my inheritance in it. It's an outfit

that'll give Marcel and me a life stake in the work lying ahead. And all

that comes out of it is for him. With all this fixed I got back right

away."

"But not--in a 'hurry.'"

There was a half smile in the Scotsman's eyes.

"The only 'hurry' I'm in is to get all the season we need," Steve

replied simply.

"That means you want Marcel--right away."

Millie spoke without turning from her contemplation of the view beyond

the doorway. And there was that in her voice which told Steve of the

inroads Marcel had made upon her mother's heart.

"I've thought of all this a whole heap," he said gently. "It's one of

the things that clinched my idea of quitting. Later I don't guess I'd

have had the nerve to--ask for Marcel."

Millie turned abruptly. And the husband was watching her as urgently as

Steve himself.

"That's not fair, Steve," she declared, without attempting to soften the

challenge.

"But, Millie--"

The husband's protest was cut short.

"Don't worry, Mac," Millie cried. "I know just the feelings that

prompted Steve to think that way. But it's not fair. It's making out

that I'd like to go back on my word, and refuse to give Marcel up to the

moloch of Unaga. That's the part that isn't fair. Steve, if you'd come

to me in twenty years my word would have gone every time. That boy might

be my own son, I never had a son, and maybe you can guess just what that

means to me when I say it. But there's bigger things in the world than

my feelings, and I'm full wise to them. That boy loves you the same as

if you were his father. I've helped to see to that. I and An-ina. You've

been through hell for him. You've been through a hell of your own

besides. Now you're ready to give your all for him--including your life.

Do you know what I feel in my fool woman's way? I'll try and tell you,"

she went on, forcing back the threatening tears. "There's men in the

world made to give their everything for those they love. You're one of

them. To rob you of an object for you to work and sacrifice yourself for

would be to rob you of the greatest thing in your life. It would be an

unforgivable crime, and though it broke my heart I would refuse to

commit that crime. Marcel is ready for you the moment you ask for him.

Oh, yes, it's just as I said. His outfit is ready. We've enlarged it as

he's grown. An-ina has done her share. There's two of everything, as I

said there would be--and a good deal over. But," she added, with a

little pitiful break in her voice that showed how near were her tears,

"I wish, oh, how I wish, it was not Unaga, and that, some day, I might

hope to see his smiling, happy face again. You'll be good to him, Steve,

won't you? Raise him, train him, teach him. Don't let him become a wild

man. I want to think of him, to always remember him as he is now, and to

think that when he grows to manhood at least he's as good a man as

you."

PART II

CHAPTER I

AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS

It was boasted of Seal Bay that its inhabitants produced more wealth per

head than any other community in the Northern world, not even excluding

the gold cities of Alaska and the Yukon. It was a considerable boast,

but with more than usual justice. A cynic once declared that it was the

only distinction of merit the place could fairly claim.

The boast of Seal Bay was sufficiently alluring to those who had not yet

set foot on its pestilential shores. For once, by some extraordinary

chance, truth had been spoken in Seal Bay. No one need starve upon its

deplorable streets, if sufficiently clever and unscrupulous.

A photographic plate would have yielded a choice scene of desolation, if

sun enough could have been found to achieve the necessary record. The

long, low foreshore of Seal Bay was dotted with a large number of mud

huts, thatched with reeds from adjacent marshes, and a fair sprinkling

of frame houses of varying shapes and sizes. There were no streets in

the modern sense, only stretches of mire which were more or less

bottomless for about seven months in the year, and lost in the grip of

an Arctic winter for the rest of the time. Foot traffic was only made

possible in the softer portion of the year by means of disjointed

sections of wooden sidewalks laid down by those who preferred the

expense and labour to the necessary discomfort of frequent bathing.

There was no doubt that Seal Bay as a trading port owed its existence to

two spits of mud and sand on either side of a completely inhospitable

foreshore. They stretched out, forming the two horns of a horseshoe,

like puny arms seeking to embrace the wide waters of Hudson's Bay.

Within their embrace was a more or less safe anchorage for light draft

craft. There was a pier. At least it was called a pier by the more

reckless. It was propped and bolstered in every conceivable way to keep

it from sinking out of sight in its muddy bed, and became a source of

political discord on the subject of its outrageous cost of maintenance.

As for the setting which Seal Bay claimed it was no more happy than the

rest. There was no background until the far-off distance was reached,

and then it was only a serrated line of low and apparently barren hills.

Everything else was a wide expanse of deplorable morass and reed-grown

tundra, through which ran a few safe tracks, which, except in winter,

were a deadly nightmare to all travellers.

The handiwork of man is not usually wholly without merit, but Seal Bay

would have sent the most hardened real estate agent seeking shelter in a

sanatorium as a result of overwork. Still, traffic was possible. Seal

Bay was an ideal spot for robbing Indian and half-breed fur traders who

knew no better, and the plunder could be more or less safely dispatched

to the markets of the world outside. Oh, yes, there was easy money and

plenty. So what else mattered?

These were the opinions of those who really counted, such men as Lorson

Harris, head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation, and Alroy Leclerc,

who kept a mud shelter of extensive dimensions for the sale of drink and

food and gambling. There were others, those who came over the great

white trail from the north, who possessed very definite opinions of

their own, but were wise enough to refrain from ventilating them within

the city limits.

A man who hugged to himself very strong views had just entered the city.

He always came when Seal Bay was quite at its best. It may have been

simple chance. Anyway, it was one of the coldest days of winter, with a

sharp north wind blowing, and the thermometer hard down to zero. Seal

Bay's sins lay concealed under a thick garment of snow, while its

surrounding terrors were rendered innocuous by the iron grip of frost.

Seal Bay was astir. It always was astir when this man paid his annual

visit. He excited a curiosity that never flagged. His coming was looked

for. His going was watched. His coming and going were two of the most

baffling riddles confronting the sophisticated minds of a people whose

pursuits had no relation to purity or honesty.

The man came with three great dog-trains. Sometimes he came with four,

and even five. His sleds were heavy laden, packed to the limits of the

capacity of his dogs. They, in turn, were more powerful and better

conditioned than any Indian train that visited the place, and each was a

full train of five savage creatures more than half wolf.

He drove straight through the main thoroughfare of the town. The

onlookers were fully aware of his destination. It was the great

store-house over which Lorson Harris presided. And this knowledge set

much ill-feeling and resentment stirring. It was always the same. The

sturdy, hard-faced man from the north ignored Seal Bay as a community,

and only recognized a fellow creature in the great man who wove the net

which the Seal Bay Trading Corporation spread over the Northern world.

Something of the position found illumination in the dialogue which

passed between two men lounging in Alroy's doorway as the great train

passed them by.

"Gee! Makes you wonder if us folks has the plague," laughed Kid

Restless, the most successful gambler that haunted Alroy's dive. "He

don't see a thing but Lorson's. He'd hate to pass a 'how-dy' to a cur.

But his trade ain't as big as last year. Guess Lorson'll halve his

smile. He's been coming along fourteen year, ain't it?"

Dupont nodded, his contemplative gaze following the procession of sleds

under the skilful driving of their attendants.

"Yep." Dupont was a lesser trader who lived in a state of furious

discontent at the monopoly of the greater store. "The Brand outfit's

been trading here fourteen years--and more."

"How's that?"

"Oh, ther's a heap queer about that outfit," said the envious whiskered

man, whose dark, sallow features suggested plainly enough his Jewish

origin. "Maybe it's that makes that feller act same as if we had

the--plague. He calls himself Brand, but he ain't the Brand who traded

here more than twenty years ago. Guess you wasn't around then. Guess I

wasn't, neither. I'd be crazy by now if I had been. But the story's

right enough. Brand--Marcel Brand--and his pardner traded here with

Lorson more than twenty years back. He came from God knows where, an' he

just went right back to the same place. Then him an' his pardner got

done up. The darn Eskimos, or neches, or ha'f-breeds, shot 'em both up

to small chunks. Lorson was nigh crazy for the trade he lost, for all

Brand was a free-trader like Lorson hates best. Then, three years or so

later, along comes this guy with the name of 'Marcel Brand,' and carried

on the trade. And he's a white man same as the other. It was then Lorson

took to smiling plenty again."

"You figger he's the feller that?----"

"I don't know. I 'low' got notions though."

Kid Restless was interested. There was little enough to interest him in

Seal Bay beyond the life of piracy he carried on at the card tables.

"It's some queer sort o' trade, ain't it?" he asked.

"Queer?" Dupont spat. "Oh, he trades pelts, some o' the best seals ever

reach this darnation swamp. But the trade that makes Lorson smile is

queer. I've seen bales of it shipped out of this harbour, an' it looks

like dried seaweed, an' smells like some serrupy flower you'd hate to

have around. Lorson just loves it to death, and I guess it needs to be a

good trade that sets him lovin'. But he keeps his face closed. Same as

the feller that calls himself Brand. Oh, yes, Lorson's the kind of

oyster you couldn't hammer open with a haf ton maul."

"Why don't they trail him--this guy?" demanded Kid sharply.

"Trail? Why, the sharps are after him all the time. But he skins 'em to

death. Lorson's at the game, too. Oh, yes. Guess Lorson 'ud jump the

claim if he could get wise. But he ain't wise. No one is. But they'll

get that way one time, and then that mule-faced guy, who guesses we'll

hand him plague, will forget to get around in snow time. You can't beat

the Seal Bay 'sharps' all the time, though I allow he's beat 'em plumb

to death fourteen years."

"I'd guess it'll need grit to beat him," returned the Kid. "That is," he

added thoughtfully, "if you can judge the face of a--mule."

"Oh, _he's_ got grit--in plenty. Even Lorson gets his hat off to him

when he's around."

Dupont laughed maliciously.

"You mean----?"

"I was remembering Lorson's play," the trader went on. "He had his

'toughs' that time. Brand had pulled out two weeks and more. Then one

day a bunch of Northern neches pulled in. They'd beat down the coast in

a big-water canoe. The folks didn't notice them. It's the sort of thing

frequent happens. But Lorson got the scare of his life. He woke up next

morning with his pet 'tough'--a big breed--lying across his home

doorstep. He guessed he was dead. But he wasn't. He woke up about midday

and started guessing where he was. Later on he handed out a fancy yarn

what the neches had done to him. An', happening to dove a hand into a

pocket, he hauled out a letter addressed to Lorson himself. It just said

four words, an' Lorson spoke them. I don't guess they'd mean a thing to

the likes of him. They just said, 'Play the darn game.' And under them

was wrote 'Brand.'"

Kid grinned back into the other's eyes which were alight with malicious

delight.

"That's the med'cine to hand a feller that can understand white--not

Lorson," the gambler said. "I like that guy that calls himself 'Brand.'"

"Guess he's some boy all right. But--I was thinkin' of that breed. He

was doped."

The other nodded.

"You're guessing about that--queer trade," he said.

Dupont gazed out in the direction whence the dog train had disappeared

behind the group of great frame buildings which represented the

establishment of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.

"Yep," he said thoughtfully.

* * * * *

Lorson Harris was a type common enough in outland places, where money is

easy and conscience does not exist. He was vulgar, he was brutal, he was

a sensualist in his desire for all that wealth could buy him. He was not

a man of education. Far from it. He was a clever, unscrupulous schemer,

a product of conditions--rough conditions.

He was a large, coarse man who had permitted his passions to gain the

upper hand in the control of his life, but they by no means interfered

with his capacity as the head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.

He overflowed a big armchair before his desk in the office of his great

store, and beamed a hard-breathing good-nature upon all those who seemed

likely to be useful in his multitudinous schemes. Just now the victim of

his smile was a man at the zenith of middle life. He was of medium

height, but of herculean muscle, and the fact was patent enough even

under the dense bulk of fur-lined buckskin clothing he was wearing.

There was no more sympathy in the two men's appearance than there was in

their condition of mind. While a passionate desire for the flesh-pots

enjoyed by other magnates of commerce, whose good fortune had provided

them with a happier hunting-ground than Seal Bay, was the primal motive

power of the trader, the man who had just come off the great white trail

was driven by a desire no less strong, but only selfish in that the

final achievement should be entirely his.

Just now the fur cap was removed from the visitor's head, and a tingeing

of grey was apparent in the shock of brown hair he had bared. A few

sharp lines scored his forehead and played about his clean-shaven mouth,

but the steady, serious eyes, with their strongly marked, even brows

were quite devoid of all sign of passing years. They accentuated the

impression of tremendous vigour and capacity his personality conveyed.

The smiling eyes of Lorson read all these things. It was his business to

read his visitors. He pushed the cigar box across the desk invitingly.

"They're some cigars, boy," he said complacently. "Try one."

The other shook his head.

"Don't use 'em, thanks. Maybe I'll try my pipe."

"Sure. Do. A horn of whisky--imported Scotch?"

The same definite shake of the head followed, but before the visitor

could pass a verbal negative the trader laughed.

"Nothing doing?" he said amiably. "Well, maybe you're right. You boys

need fit stomachs. Drink's a darn fool play, but--Here's 'how,'" he

added, as he gulped down the dash of spirit he had poured out for

himself. He smacked his heavy, appreciative lips, and fondly

contemplated the label on the bottle. But he was not really reading it.

"Your trade in the dope's growing," he said, his fat fingers fondling

the glass bottle neck as though he were loth to release it. "Nearly

fifty thousand dollars. That's your credit for a year's trade. It's the

biggest in--fourteen years. And it don't begin to touch the demand I got

for the darn stuff. I could sell you a hundred thousand dollars' worth,

and still ask for more at the same price. You don't get what that means

to me," he went on, with a laugh intended to be disarming. "You ain't

running a great store that's crazy to hand out dividends. Here's a

market gasping. Prices are sky high, an' we can't 'touch.' I tell you it

wouldn't lower the price a haf cent if you quadrupled your output. I

want to weep. I sure do."

The man in buckskin was filling his pipe from a bag of Indian

manufacture.

"Sure," he nodded. "I get that." Then he added very deliberately.

"That's why you send your boys out scouting my trail."

Lorson laughed immoderately to hide the effect of the quietly spoken

challenge.

"That's business, boy. I buy your stuff--all you can hand me. But if I

can jump into your market, why--it's up to me."

"It certainly is up to you." The man lit his pipe and pressed down the

tobacco with one of his powerful fingers. "It's up to you more than you

know. I once sent back one of your boys. I shan't worry to send back any

more. Best save their skins whole, Harris. You'll never jump my market

till you can find a feller who can hit a trail such as you never dreamed

of. And it's a trail they got to locate first."

The trader leant back in his chair and linked his fat fingers across his

wide stomach. His eyes were twinkling as he regarded the visitor from

the North. The smile was still in them, but there was a keen speculation

in them, too.

"You can't blame me, boy," he said, with perfect amiability. "Hand me

all the stuff I'm asking, and your market's as sacred as a woman's

virtue. But you don't hand it me, or maybe you can't. Well, it's up to

me to supply my needs any way I know. There's nothing crooked in that.

If you're reckoning to squeeze my market you can't kick if I try to open

it wide. You see, Brand, this stuff _grows_. I guess it grows in plenty,

because you admit you trade it, and I know the Northern neche well

enough to guess he only trades sufficient for his needs. See? Well,

I've the same right you have to get on to that source. If you know it,

hand me what I'm asking for. If you don't, then you can't stop me trying

to locate it for myself. If all business propositions were as straight

as that there'd be no kick coming to anyone. As it is, the man who's got

a kick is me--not you."

"I get all that," the visitor said, without relaxing his attention.

"There's no kick on the moral side of this thing. I never said there

was. I said save your boys' skins whole. That's all. If you fancy

jumping my claim, jump it, but I guess I don't need to tell you what to

expect. You sit around here and order other folks to the job. It's they

who're going to suffer. Not you."

"I pay them. They take it on with their darn eyes open," snapped the

trader, his amiability slipping from him in a moment.

The other gathered a half smile at the display. He blew a great cloud of

smoke, and removed his pipe.

"I'd best tell you something I haven't seen necessary to tell you

before," he said. "And it's because I'm not yearning for any feller to

get hurt in this thing. And, further, I'm telling you because you'll see

the horse sense in cutting out sharp business for real business. There's

a big source of this stuff. Oh, yes. I know that. I've been chasing it

for fourteen years, and--I haven't found it. When I do--if I do, I'll

hand you all you need, and save that weep you threatened. Meanwhile

you're sinking dollars in a play that maybe fits your notion of

business, but is going to snuff out uselessly the lights of some of your

boys, who I agree 'ud be better off the earth. Here's where the horse

sense comes in. I know all about this stuff, all there is to know. I

know the folks, all of them, who can supply me. They wouldn't trade with

your folks. They wouldn't trade with a soul but me. This is simple

fact, and no sort of bluff. But the whole point is that I--I wish an

outfit ready to face anything the North can hand me, with the confidence

of the folks who know the source, have been chasing for it fourteen

years and failed, while you, with a bunch of toughs who couldn't live

five minutes on one of my winter trails, are guessing to do something

that for fourteen years has beaten me. That's the horse sense I want to

hand you, and I'm only handing it you so you don't pitchfork any more

lives into the trouble that's waiting on them. They won't find it. I'll

see to that, and what I don't see to the Northern trail will. If you

don't see the sense of this, it's up to you, and anyway, as I'm needing

to pull out early, I'll take a draft on the bank for those dollars. I'll

be along down again this time next year."

He rose from his chair preparatory to departure, and picked up the warm

seal cap he had flung aside.

For a moment the trader sat lost in thought. Then, quite suddenly, he

stirred, and reached the check book lying on the desk. He wrote rapidly,

and finally tore the draft from its counterfoil and blotted it. Then he

looked up, and his smiling amiability was uppermost once more.

"Thanks, Brand," he said. "I'm not sure you aren't right. It's hoss

sense anyway. You aren't given to talk most times. I wanted to know how

you stood about that stuff. I'm glad you told me. What's more, I guess

it's true. Still, what I figger to do in the future don't concern anyone

but me. All I can say is I built this enterprise up on a definite hard

rule. I never compromise with a rival trading concern, particularly with

a free-trading outfit. I trade with 'em, but I'm out to beat 'em all the

time."

The other accepted the draft and signed a receipt. Then he thrust his

cap over his head and his steady eyes smiled down into the amiable face

smiling up at him.

"That's all right, Harris," he said easily. "The feller who don't know

wins a pot now and again. But it's the feller who knows wins in the long

run. You back the game if you feel that way. You won't hand me a

nightmare. Later you'll wake up and get a fresh dream. The game's lost

before you start. So long."

* * * * *

Alroy Leclerc beamed on the man who was perhaps the greatest curiosity

amongst the many to be found in Seal Bay. His "hotel" had sheltered the

trader, who called himself Brand, for three days. A fact sufficiently

unusual to stir the saloon-keeper to a high pitch of cordiality. For all

his most liberal sources of revenue came from the scallywags of the

town, Alroy, with sound instinct, infinitely preferred the custom of the

stable men of the Northern world. Brand was more than desirable.

It was early morning. Much too early for Alroy. He felt lonely in the

emptiness of the place. A grey daylight, peering in through the window

of the office, scarcely lit the remote corners of the room. Brand had

breakfasted by lamplight. The saloon-keeper was more than thankful for

the comforting warmth of the great wood stove they were standing over.

"Guess it looks like bein' our last real cold snap," Alroy said, by way

of making talk with a man who was always difficult. "We'll be running

into May in a week. 'Tain't as easy with your folks. We git the warm

wind of this darn old bay, with all that means, which," he added with a

laugh, "is mostly rain. You'll be runnin' into cold right up to July."

The man from the trail was unrolling a bundle of notes for the

settlement of the bill Alroy had presented. He glanced up with a smiling

amusement in his eyes.

"Guess that's as may be," he said indifferently. "We get fancy patterns

where I come from."

He passed the account and a number of bills to the other, and returned

his roll to his pocket.

"And wher' may that be?" enquired the saloon-keeper, with as much

indifference as his curiosity would permit.

"Just north," returned the other. "Guess you'll find that right.

Twenty-five fifty. I'll take a receipt."

Alroy turned hastily to the table supporting the hotel register, and,

producing an ornate fountain pen, forthwith prepared to scratch a

receipt, which was rarely enough demanded by his customers amongst the

trail men.

"Sure," Brand went on, while the other bent over his unaccustomed work.

"We get all sorts. You can't figger anything this time of year, except

it'll be a hell of a sight more cussed than when winter's shut down

tight. I once knew a red hot chinook that turned the whole darn country

into a swamp in April, and never let it freeze up again. I once broke

trail at Fort Duggan at the start of May on open water with the skitters

running, like midsummer."

Alroy looked up.

"Duggan?" he questioned sharply. "That's the place Lorson opened up last

spring. It's right on the edge of a territory they call Unaga, ain't it?

The boys were full of it last summer and were guessing what sort of

murder lay behind his play."

Brand took the receipt the other handed him and folded it. He thrust it

into a pocket inside his fur-lined tunic.

"Why?" he demanded, in the curt fashion that seemed so natural to him.

"Why?" Alroy laughed. "Well, the boys around here guess they know Lorson

Harris, and ain't impressed with his virtues. You see, Fort Duggan, they

reckon, is a bum sort of location, eaten up by bugs an' a poor sort of

neche race. There's an old fort there, ain't there? One o' them places

where a hundred an' more years ago the old fur-traders stole, and

looted, and murdered the darn neches, and mostly drank themselves to

death when they didn't do it by shootin'. That don't figure a heap in

the boys' reckonin'. What does, is the feller Lorson sent there. The

yarn goes that this feller Nicol--David Nicol--that's his name, I

reckon, has been working for the Seal Bay Trading for some years. He

seems to be some crook, and Harris found him out. Guess he seems to have

cost the Seal Bay outfit a big bunch of money. They were all for sending

him down for penitentiary. Then a sort of miracle happened. Lorson

begged off. Why? It ain't usually Lorson's way. Next thing happens is

Lorson opens up Fort Duggan, and puts the tough in. So the boys are

guessin'. There sure is some sort of murder behind it. Lorson don't miss

things. His chances are mostly a cinch."

"Yes, he's pretty wise." The thoughtful eyes of the trail man were

turned on the sides of the glowing stove so that the saloon-keeper had

no chance of observing them. "You can't guess the things behind Lorson's

smile," he went on. "But I reckon you can figger there's always

something. As far as I can recollect of Fort Duggan--and I haven't been

there these years--I'd say he's no mean judge. I always wondered when a

big corporation would come along and open it up. There's big trade there

in pelts. Still, it's a tough sort of place."

"From what I hear it can't be too tough for the feller Lorson's sent

there. There'll be blood and murder amongst the neches there if they

don't hand over easy."

Alroy laughed immoderately at the prospect he contemplated, and held out

his hand in friendly farewell as his customer prepared to depart.

"Well, so long, Mister," he grinned amiably. "I guess there's things

worse in the world than the shelter of this old shanty. Anyway I'd

sooner you hit the Northern trail than me. I'll be mighty pleased to see

you around come--next year."

"So long."

Alroy's cordiality found very little that was responsive in the other.

Perhaps the trail man understood its exact value. Perhaps he was simply

indifferent. The saloon-keeper served a purpose, and was amply paid for

his service. Anyway he shook hands, and departed without any other

response.

Alroy watched him go. There was nothing else to do at this early hour

with his entire establishment still abed, and Seal Bay's main

thoroughfare still a desert of dirty, rutted snow, some foot or more

deep. He stood in his doorway gazing out at the cheerless grey of early

morning, watching with interest the handling of the three great dog

trains which he had seen come into town with their laden sleds only

three days before.

For all the cold and the early morning drear, for all he was of the life

of the desolate shores of Seal Bay, for all the comings and goings of

the men of the trails, for whom he mostly entertained a more or less

profound contempt, for Alroy Leclerc there was still a fascination

attached to the mysterious beyond to which these people belonged.

Somewhere out there was a great white world whose secrets he could only

guess at. The life was a life he did not envy. He knew it by the

thousand and one stories of disaster and miraculous escape he had

listened to, but that was all. There was more in it, he knew. Much more.

It held fascinated the adventurous, untamed spirits of men whose

superhuman efforts, yielding them little better than a pittance, still

made possible the enormous profits of a parasitic world which battened

upon them, and sucked them dry. Oh, yes. Whatever his sympathies he had

a pretty wide understanding of the lives of these men. He also knew that

he was one of the parasites which battened upon them. But he had no

scruples. Nor had he envy. Only a sort of fascination which never failed

at the sight of a sled, and a powerful train of well-handled dogs.

It was that which he looked upon now. He watched the two Indians stir

the savage creatures from their crouching upon the snow. It was the

harsh law of the club administered by skilled but merciless hands. The

great, grey beasts, fully half wolf, understood nothing more gentle.

In moments only the whole of the three trains were alert and ready on

their feet straining against the rawhide breast draws of their harness.

Then the white man shouted the word to "mush." The long hardwood poles

of the men broke out the sleds from the frozen grip of snow, and the

whole of the lightened outfit dashed off at a rapid, almost headlong

gait.

For a few moments Alroy remained at his post gazing after them. Then of

a sudden his attention was drawn in an opposite direction.

It was an incoming train. A single sled, heavily laden, but with only a

team of three dogs, far inferior to those which had just passed out of

the town. They cut into the main thoroughfare out of a side turning and

headed at once for the store of the Seal Bay Trading Company.

He looked for the owner. The owner was always his chief interest. He

anticipated that a liberal share of the value of the man's cargo would

find its way across his counter, and the extent of his profit would

depend on the man's identity.

He was destined to receive the surprise of his life. He looked for an

Indian, a half-breed, or a white man. Some well-known man of the trail.

But it was none of these. Despite the fur-lined tunic almost to the

knees, despite the tough, warm nether garments, and the felt leggings,

and beaded moccasins, and the well-strung snow-shoes, there remained no

doubt in his startled mind. None whatsoever. It was a woman! A girl!

Alroy ran a hand across his astonished eyes. He pushed back his fur cap

and stared. The girl was moving down the trail towards him. He had a

full view of the face looking out of the fur hood which surrounded it. A

white girl, with the heightened colour and brightening eyes of youth and

perfect health and strength. She was tall, beautifully tall, and as she

swept on past him in her gliding snow-shoes he had a fleeting vision of

a strand of fair hair escaped from beneath her fur hood, and a pair of

beautiful blue eyes, and pretty, parted lips which left him hugging

himself.

The vision had rewarded him for his early rising.