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Connie Morgan
in the
Fur Country
[Illustration]
_By_ James B. Hendryx
· ILLUSTRATED ·
_By James B. Hendryx_
The Promise
The Gun Brand
The Texan
The Gold Girl
Prairie Flowers
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Mounted
Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country
[Illustration: "For there, standing close beside the fire, his head and
huge shoulders thrust into the doorway, his eyes gleaming like live
coals, stood the great grey leader of the wolf pack."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
CONNIE MORGAN
IN THE
FUR COUNTRY
BY
JAMES B. HENDRYX
AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA," ETC.
[Illustration]
_ILLUSTRATED_
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
Copyright, 1921
by
James B. Hendryx
Made in the United States of America
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--DOG, OR WOLF? 1
II.--'MERICAN JOE 17
III.--NERVE 32
IV.--BRASS 49
V.--THE PLAGUE FLAG IN THE SKY 76
VI.--AT THE END OF RENÉ'S TRAIL 95
VII.--AT FORT NORMAN 111
VIII.--BAIT--AND A BEAR 123
IX.--OUT ON THE TRAP LINE 138
X.--THE TRAIL OF THE _CARCAJO_ 149
XI.--THE CARIBOU HUNT 168
XII.--THE TRAIL IN THE SNOW 184
XIII.--AT THE CAMP OF THE _HOOCH_-RUNNERS 200
XIV.--THE PASSING OF BLACK MORAN 216
XV.--SETTING THE FOX TRAPS 238
XVI.--THE VOICE FROM THE HILL 254
XVII.--THE-LAKE-OF-THE-FOX-THAT-YELLS 269
XVIII.--THE MAN IN THE CAVE 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"FOR THERE, STANDING CLOSE BESIDE THE FIRE,
HIS HEAD AND HUGE SHOULDERS THRUST
INTO THE DOORWAY, HIS EYES GLEAMING
LIKE LIVE COALS, STOOD THE GREAT GREY
LEADER OF THE WOLF PACK" _Frontispiece_
"IN THE WHIRLING BLIZZARD, WITHOUT PROTECTION
OF TIMBER, ONE PLACE WAS AS GOOD
AS ANOTHER TO CAMP, AND WHILE THE INDIAN
BUSIED HIMSELF WITH THE DOGS, CONNIE
PROCEEDED TO DIG A TRENCH IN THE SNOW" 54
"THE THIRD DAY DAWNED COLD AND CLEAR,
AND DAYLIGHT FOUND THE OUTFIT ON THE
MOVE" 70
"IT WAS A TERRIBLE THING TO LOOK UPON TO
THOSE TWO WHO KNEW ITS SIGNIFICANCE--THAT
FLAG GLOWING LIKE A SPLOTCH OF
BLOOD THERE IN THE BRAZEN SKY" 80
"THE SNARE WAS SET ONLY A FOOT OR TWO
FROM THE STUFFED RABBIT SKIN AND
STICKS AND BRUSH SO ARRANGED THAT IN
ORDER TO REACH THE RABBIT THE LYNX
MUST LEAP STRAIGHT INTO THE SNARE" 130
"'MERICAN JOE CLIMBED THE TREE AND A FEW
MINUTES LATER CONNIE HEARD THE BLOWS
OF HIS BELT AX AS HE HACKED AT THE
LIMB THAT HELD THE CLOG" 156
"AS DARKNESS SETTLED OVER THE NORTH
COUNTRY, A LITTLE FIRE TWINKLED IN THE
BUSH, AND THE ODOUR OF SIZZLING BACON
AND FRYING LIVER PERMEATED THE COZY
CAMP" 182
"AS HE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOORWAY HE
WAS SEIZED VIOLENTLY FROM BEHIND" 218
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country
CHAPTER I
DOG, OR WOLF?
In the little cabin on Ten Bow Waseche Bill laid his week-old newspaper
aside, knocked the ashes from his pipe against the edge of the woodbox,
and listened to the roar of the wind. After a few moments he rose and
opened the door, only to slam it immediately as an icy blast, freighted
with a million whirling flakes of snow, swept the room. Resuming his
seat, he proceeded very deliberately to refill his pipe. This
accomplished to his satisfaction, he lighted it, crammed some wood into
the little air-tight stove, and tilted his chair back against the log
wall.
"Well, son, what is it?" he asked, after a few moments of silence
during which he had watched his young partner, Connie Morgan, draw rag
after rag through the barrel of his rifle.
"What's what?" asked the boy, without looking up.
"What's on yo' mind? The last five patches yo've drug through that gun
was as clean when they come out as when they went in. Yo' ain't cleanin'
no rifle--yo' studyin' 'bout somethin'."
Connie rested the rifle upon his knees and smiled across the little
oilcloth-covered table: "Looks like winter has come in earnest," he
said. "Listen to her trying to tear the roof off. I've been wishing it
would snow for a week."
"Snow fer a week?"
"No. Wishing for a week."
"Well, now it's come, what yo' goin' to do with it?"
"I'm going out and get that Big Ruff."
"Big Ruff! Yo' mean kill him?"
Connie shook his head: "No. I'm going to catch him. I want him."
Waseche laughed: "What in thunder do yo' want of him, even pervidin'
he's a dog, which the chances is he ain't nothin' but a wolf. An' yo'
don't even know they's any such brute rompin' the hills, nohow. Stories
gits goin' that-a-way. Someone, mebbe, seen a dog or a wolf runnin' the
ridge of Spur Mountain late in the evenin' so he looked 'bout half agin
the size he was, an' they come along an' told it. Then someone else sees
him, er another one, an' he recollects that he heard tell of a monstr'us
big wolf er dog, he cain't recollect which, so he splits the difference
an' makes him half-dog an' half-wolf, an' he adds a big ruff onto his
neck fer good measure, an' tells it 'round. After that yo' kin bet that
every tin-horn that gits within twenty mile of Spur Mountain will see
him, an' each time he gits bigger, an' his ruff gits bigger. It's like a
stampede. Yo' let someone pan out mebbe half a dozen ounces of dust on
some crick an' by the time the news has spread a hundred mile, he's took
out a fortune, an' it's in chunks as big as a pigeon's aig--they ain't
nary one of them ever saw a pigeon's aig--but that's always what them
chunks is as big as--an' directly the whole crick is staked an' a lot of
men goes broke, an' some is killed, an' chances is, the only ones that
comes out ahead is the ones that's staked an' sold out."
"But there are real wolf-dogs--I've seen plenty of 'em, and so have you.
And there are real strikes--look at Ten Bow!"
"Yeh, look at it--but I made that strike myself. The boys down to
Hesitation know'd that if I said they was colour heah it was heah. They
didn't come a kihootin' up heah on the say-so of no tin-horn."
"Yes, and there's a big wolf-dog been over on Spur Mountain for a week,
too. I didn't pay any attention when I first heard it. But, Dutch Henry
saw him yesterday, and today when Black Jack Demeree came up with the
mail he saw him, too."
Waseche appeared interested: "An' did they say he was as big as a cabin
an' a ruff on him like the mainsail of a whaler?"
"No, but they said he was the biggest dog they ever saw, and he has got
the big ruff, all right--and he was running with two or three wolves,
and he was bigger than any of them."
"Well, if Dutch Henry an' Black Jack seen him," agreed Waseche with
conviction, "he's there. But, what in time do yo' want of him? If he
was runnin' with wolves he's buildin' him up a pack. He's a bad actor.
You take them renegade dogs, an' they're worse than wolves an' worse
than dogs--an' they're smarter'n most folks."
"That's why I want him. I want to make a leader out of him."
"You can't catch him--an' if you could, you couldn't handle him."
"I'll tell you more about that after I've had a try at him," grinned the
boy.
"Who's going along?"
"No one. I don't want to divide him up with anyone, and anyone I could
hire wouldn't be worth taking along."
"He'll eat you up."
"I hope he tries it! If he ever gets that close to me--he's mine!"
"Or yo'll be his'n," drawled Waseche Bill. "Howeveh, if I was bettin'
I'd take yo' end of it, at that."
Connie rose, laid the rifle upon the table, and began to overhaul his
gear. Waseche watched him for a few moments, and blew a cloud of blue
smoke ceilingward: "Seems like yo' jest nach'lly cain't set by an' take
things easy," he said; "heah's yo', with mo' money than yo' kin eveh
spend, gittin' ready to hike out an' live like a Siwash in the bush when
yo' c'd go outside fer the winteh, an' live in some swell _hotel_ an'
nothin' to do but r'ar back in one of them big leatheh chairs with yo'
feet in the window an' watch the folks go by."
Connie flashed him a grin: "You've got as much as I have--and I don't
notice you sitting around any swell hotels watching the folks go by."
Waseche's eyes twinkled: and he glanced affectionately at the boy: "No,
son. This heah suits me betteh. But, yo' ain't even satisfied to stay
heah in the cabin. When my laig went bad on me an' I had to go outside,
you hit out an' put in the time with the Mounted, then last winteh,
'stead of taking it easy, you hit out fo' Minnesota an' handed that
timbeh thievin' bunch what was comin' to 'em."
"Well, it paid, didn't it?"
"Sho' it paid--an' the work with the Mounted paid--not in money, but in
what yo' learnt. But you don't neveh take things easy. Yo' pa was like
that. I reckon it's bred in the bone."
Connie nodded: "Yes, and this winter I've got a trip planned out that
will make all the others look piking. I'm going over and have a look at
the Coppermine River country--over beyond the Mackenzie."
Waseche Bill stared at the boy in astonishment: "Beyond the Mackenzie!"
he exclaimed, then his voice dropped into a tone softly sarcastic. "Yo'
ought to have a right pleasant trip. It ain't oveh a thousan' miles oah
so, an' only about fifteen er twenty mountain ranges to cross. The trail
ought to be right nice an' smooth an' plain marked. An' when yo' git
theah yo' sho' ought to enjoy yo'self. I caint' think of no place in the
world a man had ought to keep away from worse than right theah. Why,
son, they tell me that beyond the Mackenzie they ain't _nothin'_!"
"There's gold--and copper," defended the boy.
"Did Dutch Henry an' Black Jack Demeree tell yo' that, too?"
Connie laughed: "No, I read about it in a book."
Waseche snorted contemptuously, "Read it in a book! Look a heah, son,
it don't stand to reason that if anyone know'd they was gold an' coppeh
up theah they'd be foolin' away theah time writin' books about it, does
it? No suh, they'd be be right up amongst it scoopin' it out of the
gravel, that's wheah they'd be! Books is redic'lus."
"But the man that wrote the book didn't know where the gold is----"
"You bet he didn't! That's the way with these heah fellows that writes
books. They don't know enough about gold to make 'em a livin' diggin'
it--so they write a book about it. They's mo' ways than one to make a
livin' out of gold--like sellin' fake claims, an' writin' books."
"I'm going to roll in, now, because I want to get an early start. It's
that book up there on the shelf with the green cover. You read it, and
when I come back with Big Ruff, we'll talk it over."
Again Waseche snorted contemptuously, but a few minutes later as he lay
snuggled between his blankets, Connie smiled to himself to see his big
partner take the book from the shelf, light his pipe, and after settling
himself comfortably in his chair, gingerly turn its pages.
Spur Mountain is not really a mountain at all. It is a long sparsely
timbered ridge only about seven hundred feet in height that protrudes
into the valley of the Ten Bow, for all the world like a giant spur. The
creek doubles sharply around the point of the spur which slants upward
to a deep notch or pass in the range that separates the Ten Bow from the
valley of the Tanana.
It was past noon when Connie Morgan swung his dogs from the creek-bed
and headed back along the base of the spur toward the main range. He had
covered the fifteen miles slowly, being forced almost constantly to
break trail ahead of the dogs through the new-fallen snow.
He turned into a patch of timber that slanted obliquely upward to the
crest of the ridge, and working his outfit halfway to the top, pitched
his tent on a narrow ledge or shoulder, protected from every direction
by the ridge itself, and by the thick spruce timber. The early darkness
had settled when he finished making camp and as he ate his supper he
watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. After replenishing
his fire, he removed his _mukluks_ and mackinaw, and slipped into his
sleeping bag.
Two hours later he opened his eyes and listened. From beyond the
ridge--far down the valley of the Ten Bow, floated the long-drawn howl
of a wolf. A moment of silence followed, and from across the valley
sounded an answering call. Outside the little tent a dog whined softly.
The boy smiled as his eyes rested for a moment upon the glowing coals of
his fire. "What anybody wants to live in a city for when they can lie
out in the timber and listen to that, is more than I know--I love it!"
The next moment he was sitting bolt upright, his hands fighting his
sleeping bag, as the hair of his scalp seemed to rise like the quills of
an enraged porcupine, and a peculiar tickly chill ran down his spine.
The silence of the night was shattered by a sound so terrible that his
blood seemed to chill at the horror of it. It was a wolf cry--but unlike
the cry of any wolf he had ever heard. There was a swift rush of dark
bodies and Connie's four dogs dived into the tent, knocking him over in
their haste, their feet scratching up a shower of snow which caused the
glowing coals of the little fire to sizzle and smoke. The cry of the
wolves had floated--but this new cry seemed to hurl itself through the
night--a terrifying crescendo of noise that sounded at once a challenge
and wail. For a full minute after the sound ceased the boy sat tense
and motionless, staring wide-eyed beyond the fire, while behind him, in
the farthest corner of the tent the _malamutes_ huddled and whined. Then
he shook himself and laughed. "Some howl!" he muttered, "I bet they
heard that in Ten Bow. That's the Big Ruff, all right--and he ain't far
away."
Hastily wriggling from his sleeping bag the boy drew on his _mukluks_
and mackinaw and stepped from the tent. Overhead the stars glittered
brilliantly, and he noted with satisfaction that objects were visible at
a distance of several hundred yards against the background of new-fallen
snow. Drawing a heavy parka over his mackinaw, he fastened on his
snowshoes, caught up his rifle, and headed upward for the crest of the
ridge. "Maybe I can get a look at him anyway," he thought. "He'll gather
his wolves and the chances are that sometime before morning they'll run
the ridge."
A half-hour later the boy slipped into a tangle of brush that marked the
upper end of his patch of timber. The bare summit of the ridge stretched
away in the half-light to merge in a mysterious blur with the
indistinct valley of the Ten Bow. The wind was blowing gently from the
ridge and the boy figured that if the wolf pack followed the summit as
he hoped, they must pass within twenty yards of him. "If it don't go and
cloud up before they get here I can see 'em plain as day," he thought,
as he settled himself comfortably for his long wait. An hour passed and
the boy was thankful he had thought to bring his parka. Mushing a hard
trail, a man can dispense with his parka at twenty degrees below zero,
but sitting still, even at zero, the heavy moosehide garment is
indispensable. For another hour Connie divided his attention between
watching the fantastic changes of pale aurora and scanning the distant
reach of the ridge. He shifted his weight to his other hip to stretch a
cramped leg; and suddenly became motionless as a stone. Far down the
ridge his trained eye had caught a blur of motion. His fists clenched in
anticipation as he stared into the dim distance. Yes, there it was
again--something moving, like a swift shadow along the bald surface of
the snow. Again the silent shadow shape vanished and again it
appeared--nearer, now--near enough so that the boy could distinguish
not one, but many shapes. In fascination he watched that silent run of
the wolf pack. Nearer they swept, running easily and swiftly along the
wind-swept ridge. Instinctively Connie reached for his rifle but
withdrew his arm before his hand touched the weapon.
There were ten or twelve wolves in all, but his attention was riveted
upon the leader. Never in his life had he seen such an animal. In the
starlight his coat gleamed like molten silver in contrast with the dark
tawny coats of the pack that ran at his heels. They reached a point
nearly opposite to the boy's hiding place, and distant not more than
fifty yards, when suddenly the huge leader halted in his tracks. So
sudden was his action that the wolves running behind him were unable to
stop until they had carried six or eight yards beyond. One or two
jostled the leader in passing and were rewarded with swift, silent
slashes of his great jaws. Luckily for themselves, the culprits escaped
death by inches, and leaping swiftly aside, mingled with their
companions, while the great grey leader stood squarely upon his feet
sniffing the air.
Connie's heart raced wildly as he stared at the magnificent animal. It
seemed incredible that the brute had caught his scent against the wind,
and yet, if not, why had he halted so suddenly? And why did he stand
there sniffing the air? The wolves settled upon their haunches with
tongues a-loll and eyed their leader, or moved nervously back and forth
in the background sniffing inquisitively. During this interval the boy
took in every detail of the great brute he had set out to capture. More
conspicuous even than his great size was the enormous ruff of long hair
that covered the animal's neck and shoulders--a feature that accentuated
immeasurably the ferocious appearance of the pointed wolfish muzzle and
gleaming eyes. Every detail of coat, of muzzle, of eyes, of ears, or of
legs bespoke the wolf breed--but there were other details--and the heart
of the boy leaped as he noted them. The deep, massive chest, the
peculiar poise of the head, and the over-curl of the huge brush of the
tail showed unmistakably the breed of the dog. "I wonder what his heart
is?" thought Connie. "Is it wolf, or dog, or part wolf and a part dog?"
As these thoughts flashed through his mind the boy saw the great grey
shape turn abruptly and trot toward the opposite side of the ridge at a
right angle to his former course. The wolves followed at a respectful
distance and as they disappeared over the crest Connie wriggled from his
place of concealment and crawling to the top, peered down the slope.
The wolves had vanished completely. Nothing was in sight except the long
white sweep of snow, with here and there a black patch of bushes and
scrub. He was about to return to his camp when, from one of the patches
of scrub burst a scattering of tawny shapes. Singly, and in groups of
two or three, crowding each other in their mad haste, they fled into the
open and ranging themselves in a semicircle, waited expectantly.
Presently another wolf emerged from the thicket, dragging himself on his
belly, ploughing the snow. As Connie watched curiously he noticed that
the wide, flat trail left by the slowly crawling wolf showed broad, dark
streaks and blotches. The waiting wolves knew the meaning of that
darkened trail and the next moment they were upon him. Connie shifted
his position for a better view of this midnight tragedy of the wild,
when his foot caught under a root concealed by the snow and he pitched
heavily forward. To save himself he grasped the dead branch of a stunted
tree. The branch snapped with a report that rang through the silence of
the night like an explosion and the boy pitched headforemost into the
snow. The great grey leader shot from the scrub, and with the pack at
his heels disappeared in the thicker timber at the base of the ridge.