THE VOICE FROM THE HILL
The shore of the lake was irregular, being a succession of rocky points
between which narrow bays extended back to the foot of the ridge which
grew higher and higher as the two progressed toward the upper end of the
lake, where it terminated in a high hill upon the sides of which bold
outcroppings of rock showed at intervals between thick patches of scrub
timber.
It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when the two reached the
head of the lake, a distance of some five or six miles from the starting
point. All the steel traps had been set, and 'Merican Joe had
constructed two deadfalls, which varied from those set for marten only
by being more cunningly devised, and more carefully prepared.
"The other shore ain't so rough," said Connie, when the second deadfall
was finished. "We can make better time going back."
'Merican Joe swept the flat, tundra-skirting eastern shore with a
glance. "We ain' fool wit' dat shore. She too mooch no good for de fox.
We go back to camp an' tomor' we hont de nudder lak!"
"Look, what's that?" exclaimed Connie pointing toward a rocky ledge that
jutted from the hillside a few rods back from the lake. "It looks like a
_cache_!"
'Merican Joe scrutinized the arrangement of weather-worn poles that
supported a sagging platform, and with a non-committal grunt, led the
way toward the ledge. The spot was reached after a short climb, and by
ascending to another ledge close behind the first, the two were able to
look down upon the platform, which was raised about eight feet from the
floor of its rock-ledge.
"Funny bunch of stuff to _cache_!" exclaimed the boy. "I'll tell you
what it is, there's a grave here. I've seen the Indians over on the
Yukon put stuff out beside a grave. It's for the dead man to use in the
Happy Hunting Ground."
The Indian shook his head. "No. Ain' no grave here."
"Maybe they buried him there beside the rock," ventured the boy.
"No. Injun ain' bury lak' white man. If de man ees here, she would be on
de rocks, lak de _cache_. Injun lay de dead man on de rock an' mak' de
leetle pole house for um."
"Well, what in thunder would anyone want to _cache_ that stuff 'way out
here for? Look, there's a blanket, and it's been here so long it's about
rotted to pieces, and a pipe, and moccasins, and there's the stock of a
rifle sticking out beneath the blanket--those things have been there a
long time--a year or two at least. But there's grub there, too. And the
grub is fresh--it hasn't been there more than a month."
'Merican Joe was silent, and as the boy turned toward him, he caught him
glancing furtively over his shoulder toward the dark patches of timber
that blotched the hillside. "I ain' lak dis place. She no good," he
muttered, as he caught the boy's glance.
"What's the matter with it?" smiled Connie. "What do you make of it?"
For answer, 'Merican Joe turned abruptly and descended to the shore of
the lake. At the extremity of a rocky point that afforded a sweeping
view of the great hillside, he stopped and waited for Connie to join
him. "Dis place, she ain' no good," he reiterated, solemnly.
"What's the matter with it?" repeated the boy. "You said all along,
until we came across that _cache_, that it was a dandy lake to trap
foxes on."
"Good for fox, mebbe--but no good for Injun. Me--I'm t'ink I'm pull up
dem trap, an' fin' som' nudder place."
"Pull up nothing!" cried the boy. "After all that work setting them?
Buck up! What's the matter with you anyhow?"
"Dat _cache_--she lak you say--lak de grave _cache_. But dey ain' no
grave! Dat mus' got to be de _tamahnawus cache_!"
"_Tamahnawus cache!_" laughed the boy. "_Tamahnawuses_ don't make caches.
And besides there ain't any _tamahnawuses_! Don't you remember the other
_tamahnawus_--that turned out to be a man in a moose hide? I've heard a
lot about 'em--but I never saw one yet."
'Merican Joe regarded the boy gravely. "Dat better you don't see no
_tamahnawus_, neider. You say, 'ain' no _tamahnawus_, 'cos I ain' see
none'. Tell me, is dere any God?"
"Why, yes, of course there's a God," answered the boy, quickly.
The Indian regarded him gravely. "Me--I ain' say, 'ain' no God 'cos I
ain' see none'. I say, dat better I ain' mak' dat white man God mad.
But, jus' de same, I ain' goin' mak' no _tamahnawus_ mad, neider."
"All right," smiled Connie. "We won't make him mad, but I'm going to
find out about that _tamahnawus_--you wait and see. I wonder who built
that _cache_?"
"Dat Dog Rib _cache_," promptly answered the Indian.
"Probably the Injuns up at the village will know about it. They'll be
back from Fort Norman in a few days, and I'll ask Pierre Bonnet Rouge."
Avoiding the rough shore, the two struck out for camp down the middle of
the ice-locked lake where the wind-packed snow gave excellent footing.
The air was still and keen, the sky cloudless, and Connie watched the
sun set in a blaze of gold behind the snow-capped ridge to the westward.
Suddenly both halted in their tracks and glanced into each other's
faces. From far behind them, seemingly from the crest of the hill they
had left, sounded a cry: "_Y-i-i-e-e-o-o-o!_" Long-drawn, thin,
quavering, it cut the keen air with startling distinctness. Then, as
abruptly as it had started, it ceased, and the two stood staring.
Swiftly Connie's glance sought the bald crest of the hill that showed
distinctly above the topmost patches of timber, as it caught the last
rays of the setting sun. But the hill showed only an unbroken sky-line,
and in the dead silence of the barrens the boy waited tensely for a
repetition of the wild cry. And as he waited he was conscious of an
uncomfortable prickling at the roots of his hair, for never had he heard
the like of that peculiar wailing cry, a cry that the boy knew had
issued from the throat of no wild animal--a wild cry and eerie in its
loud-screamed beginning, but that sounded half-human as it trailed off
in what seemed a moan of quavering despair.
The cry was not repeated and Connie glanced into the face of 'Merican
Joe who stood with sagging jaw, the picture of abject fear. With an
effort, the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that it
would never do to let the Indian see that his own nerve had been
momentarily shaken:
"Someone lost up in the hills, I guess. We'd better go hunt him up."
The Indian's eyes stared wide with terror, his lips moved stiffly and
the words rasped huskily: "_Tamahnawus!_ She git dark. We git to camp.
Mak' de big fire. _Tamahnawus_ she no lak' de fire." And without waiting
for a reply, he struck off down the lake as fast as his snowshoes would
let him. And Connie followed, knowing that in the approaching darkness
nothing could be done toward clearing up the mystery of that loud-drawn
wail.
That night the boy slept fitfully, and each time he awoke it was to see
'Merican Joe seated close beside the huge fire which he kept blazing
high all the night through. Breakfast was finished just as the first
grey light of dawn showed the outlines of the ridge. 'Merican Joe
watched in silence as Connie made the remaining grub into a pack. "Take
down the fly," ordered the boy, and the Indian obeyed with alacrity.
Folding the fly, he added the blankets to the pack, fastened on his
snowshoes and struck out toward the north-west.
"Here, where you going?" cried Connie.
The Indian paused. "Goin' back to de cabin, jus' so fas' lak I kin."
"No you ain't," laughed the boy. "You're going with me, and we're going
to find out all about who, or what made that racket last night."
"No, no, no! I ain' got to fin' dat out! Me--_I know_!"
"You don't know a thing about it. Listen here. That sound came from that
high hill, didn't it?"
The Indian glanced fearfully toward the hill, the outline of which was
just visible at the head of the lake, and nodded.
"Well, we're going to circle that hill. There has been no fresh snow for
ten days or two weeks, and if we circle the base of it we'll strike the
trail of whoever is on the hill. Then we can follow the trail."
"I ain' want no trail! _Tamahnawus_ she don' mak' no trail. Dat hill she
b'long to _tamahnawus_. I ain' want dat hill. Plent' mor' hill for me.
An' plent' mor' lak' to trap de fox. An' besides, we ain' got nuff grub.
We got to git back."
"We've got enough grub for today and tomorrow if we go light on it. It
won't take us long when we strike the trail to follow it up on to the
hill. Come on, buck up! There may be someone up there that needs
help--maybe someone that is in the same fix you were when I found you
back on Spur Mountain."
"Ain't no one up dere. I ain' hang roun' on Spur Mountain an' yell lak
_tamahnawus_. Me--I'm too mooch dead."
"Come on. Are you going with me?"
The Indian hesitated. "If we go roun' de hill an' ain' fin' no track,
den we hit for de cabin?" he asked, shrewdly.
"Yes," answered the boy, confident that they would strike the trail by
circling the hill, "if we don't strike the trail of whoever or whatever
made that sound, we'll hit back to the cabin."
"All right, me--I'm go 'long--but we ain' strike no trail. _Tamahnawus_
don' mak' no trail." Connie struck out with the Indian following, and as
they reached the summit of the ridge that paralleled the shore of the
lake, the sun showed his yellow rim over a distant spruce swamp, and at
the same instant, far away--from the direction of the hill, came once
more the long-drawn quavering yell. 'Merican Joe whirled at the sound
and started out over the back trail, and it required a full fifteen
minutes of persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, and threat before he
reluctantly returned and fell in behind Connie.
At the base of the hill, the boy suggested that they separate and each
follow its base in opposite directions, pointing out that much time
could be saved, as the hill, which was of mountainous proportions,
seemed likely to have a base contour of eight or ten miles. But 'Merican
Joe flatly refused. He would accompany Connie, as he had agreed to, but
not one foot would he go without the boy. All the way up the ridge, he
had followed so closely that more than once he had stepped on the tails
of Connie's snowshoes, and twice, when the boy had halted suddenly to
catch some fancied sound, he had bumped into him.
It was nearly sundown when the two stood at the intersection of their
own trail after having made the complete circuit of the hill. Fox tracks
they had found, also the tracks of wolves, and rabbits, and of an
occasional _loup cervier_--and nothing more. Connie had examined every
foot of the ground carefully, and at intervals had halted and yelled at
the top of his lungs--had even persuaded 'Merican Joe to launch forth
his own peculiarly penetrating call, but their only answer was the dead,
sphinx-like silence of the barrens.
"Com' on," urged 'Merican Joe, with a furtive glance into a nearby
thicket. "Me--I got nuff. I know we ain' goin' fin' no track.
_Tamahnawus_ don' mak' no track."
"_Tamahnawus_, nothing!" exclaimed Connie, impatiently. "I tell you
there ain't any such thing. If we had grub enough I'd stay right here
till I found out where that yell comes from. There's no sign of a camp
on the hill, and no one has gone up or come down since this snow fell.
There's something funny about the whole business, and you bet I'm going
to find out what it is."
"You say we no fin' de track, we go back to de cabin," reminded the
Indian.
"Yes, and we will go back. And then we'll load up a sled-load of grub,
and we'll hit right back here and stay till we get at the bottom of
this. The sun will drop out of sight in a minute, and then I think we'll
hear it again. We heard it last evening at sundown, and at sunrise this
morning."
"I ain' wan' to hear it no mor'," 'Merican Joe announced uneasily. "Dat
ain' no good to hear."
Extending upward clear to the crest of the hill, directly above where
the two stood, was an area half a mile wide upon which no timber grew.
Here and there a jumbled outcropping of rock broke the long smooth sweep
of snow upon which the last rays of the setting sun were reflected with
dazzling brightness. As Connie waited expectantly he was conscious of a
tenseness of nerves, that manifested itself in a clenching of his fists,
and the tight-pressing of his lips. His eyes swept the long up-slanting
spread of snow, and even as he looked he heard 'Merican Joe give a
startled grunt, and there before them on the snow beside an outcropping
of rocks not more than three hundred yards from them, a beautiful black
fox stood clean-cut against the white background, and daintily sniffed
the air. Connie's surprise was no less than the Indian's for he knew
that scarcely a second had passed since his eyes had swept that exact
spot--and there had been no fox there.
The sunlight played only upon the upper third of the long slope now, and
the fox lifted his delicately pointed muzzle upward as if to catch some
fleeting scent upon the almost motionless air. Then came that awful cry,
rising in a high thin scream, and trailing off as before in a quavering
wail of despair.
As Connie stared in amazement at the black fox, there was a swift
scratching of claws, and a shower of dry snow flew up, as Leloo like a
great silver flash, launched himself up the slope. For a fraction of a
second the boy's glance rested upon the flying grey shape and once more
it sought the fox--but there was no fox there, only the low rock-ledge
outcropping through the snow. Instantly the boy sprang after Leloo,
disregarding the inarticulate protest of 'Merican Joe, who laboured
heavily along in his wake, hesitating between two fears, the fear of
being left alone, and the fear of visiting the spot at which had
appeared the fox with the voice of a man.
As Connie reached the rock-ledge he stopped abruptly and stared in
surprise at Leloo. The great wolf-dog's nose quivered, and his yellow
eyes were fixed with a peculiar glare upon a small irregular hole
beneath a projecting lip of rock--a hole just big enough to admit the
body of the fox. Even as the boy looked, the long hairs of Leloo's
great ruff stiffened, and stood quiveringly erect, a low growl rumbled
deep in the dog's throat, and with a curious tense stiffness of
movement, he began to back slowly from the hole. Never for an instant
did the low throaty growl cease, nor did the fixed yellow eyes leave the
black aperture. Not until he had backed a full twenty feet from the hole
did the dog's tense muscles relax and then his huge brush of a tail
drooped, the hair of his ruff flattened, and he turned and trotted down
the back trail, pausing only once to cast a hang-dog glance up the
slope.
Connie was conscious of a strange chill at the pit of his stomach. Why
had Leloo, the very embodiment of savage courage, backed away from that
hole with every muscle tense, and why had he hit the back trail
displaying every evidence of abject terror? The boy had seen him run
foxes to earth before, and he had never acted like that. He had always
torn at the edges of the hole with fang and claw. A hundred times more
terrifying than even the fox with the strange human cry, was the action
of the wolf-dog. Without moving from his tracks, the boy examined the
rock-ledge. It was probably twenty feet in length, and not more than
four or five feet high, and he saw at a glance that the small irregular
hole was the only aperture in the mass of solid rock. His eyes swept the
surrounding hillside but with the exception of numerous fox tracks that
led to and from the hole, the surface of the snow was unbroken.
The sunlight had disappeared from the crest of the hill. On the lower
levels the fast deepening twilight was rendering objects
indistinguishable, when Connie turned to 'Merican Joe, who presented a
pitiable picture of terror. "Let's go," he said, shortly. "We'll have a
moon tonight. We can travel till we get tired."
And 'Merican Joe without waiting for a second invitation struck off down
the hill after Leloo, at a pace that Connie found hard to follow.