APACHE STUFF
The hunters brought back three caribou and two sacks of rabbits,
supplies enough to enable West to reach Lookout. The dogs were
stronger than when they had set out, for they had gorged themselves on
the parts of the game unfit for human use.
Nothing had been said by either of the men as to what was to be done
with Jessie McRae, but the question was in the background of both
their thoughts, just as was the growing anger toward each other that
consumed them. They rarely spoke. Neither of them let the other drop
behind him. Neither had slept a wink the previous night. Instead, they
had kept themselves awake with hot tea. Fagged out after a day of hard
hunting, each was convinced his life depended on wakefulness. West's
iron strength had stood the strain without any outward signs of
collapse, but Whaley was stumbling with fatigue as he dragged himself
along beside the sled.
The bad feeling between the partners was near the explosion point. It
was bound to come before the fugitive started on his long trip north.
The fellow had a single-track mind. He still intended to take the girl
with him. When Whaley interfered, there would be a fight. It could not
come too soon to suit West. His brooding had reached the point where
he was morally certain that the gambler meant to betray him to the
police and set them on his track.
Smoke was rising from the chimney of the hut. No doubt the McRae girl
was inside, waiting for them with a heart of fear fluttering in
her bosom. Whaley's thin lips set grimly. Soon now it would be a
show-down.
There was a moment's delay at the door, each hanging back under
pretense of working at the sled. There was always the chance that the
one who went first might get a shot in the back.
West glanced at the big mittens on the other's hands, laughed hardily,
and pushed into the cabin. A startled grunt escaped him.
"She's gone," he called out.
"Probably in the woods back here--rabbit-shooting likely. She can't
have gone far without snowshoes," Whaley said.
The big man picked up the ski Jessie had made. "Looky here."
Whaley examined it. "She might have made a pair of 'em and got away.
Hope so."
The yellow teeth of the convict showed in a snarl. "Think I don't see
yore game? Playin' up to McRae an' the red-coats. I wouldn't put it by
you to sell me out."
The gambler's ice-cold eyes bored into West. Was it to be now?
West was not quite ready. His hands were cold and stiff. Besides, the
other was on guard and the fugitive was not looking for an even break.
"Oh, well, no use rowin' about that. I ain't gonna chew the rag with
you. It'll be you one way an' me another pretty soon," he continued,
shifty eyes dodging.
"About the girl--easy to find out, I say. She sure didn't fly away.
Must 'a' left tracks. We'll take a look-see."
Again Whaley waited deferentially, with a sardonic and mirthless grin,
to let the other pass first. There were many tracks close to the cabin
where they themselves, as well as the girl, had moved to and fro.
Their roving glances went farther afield.
Plain as the swirling waters in the wake of a boat stretched the
tracks of a snowshoer across the lower end of the lake.
They pushed across to examine them closer, following them a dozen
yards to the edge of the ice-field. The sign written there on that
white page told a tale to both of the observers, but it said more to
one than to the other.
"Some one's been here," West cried with a startled oath.
"Yes," agreed Whaley. He did not intend to give any unnecessary
information.
"An' lit out again. Must 'a' gone to git help for the girl."
"Yes," assented the gambler, and meant "No."
What he read from the writing on the snow was this: Some one had come
and some one had gone. But the one who had come was not the one who
had gone. An Indian had made the first tracks. He could tell it by
the shape of the webs and by the way the traveler had toed in. The
outward-bound trail was different. Some one lighter of build was
wearing the snowshoes, some one who took shorter steps and toed out.
"See. She run out to meet him. Here's where her feet kept sinkin' in,"
West said.
The other nodded. Yes, she had hurried to meet him but that was not
all he saw. There was the impression of a knee in the snow. It was an
easy guess that the man had knelt to take off the shoes and adjust
them to the girl's feet.
"An' here's where she cut off into the woods," the convict went on.
"She's hidin' up there now. I'm hittin' the trail after her hot-foot."
Whaley's derisive smile vanished almost before it appeared. What he
knew was his own business. If West wanted to take a walk in the woods,
it was not necessary to tell him that a man was waiting for him there
behind some tree.
"Think I'll follow this fellow," Whaley said, with a lift of the hand
toward the tracks that led across the lake. "We've got to find out
where he went. If the Mounted are hot on our trail, we want to know
it."
"Sure." West assented craftily, eyes narrowed to conceal the thoughts
that crawled through his murderous brain. "We gotta know that."
He believed Whaley was playing into his hands. The man meant to betray
him to the police. He would never reach them. And he, Bully West,
would at last be alone with the girl, nobody to interfere with him.
The gambler was used to taking chances. He took one now and made his
first mistake in the long duel he had been playing with West. The
eagerness of the fellow to have him gone was apparent. The convict
wanted him out of the way so that he could go find the girl. Evidently
he thought that Whaley was backing down as gracefully as he could.
"I'll start right after him. Back soon," the gambler said casually.
"Yes, soon," agreed West.
Their masked eyes still clung to each other, wary and watchful. As
though without intent Whaley backed away, still talking to the other.
He wanted to be out of revolver range before he turned. West also was
backing clumsily, moving toward the sled. The convict wheeled and slid
rapidly to it.
Whaley knew his mistake now. West's rifle lay on the sled and the man
was reaching for it.
The man on the ice-field did the only thing possible. He bent low and
traveled fast. When the first shot rang out he was nearly a hundred
fifty yards away. He crumpled down into the snow and lay still.
West's hands were cold, his fingers stiff. He had not been sure of his
aim. Now he gave a whoop of triumph. That was what happened to any one
who interfered with Bully West. He fired again at the still huddled
heap on the lake.
Presently he would go out there and make sure the man was dead. Just
now he had more important business, an engagement to meet a girl in
the woods back of the house.
"Got him good," he told himself aloud. "He sure had it comin' to him,
the damned traitor."
To find the McRae girl could not be difficult. She had left tracks as
she waded away in the deep snow. There was no chance for her to hide.
Nor could she have gone far without webs. The little catamount might,
of course, shoot him. He had to move carefully, not to give her an
opportunity.
As he went forward he watched every tree, every stick of timber behind
which she might find cover to ambush him. He was not of a patient
temperament, but life in the wilds had taught him to subdue when he
must his gusty restlessness. Now he took plenty of time. He was in a
hurry to hit the trail with his train and be off, but he could not
afford to be in such great haste as to stop a bullet with his body.
He called to her. "Where you at, Dawn? I ain't aimin' to hurt you
none. Come out an' quit devilin' me."
Then, when his wheedling brought no answer, he made the forest ring
with threats of what he would do to her when he caught her unless she
came to him at once.
Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the tracks that had been
made in the snow. They ended abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush. His
first thought was that she must be hidden here, but when he had beat
through it half a dozen times, he knew this was impossible. Then where
was she?
He had told Whaley that she could not fly away. But if she hadn't
flown, what had become of her? There were no trees near enough to
climb without showing the impressions of her feet in the snow as she
moved to the trunk. He had an uneasy sense that she was watching him
all the time from some hidden place near at hand. He looked up into
the branches of the trees. They were heavy with snow which had not
been shaken from them.
West smothered a laugh and an oath. He saw the trick now. She must
have back-tracked carefully, at each step putting her feet in exactly
the same place as when she had moved forward. Of course! The tracks
showed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasionally when the
moccasin went in the second time.
It was slow business, for while he studied the sign he must keep a
keen eye cocked against the chance of a shot from his hidden prey.
Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached the
place where the back-tracking ceased. Close to the spot was a pine.
A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down. That
must have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing.
His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt. With his rifle he
covered the figure crouching close to it on the far side.
"Come down," he ordered.
He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The tree-dweller slid
down and stood before him. It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an
Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil
his triumph over the red-coat Beresford.
For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad you
doin' here?" he asked at last.
"No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said.
"Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?"
The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blank
wall.
West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block of
wood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churned
over the situation.
"Won't talk, eh? We'll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an'
I'm gonna find where. I'll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop that
gun an' marchê-back to the cabin. Un'erstand?"
Onistah did as he was told.
They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold of
in his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He had
had a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would be
likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a
Christian. He had learned from Father Giguère that he must turn the
other cheek.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins.
He tied his captive hand and foot, then removed his moccasins and
duffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flat
chip. This he brought across the room.
"Changed yore mind any? Where's the girl?" he demanded.
Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian can be.
"Still sulky, eh? We'll see about that."
The convict knelt on the man's ankles and pushed the coal against the
naked sole of the brown foot.
An involuntary deep shudder went through the Blackfoot's body. The
foot twitched. An acrid odor of burning flesh filled the room. No
sound came from the locked lips.
The tormentor removed the coal. "I ain't begun to play with you yet.
I'm gonna give you some real Apache stuff 'fore I'm through. Where's
the girl? I'm gonna find out if I have to boil you in grease."
Still Onistah said nothing.
West brought another coal. "We'll try the other foot," he said.
Again the pungent acrid odor rose to the nostrils.
"How about it now?" the convict questioned.
No answer came. This time Onistah had fainted.