A DESPERATE SITUATION
AN HOUR LATER Roger Bracknell started on his way back to the
police-post, in a not very happy frame of mind. The chief of Fort
Pilgrim was a man with little tolerance for failure, and the corporal
knew that when he made his report it would be received with frowns.
That was inevitable, but there was nothing for it but to return.
His cousin and the Indian Joe had taken very effective measures to
prevent him following on their trail when they had left him with a
depleted dog-team and with only sufficient rations to carry him as far
as North Star Lodge. Sorry as he was for his cousin he yet resented
the action which had left him helpless, and his failure rankled as
he swung steadily forward on the southward trail. Before the end of
the day, however, a thought came to him. Duty was duty, and if he
could reach North Star Lodge, there would be dogs there, and he could
requisition them in the King’s name, and return to the pursuit. It did
not seem a very nice thing to contemplate, but his oath of service
left him no option, whilst the officer at Fort Pilgrim was bound to
look askance at the whole affair, if he returned to explain that Koona
Dick was his cousin, and that he had escaped him. Besides, there was
Joy to consider. She could never be safe from molestation whilst Dick
Bracknell was at large. It was even possible that the latter, finding
the Territory growing too hot for him, might venture to follow her to
England, and as her husband claim his rights. That must be prevented
at all costs, even at the cost of Dick suffering incarceration in the
penal prison at Stony Mountain.
The end of the day, however, brought an unlooked-for event, which
made an end of these half-formed plans. He had camped for the night,
and having fed his dogs with the dried salmon-roe which formed their
staple food, was preparing his own meal, when one of the animals gave
a sudden sharp howl of pain. He looked hastily round, and saw the dog
twisted in some kind of spasm, its backbone arched, its legs jerking in
a strange fashion. He went to it, and as he approached the spasm ended,
and the dog lay in the snow completely exhausted. He was stooping
over it, wondering what was the matter when the other two dogs howled
simultaneously, and he turned swiftly to see one of them leap straight
in the air, and in a moment both of them were in spasms similar to the
one he had already witnessed, and before his eyes one of them curled up
like a bow, then suddenly relaxed, and lay stark and dead.
A dark suspicion shot through his mind, as he jerked himself upright.
The first dog was plainly at the point of death, whilst the third was
twisted by spasms that could have but one ending. He knew that there
could be no recovery, that he could do nothing for them, and in a swift
impulse of mercy he drew his pistol and shot them. Then he strode to
the sled, and lifting the small bale of dog food carried it to the
fire, and by the flames of the burning pine examined it carefully. He
had not to look long before he came upon some small white crystals
in the creases of the roe. They might be snow, they might be frost
crystals, but he did not think that they were either, and selecting one
of the smallest of the white specks he placed it on his tongue. It was
exceedingly bitter in taste.
“Strychnine!” he cried aloud, and then stood looking at the dead dogs
with horror shining in his eyes. As he stood there one question was
beating in his brain. “Who has done this thing? Who? Who?”
His thoughts flew back to his cousin. Had he--No! He could not believe
that; for whoever had placed the strychnine in the dog food, had
callously planned to murder him. And bad as Dick Bracknell was, the
corporal felt that his cousin would not have done a thing like this.
“There’s that Indian--Joe,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. “From
what Dick said he was afraid of me ... and he would have disposed of
me at the beginning if he had had his way!” He was silent for a little
time, then he nodded his head. “Yes! The Indian did it without Dick’s
knowledge.”
For the moment he refused to think further about the matter. About him
was the gloom of the pines, with their pall of snow, and everywhere
the terrible silence of the North. Alone and without dogs to carry his
stores, the situation was altogether desperate; and to reflect upon it
overmuch was to court madness. So he put the thought of it from him
for the time being, and after dragging the dead dogs into the shadow
of the forest, resumed the preparation of his evening meal. When he
had eaten it, he erected a wind-screen, and lying in his sleeping bag,
with his feet to the fire, lighted a pipe, and once more considered the
problem before him.
It was at least four days’ journey to North Star Lodge, probably five
or six, since he would have to carry the necessaries of life himself,
and so burdened would not be able to travel fast. There was food for
four days on the sled, and to make sure of reaching North Star, he
would have to put himself on rations, and travel as fast as he could.
Barring accidents there was an even chance of his getting through, but
if any ill-chance arose then--He did not finish the thought. Knocking
the ashes out of his pipe, he stretched himself down in the sleeping
berth, and presently fell asleep.
When he awoke it was still dark, and the fire was burning low. He
looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He stretched himself a
little, and thrusting his arm out of the sleeping bag, he threw a
couple of spruce boughs on the fire. The resinous wood quickly caught,
and as it flared up he looked round. On the edge of the circle of
light, which his fire cut out of the darkness, something caught his
eye. He looked again. Two tiny globes of light, about three feet above
the ground, appeared to be suspended on nothing. He watched them
steadily, and for the briefest moment of time, saw them eclipsed, then
they reappeared. He looked further. There were other twin globes of
light, scattered all round, and, as the spruce crackled into flame, he
caught sight of an animal’s head, and the outline of its form.
“Timber-wolves!” he whispered to himself.
Feeling for his automatic pistol, he lay waiting his opportunity.
Undoubtedly, the bodies of his dead dogs had already served the savage
beasts for a meal, and now they were watching him, perhaps already
counting him their prey.
He did not feel particularly afraid. He knew that the wolf is really a
coward, and that unless driven by hunger, it seldom attacks man, but
all the same he thought it wise to teach the beast a lesson. So when
the shadowy form of one of the beasts moved, he sighted and fired. The
wolf gave a yelp, jumped clean in the air, and dropped dead well within
the circle of firelight. He looked round again. The watching eyes in
the darkness had disappeared. Presently however they returned, and
lying perfectly still, he saw a gaunt dog wolf slink out of the shadows
towards its dead comrade, and fall on it with its teeth. Another
followed and another, and a moment later there was a snarling tangle of
furry beasts where the dead wolf had been.
“Phew!” he whistled to himself, as he noted their disregard of the
firelight, “they’re mad with hunger!”
He emptied his pistol into the bunch, and the pack fell back, leaving
three of its number dead in the snow. Of the first wolf nothing
remained but the skull and tail. Behind the trees the snarling and
yelping continued, and as he crept out of his sleeping bag, he
conjectured that others of the beasts had been injured by his shots,
and were falling a prey to their hungry companions. There was a serious
look upon his face, as, crossing to the other side of the fire, he
picked up the dead wolves, and one by one flung them into the darkness,
where as his ears assured him they also became food for their famished
pack-mates.
He had meant to commence his journey at an early hour, but the presence
of the wolf-pack forced him to reconsider his plans, and to delay until
dawn. The interval he filled in by packing his stores in a convenient
form for carrying, and with the aid of things from the sled and his
sleeping bag he devised a knapsack, which whilst it bulked large was
not really heavy. Then he breakfasted, and that done, as the dawn
broke, looked round once more. On one side of him the wolves were still
in the shadows of the trees, and as he turned to look on the other, his
eye caught the package of poisoned salmon roe, which was still upon the
sledge. A thought struck him.
“The very thing!” he muttered, and going to the sled, he broke up the
food with an ax and then scattered it in small portions about the
camping place.
“I shall bag some of them for certain,” he said, as he saw the wolves
watching him. “When they find it they’ll bolt it like one o’clock.”
The day had well broken when, adjusting his snowshoes, he shouldered
his pack, and stepped out on the trail. None of the wolves were now in
sight, but he had gone only a little way, when a sharp howl behind him,
told him that they were still about. He looked back. A little spur of
trees on the bank hid his late camp, but as he glanced back, a wolf
leaped on the ice, ran howling a short way, then dropped in the snow.
Other yelps of pain came from behind the screen of trees, and as the
sounds reached him a sigh of satisfaction came in his eyes.
“It’s working like a charm,” he said to himself. “There’s an end of Mr.
Wolf for this trip, I fancy.”
As he journed he kept a sharp look out, turning frequently to observe
the trail behind him. Not a single wolf appeared, and through the
short day he marched on, the solitary living thing in a landscape that
was unutterably forlorn and desolate. The quick night drew on, and he
decided to camp. Halting in a sheltered cove he felled a small spruce,
gathered some dry twigs and built himself a fire, then he thrust his
hand to his tunic pocket for matches. They were gone. He had lost them.
For a minute or two he was filled with dismay, and real terror clutched
at his heart-strings, for to be without means of making a fire in the
desolate Northland, is to have entered the valley of the shadow of
death.
Then he recalled an old device of the Voyageurs, and proceeded to put
it into execution. With his jack knife he cut some thin shavings of
spruce, mixed them with a handful of dead lichen scraped from trees,
and biting the bullets from a couple of cartridges shook the powder of
one over the little heap that he had made, and with that from the other
cartridge made a short train. Then he fired his pistol to light the
train. The powder caught, spluttered and burned out without lighting
the lichen and the pine-shavings, and the operation had to be performed
three times before it was successful. He built up his fire, and when
it was well going, and he was congratulating himself on his success a
thought struck him. Hastily he examined his bandolier. He had but three
cartridges left.
As he weighed the metal shells in his hand, his face grew very serious.
Each of them carried a message of death, but to him, as his sole means
of making a fire, they were to him the bridge of life, and a precarious
bridge at that. With at least three camps to make before he reached
North Star Lodge, he recognized that the chances were almost desperate,
and that only care and skill and a large slice of luck could carry him
through. Very carefully he stowed the cartridges where they would be
safe against damp or accidental loss, and then proceeded to cook his
meal.
The next morning he started an hour before dawn. Light snow was
falling, but he could not afford to regard that, and on snowshoes he
pressed forward steadily. It began to blow, and he sought the lee of
the river-bank for shelter, then that happened which put a term to his
journey. A great tree, well up the bank, collapsed under its weight
of snow. Roger Bracknell caught the rending sound of its fall and
instinctively leaped aside, but the snowshoes embarrassed him and he
fell. A bough of the falling tree alighted on his right leg, snapping
it like a pipestem, and pinning him down in the snow.
Under the first shock of pain, he almost fainted, but in a minute or
two recovered himself sufficiently to take stock of the situation. It
was, as he instantly recognized, very desperate. He sat up, and tried
to move the weight from his leg. The bough which held him fast was not
a very thick one, but the weight of the tree was behind it, and with
his hatchet he began to cut through the branch. Every stroke he made
jarred him terribly, and more than once he had to desist, but at last
the bough parted, and he was able to push the weight from his leg. He
was, however, in little better case, since he could not stand upright;
and to crawl would have been futile, even if the deepening snow had
allowed the possibility of doing so.
He looked round, and through the falling snow caught sight of the
sombre pinewoods. They had a funereal look, and in their shadows
brooded the menace of the North, which had surely overtaken him at
last. Death was staring him in the eyes. He took out his pocket book,
and made shift to write a note to his superior down at the Post. Then
he took out his pistol, and loaded it with one of the cartridges
that had held his life, but which now carried only death, swift and
merciful. It was no use waiting. He held the pistol ready, and for a
moment his thoughts strayed to Joy Gargrave. Would she ever hear? Would
she guess that he--
His thoughts broke off suddenly. Through the gloom of the falling
snow he caught a sound of voices. Some one, it seemed, was urging a
dog-team to greater efforts. Was he dreaming? He listened carefully.
No! There it was again, and with it came the yelp of a dog cut by a
whip. A great wave of thankfulness rolled over him. He shouted and
fired his pistol in the air. A moment later came an answering shout,
and he called back again. Presently, out of the snow-murk emerged the
forms of two men--Indians, and as they bent over him he lapsed into
unconsciousness.