TO THE RESCUE
“SIBOU there is some one coming up the trail!” As he spoke to his
native companion, Corporal Bracknell pointed down the river. The Indian
paused in the very midst of what he was doing, and looked in the
direction indicated, then he nodded, and in his own speech replied--
“Yes, one man and a dog-team.”
“I wonder if by any chance it can be the man we are looking for, the
man who was with you when the trail was destroyed before Rolf Gargrave.”
“Who can say?” answered the Indian. “He has been long on the trail. He
marches wearily.”
“It will be as well to take no chances. If he sees our fire he is
almost certain to make for it, and if we go back in the trees a little
way we shall be able to inspect him before he sees us. Then if he is
our man----”
“We shall get him? Yes! And we will take him down to the Great White
Chief at Regina, who will hang him. It is good. See, he has seen the
fire, he is turning inward to this bank.”
“Then we will withdraw.”
Corporal Bracknell stretched a hand for his rifle, and together they
retreated to the undergrowth behind their camp, where, crouching low,
they watched the advent of the stranger. As the new-comer’s dogs moved
shorewards they began to yelp, and their own dogs, leaping up, gave
tongue menacingly. The driver of the team, however, moved in front, and
as one of the huskies flung itself upon the harnessed dogs, brought
the stock of his whip down so smartly on it, that, yelping agony, it
retreated. The rest of the corporal’s dogs, undeterred, sprang forward,
and for a moment the new-comer was the centre of a huddled tangle of
snarling and yelping dogs. He laid about him valiantly with his clubbed
whip, but the brutes were too much for him, and at last he cried aloud
for help. At the cry Sibou rose suddenly to his feet.
“That not white man,” he said. “He Indian!”
Thus assured Bracknell and he ran to the help of the new-comer, and
within two minutes the tangle of dogs was separated, and the three men
found time to look at each other. As the stranger’s eyes fell on the
corporal, he gave a sudden cry of joy and relief, and ran to him.
“You know me! I come from North Star. I Jim, Miss Gargrave’s man!”
The corporal looked at him and then recognized him.
“Yes,” he said, “I know you. You are Indian George’s son. What----”
He was interrupted by a stream of words, half incoherent, half
intelligible, which, as it flowed on, made his face go very white. He
listened carefully, trying to get a clear idea of the story which the
lad was telling him, and as it ended he nodded.
“I think I understand what you are trying to tell me, Jim. Some one has
killed your father. Some one fired a gun at you, and you are afraid
for your mistress and Miss La Farge and you want me to help. That is
so? Very good! We are just about to have supper and you will join us.
We will eat first, and afterwards talk. I have no doubt you are very
impatient, but your dogs are fagged and so are mine. It is impossible
to travel until they have rested. Feed your dogs and come along.”
Himself the prey of consuming anxiety, he helped to prepare the evening
meal, forced himself to eat, and not until he had lit his pipe did he
refer to the story which the Indian lad had told him so incoherently.
“Now, Jim,” he said, “let us get at the facts if we can. You say that
your mistress and Miss La Farge are here in the North, and that they
are on trail?”
“Yes, sir!”
“But I thought they were in England?”
“They returned suddenly, fourteen days ago!”
“But what were they doing on trail, so far from home, with the spring
coming?”
“I do not know clearly. But they were looking for you. They had news
for you. More than that was not told my father.”
“And you say that yester morning a strange Indian came to your camp
with a message from a white man?”
“Yes. The white man was sick. He desired to talk with Miss Gargrave; so
whilst we--my father and I struck camp, Miss La Farge and my mistress
went to the cabin which was on a creek----”
“Ah!” interrupted the corporal. “Was it on the left bank?”
“Yes! The left bank. The word was that we should pack and bring the
dogs and the sled to the mouth of the creek there to wait for Miss
Gargrave. We did so, and were standing, stamping our feet for warmth,
when my father gave a cry like that of a man whom death strikes and
fell into the snow. I was a little way from him, and ran towards him.
As I reached him his spirit passed, and looking down I saw that he had
been struck with an arrow.”
“Indians!” ejaculated the corporal.
“I cannot tell. I looked about and I saw three men in the shadow of
the wood. Their faces were hidden from me, and I could not see them
clearly. One carried a rifle which he fired at me. Our rifles, mine and
that of my father, were lashed on the sled and I was helpless.”
“What did you do?” asked the corporal.
“I lashed the dogs and fled, clinging to the gee-pole. The trail was
good and I made speed. It was in my mind that the man with the rifle
would fire again, but he did not do so, though twice or thrice arrows
fell near me, and I knew that I was followed. It was in my mind that
when the pursuit was over I would go back, and I made for the woods on
the further side of the river, and when darkness came I crept down the
trail, and leaving my dogs crossed the river to the creek.”
“Yes? Yes? What did you find?”
“I found my father’s body gone, and at the head of the creek opposite a
cabin a camp was pitched and a fire lighted, and whilst I watched a man
left the camp and went towards the cabin. I could not see what he did,
but it is in my mind that the men in the camp keep watch on the cabin.”
“And your mistress? Did you see anything of her?”
“Nothing, but my mind says she is in the cabin, for it was thither she
went to see the sick white man. I thought once to attack the camp, but
the men there are three, and I am but a stripling and unused to battle.
Then I bethought me of Indians who live up the river. They are not good
Indians, but my father was known to them and I thought that maybe they
might give help. I was on my way there, when I caught the light of your
fire, and came here, hoping to find a white man, and I find you. It is
very good. You will go back? You will help?”
“Yes--I shall go back. I shall help. We must save your mistress. I know
the cabin on the creek and I know the sick man whom she went to see;
and I do not think she will come to any harm in that quarter. But the
men in the camp, who, as you think, watch the cabin, are different.
There is something there that I do not understand. But we will find out
... we will rest now, and in four hours we start. I will feed the dogs
again now, for there is a hard journey before us. The wind has changed
and the trail will soften in the morning.”
“Yes. It is from the south. The spring is knocking at the door, and
in a week the ice will grow rotten, but before then we will find my
mistress!”
“Yes,” answered the corporal simply. “We will find her.”
The Indian had disposed his blankets near the fire and within five
minutes was sound asleep. A little time later Sibou also slept, but
Corporal Bracknell made no attempt to close his eyes, since he knew
that for him sleep was impossible. He lit his pipe, and sat staring
into the fire, the prey of gnawing anxiety. The mystery of the men
in the camp who watched Dick Bracknell’s cabin, utterly confounded
him. Were they men whom his cousin had wronged during his none too
scrupulous career in the North? That was just possible. Daily, men
in those wild latitudes took the law into their own hands, enforcing
verdicts that not infrequently were more just than those of the law
itself. Were these men of that type? Then his mind dismissed the
suggestion. In that case why had they killed George, and attacked his
son, the lad who, overborne by his labours, was now sleeping there on
the other side of the fire?
They might be roving Indians. The use of arrows suggested that, but one
had a rifle---- Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his eyes staring widely,
as another possibility flashed through his mind.
“Adrian Rayner!”
He was appalled at the thought, but the more he dwelt upon it, the
stronger his suspicion grew. Adrian Rayner was in the North and he had
two Indians with him, “bad men,” as Chief Louis had said. The corporal
was morally certain that Rayner was the man who had made the attempt on
Dick Bracknell at North Star; and if he knew that he were still alive,
what more likely than that he should make a second attempt? There
was nothing surprising about that, but the attack on Joy Gargrave’s
party was something that passed his comprehension altogether. Try as
he would he could find no sufficient explanation for that, the one
possibility that presented itself to his mind being that Adrian Rayner
was for some reason anxious to make Joy dependent upon himself, and
so had deliberately set out to destroy her escort. Then the thought
suggested itself to him that after all he might be building on a false
assumption. The man responsible for the death of George, and for the
attack on the cabin, might not be Rayner at all.
Restlessly his mind groped among the possibilities which the mystery
suggested, and not once during the four hours that he had decreed for
rest did his eyes shut. At the end of that time he wakened Sibou, and,
impatient to get away himself, helped in the preparation for making a
start, allowing the boy Jim to sleep until the last available moment,
and when at last they took the trail he was conscious of relief. It was
at least something to feel that he was on his way to the help of Joy.
They travelled six hours and then made a halt for a brief rest and a
meal, afterwards resuming their way. As noon approached they found
the hard crust of the snow softening, and the going becoming harder,
but there was no slackening of effort, and late in the afternoon they
arrived at a point opposite the creek on the far side of the river.
There in the shadow of the woods they waited till darkness fell, and
then leaving the boy in charge of the dogs, the corporal and Sibou
crossed the river, and made a detour which would bring them out at the
head of the creek where the cabin was located.
They reached the neighbourhood of their objective in about an hour’s
time, and then moved forward with extreme caution, looking for the camp
which the boy had described as being opposite the cabin. But no glow
of blazing logs met their gaze, and the edge of the forest presented a
front of unbroken shadow. Sibou sniffed the air thoughtfully.
“There is no smell of fire,” he whispered.
“No!” answered the corporal, his anxiety suddenly trebled by the
thought that he had arrived too late.
They still crept forward, and then unexpectedly Sibou stopped, and
pointed to the ground. Roger Bracknell looked down and saw a blackened
circle in the snow where a fire had been lit.
“Here was the camp,” said the Indian, and then stopped and put his hand
on the ashes. “The fire is cold,” he said, as he stood upright again.
“It has been out for some time.”
For a moment they stood looking at each other, and then instinctively
both turned to look for the cabin. It stood like a shadow against the
deeper shadow of the woods behind it, silent, and with no sign of
occupation about it.
“Perhaps the men we seek are in the cabin,” whispered the corporal.
Again the Indian sniffed the air and then shook his head.
“No! They are not there. There is no fire. But we will go and find out.”
Carelessly, in his assurance, Sibou led the way across the creek, and
to the front of the cabin. The door was closed, and he hammered on it
with his rifle butt. There was no answer, and, feeling for the latch
string, he thrust a shoulder against the door. It did not yield.
“The door is barred,” he said aloud. “But there is no one within, or if
there is they be dead.”
“The window!” ejaculated the corporal, and began to run round the cabin.
Reaching the window, and observing the empty framework he felt for his
matches, and then hoisting himself up, with head and shoulders inside
the cabin, he struck a light and looked hastily round. The cabin was
empty. With something like a groan of despair he slipped back to the
ground, and looked at Sibou.
“There is no one here,” he said. “They are gone!”
The Indian nodded and stared at the empty frame thoughtfully, then
after a little time he spoke.
“The men of the camp are gone; and those who were in the hut are
gone--whither we know not; but those who were in the hut went out not
by the door, for the door is barred within. How did they leave the
cabin, then?” he jerked a hand upwards towards the window. “This way!
And wherefore? Because the men in the camp were watching the door, and
had left the window unguarded.”
“By Jove, yes,” cried the corporal, seized by new hope. “That does seem
more than likely.”
“Then the men in the camp discover that those whom they watch have
flown, and the cabin is empty. They want them badly, and they follow,
therefore we find the camp empty like the cabin.”
“Yes! Yes! But where have they gone? Which way in this God-forsaken
wilderness?”
“That we shall know when daylight comes. The snow will carry their
trail, and we can follow. Till then it were better to rest, for the
night withholds the knowledge.”
Corporal Bracknell recognized the wisdom of the Indian’s words, and
condemned to inaction until daylight, decided to make the best of it.
“Then there is nothing for it but to camp. And we may as well use the
cabin. Slip through the window, Sibou, and unbar the door, whilst I go
across for Jim and the dogs.”
Half an hour later a fire was roaring in the improvised stove, and
by its light Roger Bracknell wandered round the cabin, searching for
anything that would give him a clue to the mystery. He found nothing.
The hut, save for a couple of rifles reposing in the corner, and some
odds and ends of no importance, was quite empty. He looked at the
rifles and addressed himself to Sibou.
“Evidently the ammunition was exhausted.”
“Yes! Therefore the rifles were left. But the food was taken. Behold!”
The Indian pointed to a roughly made shelf, which corresponded to the
ordinary larder of a Klondyke cabin. There was nothing there but a
coffee-sack and an empty syrup-tin.
“They run from the men in the camp, and leave the rifles because
they are useless, but they take the food, and they have a start--one
hour--two hours--who can tell? But we follow in the morning and we find
both. That so?”
“Please God, yes!” answered the corporal earnestly.
Tired out with the labours of the day, Roger Bracknell slept long and
well, and woke a little after dawn with the smell of frying bacon
in his nostrils. The boy Jim was preparing breakfast, but Sibou was
nowhere to be seen. Questioning Jim, he learned that the Indian had
gone outside an hour before and had not yet returned. Hastily throwing
on his furs, the corporal passed outside, and as he did so, Sibou
appeared at the edge of the woods at the back of the cabin. There was
an impassive look on his mask-like face, but his eyes gleamed with
satisfaction.
“Well?” asked the corporal eagerly.
The Indian swept a hand towards the woods.
“That way have they gone. The double trail is there. Also there is a
dead man there!”
“A dead man?” cried the white man in sudden fear.
“An Indian! I know him not!”
“Take me to him,” said the corporal imperatively. Without a word Sibou
turned and led the way into the wood, and after a few minutes’ walk
Roger Bracknell found himself near the mouth of the creek, looking down
into the face of a dead man. He recognized him instantly.
“He is known to you?” asked Sibou.
“Yes, he is known to me. He was the servant of the white man who lived
in the cabin.”
“He was shot in the back with an arrow.” explained Sibou. “He must have
been looking down at the trail when he died.”
Roger Bracknell looked at the dead Indian for a little time without
speaking, then fear for what was to come shook him.
“Sibou,” he said, “we must make haste. There is not a moment to waste.
Those men in the camp are very desperate men. Two men already have died
at their hands, and they are now on the trail of the man who was in the
hut and of the ladies whom we seek. We must follow hard!”
“Yes, hard!” answered Sibou simply. “It is a trail of death!”
Half an hour later they were on the way once more. A south wind
was blowing, and they travelled with furs opened, for the day was
comparatively warm, and there were many signs that spring was at hand.
The trail they followed led through the forest for most of the time,
but towards the end of the day followed a tributary river, and here it
suddenly gathered itself together in a space of trampled snow, which
spoke of many pairs of feet. The corporal looked at it in perplexity
and watched Sibou, who circled round and round, seeking a solution of
the enigma the trampled snow presented.
“What do you make of it, Sibou?”
“I am not sure,” answered the Indian slowly. “Something strange has
happened. There has been a meeting here, for there are many footmarks,
and there is a trail which goes up the river, and the trail of the
ladies is not part of it.”
“But where are they? They certainly came here!”
“So!” answered Sibou. “And they went from here, since they are not to
be found in this place. It is in my mind that they were carried--for
there were dogs here as well as men.”
“But who----”
“Indians! The trail is not that of white men’s feet.”
“Then we must follow,” cried the corporal.
“Yes,” answered Sibou gravely. “We must follow. But I shall go first,
whilst you remain here. If I find nothing, then I shall be back in one
hour or two. It is in my mind that there is an encampment not far away,
and it is better that we do not take the dogs till we know. If they are
bad Indians----”
“In God’s name, hurry!” cried Roger Bracknell, his courage shaken by
the thought of the new danger into which Joy Gargrave appeared to have
fallen.