fastening the sledge traces MacVeigh bundled Little Mystery into her
thick fur coat. The sleeves caught, and he turned it back, exposing
the white edge of the lining. On that lining was something which drew
him down close, and when the strange cry that fell from his lips drew
Pelliter's eyes toward him he was staring down into Little Mystery's
upturned face with the look of one who saw a vision.
"Mother of Heaven!" he gasped, "she's--" He caught himself, and
smothered Little Mystery up close to him for a moment before he
brought her to the sledge. "She's the bravest little kid in the
world," he finished; and Pelliter wondered at the strangeness of his
voice. He tucked her into a nest made of blankets and then tied her in
securely with babiche rope. Pelliter stood up first and saw the
hungry, staring look in MacVeigh's face as he kept his eyes steadily
upon Little Mystery.
"What's the matter, Mac?" he asked. "Are you very much afraid-- for
her?"
"No," said MacVeigh, without lifting his head. "If you're ready,
Pelly, open the door." He rose to his feet and picked up his rifle. He
did not seem like the old MacVeigh; but the dogs were nipping and
whining, and there was no time for Pelliter's questions.
"I'm going out first, Billy," he said. "You can make up your mind
they're watching the cabin pretty close, and as soon as the dogs nose
the open air they'll begin yapping 'n' let 'em on to us. We can't risk
her under fire. So I'm going to back along the edge of the ridge and
give it to 'em as fast as I can work the gun. They'll all turn to me,
and that's the time for you to open the door and make your getaway.
I'll be with you inside of five minutes."
He turned out the lights as he spoke. Then he opened the door and
slipped out into the darkness without a protesting word from MacVeigh.
Hardly had he gone when the latter fell upon his knees beside Little
Mystery and in the deep gloom crushed his rough face down against her
soft, warm little body.
"So it's you, is it?" he cried, softly; and then he mumbled things
which the little girl could not possibly have understood.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door with a word to
faithful old Kazan, the leader.
From far down the snow-ridge there came the rapid firing of Pelliter's
rifle.
For a moment Billy waited, his hand on the door, to give the watching
Eskimos time to turn their attention toward Pelliter. He could perhaps
have counted fifty before he gave Kazan the leash and the six dogs
dragged the sledge out into the night. With his humanlike intelligence
old Kazan swung quickly after his master, and the team darted like a
streak into the south and west, giving tongue to that first sharp,
yapping voice which it is impossible to beat or train out of a band of
huskies. As he ran Billy looked back over his shoulder. In the
hundred-yard stretch of gray bloom between the cabin and the
snow-ridge he saw three figures speeding like wolves. In a flash the
meaning of this unexpected move of the Eskimos dawned upon him. They
were cutting Pelliter off from the cabin and his course of flight.
"Go it, Kazan!" he cried, fiercely, bending low over the leader.
"Moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh, old man!" And Kazan leaped into a
swift run, nipping and whining at the empty air.
Billy stopped and whirled about. Two other figures had joined the
first three, and he opened fire. One of the running Eskimos pitched
forward with a cry that rose shrill and scarcely human above the
moaning and roar of the ice-fields, and the other four fell flat upon
the snow to escape the hail of lead that sang close over their heads.
From the snow-ridge there came a fusillade of shots, and a single
figure darted like a streak in MacVeigh's direction. He knew that it
was Pelliter; and, running slowly after Kazan and the sledge, he
rammed a fresh clipful of cartridges into the chamber of his rifle.
The figures in the open had risen again, and Pelliter's automatic
Savage trailed out a stream of fire as he ran. He was breathing
heavily when he reached Billy.
"Kazan has got the kid well in the lead," shouted the latter. "God
bless that old scoundrel! I believe he's human."
They set off swiftly, and the thick night soon engulfed all signs of
the Eskimos. Ahead of them the sledge loomed up slowly, and when they
reached it both men thrust their rifles under the blanket straps. Thus
relieved of their weight, they forged ahead of Kazan.
"Moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh!" encouraged Billy.
He glanced at Pelliter on the opposite side. His comrade was running
with one arm raised at the proper angle to reserve breath and
endurance; the other hung straight and limp at his side. A sudden fear
shot through him, and he darted ahead of the lead dog to Pelliter's
side. He did not speak, but touched the other's arm.
"One of the little devil's winged me," gasped Pelliter. "It's not
bad."
He was breathing as though the short run was already winding him, and
without a word Billy ran up to Kazan's head and stopped the team
within twenty paces. The open blade of his knife was ripping up
Pelliter's sleeve before his comrade could find words to object.
Pelliter was bleeding, and bleeding hard. His face was shot with pain.
The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his forearm, but had
fortunately missed the main artery. With the quick deftness of the
wilderness-trained surgeon Billy drew the wound close and bound it
tightly with his own and Pelliter's handkerchiefs. Then he thrust
Pelliter toward the sledge.
"You've got to ride, Pelly," he said. "If you don't you'll go under,
and that means all of us."
Far behind them there rose the yapping and howling of dogs.
"They're after us with the dogs!" groaned Pelliter. "I can't ride.
I've got to run-- and fight!"
"You get on the sledge, or I'll stave your head in!" commanded
MacVeigh. "Face the enemy, Pelly, and give 'em hell. You've got three
rifles there. You can do the shooting while I hustle on the dogs. And
keep yourself in front of her," he added, pointing to the almost
completely buried Little Mystery.
XII
LITTLE MYSTERY FINDS HER OWN
After convincing Pelliter that he must ride on the sledge Billy ran on
ahead, and the dogs started with their heavier load.
"Now for the timber-line," he called down to Kazan. "It's fifty miles,
old boy, and you've got to make it by dawn. If we don't--"
He left the words unfinished, but Kazan tugged harder, as if he had
heard and understood. The sledge had reached the unbroken sweep of the
Barren now, and MacVeigh felt the wind in his face. It was blowing
from the north and west, and with it came sudden gusts filled with
fine particles of snow. After a few moments he fell back to see that
Little Mystery's face was completely covered. Pelliter was crouching
low on the sledge, his feet braced in the blanket straps. His wound
and the uncomfortable sensation of riding backward on a swaying sledge
were making him dizzy, and he wondered if what he saw creeping up out
of the night was a result of this dizziness or a reality. There was no
sound from behind. But a darker spot had grown within his vision, at
times becoming larger, then almost disappearing. Twice he raised his
rifle. Twice he lowered it again, convinced that the thing behind was
only a shadowy fabric of his imagination. It was possible that their
pursuers would lose trace of them in the darkness, and so he held his
fire.
He was staring at the shadow when from out of it there leaped a little
spurt of flame, and a bullet sang past the sledge, a yard to the
right. It was a splendid shot. There was a marksman with the shadow,
and Pelliter replied so quickly that the first shot had not died away
before there followed the second. Five times his automatic sent its
leaden messengers back into the night, and at the fifth shot there
came a wild outburst of pain from one of the Eskimo dogs.
"Hurrah!" shouted Billy. "That's one team out of business, Pelly. We
can beat 'em in a running fight!"
He heard the quick metallic snap of fresh cartridges as Pelliter
slipped them into the chamber of his rifle, but beyond that sound, the
wind, and the straining of the huskies there was no other. A grim
silence fell behind. The roar of the distant ice grew less. The earth
no longer seemed to shudder under their feet at the terrific
explosions of the crumbling bergs. But in place of these the wind was
rising and the fine snow was thickening. Billy no longer turned to
look behind. He stared ahead and as far as he could see on each side
of them. At the end of half an hour the panting dogs dropped into a
walk, and he walked close beside his comrade.
"They've given it up," groaned Pelliter, weakly. "I'm glad of it, Mac,
for I'm-- I'm-- dizzy." He was lying on the sledge now, with his head
bolstered up on a pile of blankets.
"You know how the wolves hunt, Pelly," said MacVeigh-- "in a
moon-shape half circle, you know, that closes in on the running game
from in front? Well, that's how the Eskimos hunt, and I'm wondering if
they're trying to get ahead of us-- off there, and off there." He
motioned to the north and the south.
"They can't," replied Pelliter, raising himself to his elbow with an
effort. "Their dogs are bushed. Let me walk, Mac. I can--" He fell
back with a sudden low cry. "Gawd, but I'm dizzy--"
MacVeigh halted the dogs, and while they dropped upon their bellies,
panting and licking up the snow, he kneeled beside Pelliter. Darkness
concealed the fear in his eyes and face. His voice was strong and
cheerful.
"You've got to lie still, Pelly," he warned, arranging the blankets so
that the wounded man could rest comfortably. "You've got a pretty bad
nip, and it's best for all of us that you don't make a move. You're
right about the Eskimos and their dogs. They're bushed, and they've
given the chase up as a bad job, so what's the use of making a fool of
yourself? Ride it out, Pelly. Go to sleep with Little Mystery if you
can. She thinks she's in a cradle."
He got up and started the dogs. For a long time he was alone. Little
Mystery was sleeping and Pelliter was quiet. Now and then he dropped
his mittened hand on Kazan's head, and the faithful old leader whined
softly at his touch. With the others it was different. They snapped
viciously, and he kept his distance. He went on for hours, halting the
team now and then for a few minutes' rest. He struck a match each time
and looked at Pelliter. His comrade breathed heavily, with his eyes
closed. Once, long after midnight, he opened them and stared at the
flare of the match and into MacVeigh's white face.
"I'm all right, Billy," he said. "Let me walk--"
MacVeigh forced him back gently, and went on. He was alone until the
first cold, gray break of dawn. Then he stopped, gave each of the dogs
a frozen fish, and with the fuel on the sledge built a small fire. He
scraped up snow for tea, and hung the pail over the fire. He was
frying bacon and toasting hard bannock biscuits when Pelliter aroused
himself and sat up. Billy did not see him until he faced about.
"Good morning, Pelly," he grinned. "Have a good nap?"
Pelliter groped about on the sledge.
"Wish I could find a club," he growled. "I'd-- I'd brain you! You let
me sleep!"
He thrust out his uninjured arm, and the two shook hands. Once or
twice before they had done this after hours of great peril. It was not
an ordinary handshake.
Billy rose to his feet. Half a mile away the edge of the big forest
for which they had been fighting rose out of the dawn gloom.
"If I'd known that," he said, pointing, "we'd have camped in shelter.
Fifty miles, Pelly. Not so bad, was it?"
Behind them the gray Barren was lifting itself into the light of day.
The two men ate and drank tea. During those few minutes neither gave
attention to the forest or the Barren. Billy was ravenously hungry.
Pelliter could not get enough of the tea. And then their attention
went to Little Mystery, who awoke with a wailing protest at the
smothering cover of blankets over her face. Billy dug her out and held
her up to view the strange change since yesterday. It was then that
Kazan stopped licking his ashy chops to send up a wailing howl.
Both men turned their eyes toward the forest. Halfway between a figure
was toiling slowly toward them. It was a man, and Billy gave a low cry
of astonishment.
But Kazan was facing the gray Barren, and he howled again, long and
menacingly. The other dogs took up the cry, and when Pelliter and
MacVeigh followed the direction of their warning they stood for a full
quarter of a minute as if turned into stone.
A mile away the Barren was dotted with a dozen swiftly moving sledges
and a score of running men!
After all, their last stand was to be made at the edge of the
timber-line!
In such situations men like MacVeigh and Pelliter do not waste
precious moments in prearranging actions in words. Their mental
processes are instantaneous and correlative-- and they act. Without a
word Billy replaced Little Mystery in her nest without even giving her
a sip of the warm tea, and by the time the dogs were straightened in
their traces Pelliter was handing him his Remington.
"I've ranged it for three hundred and fifty yards," he said. "We won't
want to waste our fire until they come that near."
They set out at a trot, Pelliter running with his wounded arm down at
his side. Suddenly the lone figure between them and the forest
disappeared. It had fallen flat in the snow, where it lay only a black
speck. In a moment it rose again and advanced. Both Pelliter and Billy
were looking when it fell for a second time.
An unpleasant laugh came from MacVeigh's lips.
The figure was climbing to its feet for the fifth time, and was only
on its hands and knees when the sledge drew up. It was a white man.
His head was bare, his face deathlike. His neck was open to the cold
wind, and, to the others' astonishment, he wore no heavier garment
over his dark flannel shirt. His eyes burned wildly from out of a
shaggy growth of beard and hair, and he was panting like one who had
traveled miles instead of a few hundred yards.
All this Billy saw at a glance, and then he gave a sudden unbelieving
cry. The man's red eyes rested on his, and every fiber in his body
seemed for a moment to have lost the power of action. He gasped and
stared, and Pelliter started as if stung at the words which came first
from his lips.
"Deane-- Scottie Deane!"
An amazed cry broke from Pelliter. He looked at MacVeigh, his chief.
He made an involuntary movement forward, but Billy was ahead of him.
He had flung down his rifle, and in an instant was on his knees at
Deane's side, supporting his emaciated figure in his arms.
"Good God! what does this mean, old man?" he cried, forgetting
Pelliter. "What has happened? Why are you away up here? And where--
where-- is she?"
He had gripped Deane's hand. He was holding him tight; and Deane,
looking up into his eyes, saw that he was no longer looking into the
face of the Law, but that of a brother. He smiled feebly.
"Cabin-- back there-- in edge-- woods," he gasped. "Saw you-- coming.
Thought mebbe you'd pass-- so-- came out. I'm done for-- dying."
He drew a deep breath and tried to assist himself as Billy raised him
to his feet. A little wailing cry came from the sledge. Startled,
Deane turned his eyes toward that cry.
"My God!" he screamed.
He tore himself away from Billy and flung himself upon his knees
beside Little Mystery, sobbing and talking like a madman as he clasped
the frightened child in his arms. With her he leaped to his feet with
new strength.
"She's mine-- mine!" he cried, fiercely. "She's what brought me back!
I was going for her! Where did you get her? How--"
There came to them now in sudden chorus the wild voice of the Eskimo
dogs out on the plain. Deane heard the cry and faced with the others
in their direction. They were not more than half a mile away, bearing
down upon them swiftly. Billy knew that there was not a moment to
lose. In a flash it had leaped upon him that in some way Deane and
Isobel and Little Mystery were associated with that avenging horde,
and as quickly as he could he told Deane what had happened. Sanity had
come back into Deane's eyes, and no sooner had he heard than he ran
out in the face of the army of little brown men with Little Mystery in
his arms. MacVeigh and Pelliter could hear him calling to them from a
distance. They were in the edge of the forest when Deane met the
Eskimos. There was a long wait, and then Deane and Little Mystery came
back-- on a sledge drawn by Eskimo dogs. Beside the sledge walked the
chief who had been wounded in the cabin at Fullerton Point. Deane was
swaying, his head was bowed half upon his breast, and the chief and
another Eskimo were supporting him. He nodded to the right, and a
hundred yards away they found a cabin. The powerful little northerners
carried him in, still clutching Little Mystery in his arms, and he
made a motion for Billy to follow him-- alone. Inside the cabin they
placed him on a low bunk, and with a weak cough he beckoned Billy to
his side. MacVeigh knew what that cough meant. The sick man had
suffered terrible exposure, and the tissue of his lungs was sloughing
away. It was death, the most terrible death of the north.
For a few moments Deane lay panting, clasping one of Billy's hands.
Little Mystery slipped to the floor and began to investigate the
cabin. Deane smiled into Billy's eyes.
"You've come again-- just in time," he said, quite steadily. "Seems
queer, don't it, Billy?"
For the first time he spoke the other's name as if he had known him a
lifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, and
in spite of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane saw
the look.
"She didn't come," he whispered. "I left her--"
He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to his
lips. Billy felt a choking grief.
"You must be quiet," he said. "Don't try to talk now. You have no
fire, and I will build one. Then I'll make you something hot."
He went to move away, but one of Deane's hands detained him.
"Not until I've said something to you, Billy," he insisted. "You
know-- you understand. I'm dying. It's liable to come any minute now,
and I've got to tell you-- things. You must understand-- before I go.
I won't be long. I killed a man, but I'm-- not sorry. He tried to
insult her-- my wife-- an' you-- you'd have killed him, too. You
people began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north-- among the
Eskimos-- an' lived there-- long time. The Eskimos-- they loved the
little girl an' wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels--
some sort. Then we heard you were goin' to hunt for me-- up there--
among the Eskimos. So we set out with the box. Box was for her-- to
keep her from fearful cold. We didn't dare take the baby-- so we left
her up there. We were going back-- soon-- after you'd made your hunt.
When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in the
box-- an' so-- so you found us. You know-- after that. You thought it
was-- coffin-- an' she told you I was dead. You were good-- good to
her-- an' you must go down there where she is, and take little Isobel.
We were goin' to do as you said-- an' go to South America. But we had
to have the baby, an' I came back. Should have told you. We knew
that-- afterward. But we were afraid-- to tell the secret-- even to
you--"
He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin,
cold hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting to
stifle the sobbing grief in his breath.
"You were good-- good-- good-- to her," repeated Deane, weakly, "You
loved her-- an' it was right-- because you thought I was dead an' she
was alone an' needed help. I'm glad-- you love her. You've been good--
'n' honest-- an I want some one like you to love her an' care for her.
She ain't got nobody but me-- an' little Isobel. I'm glad-- glad--
I've found a man-- like you!"
He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy's tense face
between them, staring straight into his eyes.
"An'-- an'-- I give her to you," he said. "She's an angel, and she's
alone-- needs some one-- an' you-- you'll be good to her. You must go
down to her-- Pierre Couchée's cabin-- on the Little Beaver. An'
you'll be good to her-- good to her--"
"I will go to her," said Billy, softly. "And I swear here on my knees
before the great and good God that I will do what an honorable man
should do!"
Deane's rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with a
sigh of relief.
"I worried-- for her," he said. "I've always believed in a God--
though I killed a man-- an' He sent you here in time!" A sudden
questioning light came into his eyes. "The man who stole little
Isobel," he breathed-- "who was he?"
"Pelliter-- the man out there-- killed him when he came to the cabin,"
said Billy. "He said his name was Blake-- Jim Blake."
"Blake! Blake! Blake!" Again Deane's voice rose from the edge of death
to a shriek. "Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with red
hair-- red beard-- yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake-- Blake--" He
sank back again, with a thrilling, half-mad laugh. "Then-- then it's
all been a mistake-- a funny mistake," he said; and his eyes closed,
and his voice spoke the words as though he were uttering them from out
of a dream.
Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man's
last words. Deane's hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white.
And then Deane whispered:
"We fought-- I thought I killed him-- an' threw him into the sea. His
right name was Samuelson. You knew him-- by that name-- but he went
often-- by Blake-- Jim Blake. So-- so-- I'm not a murderer-- after
all. An' he-- he came back for revenge-- and-- stole-- little--
Isobel. I'm-- I'm-- not-- a-- murderer. You-- you-- will-- tell-- her.
You'll tell her-- I didn't kill him-- after all. You'll tell her--
an'-- be-- good-- good--"
He smiled. Billy bent lower.
"Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorable
man should do," he replied.
Deane made no answer. He did not hear. The smile did not fade entirely
from his lips. But Billy knew that in this moment death had come in
through the cabin door. With a groan of anguish he dropped Deane's
stiffening hand. Little Isobel pattered across the floor to his side.
She laughed; and suddenly Billy turned and caught her in his arms,
and, crumpled down there on the floor beside the one brother he had
known in life, he sobbed like a woman.
XIII
THE TWO GODS
It was little Isobel who pulled MacVeigh together, and after a little
he rose with her in his arms and turned her from the wall while he
covered Deane's face with the end of a blanket. Then he went to the
door. The Eskimos were building fires. Pelliter was seated on the
sledge a short distance from the cabin, and at Billy's call he came
toward him.
"If you don't mind, you can take her over to one of the fires for a
little while," said Billy. "Scottie is dead. Try and make the chief
understand,"
He did not wait for Pelliter to question him, but closed the door
quietly and went back to Deane. He drew off the blanket and gazed for
a moment into the still, bearded face.
"My Gawd, an' she's waitin' for you, 'n' looking for you, an' thinks
you're coming back soon," he whispered. "You 'n' the kid!"
Reverently he began the task ahead of him. One after another he went
into Deane's pockets and drew forth what he found. In one pocket there
was a small knife, some cartridges, and a match box. He knew that
Isobel would prize these and keep them because her husband had carried
them, and he placed them in a handkerchief along with other things he
found. Last of all he found in Deane's breast pocket a worn and faded
envelope. He peered into the open end before he placed it on the
little pile, and his heart gave a sudden throb when he saw the blue
flower petals Isobel had given him. When he was done he crossed
Deane's hands upon his breast. He was tying the ends of the
handkerchief when the door opened softly behind him.