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[Illustration: THE SNOW-BURNER TOPPLED AND FELL FACE DOWNWARD ON THE
GROUND]
THE SNOW-BURNER
BY HENRY OYEN
Author of "The Man-Trail"
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1916,
By George H. Doran Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT 1914, 1915, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY
CONTENTS
PART ONE: THE NATURAL MAN
I. "Help!" 9
II. The Girl 16
III. Toppy Gets A Job 21
IV. "Hell-Camp" Reivers 31
V. Toppy Overhears a Conversation 39
VI. "Nice Boy!" 44
VII. The Snow-Burner's Creed 51
VIII. Toppy Works 62
IX. A Fresh Start 67
X. The Duel Begins 74
XI. "Hell-Camp" Court 77
XII. Toppy's First Move 94
XIII. Reivers Replies 100
XIV. "Joker and Deuces Wild" 106
XV. The Way of the Snow-Burner 115
XVI. The Screws Tighten 131
XVII. Tilly's Warning 139
XVIII. "Canny by Nature" 145
XIX. The Fight 150
XX. Toppy's Way 162
XXI. The End of the Boss 165
PART TWO: THE SUPER MAN
XXII. The Cheating of the River 175
XXIII. The Girl Who Was Not Afraid 183
XXIV. The Woman's Way 193
XXV. Gold! 202
XXVI. The Look in a Woman's Eyes 212
XXVII. On the Trail of Fortune 219
XXVIII. The Snow-Burner Hunts 229
XXIX. The White Man's Will 233
XXX. Any Means to an End 238
XXXI. The Squaw-Man 241
XXXII. The Scorn of a Pure Woman 245
XXXIII. Shanty Moir 251
XXXIV. The Bargain 256
XXXV. The Test of the Bottle 261
XXXVI. The Snow-Burner Begins To Weaken 265
XXXVII. Into the Jaws of the Bear 270
XXXVIII. MacGregor Roy 277
XXXIX. James MacGregor's Story 283
XL. The White Man's Sentiment 293
XLI. Shanty-Moir-Temperance Advocate 301
XLII. The Snow-Burner Works for Two 305
XLIII. "The Penalty of a White Man's Mind" 309
XLIV. The Madness of "Hell-Camp" Reivers 316
XLV. A Surprise for Shanty Moir 320
XLVI. A Fight that was a Fight 327
XLVII. The Snow-Burner Pays 332
THE SNOW BURNER
PART ONE: THE NATURAL MAN
CHAPTER I--HELP
The brisk November sunrise, breaking over the dark jack-pines, lighted
up the dozen snow-covered frame buildings comprising the so-called town
of Rail Head, and presently reached in through the uncurtained windows
of the Northern Light saloon, where it shone upon the curly head of
young Toppy Treplin as, pillowed on his crossed forearms, it lay in
repose on one of the saloon tables.
It was a sad, strange place to find Toppy Treplin, one-time All-American
halfback, but for the last four years all-around moneyed loafer and
waster. Rail Head was far from the beaten path. It lay at the end of
sixty miles of narrow-gauge track that rambled westward into the Big
Woods from the Iron Range Railroad line, and it consisted mainly of a
box-car depot, an alleged hotel and six saloons--none of the latter being
in any too good repute with the better element round about.
The existence of the saloons might have explained Toppy's presence in
Rail Head had their character and wares been of a nature to attract one
of his critical tastes; but in reality Toppy was there because the Iron
Range Limited, bearing Harvey Duncombe's private hunting-car, had
stopped for a moment the night before out where the narrow-gauge met the
Iron Range Railroad tracks.
Toppy, at that fated moment, was out on the observation platform alone.
There had been a row and Toppy had rushed out in a black rage. Within,
the car reeked with the mingled odours of cigarette-smoke and spilled
champagne. Out of doors the first snowfall of the season, faintly tinted
by a newly risen moon, lay unmarked, undefiled.
A girl--small, young, brisk and business-like--alighted from the car ahead
and walked swiftly across the station platform to the narrow-gauge train
that stood waiting. The anger and champagne raging in him had moved
Toppy to one of those wild pranks which had made his name among his
fellows synonymous with irresponsibility.
He would get away from it all, away from Harvey Duncombe and his
champagne, and all that sort of thing. He would show them!
Toppy had stepped off. The Limited suddenly glided away. Toppy lurched
over to the narrow gauge, and that was the last thing he had remembered
of that memorable night.
As the sun now revealed him, Mr. Robert Lovejoy Treplin, in spite of his
deplorable condition, was a figure to win attention of a not entirely
unfavourable sort. Still clad in mackinaw and hunting-clothes, his two
hundred pounds of bone and muscle and just a little too much fat were
sprawled picturesquely over the chair and table, the six-foot
gracefulness of him being obvious despite his rough apparel and awkward
position.
His cap had fallen off and the sun glinted on a head of boyish brown
curls. It was only in the lazy, good-natured face, puffy and
loose-lipped, that one might read how recklessly Toppy Treplin had lived
since achieving his football honours four years before.
The sun crept up and found his eyes, and Toppy stirred. Slowly, even
painfully, he raised his head from the table and looked around him. The
crudeness of his surroundings made him sit up with a start. He looked
first out of the window at the snow-covered "street." Across the way he
saw a small, unpainted building bearing a scraggly sign, "Hotel." Beyond
this the jack-pines loomed in a solid wall.
Toppy shuddered. He turned his face toward the man behind the bar, who
had been regarding him for some time with a look of mingled surprise and
amusement. Toppy shuddered again.
The man was a half-breed, and he wore a red woollen shirt. Worse, there
was not a sign of a mirror behind the bar. It was distressing.
"Good morning, brother," said Toppy, concealing his repugnance. "Might I
ask you for a little information this pleasant morning?"
The half-breed grinned appreciatively but sceptically.
"Little drink, I guess you mean, don't you?" said he. "Go 'head."
Toppy bowed courteously.
"Thank you, brother, thank you. I am sorely puzzled about two little
matters--where am I anyway, and if so, how did I get here?"
The grin on the half-breed's face broadened. He pointed at the table in
front of Toppy.
"You been sleeping there since 'bout midnight las' night," he exclaimed.
Toppy waved his left hand to indicate his displeasure at the inadequacy
of the bartender's reply.
"Obvious, my dear Watson, obvious," he said. "I know that I'm at this
table, because here I am; and I know I've been sleeping here because I
just woke up. Let's broaden the range of our information. What town is
this, if it is a town, and if it is, how did I happen to come here, may
I ask?"
The half-breed's grin disappeared, gradually to give place to an
expression of amazement.
"You mean to say you come to this town and don't know what town it is?"
he demanded. "Then why you come? What you do here?"
Toppy's brow corrugated in an expression of deep puzzlement.
"That's another thing that's rather puzzling, too, brother," he replied.
"Why did I come? I'd like to know that, too. Like very, very much to
know that. Where am I, how did I come here, and why? Three questions I'd
like very, very much to have answered."
He sat for a moment in deep thought, then turned toward the bartender
with the pleased look of a man who has found an inspiration.
"I tell you what you do, brother--you answer the first two questions and
in the light of that information I'll see if I can't ponder out the
third."
The half-breed leaned heavily across the single-plank bar and watched
Toppy closely.
"This town is Rail Head," he said slowly, as if speaking to some one of
whose mental capacity he had great doubts. "You come here by last
night's train. You bring the train-crew over to have a drink; then you
fall asleep. You been sleeping ever since. Now you remember?"
"Ah!"
The puzzled look went out of Toppy's eyes.
"Now I remember. Row with Harvey Duncombe. Wanted me to drink two to his
one. Stepped outside. Saw little train. Saw little girl. Stepped off big
train, got on little train, and here I am. Fine little business."
"You went to sleep in the train coming up, the conductor told me,"
volunteered the half-breed. "You told them you wanted to go as far as
you could, so they took you up here to the end of the line. You remember
now, eh, why you come here?"
"Only too well, brother," replied Toppy wearily. "I--I just came to see
your beautiful little city."
The bartender laughed bitterly.
"You come to a fine place. Didn't you ever hear 'bout Rail Head?" he
asked. "I guess not, or you wouldn't have come. This town's the
jumping-off place, that's what she is. It's the most God-forsaken,
hopeless excuse for a town in the whole North Country. There's only two
kind of business here--shipping men out to Hell Camp and skinning them
when they come back. That's all. What you think of that for a fine town
you've landed in, eh?"
"Fine," said Toppy. "I see you love it dearly, indeed."
The half-breed nodded grimly.
"It's all right for me; I own this place. Anybody else is sucker to come
here, though. You ain't a Bohunk fool, so I don't think you come to hire
out for Hell Camp. You just got too drunk, eh?"
"I suppose so," said Toppy, yawning. "What's this Hell Camp thing?
Pleasant little name."
"An' pleasant little place," supplemented the man mockingly. "Ain't you
never heard 'bout Hell Camp? 'Bout its boss--Reivers--the 'Snow-Burner'?
Huh! Perhaps you want hire out there for job?"
"Perhaps," agreed Toppy. "What is it?"
"Oh, it ain't nothing so much. Just big log-camp run by man named
Reivers--that's all. Indians call him Snow-Burner. Twenty-five, thirty
miles out in the bush, at Cameron Dam. That's all. Very big camp.
Everybody who comes to this town is going out there to work, or else
hiding out."
"I see. But why the name?"
"Hell Camp?" The bartender's grin appeared again; then, as if a second
thought on the matter had occurred to him, he assumed a noncommittal
expression and yawned. "Oh, that's just nickname the boys give it. You
see, the boys from camp come to town here in the Spring. Then sometimes
they raise ----. That's why some people call it Hell Camp. That's all.
Cameron Dam Camp is the right name."
"I see." Toppy was wondering why the man should take the trouble to lie
to him. Of course he was lying. Even Toppy, with his bleared eyes, could
see that the man had started to berate Hell Camp even as he had berated
Rail Head and had suddenly switched and said nothing. It hurt Toppy's
head. It wasn't fair to puzzle him this morning. "I see. Just--just a
nickname."
"That's all," said the bartender. Briskly changing the subject he said:
"Well, how 'bout it, stranger? You going to have eye-opener this
morning?"
"I suppose so," said Toppy absently. He again turned his attention to
the view from the window. On the low stairs of the hotel were seated
half a dozen men whose flat, ox-like faces and foreign clothing marked
them for immigrants, newly arrived, of the Slavic type. Some sat on
wooden trunks oddly marked, others stood with bundles beneath their
arms. They waited stolidly, blankly, with their eyes on the hotel door,
as oxen wait for the coming of the man who is going to feed them. Toppy
looked on with idle interest.
"I didn't think you could see anything like that this far away from
Ellis Island," he said. "What are those fellows, brother?"
"Bohunks," said the bartender with a contemptuous jerk of the head.
"They waiting to hire out for the Cameron Dam Camp. The agent he comes
to the hotel. Well, what you going to have?"
"Bring me a whisky sour," said Toppy, without taking his eyes off the
group across the street. The half-breed grinned and placed before him a
bottle of whisky and a glass. Toppy frowned.
"A whisky sour, I said," he protested.
"When you get this far in the woods," laughed the man, "they all come
out of one bottle. Drink up."
Once more Toppy shuddered. He was bored by this time.
"Your jokes up here are worse than your booze," he said wearily.
He poured out a scant drink and sat with the glass in his hand while his
eyes were upon the group across the street. He was about to drink when a
stir among the men drew his attention. The door of the hotel opened
briskly. Toppy suddenly set down his glass.
The girl who had got on the narrow-gauge out at the junction the night
before had come out and was standing on the stairs, looking about her
with an expression which to Toppy seemed plainly to spell, "Help!"