A HUNGRY PROWLER
For three hours Dick had been breaking-trail steadily and had reached
the point where his endurance was spent, where it seemed to him that to
take one more step would result in physical collapse. Behind him
straggled a perspiring, panting line of weary dogs and wearier men,
while ahead—snow; acre upon acre, mile upon mile, interminable,
never-ending—snow!
The sun of late afternoon shone brightly on the snow and made of it a
vast, brilliant, sparkling field of intolerable whiteness. To gaze for
any length of time into that field was impossible. The human eye wavered
before that blinding radiance, could not for long meet and hold its
glaring intensity. So it was that Dick looked down as he staggered on at
the head of the column, and so it was that every other member of the
party moved forward with bent head.
They were travelling northeast in the general direction of Keechewan
Mission. Keechewan Mission was at the end of an imaginary straight
line—a very straight line—beginning at the Mackenzie River barracks.
Sometimes, because of topographical obstructions—hills, ravines, dense
forests, and the like—the party was forced to deviate or detour from the
prescribed route. Naturally this wandering brought confusion. No one
knew with any degree of certainty whether, when they came back and
attempted to get on the right track again, they were a little east or a
little west or directly upon that imaginary line.
It was a problem that would have absorbed the interest of a navigator or
a civil engineer. To Dick, however, it was a hopeless tangle—blindly
guessing at something and hoping it would come out all right. More and
more he fell to consulting other members of the party, especially Toma,
who had a strong sense of direction, and who had been uncannily
successful in guiding Dick and Sandy on previous expeditions.
He was thinking of all this as he plodded wearily along. Perhaps even
now they were off the trail and would eventually come to grief in some
forbidding wasteland, far from the haunts of men.
He heard footsteps behind him and felt the weight of a hand upon his
shoulder.
“What—you break trail all time. You go back now an’ drive ’em my team
an’ ride a little while mebbe. Too hard break trail an’ no stop an’
rest.”
It was Toma, of course. Always faithful and observing. A ready champion
and trusted friend.
“It’s good of you,” Dick said wearily. “I am tired. My eyes hurt too.
This glare is terrible.”
“It very bad,” agreed the young Indian. “One dog driver back there,” he
pointed, “him almost snow-blind.”
“Glad you told me. Tonight when we make camp, I’ll send him to Dr.
Brady.”
Dick stepped to one side to permit Toma to pass.
“Very well, then, you’ll take my place. But have I been going right,
Toma? Don’t you think we ought to turn more to the left? I can’t imagine
why it is, why I feel that way, I mean, but I keep thinking that we’re
striking too far east.”
The Indian shook his head.
“No, I guess you go about right. Mebbe it no hurt to turn little more to
left.”
Dick vaguely wondered.
“Why do you believe our course is about right?” he asked.
“All right,” returned Toma, “I tell you. In morning an’ at night when
you look off that way,” Toma made a sweeping motion with one arm, “you
see ’em big hill. We go towards that. We keep hill in front of us. If we
go wrong on trail, big hill be one side or other—not in front. That’s
how I know.”
“Hill,” said Dick, puzzled. “I haven’t seen any.”
“Then you not look very good. Mebbe you not look right time. Morning
early, before sun him get too bright, you see ’em plain. Jus’ before
sunset another good time. Tonight you try it an’ see.”
“I will,” said Dick, as he turned back to drive Toma’s team. “You may
depend upon it.”
So, just before sunset, he called an early halt and while the other
members of the party unharnessed the teams and proceeded to make supper,
he climbed to the crest of a small hill and gazed off towards the
northeast. Shadows had already commenced to appear along the hollows and
ridges. There was no glare over the snow now. He could see for miles
across that forsaken, desolate land.
Yet at first he could see nothing that resembled a hill. Where the
horizon began, it was true, there reposed what looked like a bank of
mist, but which, unlike mist, remained perfectly stationary and
unchanging in form—a sort of purplish blotch against the blue background
of the sky.
This, he decided, must be the hill Toma referred to. It didn’t look like
one to his inexperienced eyes, yet hill it must be. The young Indian had
good eyesight and a vast knowledge of the North stored away in that
clever brain of his. At any rate, provided it didn’t disappear during
the night, he would use that hill or blotch, or whatever it was, as the
goal for tomorrow’s weary trek.
He returned to find supper waiting for him. The dog mushers sat huddled
around the blazing campfires, resting after their arduous day. Dick was
glad that he had called a halt earlier than usual. The physical strain
of tramping hour after hour through soft, yielding drifts had been
almost unendurable.
Usually after the evening meal, Dick remained beside the campfire to
talk with Sandy and Dr. Brady, but tonight he felt too tired. After he
had eaten, he bade his friends good-night and repaired to his tent,
where he was soon lost in sleep.
When he awakened, a blue darkness still enveloped the earth. It was very
early. He had a vague notion that he had been disturbed. Somewhere at
the back of his consciousness was the dim memory of voices and running
footsteps. But whether this was reality or a fragment of some vivid
dream, he could not say. He lay still for a few minutes, listening.
Satisfied, at length, that he had heard nothing, that it was all an
illusion, he turned on his side and attempted to go back to sleep. Just
then there broke across his hearing, unusually clear and distinct, a
shrill human cry. The cry was followed by the sound of a struggle and a
muffled groan.
In a flash, Dick was up and fumbling for a candle. He tore into his
clothes. He sprang to the tent opening and darted through—coatless,
hatless, a revolver gripped firmly in his right hand. He made his way
quickly toward the sound of struggling, arriving just as two men swayed
to their feet and seized each other in another desperate embrace.
In the darkness, it was impossible to tell who the two combatants were.
For the life of him, Dick could not guess their identity. However, he
advanced, gun held in readiness.
“Stop it! Stop it, I say. I have you covered.”
The two figures drew apart. Dick wondered if they weren’t two of his own
dog drivers, between whom ill-feeling existed, and who were employing
this method to settle their differences. Imagine his surprise when the
voice of Toma broke the quiet.
“Dick! You!” he puffed. “This fellow he put up pretty good fight. Twice
he almost get away.”
“But who is it?” Dick asked wonderingly. “Who is it, Toma?”
“Lamont,” answered the young Indian briefly.
Dick took a step forward and almost dropped his gun.
“Lamont!” he exploded. “Lamont! Lamont! It can’t be——”
“It is,” said Toma stubbornly. “Pretty soon you find out. You see I tell
you right.”
“But what in the name of—” Dick began, then paused breathless.
“Lamont—what’s he doing here? How did you happen to find him, Toma? What
were you fighting about?”
“I wake up over there in tent,” Toma explained, “when I hear something
go by. First I think mebbe it one of the huskies. Then I hear more noise
out by my sledge. I dress quick as I can an’ go out there. No
gun!—nothing! An’ I find him this thief try to steal. Soon as he hear
me, he start run over here, near your tent. I grab him by shoulder, but
he slip away again. More run. Again I catch him. I trip him down an’
grab him by his throat. Then he make yell.”
“You’ve done well, Toma,” Dick complimented him. “Good boy!”
He turned upon the panting culprit.
“Mighty glad you’ve come back. Very kind of you. This is a pleasure we
hadn’t expected,” he could not conceal, even in this attempt at sarcasm,
the satisfaction and relief the guide’s coming had brought. He seized
Lamont by the arm.
“Step lively now over to that tent. You’ve played your last little game
with me.”
Flourishing his gun, he sent the former guide staggering ahead with a
well-directed push.
“Get in there,” he thundered, “and be quick about it! We’ll have a
pleasant little talk—you and I. There are a few things I want to tell
you.”
He followed Lamont inside, motioning to Toma to follow him. In the
feeble light of the single fluttering candle eagerly he scanned the
downcast features of the man who had caused him so much misery and
trouble. He pointed to his bunk.
“Sit over there.”
For a moment he glowered, then:
“What were you doing here? Why did you come back?”
The guide looked up, his squint eye gleaming defiantly, his mouth
quivering with suppressed anger and humiliation.
Silence.
“Answer me!” shouted Dick.
Lamont’s eyes fell before the young leader’s unblinking gaze. His
fingers played nervously with the worn fringe of his short fur coat.
“If you don’t talk,” stormed Dick, “it will go hard with you. Why did
you come back?”
“I get lonesome,” lied Lamont. “I get lonesome all time out there
alone.”
“A very pretty story,” laughed Dick. “You come back in the middle of the
night because you were lonesome. You didn’t come back, of course, to
steal. Getting hungry, weren’t you? Thought you’d come over and sample
our supplies. Well, you failed. You’re a thief, Lamont, a dirty thief,
and when we arrive at Keechewan I’ll turn you over to Corporal Rand of
the mounted police. How’ll you like that, eh?”
At mention of the dreaded name, the guide stirred uneasily. He looked up
again, his features distorted with fear.
“I no help I come back,” his voice broke. “What else I do? I get hungry
like you say. You owe me money. What hurt I come here an’ get little
something to eat, get mebbe few dollars grub. Anyway,” he hurried on,
“you tell me no want me here. You say go.”
This, of course, was perfectly true. Dick had told Lamont that his
services were no longer required.
“Yes, I told you. But you had no right to come back here to steal. Now
you’ll be punished for it. You’ll remain with this party, Lamont. You’ll
work. You’ll break trail. You’ll guide us. I’ll watch you close, and
there’ll be a bullet for you if you try to escape. You won’t have an
easy time of it like you had before, Lamont.”
The guide did not answer. He merely sat and glared at his accuser. He
was nervous and ill at ease. Dick consulted his watch.
“It’s now four o’clock,” he announced to Toma. “Everyone will be awake
in two hours. We might as well stay up.”
Toma rose to his feet.
“I take this fellow over to my tent,” he said winking at his chum. “Him
hungry, very hungry, he say. All right, we make him start to work. He
get himself big breakfast. Get breakfast for you, me too. Start
campfire. Do plenty work.”
“That’s not a bad idea. I’ll go over with you.”
He motioned to Lamont to follow the young Indian outside, then remained
behind for a moment to blow out the candle. A short time later, they
stood around while Lamont worked.
The guide offered no objections. He was hungry, so hungry indeed, that
he would have worked gladly for hours for a mere crust.
Lamont, Toma and Dick were sitting around the fire at breakfast when the
camp awoke. Here and there a light flickered through the gloom. The
plaintive howling of the malemutes and huskies. Drowsy human voices. The
sharp, quick blows of an ax, crackling brush. Ruddy flames leaping up,
brighter and brighter. More noise and bustle and confusion.
They were still sitting there, when Dr. Brady and Sandy appeared. The
pair of them came up, laughing, but, at sight of Lamont wolfing his
food, they paused in sheer wonderment.
Dick beckoned to them.
“It’s all right, doctor. Don’t hesitate, Sandy. Come on over. He’s
perfectly harmless. Permit me to introduce him to you. Gentlemen,” he
grinned, “Mr. Martin Lamont—our guide!”