THE OUT-WORLD
Awe was the dominating emotion. Wonder looked out of eyes that have
long become accustomed to the crude marvels of nature to be found in
the northland. The men of Kars' expedition were gazing down upon the
savage splendor of the Promised Land.
But the milk and honey were lacking. The dream of peace, of delight
was not in these men. Their Promised Land must hold something more
substantial than the mere comforts of the body. That substance they
knew lay there, there ahead of them, but only to be won by supreme
effort against contending forces, human and natural.
They had halted at the highest point of a great saddle lying between
two snow-crowned hills. Peaks towered mightily above the woodlands
clothing their wide slopes, and shining with alabaster splendor in the
sunlight.
It was the first glimpse of the torn land of the ominous Bell River
gorge.
The sight of the gorge made them dizzy. The width, the depth, left an
impression of infinite immensity upon the mind, an overwhelming
hopelessness. Men used to mountain vastness all the days of their
lives were left speechless for moments, while their searching eyes
sought to measure the limits of this long hidden land.
The mountains beyond, about them. The broken, tumbled earth, yawning
and gaping in every direction. The forests of primordial origin. The
snows which never yield their grip upon their sterile bed. And then
the depths. Those infinite depths, which the human mind can never
regard unmoved.
The long, toilsome journey lay behind them. The goal lay awaiting the
final desperate assault, with all its traps and hidden dangers. What a
goal to have sought. It was like the dragon-guarded storehouse of the
crudest folk-lore.
The white men stood apart from their Indian supporters. Kars knew the
scene. He was observing the faces of the men who were gazing upon the
gorge for the first time. They were full of interest. But it was left
to Bill to interpret the general feeling in concrete form.
"They're reckoning up the chances they've taken 'blind,'" he said.
Kars laughed.
"Sure." Then he added: "And none of them are 'squealers.' Chances
'blind,' or any others, need to be taken, or it's a long time living.
It's the thing the northland rubs into the bones."
"Folks are certainly liable to pass it quicker that way."
Bill's shrewd eyes twinkled as he read the reckless spirit stirring
behind the lighting eyes of his friend.
Kars laughed again. It was the buoyant laugh of a man full of the
great spirit of adventure, and whose lust is unshadowed by a single
care.
"Chances _are_ Life, Bill. All of it. The other? Why, the other's
just making a darn fool of old Prov. And I guess old Prov hates being
made a darn fool of."
But for all Kars' reckless spirit he possessed the wide sagacity and
vigorous responsibility of a born leader. It was this which inspired
the men he gathered about him. It was this which claimed their
loyalty. It was partly this which made Bill Brudenell willingly
abandon his profitable labors in a rich city for the hardship of a life
at his friend's side. Perhaps the other part was that somewhere under
Bill's hardly acquired philosophy there lurked a spirit in perfect
sympathy with that which actuated the younger man. There was not a day
passed but he deplored to himself the stupendous waste of energy and
time involved. But he equally reveled in outraging his better sense,
and defying the claims of his life in Leaping Horse.
No less than Kars he reveled in the sight of the battle-field which lay
before them.
Abe Dodds and Saunders gazed upon it, too. It was their first sight of
it, and their view-points found prompt expression, each in his own way.
"Say, this place kind o' makes you feel old Dante was a libelous guy
who'd oughter be sent to penitentiary," Abe remarked pensively. "Guess
we'll likely find old whiskers waiting around with his boat when we get
on down to the river. Still, it's consoling to figger up the cost o'
coaling hell north of 'sixty.'"
An unsmiling nod of agreement came from his companion.
"Makes me feel I bin soused weeks," he said earnestly. He pointed down
at the forbidding walls enclosing the river. "That's jest mist around
ther', ain't it? It ain't--smoke nor nothin'. An' them hills an'
things. They are hills? They ain't the rim of a darn fool pit that
ain't got bottom to it? An' them folks--movin' around down there.
They are folks? They ain't--things?"
Both men laughed. But their amusement was wide-eyed and wondering.
Kars' half military caravan labored its way forward. It made its own
path through virgin woodland breaks, which had known little else than
wild or Indian life since the world began. There were muskegs to
avoid. Broken stretches of tundra, trackless, treacherous. Cruel
traps which only patience, labor, skill and great courage could avoid.
Apart from all chances of hostile welcome the Bell River approaches
claimed all the mental and physical sweat of man.
The movements of the outfit if slow were sure, and seemingly
inevitable. The days of labor were followed by nights of watchful
anxiety and council. Nature's batteries were against them. But the
lurking human danger was even more serious in the minds of these men.
Nature they knew. They had learned her arts of war, and their counters
were studied, and the outcome of fierce experience. But the other was
new, or, at least, sufficiently new to require the straining of every
nerve to meet it successfully, should it come. They were under no
delusions on the subject. Come it would. How? Where? But more than
all--when?
For all their skill, for all their well-thought organization, these men
could not hope to escape scathless against the forces of nature opposed
to them. They lost horses in the miry hollows. The surgical skill of
Dr. Bill was frequently needed for the drivers and packmen. There was
a toll of material, too.
The land seemed scored with narrow chasms, the cause of which was
beyond all imagination. There were cul-de-sacs which possessed no
seeming rhyme or reason. Time and again the advancing scout party,
seeking the better road, found itself trapped in valleys of muskeg with
no other outlet than the way by which it had entered. Wherever the eye
searched, rugged rock facets, with ragged patches of vegetation growing
in the crevices confronted them. It was a maze of desolation, and
magnificent hills and forests of primordial growth. It was as crude
and half complete in the days when the waters first receded.
But the lure of the precious metal was in every heart. Even Kars lay
under its fascination once more, now that the strenuous goal lay within
sight. He knew it was there, and in great quantities. And, for all
the saner purposes he had in his mind, its influence made itself deeply
felt.
The gold seeker, be he master or wage earner, is beyond redemption.
Murray McTavish had said that all men north of "sixty" were wage
slaves. He might have included all the world. But the truth of his
assertion was beyond all question. Not a man in the outfit Kars had
organized but was a wage slave, down to the least civilized Indian who
labored under a pack.
Bodily ease counted for nothing. These men were inured to all
hardship. They were men who had committed themselves to a war against
the elements, a war against all that opposed them in their hunger for
the wage they were determined to tear from the frigid bosom of an earth
which they regarded as the vulture regards carrion.
The days of labor were long and many. Hardship piled up on hardship,
as it ever does in the spring of the northland. There was no ease for
leader or man. Only labor, unceasing, terrific.
Kars moved aside from the Bell River Indian encampment. He passed to
the west of it, beyond all sight of the workings he had explored on the
memorable night of his discovery. And he took the gorge from the
north, seeking its heart for his camp, on the wide foreshore beyond the
dumps of pay dirt which had first yielded him their secret.
It was a movement which precluded all possibility of legitimate
protest. And since this territory was all unscheduled in the
government of the Yukon, it was his for just as long as he could hold
it. The whole situation was treated as though no other white influence
were at work. It was treated as a peaceful invasion of Indian
territory, and, as is usual in such circumstances, the Indian was
ignored. It was an illustration of white domination. In Bill
Brudenell's words "they were throwing a big bluff."
But for all their ignoring of the Indians, the outfit was under the
closest observation. There was not a moment, not a foot of its way,
that was not watched over by eyes that saw, and for the most part
remained unseen. But this invisibility was not always the rule.
Indians in twos and threes were frequently encountered. They were the
undersized northern Indian of low type, who had none of the splendid
manhood of the tribes further south. But each man was armed with a
more or less modern rifle, and garments of crudely manufactured furs
replaced the romantic buckskin of their southern brethren.
These men came round the camps at night. They foregathered silently,
and watched, with patient interest, the work going on. They offered no
friendship or welcome. They made no attempt to fraternize in any way.
Their unintelligent faces were a complete blank, in so far as they
displayed any understanding of what they beheld.
The men of the outfit were in nowise deceived. They knew the purpose
of these visits. These creatures were there to learn all that could
serve the purposes of their leaders. They were testing the strength of
these invaders. And they were permitted to prosecute their
investigations without hindrance. It was part of the policy Kars had
decided upon. The "bluff," as Bill had characterized it, was to be
carried through till the enemy "called."
Two weeks from the day when the gorge had been sighted, the permanent
camp was completely established. Furthermore, the work of the gold
"prospect" had been begun under the fierce energy of Abe Dodds, and the
thirst-haunted Saunders. Theirs it was to explore and test the great
foreshore, and to set up the crude machinery.
The first day's report was characteristic of the mining engineer. He
returned to his chief, who was organizing the camp with a view to
eventualities. There was a keen glitter in his hollow eyes as he made
his statement. There was a nervous restraint in his whole manner. He
chewed unmercifully as he made his unconventional statement.
"The whole darn place is full of 'color,'" he said. "Ther' ain't any
sort o' choice anywhere, 'less you set up machinery fer the sake o' the
scenery."
"Then we'll set up the sluices where we can best protect them," was
Kars' prompt order.
So the work proceeded with orderly haste.
Further up the stream the Indians swarmed about their "placers." Their
washings went on uninterruptedly. They, too, were playing a hand, with
doubtless a keen head controlling it. The invasion seemed to trouble
them not one whit. But this steady industry, and aloofness, was ample
warning for the newcomers. It was far more deeply significant than any
prompt display of hostility.
Kars spared neither himself nor his men. Every soul of his outfit knew
they were passing through the moments immediately preceding the battle
which must be fought out. Each laborious day was succeeded by a night
which concealed possible terrors. Each golden sunrise might yield to
the blood-red sunset of merciless war. And the odds were wide against
them, and could only be bridged by determination and skilful
leadership. Great, however, as the odds were, these men were before
all things gold seekers, all of them, white and colored, and they were
ready to face them, they were ready to face anything in the world for
the golden wage they demanded.
It was nearing the end of the first week. The mining operations were
in full swing under the guidance of Abe Dodds and Saunders. Kars and
Bill were left free to regard only the safety of the enterprise, and to
complete the preparations for defence. To this end they were out on an
expedition of investigation.
Their investigations had taken them across the river directly opposite
the camp. The precipitous walls of the gorge at this point were clad
in dark woods which rose almost from the water's edge. But these woods
were not the only thing which demanded attention. There was a water
inlet to the river hidden amongst their dark aisles. Furthermore, high
up, overlooking the river, a wide ledge stood out from the wall, and
that which had been discovered upon it was not without suspicion in
their minds.
For some moments after landing Kars stood looking back across the
river. His searching gaze was taking in every detail of the defences
he had set up across the water. When he finally turned it was to
observe the watercourse cascading down a great rift in the walls of the
gorge.
"Guess this is the weak link, Bill," he said. "It's a way down to the
water's edge. The only way down in a stretch of two miles on this
side. And it's plumb in front of us."
Bill nodded agreement.
"Sure. And that queer old shack half-way up. We best make that right
away."
The canoe was hauled clear of the racing stream, and left secure. Then
they moved up the rocky foreshore where the inlet had cut its way
through the heart of the woods.
It was a curious, almost cavernous opening. Nor was there a detail of
it that was not water-worn as far up the confining walls of drab rock
as the eyes could see.
Once within the entrance, however, the scene was completely changed,
and robbed of the general sternness which prevailed outside. It was
not without some charm.
The split was far greater than had seemed from the distance. It was a
tumbled mass of tremendous boulders, amidst which the forest of
primordial pines found root room where none seemed possible, and craned
their ragged heads towards the light so far above them. And, in the
midst of this confusion, the mountain stream poured down from heights
above, droning out its ceaseless song of movement in a cadence that
seemed wholly out of place amidst such surroundings.
The whole place was burdened under a semi-twilight, induced by the
crowning foliage so frantically jealous of its rights. Of undergrowth
there was no vestige. Only the deep carpet of cones and pine needles,
which clogged the crevices, and frequently concealed pitfalls for the
steps of those sufficiently unwary. This, and a general saturation
from the spray of the falling waters, left the upward climb something
more than arduous.
It was nearly an hour later when the two men stood on the narrow
plateau cut in the side of the gorge, and overlooking the great river.
It yielded a perfect view of the vastness of the amazing reach.
Below them, out of the solid walls, wherever root-hold offered, the
lean pines thrust their crests to a level with them. Above, where the
slope of the gorge fell back at an easier angle, black forests covered
the whole face for hundreds of feet towards the cloud-flecked skies.
These men, however, were all unconcerned with the depths or the
heights, for all their dizzy splendor. A habitation stood before them
sheltered by a burnt and tumbled stockade. And to practical
imagination it held a significance which might have deep enough meaning.
They stood contemplating the litter for some moments. And in those
moments it told them a story of attack and defence, and finally of
defeat. The disaster to the defenders was clearly told, and the
question in both their minds was the identity of those defeated.
John Kars approached the charred pile where it formed the least
obstruction, and his eyes searched the staunch but dilapidated shack,
with its flat roof. Battered, it still stood intact, hard set against
the slope of the hill. Its green log walls were barkless. They were
weather-worn to a degree that suggested many, many years and cruel
seasons. But its habitable qualities were clearly apparent.
Bill Brudenell was searching in closer detail. It was the difference
between the two men. It was the essential difference in their
qualities of mind. He was the first to break the silence between them.
"Get a look," he said abruptly. "There! There! And there! All over
the darn old face of it. Bullet holes. Hundreds of them. And
seemingly from every direction. Say, it must have been a beautiful
scrap."
"And the defenders got licked--poor devils."
Kars was pointing down at the strewn bones lying amongst the fallen
logs. Beyond them, inside the boundary of the stockade lay a skull, a
human skull, as clean and whitened as though centuries had passed since
it lost contact with the frame which had supported it.
Bill moved to it. His examination was close and professional.
"Indian," he said at last, and laid it back on the ground with almost
reverent care.
He turned his eyes upon the shanty once more. Two other piles of human
bones, picked as clean as carrion birds could leave them, passed under
his scrutiny, but he was no longer concerned with them. The hut
absorbed his whole interest now, and he moved towards its open doorway
with Kars at his heels. They passed within.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the indifferent light, more of the
story of the place was set out for their reading. There were some
ammunition boxes. There were odds and ends of camp truck. But nothing
of any value remained, and the fact suggested, in combination with the
other signs, the looting of a victorious foe.
Kars was the first to offer comment.
"Do you guess it's possible----?"
"Allan held this shack?" Bill nodded. "These are all white men signs.
Those ammunition boxes. They're the same as we've loaded up at the
Fort many times. Sure. Allan held this shack, but he didn't die here.
Murray found what was left of him down below, way down the river.
Maybe he held this till his stores got low. Then he made a dash for
it, and--found it. It makes me sick thinking. Let's get out."
He turned away to the door and Kars followed him.
Kars had nothing to add. The picture of that hopeless fight left him
without desire to investigate further. It was almost the last fight of
the man who had made the happiness he now contemplated possible. His
heart bled for the girl who he knew had well-nigh worshiped her "daddy."
But Bill did not pass the doorway. At that moment the sharp crack of a
rifle split the air, and set the echoes of the gorge screaming. A
second later there was the vicious "spat" of a bullet on the sorely
tried logs of the shack. He stepped back under cover. But not before
a second shot rang out, and another bullet struck, and ricochetted,
hurtling through the air to lose itself in the pine woods above him.
"The play's started," was his undisturbed comment.
Kars nodded and his eyes lit. The emotions of the moment before had
fallen from him.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "Now for Mister Louis Creal."
Bill turned, and his twinkling eyes were thoughtful as they regarded
his friend.
"Ye-es."
But Kars was paying small attention. His eyes were shining with a
light such as is only seen in those who contemplate the things their
heart is set upon. In his mind there was no doubt, only conviction.
"We're not fighting those poor, darn-fool neches who fired those
shots," he cried in a sudden break from his usual reticence. "Maybe
they're the force but they aren't the brain. The brain behind this
play is Mister Louis Creal. Say, this thing's bigger than we guessed.
This Louis Creal runs these workings. Guess he's been running them
since the beginning. He's been running them in some sort of
partnership with the men at the Fort. He was Allan's partner, if I'm
wise to anything. He was Allan's partner and Murray's. And Allan was
murdered right here. He was murdered by these poor darn neches. And
the brain behind them was Louis Creal's. Do you get it now? Oh, it's
easy. That half-breed's turned, as they always turn when it suits
them. He's turned on his partners. And Murray knows it. That's why
Murray's got in his arms. It's clear as daylight. There's a
three-cornered scrap coming. Murray's going to clean out this outfit,
or lose his grip on the gold lying on this river for the picking up.
And Murray don't figger to lose a thing without a mighty big kick--and
not gold anyway. This feller, Creal, located us, and figgers to wipe
us off his slate. See? Say, Bill, I guessed long ago Bell River was
going to hand us some secrets. I guessed it would tell us how Allan
Mowbray died. Well, Louis Creal's going to pay. He's going to pay
good. Murray's wise. Gee, I can't but admire. Another feller would
have shouted. Another feller would have told the womenfolk all he
discovered when he found Allan Mowbray murdered. Can't you get his
play? He was Allan's friend. He kind of hoped to marry Jessie--some
day. He worked the whole thing out. He guessed he'd scare Mrs.
Mowbray and Jessie to death if he told them all that had happened. He
didn't want them scared, or they might quit the place. So he just
blamed the neches, and let if go at that. He handled the proposition
himself. There was Alec. He didn't guess it would be good Alec
butting in. Alec, for all he's Jessie's brother, wasn't bright. He
might get killed even. He'd be in the way--anyway. So he got him
clear of the Fort. Then he got a free hand. He shipped in an arsenal
of weapons, and he's going to outfit a big force. He's coming along up
here later, and it'll be him and Creal to the death. And it's odds on
Murray. Then the folk at the Fort can help themselves all they need,
and the world won't be any the wiser. It's a great play. But Alec's
death has queered it some. Do you get it--all? It's clear--clear as
daylight."
"Ye-es." Again came that hesitating affirmative. But then Bill was
older, and perhaps less impressionable.
Again Kars missed the hesitation.
"Good," he said. "Now we'll get busy. Maybe we'll save Murray a deal
of trouble. He'd got me worried. I was half guessing----" He broke
off and sighed as though in relief. "But I've got it clear enough now.
And Louis Creal'll have to reckon with me first. We'll make back to
camp."
Bill offered no comment. He watched the great figure of his companion
move towards the door. Nor was the nerve of the man without deep
effect upon him. Kars passed out on to the open plateau and instantly
a rain of bullets spat their vicious purpose all about him. Even as
Bill stepped out after him his feelings were absorbed in his admiration
of the other.
The shots continued. They all came from the same direction, from the
woods across the river, somewhere just above their camp. It was Indian
firing. Its character was unmistakable. It was erratic, and many of
the shots failed hopelessly to reach the plateau at all.
The movements of the two men were rapid without haste, and, as they
left the plateau, the firing ceased.
An hour later they were walking up the foreshore to their camp, and the
canoe was hauled up out of the water. The sluices were in full work
under the watchful eye of Abe Dodds. The thirsty Saunders was driving
his gang at the placers, from which was being drawn a stream of pay
dirt that never ceased from daylight to dark. They had heard the
firing, as had the whole camp, and they had wondered. But for the
present their responsibility remained with their labors. The safe
return of Kars and his companion nevertheless afforded keen
satisfaction.
Bill smiled as they moved up towards their quarters. Curiously enough
the recent events seemed to have lightened his mood. Perhaps it was
the passing of a period of doubt. Perhaps the reconstruction of
Murray's doings, which Kars had set out so clearly, had had its effect.
It was impossible to say, for his shrewd eyes rarely told more than he
intended them to.
"Makes you feel good when the other feller starts right in to play his
'hand,'" he said.
Kars looked into the smiling face. He recognized in this man, whose
profession should have robbed him of all the elemental attributes, and
whose years should have suggested a desire for the ease of a successful
life, a real fighter of the long trail, and his heart warmed.
"Makes you feel better when you know none of your 'suits' are weak," he
replied.