THE ESKIMO WAY
Grim, indeed, had been Sergeant Seymour's sledded return to his
detachment. For more than two hundred miles across the frozen tundra
he had driven his ghastly load--the murdered woman wrapped in deer
skins after the native custom, sewed up in a tarp and lashed to a
_komatik_, the Labrador sled that gives such excellent service on
cross-country runs. All this, that the inquest which the Dominion
requires, regardless of isolation, might be held in form and the case
against the uxoricide assured.
And out ahead, unarmed, and under "open" arrest, had mushed the
murderer himself, breaking trail toward his own doom. Often in the
whirling snow, Olespe had been beyond his captor's sight. But never
had he wavered from the most feasible course to Armistice; always had
he been busily making camp when the dogs and their official driver
caught up at the appointed night-stop. No white man could have been
entrusted with such "fatigue duty" under like circumstances. Three
weeks of such opportunity for remorse must have been too much.
But Seymour was not thinking now of this recent ordeal.
The case of Olespe, except for the formalities of coroner's inquest,
commitment and trial was settled. The plight of his unhappy
constable held the pity of the sergeant, always considerate.
"I'm not blaming you, Charley," he assured. "Until you've been up
here a few years, all Eskimos look right much alike."
"Can't I start after the real Avic at once," pleaded the constable.
"I'll make no second mistake."
La Marr was as eager as a hound held in leash after its nose has
rubbed the scent. But he could not, just then, bring himself to
confess his over-sleeping.
Seymour did not answer at once, but set about taking off his heavy
trail clothes and getting into the uniform of command. He was a
large built man, but lean of the last ounce of superfluous flesh
owing to the long patrols that he never shirked.
The scarlet tunic became him. Across the breast of it showed lines
of vari-colored ribbons, for his service in France had been as
valorous as vigorous. He had gone into the war from his Yukon post
and, almost directly after the armistice, back into the Northwest
Territories to establish one of the new stations of the Mounted in
the Eskimo country.
The green constable chafed under the silence, but he did not make the
mistake of thinking it due to slow thinking. With Seymour many had
erred in that direction to their sorrow. The sergeant certainly was
slow in speech, but when he spoke he said something. He might seem
tardy in action, but once started he was as active as a polar bear
after a seal.
"No hurry about taking after this Avic," he said at last. "Likely
he'll not travel far this double-thermometer weather." The reference
was to a jocular fable of the region that to get the temperature one
had to hitch two thermometers together. "At worst he can't get clear
away--no one ever does, except when old man Death catches him first.
We'll hold our inquest, then I'll issue a warrant."
"And detail me to serve it?" La Marr's question had that breathless
interrogation point of secret self-accusation.
To Seymour's thin lips came that whimsical smile which transformed
his whole expression, despite its blanket of beard. To a student of
expression, this would have shown the tenderness of a woman to be
concealed beneath the life-hardened mask. His grimness melted like
snow beneath the caress of a Chinook wind; yet warning remained that
this gentleness was not open to imposition.
"Right-o, Charlie," he promised. "I've made mistakes in my day and
been thankful for the chance to rectify them. You're nominated to
bring in whoever is named in the warrant after the inquest. Let's
go."
He put on a pea-jacket, on the sleeves of which the stripes of his
rank stood out in deep yellow. On a thatch of towsled, brownish hair
he settled the fur cap proscribed in the regulations for winter wear.
Outside they first attended the disposal of the sled. Without
telling the post's native hostler the grim nature of their load, they
saw it placed in a shed which had the temperature of a morgue.
Adjoining the police buildings on the south was the establishment of
the Arctic Trading Company, Ltd. This was a low but substantially
built structure of timber and stone, also facing the frozen river.
The "Mounties" entered the storm door which gave upon the factor's
quarters, with the intention of divorcing Harry Karmack from his book
and pipe long enough to accompany them to the scene of the local
crime.
"Dear eyes, but it's glad to see you home again, Serg.," was the
trader's greeting, as he arose from his chair beside an "airtight
burner" and extended his hand for a hearty grip. "Things have come
to a pretty pass in the territories when the 'Skims get to biting the
hands that are feeding them."
Seymour met this comment with a grave nod. Like others of the Force
on Arctic detail, he was surprised at what approached an epidemic of
murderous violence among their Eskimo charges, in general a kindly
and docile people.
A prepossessing individual was Harry Karmack, not at all the typical
trader. He was dark, from a strain of French blood in his Canadian
make-up, with laughing eyes and a handsome mouth. As he seldom took
the winter trail, he shaved daily "so as not to let the howling North
get the better of me," as he liked to put it. His smooth cheeks
contrasted sharply with the bearded ones of the officers, their
growth cultivated for protection on the snow patrols. Generally
Karmack wore tweeds over his powerful frame and a bright tie beneath
the collar of his flannel shirt. At that, he was a seasoned
sour-dough and a sharp trader, respected and feared by the natives.
"What do you think's got into the blood of the breed all of a
sudden?" he asked.
"We've handed them too many rifles, for one thing," offered Seymour
slowly. "But don't you worry, the Mounted will get the deluded
creatures in hand. Will you come with us for a look at the O'Malley
scene?"
Karmack reached for his furs.
"If you don't," he remarked, a severe note in his voice, "you scarlet
soldiers won't be any safer than us traders. When I think of young
O'Malley, one of the finest chaps I ever knew, struck down here at a
police post----"
A catch in his voice stopped him. Taking a battery lantern from a
cupboard beside the doorway, he signified he was ready for the said
inspection.
La Marr led the way to the scene of the crime--a stone hut half
buried in the snow. At the door he broke the R.C.M.P. seal which he
placed there before setting out on his futile pursuit of the suspect.
"Nothing was disturbed, sir," said the constable in a hushed voice.
"Everything is as Karmack and I found it when we came to investigate
why O'Malley did not return to the store."
They stepped out of the gathering dusk into a windowless room. The
roof was so low as to cause the shortest of them to stoop. The
trader pushed the button on his lantern and raised it.
Across the cave-like room, which was bare of furniture after the
Eskimo fashion, Seymour stared. There, in a sitting posture on a
sleeping bench, was all that was mortal of the assistant factor.
In life, O'Malley had been a handsome youth of pronounced Irish type.
Sudden death had wrought so few changes that the sergeant had
difficulty in believing that he looked on other than a sleeping
fellow human. A dankness, as of a tomb, served to convince him.
The victim's head rested against the back wall of the hut; his
crossed feet upon a deerskin floor covering. Clutched in one hand
was a black fox pelt. Upon the sleeping bench beside him lay one of
silver. Both looked to be unusually fine skins. Presumably, some
dispute over the price of the prizes was the motive of the crime.
Karmack stepped closer with the light; indicated by gesture a knotted
line of seal skin around the victim's throat, the end dangling down
over his _parkee_.
"The Eskimo way!" muttered the trader brokenly.
The shudder that passed through Seymour's wiry frame was not observed
by the companions of the inspection. No more was it caused by the
untimely fate of Oliver O'Malley.