WANTED--AN ESKIMO FOX
After the excitement attending his return from the North patrol, the
short winter days and the far longer nights passed slowly for the
O.C. of Armistice detachment, now reduced to commanding himself. One
week--two weeks--part of a third had been crossed off the calendar
without any word coming from his man-hunting constable. Seymour
wasn't exactly worrying yet, but he was beginning to wish he had not
been so generous about giving young La Marr this chance to redeem
himself.
Above all else he desired the custody of Avic, the fox hunter. The
body of the accused Eskimo would not satisfy him; no more would a
report of his death. Nothing would do but Avic in the quick.
Often in the endless evenings, while intermittent blizzards raged
about the shuttered windows, he would take out the black and silver
pelts. From various angles he would argue their bearing on the case.
More than ever was he assured that they were not of recent trapping.
The fur was that of animals which had been through a long, easy
winter--one when rabbits had been plentiful. This was not a rabbit
winter on the arctic prairies east of the Mackenzie.
These particular foxes had been trapped in the early spring, or he
was no judge of fur quality. That this spring had not been the
previous one was shown by the seasoned state of the tanning.
However, this tanning did not appear to be Eskimo work, but that of
Indian squaws further south.
Every Eskimo has a flock of cousins. He had visited several in the
immediate vicinity who claimed more or less of that relationship to
the missing Avic. He had examined the work of their women on furs.
A pronounced difference in process seemed evident to him.
The film of mystery brought into the O'Malley murder by his own
knowledge of Eskimo strangling had been intensified into a shroud by
his study of the exhibits he had secreted. Yet, speculate as he
would, there was no other apparent line of suspicion than that of the
native's guilt. He was at loss how to proceed until he had
questioned the man for whom the warrant had been issued.
Each time he looked at the pelts, one outstanding fact came to mind:
No Eskimo ever held a pelt, after his woman had cured it, longer than
it took to get to the handiest trader. It was against all rhyme and
reason that two fox pelts, worth many times their weight in gold,
would remain in the hands of a ne'er-do-well like Avic so long after
they were marketable. How, then, had the native come by them?
Under ordinary circumstances--rather, under the amity of
suffer-isolation-together which had existed prior to the tragedy, he
might have gone to Harry Karmack with his problem. At least, the
factor could have given him an expert's opinion as to when the skins
had become pelts by virtue of trapping and tanning.
But a breach yawned between the two--one unwittingly caused by the
fair addition to the limited population of Armistice. It wasn't an
open one, so far, but both knew that it existed and bridging it was
the last thought of either. They were unadmitted rivals for the
favor of Moira O'Malley. Anyone who knew the man, could have read
the sergeant's interest in his countenance. Contrary to winter
practice of toilers of the trails, his face had been clean shaved
from the morning after La Marr's departure. The trader, on his part,
showed intensity of his heart-hurt by countless little attentions to
the young woman.
The unfortunate brother had been laid away upon the highest knoll
near the camp after a simple service conducted by Rev. Morrow. The
girl had held up under her bereavement with a courage that commanded
all their admiration. No hint of the real cause of Oliver's death
had reached her, so guarded had been the four resident whites who
knew. From the Eskimo, of course, she learned nothing. She had
accepted the report of an "accident of the Arctic" and had asked no
embarrassing questions as to details. The finality of death seemed
to suffice; nothing else mattered.
A week after the funeral, a stranger would not have known from her
manner that suddenly she had been deprived of one of her dearest
relatives. She never spoke of having a philosophy of life, but
something of the sort seemed to sustain her. Her whole behavior
indicated that she was determined not to make others unhappy with her
personal grief. They all had their lives to live in a location that
made life difficult. Moira O'Malley would do her utmost to make the
winter as happy as might be. She did not even ask if it were not
possible to send her "Outside," now that the reason for her presence
had been removed by Fate.
Harry Karmack, bearing a book to Mission House in the hope that
gloomy thought might be diverted thereby, had been the first of the
rivals to discover her mental attitude. He had been prompt to act on
his important discovery. Besides the volume, he left an invitation
to dinner for the girl and her hosts. Sergeant Russell Seymour,
official head of the tiny community, was not among those present,
having received no invitation.
Now, this was a breach of camp etiquette which could not be
overlooked. Far worse than the cut direct, it was nearly as much an
insult as a blow in the face. When a handful of whites are
segregated in a bronze man's country, they naturally cling to each
other as they do to the "alders." Everyone possibly within the pale
is invited to everything that approaches a function. Even squaw-men
are asked to attend if they retain a semblance of presentability.
There was no possible question that Factor Harry Karmack's dinner was
a function. Although it had never been mentioned by Moira or the
Morrows, the sergeant had all the details. These had been relayed by
his native hostler who had them direct from the Arctic's interpreter,
the latter having acted as butler for the all-important occasion.
The meal had been served in courses, mind you, for the first time in
the history of the camp. The factor's store of delicacies, even to
the tinned plum pudding, intended for the Christmas feast, had been
freely broached.
Seymour could not hope to equal such a spread from police rations,
but he was not to be outdone in hospitality. Miss O'Malley and the
Morrows had accepted his invitation to a sour-dough luncheon. The
factor had not accepted for an excellent reason that you probably can
imagine.
The three from Mission House were coming this very noon and the
sergeant had been occupied part of the morning correcting the
haphazard housekeeping of quarters. In fact, they had come, as was
attested by the knocking upon the front door.
More lovely than ever Moira seemed to him as she returned a smile to
his enthusiastic greetings. She was dressed to-day entirely in
white, the first time he had ever seen her in anything but black.
"What a snow bird you are, Moira!" he exclaimed, almost forgetting to
greet the missionaries.
"In that case, I'm relieved you're not packing a gun, Sergeant
Scarlet."
"Not even side arms," he said, releasing his whimsical smile. "I'm
the one that's wounded--fluttering. Put your wraps in the tent, all
of you, and I'll put you to work."
For the first time they noticed the stage-setting he had created for
his social bow. Every stick of furniture had been removed and the
floor covered with reindeer moss, gray, soft and fragrant. Two
reserve sleds, padded with outspread sleeping bags, were evidently
intended to serve as seats. The "tent" to which he had referred them
was a drape of canvas over the door leading into his own room. About
the hearth were scattered pots, pans and dishes of tin. The
fireplace glowed like a camp fire permitted to grow dim for culinary
service.
"So this is what you meant by a sour-dough party," observed Mrs.
Morrow, her voice betraying her enthusiasm over the idea.
"Wonder if I'm hard-bitten enough by now to get the idea?" Moira
asked them.
"We're hitting the trail," explained the missionary. "We've just
pitched camp and are about to make muck-muck. As Northwesterners
never pack grub for idle hands to eat, we'd better strip off our
coats and get into action."
Where the fire glowed the hottest, Seymour rigged an iron spit from
which he suspended a shank of caribou on a wire as supple as a piece
of string. Beneath, he placed a pan to catch the drippings. To
Moira he entrusted a second wire so attached that an occasional pull
kept the meat turning.
"There's nothing more delicious than roast caribou," he advised her,
"and this is the very best way to roast it."
Luke Morrow was to attend the broiling of a dozen fool-hens--a
variety of grouse--which the sergeant had shot that morning. To Mrs.
Emma was assigned the task of picking over a mess of fiddle-head
ferns which, by some magic, he had kept fresh since fall. He was
certain that, when properly boiled, they would produce a dish of
greens more delicate than spinach.
"And you, Russell?" queried the girl, for they soon had taken to
first names, except that she sometimes called him "Sergeant Scarlet."
"Because of your rank, I suppose you'll merely boss the job and eat
twice as much as anyone else."
He did not answer, but fell to his knees beside the open mouth of a
flour sack. With the aid of water and an occasional pinch of baking
powder, he quickly mixed a wad of dough. Greasing a gold-pan with a
length of bacon rind, he filled it with the dough and stood it up
facing the fire.
"I'm baking bannock," he answered Moira's quizzical look. "When the
outside is browned, I'll toss it like a pancake, and soon we'll have
a better bread than mother ever made."
The primitive feast at last was ready and they fell upon it seated
tailor-fashion upon the moss. The caribou was so tender, remarked
Rev. Morrow in complimenting the fair spit attendant, that you could
put your finger through it.
"Don't waste time putting anything through it but your teeth,"
remarked their host.
Later, when they had turned to moss berries and condensed "cow,"
provided as a typical desert, Moira expressed regret that Seymour's
attractive young constable was not present to share the feast.
"Have you heard anything from La Marr, Seymour?" asked the missionary.
"Not a word."
Something in his tone startled the girl. "Has he gone on a dangerous
mission?" she asked. "Are you worried about him?"
The sergeant shook his head. "He's one of the trail-boys and will
find others to stand by if he's in trouble." And after a moment's
silence, he quoted:
"The cord that ties the trail-boys has lashed
Them heart to heart;
No stage presents their joys, no actors
Play their parts;
Their struggles are seldom known, because
Through wilds untrod
These daring spirits roam where there is
Naught but God."
The spell of silence that followed his pronouncement of the Deity was
rudely broken by a hammering on the outer door. So peremptory was
the summons that Seymour sprang to his feet, crossed the room and
flung the door open, only to start back in amazement.
"Avic of the foxes, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed.
Framed in the doorway, his small eyes peering from a strained face
out of the wolverine hood of his _parkee_, the fugitive Eskimo stood
alone. Instead of handcuffs on his wrists, he held a rifle across
his breast.