_RETRIBUTION._
The first grey streaks of a dawning day crept stealthily across the
horizon, and gaining strength in their silent progress finally revealed
a rough brushwood camp ensconsed in a good-sized bluff of trees.
The multitudinous tracks and well-trodden snow, the number of mutilated
tree-stumps standing white and ragged—evidence that a quantity of wood
had been cut quite lately—several large holes, blackened as by fires,
and the general untidy aspect of the whole, told that the camp had been
in use several days.
Early though the hour, the camp appeared deserted, but a closer
inspection discovered the shadowy figure of a man seated in a corner of
the barricade. He was muffled in a hairy-coat, with the hood drawn well
over his head, and he sat silent and motionless, in the position of one
wrapt in peaceful slumber, or absorbed in deep thought.
There were several peculiarities about this camp. Immediately behind the
quiet figure a number of green spruce trees had been arranged to form an
additional protection against the blast of a biting wind, while a pile
of wood lay inside and close to the man’s hand. These unusual features
spoke strongly of the presence of an invalid, or one incapacitated in
some manner from moving easily about. There was one other odd thing, a
revolver lay at the man’s right hand, fully charged and with its butt
toward him, as if for instant use.
Slowly the fire burned down, and with the curious, faltering gesture of
one feeling in the dark the man put out his hand and carefully
replenished it, then again subsided within himself. The new fuel burned
briskly; tiny flames started from the dying embers and caught
desperately at the fresh fuel, and gathering strength in the consumption
thereof they burst upward with fierce wild roars and lit the camp for
many yards around, revealing the figure and features of its lonely
occupant. It was Roy Thursby. Yet was it Roy Thursby? It was like him,
but with a look of great misery stamped upon him. His face was
ashy-grey. His eyes seemed fixed upon the leaping flames, but, alas! he
only knew of their close presence by his acute senses of hearing and
feeling, for he was totally blind. The longing, wistful expression—so
pathetic in the faces of the blind—was already showing upon his face.
He sat with bent head, leaning slightly forward, musing in mournful
retrospect upon the last few days. They had been to him nothing but
excitement and horror. Truly the shot that had left him lying senseless,
cutting a deep furrow across his skull and stunning him for many hours,
had saved him the harrowing, blood-curdling, diabolical details of
Broom’s subsequent deeds, but the fearful discovery his returning
consciousness had revealed was, perhaps, the most terrible a human being
could experience.
Blind! Oh, the misery in that one word! What desolate loneliness! What
unfathomable despair!
Roy’s passionate prayers to God to release him from a long, grim night
of unlifting darkness were painful beyond words to those who witnessed
them. It was with feelings of the greatest relief that his companions
finally saw him sink into a state of apathy. From that hour Roy was as
one who has some awful fear upon him; he started at the slightest sound.
None save himself knew how bitter were his feelings, how acute his
anguish. And always from his soul this cry went up: “What have I done to
deserve this terrible affliction?” His whole life was blasted. All his
bright dreams, all his ambitions, were roughly brought to an end, and
from a man, young, strong, resolute, he had become more pitiably
helpless than a little child—all by the evil-doing of a reckless,
useless man-animal to whom he had been rescuer and friend. Alone, and
solely by the strength of his personality, he had succeeded in a
difficult and dangerous enterprise, and with pardonable pride awaited
his reward and the approbation of a powerful and generous Company. But
now all enterprise, all ambition, lay dead, and he must spend the rest
of his days away from companionship of his kind. He had already fought
this out with himself. The battle had been fierce, but short and
decisive. His keen appreciation of what was due to others had won the
victory. Why should he go to the front, return to civilization, to Lena
whom he passionately loved—he, a useless incumbrance, compelled by the
very nature of his affliction to depend upon others for even the most
trifling offices? Better far that she should believe that he had met his
death in the explosion—Delgezie’s grave would lend color to that
belief—and when the first bitter sorrow of the blow had worn off she
might still be happy with another. Why then should he doom her to wear
out her life by the side of a hopeless, melancholy invalid? Besides, he
shrank from exposing his extreme helplessness to other eyes, even though
they were the eyes of a sympathizing friend. Yes! He would spend the
rest of his life in the company of the faithful Kasba and Sahanderry, at
some camp which they might make in the desolate solitude, far from all
possibility of encounter with any white man.
Discovering what she fully believed to be Roy’s dead body, Kasba had
despatched Minnihak with a message to Acpa, acquainting him with the
trader’s death and requesting him to come and take charge of Fort Future
_pro tem_. Therefore Roy had decided not to remain at the Fort any
longer than it would take to make adequate preparations for a long trip,
but to proceed by easy stages to a place known to Sahanderry, where a
stay might be protracted to any length.
But a startling incident had compelled them to fly Fort Future with
scarcely any preparation—Broom had appeared upon the scene.
Sahanderry and David were away from home and Kasba was outside gathering
an armful of kindling. Her first intimation of the ruffian’s presence
was a rude arm around her waist, and a voice in her ear, which said:
“Now, my bonny Kasba! I’ve come back for you!”
In utter surprise and consternation the girl gave a startled cry which
rang out sharply, and, caught up by the echoes, it was thrown on and on
till it died away in the distance.
Hearing the cry Roy sprang to his feet within the house. In the
excitement of the moment he forgot strength and courage could avail him
nothing. He stumbled across the room but could not find the door. It was
in this awful moment that he realized how utterly helpless he was, how
miserably incapable to protect those in his care—those who, accustomed
to a lifelong protection, were totally unable to think for themselves in
moments of great crisis. Listening intently he could distinguish a noise
made by scuffling on crisp snow. He knew it was Kasba who cried, that
she was being molested. Oh, for the gift of sight for one moment! His
agony at being unable to render the girl assistance was so intense that
he sobbed like a child.
Suddenly the scuffling ceased. Then there was another cry and the sound
of departing footsteps.
Stumbling about the room, Roy again made frenzied efforts to find the
door, but struck against something and fell to the ground. He tore at
his eyes, then, calling loudly upon his Creator, and in sheer
desperation, shouted with the full force of his lungs. Hearing the voice
of a man he verily believed dead, Broom dropped the girl and staggered
back as if shot. Then with a white, scared face, he dashed away, as if
pursued by some ghostly visitant.
He had scarcely disappeared before Sahanderry and David returned.
Sahanderry’s great trepidation at hearing of the adventure plainly told
Roy that he could not be depended upon to protect Kasba, for, although
he was unable to see Sahanderry’s terror, the Indian’s tremulous voice
betrayed him.
With the quick decision of an ever-resourceful mind, Roy ordered his
companions to prepare for a hasty flight, so that when Broom
returned—for Roy felt that he would return—he might find the girl far
beyond his reach.
So a few things were gathered quickly together and packed upon a
dog-sled and soon Fort Future was deserted.
For the first few days the party travelled incessantly, only pausing for
the scantiest of meals and an occasional short sleep; but when they
arrived at the spot described at the beginning of this chapter, Roy, who
rode on the sled, discovered that Kasba was suffering greatly from the
hardships of the long and severe trip; despite her heroic efforts to
appear thoroughly alert and quite rested after each short nap, she was
unable to hide her weariness of voice and movement from his quick ear,
and at the risk of being overtaken he had ordered a few days’ halt.
On the morning of which we write, Sahanderry and David had left the camp
early to go some distance on a hunting expedition, for the food supply
was getting low. Kasba had wandered into the bush and Roy was left alone
with his bitterness of spirit. To have run away from Broom, to have
deserted his post, was gall to his soul. With an ejaculation he flung
more wood on the fire.
Just then a slight girlish figure crept cautiously to where he sat and
stealthily reached for the revolver. Grasping the barrel, she was
drawing it gently toward her when a hand descended heavily upon hers and
held it in a vice-like grip.
“Who is that?” demanded Roy, turning his sightless eyes upon her.
The girl stifled a scream. Roy’s sudden action had surprised and greatly
startled her. “It is Kasba,” she said, almost crying with vexation.
“And why do you steal into camp in this manner?” asked Roy sternly. The
girl’s peculiar behavior had made him apprehensive of danger.
After hesitating a moment Kasba uttered the one word—“Broom!”
Roy’s face hardened, his whole body stiffened ominously, for he
conjectured that his enemy was in close proximity. “The villain!” he
muttered. Then, releasing the girl’s hand, he held out his own and
demanded that the revolver be put in it.
Reluctantly Kasba complied with his demand.
Then, “Where is he?” enquired Roy in a low, tense voice.
“At some distance. He is with the Eskimo Ocpic, in camp and asleep. I
discovered them and came back for the revolver.”
“And why?”
“That I might kill him,” hissed the girl, with flashing eyes and her
bosom heaving with uncontrollable excitement. Then, “Oh, give me the
revolver, Bekothrie, and let me go,” she pleaded; for her bitter hatred
toward her persecutor had completely overcome the terror she had always
felt for him.
“No! That is my work,” said Roy sternly. “Lead me to him.”
The girl had been taught strict obedience, and did not pause to argue
with Roy as to the improbability of his being able while laboring under
his terrible affliction to accomplish his revenge by shooting Broom.
Besides she, like Sahanderry, had a deep-set belief in Roy’s
infallibility. With hasty fingers she fastened on his snowshoes. Then,
taking his hand, she gently led him forth.
The way was rough and tortuous. With her disengaged hand and her strong
body the girl forced a path through the bushes so that none might touch
him in passing. Their progress was necessarily slow and laborious, their
footsteps uncertain.
After a time, which seemed interminable to Roy, Kasba halted. They had
arrived at a poorly constructed camp. Two figures muffled in _kaip-puks_
lay side by side within it. Over the feet of one a rough pilot-coat had
been thrown. Kasba had come across the camp, and recognizing the coat as
belonging to Broom, divined that he lay beneath it.
“We are there, Bekothrie,” said Kasba softly. Despite her efforts to
control it, excitement had unstrung her nerves and thrown a quiver into
her voice.
“Point the revolver,” commanded Roy, fiercely.
Kasba hesitated. What if it was not Broom after all, but some innocent
person? But only a second did she falter, for the remembrance of Broom’s
diabolical doings caused implacable wrath to surge within her.
Cautiously she led Roy forward a few more steps, then halted and with a
steady hand pointed the extended revolver at the sleeper’s head.
“Now!” she whispered.
Roy stiffened his arm and slipped a finger on the trigger. He did not
hesitate to kill Broom while he slept. Broom’s crimes had been too
heinous to permit of mercy. A grim look came into Roy’s face; his finger
was pressing the trigger with fearful intent, when the bright face of a
young girl flashed before his mind’s eye and in his imagination a clear
voice repeated the word’s of Lena’s letter in his ear: “_For in my
opinion it is murder for a man to take another’s life, no matter what
the circumstances that seem to extenuate it._”
Then, to Kasba’s surprise, instead of firing, he dropped his hand to his
side, letting the weapon fall to the ground. “I cannot do it!” he cried
hoarsely. “Take me away.”
The girl stared at him, vastly amazed at this sudden, inexplicable
change from grim determination to profound helplessness. Then obediently
she caught his hand and led him away.
They had scarcely turned before the figure sprang to its feet. It was
Broom! His eyes rolled in his head and he trembled like an aspen leaf.
With a ghastly white face he stood staring after them as they slowly
retraced their steps.
He stared, motionless in his astonishment, for he had awakened just in
time to hear Roy’s words, and the revolver lying half buried in the snow
was all that was necessary to explain that his life had been spared.
Then, too, he was overpowered at the sight of Roy’s affliction. Just how
he became aware of this it is hard to determine—perhaps from Roy’s
words, “Take me away,” or his faltering footsteps, or the sight of the
girl leading him by the hand; perhaps the three combined. However, the
sight of the once active Roy moving slowly, laboriously away overwhelmed
him with remorse. In a flash the heinousness of his acts came home to
him. Sinking upon his knees in the snow he hid his face in his hands,
rocking himself and groaning like one demented, taking no heed of time,
nor that his hands were exposed to the bitter cold wind. When at last he
rose to his feet he staggered like a drunken man; the strength dependent
upon his feverish excitement of the last few days had suddenly left him,
leaving him as weak as one just recovered from a long and severe
illness. He had paid a terrible toll for his mad fits of passion; his
eyes were sunken, his cheekbones protruded. Scarcely ever sleeping or
eating, his thoughts had been concentrated on possessing the girl.
Overcome with baffled fury at discovering her gone from the Fort, he had
travelled hot-foot in pursuit, but now that she was within his reach,
now that he had discovered Roy powerless to protect her, his feelings
underwent a sudden revulsion. The spark of humanity that had long lain
dormant under all his recklessness burned bright at the sight of Roy’s
pathetic figure, and all idea of further pursuit faded from his mind as
completely as if it had never filled it. In its stead a raging desire to
go far away from the man he had injured possessed him. His mad desire to
possess Kasba, to secure the witnesses of his diabolical acts, and by
some measures not quite plain to him to prevent them from bringing him
to account, were forgotten in his anxiety, which in the weak state of
mind rapidly developed into monomania—to place a great distance between
himself and them. And the dogged, mad glare of a set purpose was in his
eyes as with a savage kick he awoke his companion, crying: “Get up, you
black devil, we are going back.”
Ocpic grumblingly crawled from beneath his blankets, rose sullenly to
his feet, and stood staring inquiringly at his companion. Shifting his
gaze, he caught sight of the fresh tracks in the snow, noted that they
led to and from their camp, and discovered the revolver. For a moment he
stood stupidly looking, his eyes protruding as if he could scarcely
believe his senses, then slowly he went and picked it up.
With a yell and a spring Broom was upon him, wresting the weapon away.
Ocpic scowled, but retired before Broom’s look of fury.
“Get to —— out of this!” cried Broom, with a flourish of the revolver.
A slight smattering of English and Broom’s gestures sufficiently
enlightened Ocpic. They were to turn back. He stood thunderstruck. To
stop the pursuit meant starvation, for they had no food nor any
ammunition with which to provide food. In their impetuous pursuit they
had travelled night and day, throwing themselves down to snatch a few
hours’ sleep only when they could go no farther. Once they had been
awakened by an explosion. They had neglected to push the burning embers
back from the camp before retiring and the fire had caught the brush;
spreading to the place where their food and ammunition had been
carelessly thrown, it had burned up the food and set off the gunpowder.
From that time they had lived on a few handfuls of pemmican which had
been accidentally left in a bag outside, and thus escaped the fire. But
the last of this had been consumed for their scanty supper and they were
now without a crumb to make breakfast.
With pantomimic gestures and broken English Ocpic tried to make his
companion understand that to turn back would be madness, that only their
catching up to Roy’s party would save them. They had food, perhaps more
than they needed; at any rate he and Broom could take what they had, and
he glanced significantly at the revolver.
But Broom would have none of it. In his changed mood he would protect
Roy, and with his life if need be. He stood, for the moment, a man
transformed.
There was an uneasy pause, while Ocpic cudgeled his crafty brain: What
to do? To him Broom’s sudden reversion of tactics was a bewildering
puzzle. What had happened while he slept? Ocpic would have given worlds
to know. That someone had visited the camp the freshly made tracks and
the presence of the strange revolver gave convincing proof. But who? And
why had they gone away? There could be no one in those parts but the
trader and his party, or perhaps a wandering gang of Eskimos. But a man
of Ocpic’s malignant nature could not conceive of Roy as visiting the
camp and leaving it without so much as laying a disturbing finger upon
the men who had brought such disaster upon himself and his companions.
Yet it could not have been Eskimos, for they did not carry revolvers.
Ocpic’s cogitations were brought sharply to an end by Broom, who
presented the revolver at his head. “Get out of this, I tell you,” he
shouted. Surely he was going mad, for to turn back was an act of
madness.
Still there was the vague chance of meeting with wandering Eskimos who
would assist them with food, and small though the chance at that time of
the year, it was infinitely better to take it than refuse and meet
certain death. So argued Ocpic. He had once witnessed Broom’s exploits
with the revolver and had great respect for his markmanship. He
possessed a vivid remembrance of the incident which had caused Roy to
drop like a log.
Sullenly Ocpic faced about and with head down started to retrace his
steps of the day before. Broom followed closely, driving the Eskimo
before him.
Thus hours passed. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, the creak of their
snowshoes was as regular as the ticking of a clock, cutting off the
yards of endless track as a clock ticks off the moments of the hour.
Hunger gnawed at Ocpic’s vitals. He was ravenously hungry and fit to
drop with fatigue, but the stern, relentless hand clutching the revolver
waved him on, ever on.
About the noon-hour Broom called a halt and the Eskimo dropped in his
tracks and sat on his haunches, taking the greatest degree of rest out
of the short respite. Broom leaned against a fallen tree; he was
breathing hard and appeared much distressed. The Eskimo’s glittering
eyes took in the situation. The white man was tiring. Good!
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—soon they were off again. Nothing but
dogged grit upheld Broom. Crunch, crunch, Ocpic trudged steadily on,
craftily saving himself against the time when his companion would become
spent.
So the day passed and the gloom of an approaching night gathered around
them. In a subconscious way Broom was aware that he was starving, that
he was suffering from extreme fatigue, but an indomitable will and a
mortal fear drove him on despite his physical sufferings. In his
frenzied brain there was but one idea. The Eskimo had evil designs on
Roy Thursby, therefore he must drive him away. His own vile part in what
had gone before was completely forgotten—all knowledge of the past was
swallowed up in the vital present. In his changed mood Roy was a hero, a
martyr, a man to be worshipped, protected, saved at all costs.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch; the night fell and the moon rose
gloriously, shedding a pale blue light over the silent white world in
which these two plodding figures seemed to be the only things possessed
of animation.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Perceptibly Broom’s strength was waning.
He began to stumble over nothing, to draw his breath in broken gasps.
The incessant crunch, crunch of his snowshoes beat on his brain like a
hammer. The earth heaved and rocked, his legs dragged heavily, he
staggered in his gait. At last he fell, but soon by sheer effort of will
struggled to his feet. Ocpic, plodding in front, noted the circumstance
with a triumphant smile. He did not turn his head, continuing his
mechanical walking as if nothing had happened. But imperceptibly he
quickened his stride. With ears strained to the utmost he took
cognizance of his companion’s rapidly failing strength, and slowly
widened the distance between them.
Crunch, crunch, Ocpic was rapidly drawing away. Confident in his ability
to escape, he chuckled silently. But he was not quite easy in his mind,
the revolver still causing him a little apprehension. However he was
almost out of range; a few more steps and, presuming on his companion’s
preoccupation, he lengthened the gap.
Slowly it dawned upon Broom that Ocpic was getting farther and farther
distant. Suddenly he divined the cause—Ocpic was running away.
With a cry of mad rage he started in pursuit, calling loudly to him to
stop. Ocpic stopped, hesitated, then started off again. Broom followed,
rocking from side to side as he ran. He fell—got up—ran a few yards,
then stumbled and fell again.
With a loud curse he struggled to his feet for the last time; he was
beaten in the race but not yet foiled in his purpose. Concentrating his
remaining strength he drew himself erect, took deliberate aim and fired.
Ocpic uttered a wild yell, staggered on for a few more steps, and then
pitched forward. Simultaneously with the pistol’s report Broom collapsed
and fell. The last spark of his vitality had flickered out. Two huddled
forms lay prone upon the snow, and for a little time all about was still
and silent.
At length Ocpic straightened himself out and tried to rise, but fell
back, groaning. Again and again he tried, and with each attempt a dark
blot widened upon the snow. Not to be outdone, he began to crawl toward
Broom. Slowly, painfully, a few feet at the time, he crept along, and a
thin dark line following in his wake discolored the snow.
Broom sighed and opened his eyes. The red glare was gone. He lay quite
still; the long trail was at an end and he needed rest and food—yes,
possibly food. But for the time being he was almost comfortable. He was
conscious of stabbing pains in his ears, and that his face and hands
were rapidly becoming stiff, but what was that? The time was past when
small things mattered. He was very comfortable—and—Ocpic was creeping
nearer.
Never in his life had Broom felt so happy. A heavy burden seemed to have
dropped from his shoulders. He felt as light as a feather. In sheer
ecstasy and with a long sigh of contentment he closed his eyes—Ocpic
was quite close!
Broom’s mind now began to wander. He murmured to himself, living over
again events in his chequered career. Then a restful look came on his
face and he babbled of boyhood days; of days—long, long ago—before he
had grown into a hardened reprobate.
And now Ocpic was at his side! And drawing a knife!
Broom! Broom! Awake! Open your eyes, for an assassin lurks near!
Broom smiled and spoke softly a woman’s name.
Raising himself on one elbow Ocpic bent over him! Something glittered in
his hand.
Opening his eyes, Broom smiled up into the little rat-like orbs above
him, which darted back malignant hate.
Suddenly, with a fleeting return of consciousness, he recognized Ocpic.
He gazed perplexedly into the malevolent face of the little Eskimo, and
then he remembered.
Ocpic upraised the knife.
Broom chuckled. “Well, you damned Husky!” he said, “So I did for you all
right, eh? Come now, give me my quietus and I’ll race you into hell!”
Then, as if Ocpic accepted the challenge, the knife descended.
* * * * *
The silence of the grave lay over the white world. There on the snow,
almost side by side, lay two lifeless figures with distorted faces and
eyes that stared at the stars. In the far distance was an indefinable
object moving. Slowly, stealthily it approached. It was an animal.
Pausing, the creature threw back its head and howled. Soon other dark
objects appeared. They were wolves assembling for the feast.