THE HOUSE OF THE RED DEATH
Half-way down the ridge a low word from Croisset stopped the engineer.
Jean had toggled his team with a stout length of babeesh on the mountain
top and he was looking back when Howland turned toward him. The sharp
edge of that part of the mountain from which they were descending stood
out in a clear-cut line against the sky, and on this edge the six dogs
of the team sat squat on their haunches, silent and motionless, like
strangely carved gargoyles placed there to guard the limitless plains
below. Howland took his pipe from his mouth as he watched the staring
interest of Croisset. From the man he looked up again at the dogs. There
was something in their sphynx-like attitude, in the moveless reaching of
their muzzles out into the wonderful starlit mystery of the still night
that filled him with an indefinable sense of awe. Then there came to his
ears the sound that had stopped Croisset--a low, moaning whine which
seemed to have neither beginning nor end, but which was borne in on his
senses as though it were a part of the soft movement of the air he
breathed--a note of infinite sadness which held him startled and without
movement, as it held Jean Croisset. And just as he thought that the
thing had died away, the wailing came again, rising higher and higher,
until at last there rose over him a single long howl that chilled the
blood to his very marrow. It was like the wolf-howl of that first night
he had looked on the wilderness, and yet unlike it; in the first it had
been the cry of the savage, of hunger, of the unending desolation of
life that had thrilled him. In this it was death. He stood shivering as
Croisset came down to him, his thin face shining white in the starlight.
There was no other sound save the excited beating of life in their own
bodies when Jean spoke.
"M'seur, our dogs howl like that only when some one is dead or about to
die," he whispered. "It was Woonga who gave the cry. He has lived for
eleven years and I have never known him to fail."
There was an uneasy gleam in his eyes.
"I must tie your hands, M'seur."
"But I have given you my word, Jean--"
"Your hands, M'seur. There is already death below us in the plain, or it
is to come very soon. I must tie your hands."
Howland thrust his wrists behind him and about them Jean twisted a thong
of babeesh.
"I believe I understand," he spoke softly, listening again for the
chilling wail from the mountain top. "You are afraid that I will
kill you."
"It is a warning, M'seur. You might try. But I should probably kill you.
As it is--" he shrugged his shoulders as he led the way down the
ridge--"as it is, there is small chance of Jean Croisset answering
the call."
"May those saints of yours preserve me, Jean, but this is all very
cheerful!" grunted Howland, half laughing in spite of himself. "Now that
I'm tied up again, who the devil is there to die--but me?"
"That is a hard question, M'seur," replied the half-breed with grim
seriousness. "Perhaps it is your turn. I half believe that it is."
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there came again the
moaning howl from the top of the ridge.
"You're getting on my nerves, Jean--you and that accursed dog!"
"Silence, M'seur!"
Out of the grim loneliness at the foot of the mountain there loomed a
shadow which at first Howland took to be a huge mass of rock. A few
steps farther and he saw that it was a building. Croisset gripped him
firmly by the arm.
"Stay here," he commanded. "I will return soon."
For a quarter of an hour Howland waited. Twice in that interval the dog
howled above him. He was glad when Croisset appeared out of the gloom.
"It is as I thought, M'seur. There is death down here. Come with me!"
The shadow of the big building shrouded them as they approached. Howland
could make out that it was built of massive logs and that there seemed
to be neither door nor window on their side. And yet when Jean hesitated
for an instant before a blotch of gloom that was deeper than the others,
he knew that they had come to an entrance. Croisset advanced softly,
sniffing the air suspiciously with his thin nostrils, and listening,
with Howland so close to him that their shoulders touched. From the top
of the mountain there came again the mournful death-song of old Woonga,
and Jean shivered. Howland stared into the blotch of gloom, and still
staring he followed Croisset--entered--and disappeared in it. About them
was the stillness and the damp smell of desertion. There was no visible
sign of life, no breathing, no movement but their own, and yet Howland
could feel the half-breed's hand clutch him nervously by the arm as they
went step by step into the black and silent mystery of the place. Soon
there came a fumbling of Croisset's hand at a latch and they passed
through a second door. Then Jean struck a match.
Half a dozen steps away was a table and on the table a lamp. Croisset
lighted it, and with a quiet laugh faced the engineer. They were in a
low, dungeon-like chamber, without a window and with but the one door
through which they had entered. The table, two chairs, a stove and a
bunk built against one of the log walls were all that Howland could see.
But it was not the barrenness of what he imagined was to be his new
prison that held his eyes in staring inquiry on Croisset. It was the
look in his companion's face, the yellow pallor of fear--a horror--that
had taken possession of it. The half-breed closed and bolted the door,
and then sat down beside the table, his thin face peering up through the
sickly lamp-glow at the engineer.
"M'seur, it would be hard for you to guess where you are."
Howland waited.
"If you had lived in this country long, M'seur, you would have heard of
_la Maison de Mort Rouge_--the House of the Red Death, as you would call
it. That is where we are--in the dungeon room. It is a Hudson Bay post,
abandoned almost since I can remember. When I was a child the smallpox
plague came this way and killed all the people. Nineteen years ago the
red plague came again, and not one lived through it in this _Poste de
Mort Rouge._ Since then it has been left to the weasels and the owls. It
is shunned by every living soul between the Athabasca and the bay. That
is why you are safe here."
"Ye gods!" breathed Howland. "Is there anything more, Croisset? Safe
from what, man? Safe from what?"
"From those who wish to kill you, M'seur. You would not go into the
South, so _la belle_ Meleese has compelled you to go into the North,
_Comprenez-vous?_"
For a moment Howland sat as if stunned.
"Do you understand, M'seur?" persisted Croisset, smiling.
"I--I--think I do," replied Howland tensely. "You mean--Meleese--"
Jean took the words from him.
"I mean that you would have died last night, M'seur, had it not been for
Meleese. You escaped from the coyote--but you would not have escaped
from the other. That is all I can tell you. But you will be safe here.
Those who seek your life will soon believe that you are dead, and then
we will let you go back. Is that not a kind fate for one who deserves to
be cut into bits and fed to the ravens?"
"You will tell me nothing more, Jean?" the engineer asked.
"Nothing--except that while I would like to kill you I have sympathy for
you. That, perhaps, is because I once lived in the South. For six years
I was with the company in Montreal, where I went to school."
He rose to his feet, tying the flap of his caribou skin coat about his
throat. Then he unbolted and opened the door. Faintly there came to
them, as if from a great distance, the wailing grief of Woonga, the dog.
"You said there was death here," whispered Howland, leaning close to his
shoulder.
"There is one who has lived here since the last plague," replied
Croisset under his breath. "He lost his wife and children and it drove
him mad. That is why we came down so quietly. He lived in a little cabin
out there on the edge of the clearing, and when I went to it to-night
there was a sapling over the house with a flag at the end of it. When
the plague comes to us we hang out a red flag as a warning to others.
That is one of our laws. The flag is blown to tatters by the winds.
He is dead."
Howland shuddered.
"Of the smallpox?"
"Yes."
For a few moments they stood in silence. Then Croisset added, "You will
remain here, M'seur, until I return."
He went out, closing and barring the door from the other side, and
Howland seated himself again in the chair beside the table. Fifteen
minutes later the half-breed returned, bearing with him a good-sized
pack and a two-gallon jug.
"There is wood back of the stove, M'seur. Here is food and water for a
week, and furs for your bed. Now I will cut those thongs about
your wrists."
"Do you mean to say you're going to leave me here alone--in this
wretched prison?" cried Howland.
"_Mon Dieu_, is it not better than a grave, M'seur? I will be back at
the end of a week."
The door was partly open and for the last time there came to Howland's
ears the mourning howl of the old dog on the mountain top. Almost
threateningly he gripped Croisset's arm.
"Jean--if you don't come back--what will happen?"
He heard the half-breed chuckling.
"You will die, M'seur, pleasantly and taking your own time at it, which
is much better than dying over a case of dynamite. But I will come back,
M'seur. Good-by!"
Again the door was closed and bolted and the sound of Croisset's
footsteps quickly died away beyond the log walls. Many minutes passed
before Howland thought of his pipe, or a fire. Then, shiveringly, he
went to seek the fuel which Jean had told him was behind the stove. The
old bay stove was soon roaring with the fire which he built, and as the
soothing fumes of his pipe impregnated the damp air of the room he
experienced a sensation of comfort which was in strange contrast to the
exciting happenings of the past few days.
At last he was alone, with nothing to do for a week but eat, sleep and
smoke. He had plenty of tobacco and an inspection of the pack showed
that Croisset had left him well stocked with food. Tilted back in a
chair, with his feet on the table, he absorbed the cheerful heat from
the stove, sent up clouds of smoke, and wondered if the half-breed had
already started back into the South. What would MacDonald say when
Jackpine came in with the report that he had slipped to his death in the
waterfall? Probably his first move would be to send the most powerful
team on the Wekusko in pursuit of Gregson and Thorne. The departing
engineers would be compelled to return, and then--
He laughed aloud and began pacing back and forth across the rotted floor
of his prison as he pictured the consternation of the two seniors. And
then a flush burned in his face and his eyes glowed as he thought of
Meleese. In spite of himself she had saved him from his enemies, and he
blessed Croisset for having told him the meaning of this flight into the
North. Once again she had betrayed him, but this time it was to save his
life, and his heart leaped in joyous faith at this proof of her love
for him. He believed that he understood the whole scheme now. Even his
enemies would think him dead. They would leave the Wekusko and after a
time, when it was safe for him to return, he would be given his freedom.
With the passing of the hours gloomier thoughts shadowed these
anticipations. In some mysterious way Meleese was closely associated
with those who sought his life, and if they disappeared she would
disappear with them. He was convinced of that. And then--could he find
her again? Would she go into the South--to civilization--or deeper into
the untraveled wildernesses of the North? In answer to his question
there flashed through his mind the words of Jean Croisset: "M'seur, I
know of a hundred men between Athabasca and the bay who would kill you
for what you have said." Yes, she would go into the North. Somewhere in
that vast desolation of which Jean had spoken he would find her, even
though he spent half of his life in the search!
It was past midnight when he spread out the furs and undressed for bed.
He opened the stove door and from the bunk watched the faint flickerings
of the dying firelight on the log walls. As slumber closed his eyes he
was conscious of a sound--the faint, hungerful, wailing cry to which he
had listened that first night near Prince Albert. It was a wolf, and
drowsily he wondered how he could hear the cry through the thick log
walls of his prison. The answer came to him the moment he opened his
eyes, hours later. A bit of pale sunlight was falling into the room and
he saw that it entered through a narrow aperture close up to the
ceiling. After he had prepared his breakfast he dragged the table under
this aperture and by standing on it was enabled to peer through. A
hundred yards away was the black edge of the spruce and balsam forest.
Between him and the forest, half smothered in the deep snow, was a
cabin, and he shuddered as he saw floating over it the little red signal
of death of which Croisset had told him the night before.
With the breaking of this day the hours seemed of interminable length.
For a time he amused himself by searching every corner and crevice of
his prison room, but he found nothing of interest beyond what he had
already discovered. He examined the door which Croisset had barred on
him, and gave up all hope of escape in that direction. He could barely
thrust his arm through the aperture that opened out on the
plague-stricken cabin. For the first time since the stirring beginning
of his adventures at Prince Albert a sickening sense of his own
impotency began to weigh on Howland. He was a prisoner--penned up in a
desolate room in the heart of a wilderness. And he, Jack Howland, a man
who had always taken pride in his physical prowess, had allowed one man
to place him there.
His blood began to boil as he thought of it. Now, as he had time and
silence in which to look back on what had happened, he was enraged at
the pictures that flashed one after another before him. He had allowed
himself to be used as nothing more than a pawn in a strange and
mysterious game. It was not through his efforts alone that he had been
saved in the fight on the Saskatchewan trail. Blindly he had walked into
the trap at the coyote. Still more blindly he had allowed himself to be
led into the ambush at the Wekusko camp. And more like a child than a
man he had submitted himself to Jean Croisset!
He stamped back and forth across the room, smoking viciously, and his
face grew red with the thoughts that were stirring venom within him. He
placed no weight on circumstances; in these moments he found no excuse
for himself. In no situation had he displayed the white feather, at no
time had he felt a thrill of fear. His courage and recklessness had
terrified Meleese, had astonished Croisset. And yet--what had he done?
From the beginning--from the moment he first placed his foot in the
Chinese cafe--his enemies had held the whip-hand. He had been compelled
to play a passive part. Up to the point of the ambush on the Wekusko
trail he might have found some vindication for himself. But this
experience with Jean Croisset--it was enough to madden him, now that he
was alone, to think about it. Why had _he_ not taken advantage of Jean,
as Jackpine and the Frenchman had taken advantage of him?
He saw now what he might have done. Somewhere, not very far back, the
sledge carrying Meleese and Jackpine had turned into the unknown. They
two were alone. Why had he not made Croisset a prisoner, instead of
allowing himself to be caged up like a weakling? He swore aloud as there
dawned on him more and more a realization of the opportunity he had
lost. At the point of a gun he could have forced Croisset to overtake
the other sledge. He could have surprised Jackpine, as they had
surprised him on the trail. And then? He smiled, but there was no humor
in the smile. He at least would have held the whip-hand. And what would
Meleese have done?
He asked himself question after question, answering them quickly and
decisively in the same breath. Meleese loved him. He would have staked
his life on that. His blood leaped as he felt again the thrill of her
kisses when she had come to him as he lay bound and gagged beside the
trail. She had taken his head in her arms, and through the grief of her
face he had seen shining the light of a great love that had glorified it
for all time for him. She loved him! And he had let her slip away from
him, had weakly surrendered himself at a moment when everything that he
had dreamed of might have been within his grasp. With Jackpine and
Croisset in his power--
He went no further. Was it too late to do these things now? Croisset
would return. With a sort of satisfaction it occurred to him that his
actions had disarmed the Frenchman of suspicion. He believed that it
would be easy to overcome Croisset, to force him to follow in the trail
of Meleese and Jackpine. And that trail? It would probably lead to the
very stronghold of his enemies. But what of that? He loaded his pipe
again, puffing out clouds of smoke until the room was thick with it.
That trail would take him to Meleese--wherever she was. Heretofore his
enemies had come to him; now he would go to them. With Croisset in his
power, and with none of his enemies aware of his presence, everything
would be in his favor. He laughed aloud as a sudden thrilling thought
flashed into his mind. As a last resort he would use Jean as a decoy.
He foresaw how easy it would be to bring Meleese to him--to see
Croisset. His own presence would be like the dropping of a bomb at her
feet. In that moment, when she saw what he was risking for her, that he
was determined to possess her, would she not surrender to the pleading
of his love? If not he would do the other thing--that which had brought
the joyous laugh to his lips. All was fair in war and love, and theirs
was a game of love. Because of her love for him Meleese had kidnapped
him from his post of duty, had sent him a prisoner to this death-house
in the wilderness. Love had exculpated her. That same love would
exculpate him. He would make her a prisoner, and Jean should drive them
back to the Wekusko. Meleese herself had set the pace and he would
follow it. And what woman, if she loved a man, would not surrender after
this? In their sledge trip he would have her to himself, for not only an
hour or two, but for days. Surely in that time he could win. There would
be pursuit, perhaps; he might have to fight--but he was willing, and a
trifle anxious, to fight.
He went to bed that night, and dreamed of things that were to happen. A
second day, a third night, and a third day came. With each hour grew his
anxiety for Jean's return. At times he was almost feverish to have the
affair over with. He was confident of the outcome, and yet he did not
fail to take the Frenchman's true measurement. He knew that Jean was
like live wire and steel, as agile as a cat, more than a match with
himself in open fight despite his own superior weight and size. He
devised a dozen schemes for Jean's undoing. One was to leap on him
while he was eating; another to spring on him and choke him into partial
insensibility as he knelt beside his pack or fed the fire; a third to
strike a blow from behind that would render him powerless. But there was
something in this last that was repugnant to him. He remembered that
Jean had saved his life, that in no instance had he given him physical
pain. He would watch for an opportunity, take advantage of the
Frenchman, as Croisset had taken advantage of him, but he would not hurt
him seriously. It should be as fair a struggle as Jean had offered him,
and with the handicap in his favor the best man would win.
On the morning of the fourth day Howland was awakened by a sound that
came through the aperture in the wall. It was the sharp yelping bark of
a dog, followed an instant later by the sharper crack of a whip, and a
familiar voice.
Jean Croisset had returned!
With a single leap he was out of his bunk. Half dressed he darted to
the door, and crouched there, the muscles of his arms tightening, his
body tense with the gathering forces within him.
The spur of the moment had driven him to quick decision. His opportunity
would come when Jean Croisset passed through that door!