THE WOLF-CRY!
So sudden and unexpected had been Lapierre's _denouement_ at the hands
of the Indian girl and Big Lena, that when he quitted Chloe Elliston's
living-room the one thought in his mind was to return to his stronghold
on Lac du Mort. For the first time the real seriousness of his
situation forced itself upon him. He knew that no accident had brought
the officer of the Mounted to the Lac du Mort stronghold in company
with Bob MacNair, and he realized the utter futility of attempting an
escape to the outside, since the shooting of the officer at the very
walls of the stockade.
As the husband of Chloe Elliston, the thing might have been
accomplished. But alone or in company with the half-dozen outlaws who
had accompanied him to the school, never. There was but one course
open to him: To return to Lac du Mort and make a stand against the
authorities and against MacNair. And the fact that the man realized in
all probability it would be his last stand, was borne to the
understanding of the men who accompanied him.
These men knew nothing of the reason for Lapierre's trip to the school,
but they were not slow to perceive that whatever the reason was,
Lapierre had failed in its accomplishment. For they knew Lapierre as a
man who rarely lost his temper.
They knew him as one equal to any emergency--one who would shoot a man
down in cold blood for disobeying an order or relaxing vigilance, but
who would shoot with a smile rather than a frown.
Thus when Lapierre joined them in their camp at the edge of the
clearing, and with a torrent of unreasoning curses ordered the dogs
harnessed and the outfit got under way for Lac du Mort, they knew their
cause was at best a forlorn hope.
Darkness overtook them and they camped to await the rising of the late
moon. While the men prepared the supper, Lapierre glowered upon his
sled by the fire, occasionally leaping to his feet to stamp impatiently
up and down upon the snow. The leader spoke no word and none ventured
to address him. The meal was eaten in silence. At its conclusion the
men took heart and sprang eagerly to obey an order--the order puzzled
them not a little, but no man questioned it. For the command came
crisp and sharp, and without profanity, in a voice they well knew.
Lapierre was himself again, and his black eyes gleamed wickedly as he
rolled a cigarette by the light of the rising moon.
The dogs were whirled upon the back-trail, and once more the outfit
headed for the school upon the bank of the Yellow Knife. It was well
toward midnight when Lapierre called a halt. They were close to the
edge of the clearing. Leaving one man with the dogs and motioning the
others to follow, he stole noiselessly from tree to tree until the dull
square of light that glowed from the window of Chloe Elliston's room
showed distinctly through the interlacing branches. The quarters of
the Indians were shrouded in darkness. For a long time Lapierre stood
staring at the little square of light, while his men, motionless as
statues, blended into the shadows of the trees. The light was
extinguished. The quarter-breed moved to the edge of the clearing and,
seating himself upon the root of a gnarled banskian, rapidly outlined
his plan.
Suddenly his form stiffened and he drew close against the trunk of his
tree, motioning the others to do likewise. The door of the cottage had
opened. A parka-clad figure stepped from the little veranda, paused
uncertainly in the moonlight, and then, with light, swinging strides,
moved directly toward the banskian. Lapierre's pulse quickened, and
his lips twisted into an evil smile. That the figure was none other
than Chloe Elliston was easily discernible in the bright moonlight, and
with fiendish satisfaction the quarter-breed realized that the girl was
playing directly into his hands. For, as he sat upon the sled beside
the little camp-fire, his active brain had evolved a new scheme. If
Chloe Elliston could not be made to accompany him willingly, why not
unwillingly?
Lapierre believed that once safely entrenched behind the barriers of
the Bastile du Mort, he could hold out for a matter of six months
against any forces which were likely to attack him. He realized that
his most serious danger was from MacNair and his Indians. For Lapierre
knew MacNair. He knew that once upon his trail, MacNair would
relentlessly stick to that trail--the trail that must end at a
grave--many graves, in fact. For as the forces stood, Lapierre knew
that many men must die, and bitterly he cursed LeFroy for disclosing to
MacNair the whereabouts of the Mausers concealed in the storehouse.
The inevitable attack of the Mounted he knew would come later. For the
man knew their methods. He knew that a small detachment, one officer,
or perhaps two, would appear before the barricade and demand his
surrender, and when surrender was refused, a report would go in to
headquarters, and after that--Lapierre shrugged--well, that was a
problem of tomorrow. In the meantime, if he held Chloe Elliston
prisoner under threat of death, it was highly probable that he could
deal to advantage with MacNair, and, at the proper time, with the
Mounted. If not--_Voila_! It was a fight to the death, anyway. And
again Lapierre shrugged.
Nearer and nearer drew the unsuspecting figure of the girl. The man
noted the haughty, almost arrogant beauty of her, as the moonlight
played upon the firm resolute features, framed by the oval of her
_parka_-hood. The next instant she paused in the shadow of his
banskian, almost at his side. Lapierre sprang to his feet and stood
facing her there in the snow. The smile of the thin lips hardened as
he noted the sudden pallor of her face and the look of wild terror that
flashed for a moment from her eyes. And then, almost on the instant,
the girl's eyes narrowed, the firm white chin thrust forward, and the
red lips curled into a sneer of infinite loathing and contempt.
Instinctively, Lapierre knew that the hands within the heavy mittens
had clenched into fighting fists. For an instant she faced him, and
then, drawing away as if he were some grizzly, loathsome thing
poisoning the air he breathed, she spoke. Her voice trembled with the
fury of her words, and Lapierre winced to the lash of a woman's scorn.
"You--you _dog_!" she cried. "You dirty, low-lived _cur_! How _dare_
you stand there grinning? How _dare_ you show your face? Oh, if I
were a man I would--I would strangle the life from your vile, sneaking
body with my two hands!"
The words ended in a stifled cry. With a snarl, Lapierre sprang upon
her, pinning her arms to her side. The next instant before his eyes
loomed the form of Big Lena, who leaped toward him with upraised ax
swung high. In the excitement of the moment, the man had not noted her
approach. With a swift movement he succeeded in forcing the body of
the girl between himself and the up-raised blade.
With a shrill cry of rage Lena dropped the ax and rushed to a grip.
Sounded then a sickening thud, and the huge woman pitched face downward
into the snow, while behind her one of Lapierre's outlaws tossed a
heavy club into the bush and rushed to the assistance of his chief.
The others came, and with incredible rapidity Chloe Elliston was gagged
and bound hand and foot, and the men were carrying her to the waiting
sled.
For a moment Lapierre hesitated, gazing longingly toward the cottage as
he debated in his mind the advisability of rushing across the clearing
and settling his score with Mary, the Louchoux girl, whose unexpected
appearance had turned the tide so strongly against him.
"Better let well enough alone!" he growled savagely. "I must reach Lac
du Mort ahead of MacNair." And he turned with a curse from the
clearing to see an outlaw, with knife unsheathed, stooping over the
unconscious form of Big Lena. The quarter-breed kicked the knife from
the man's hand.
"Bring her along!" he ordered gruffly. "I will attend to her later."
And, despite the hurt of his bruised fingers, the man grinned as he
noted the venomous gleam in the leader's eye. For not only was
Lapierre thinking of the proselyting of LeFroy, who had been his most
trusted lieutenant, but of his own disarming, and the meaning stare of
the fishlike eyes that had prompted him to abandon his attempt to
poison MacNair when wounded in Chloe Elusion's room.
It was yet early when, as had become her custom, the Louchoux girl
dressed hurriedly and made her way to the kitchen to help Lena in the
preparation of breakfast. To her surprise she found that the fire had
not been lighted nor was Big Lena in the little room which had been
built for her adjoining the kitchen.
The quick eyes of the girl noted that the bed had not been disturbed,
and with a sudden fear in her heart she dashed to the door of Chloe's
room, where, receiving no answer to her frantic knocking, she pushed
open the door and entered. Chloe's bed had not been slept in, and her
_parka_ was missing from its peg upon the wall.
As the Indian girl turned from the room, Harriet Penny's door opened,
and she caught a glimpse of a night-capped head as the little spinster
glanced timidly out to inquire into the unusual disturbance.
"Where have they gone?" cried the girl.
"Gone? Gone?" asked Miss Penny. "What do you mean? Who has gone?"
"She's gone--Miss Elliston--and Big Lena, too. They have not slept in
their beds."
It took a half-minute for this bit of information to percolate Miss
Penny's understanding, and when it did she uttered a shrill scream,
banged her door, turned the key, and shot the bolt upon the inside.
Alone in the living-room, the last words Chloe had spoken to her
flashed through the Indian girl's mind: "I can trust you to place this
in MacNair's hands."
Without a second thought for Miss Penny, she rushed into her room,
recovered the letter from its hiding-place beneath the pillow, thrust
it into the bosom of her gown, and hastily prepared for the trail.
In the kitchen she made up a light pack of provisions, and, with no
other thought than to find MacNair, opened the door and stepped out
into the keen, frosty air. The girl knew only that Snare Lake lay
somewhere up the river, but this gave her little concern, as no snow
had fallen since MacNair had departed with his Indians a week before,
and she knew his trail would be plain.
From her window Harriet Penny watched the departure of the girl, and
before she was half-way across the clearing the little woman appeared
in the doorway, commanding, begging, pleading in shrill falsetto, not
to be left alone. Hearing the cries, the girl quickened her pace, and
without so much as a backward glance passed swiftly down the steep
slope to the river.
Born to the snow-trail, the Louchoux girl made good time. During the
month she had spent at Chloe's school she had for the first time in her
life been sufficiently clothed and fed, and now with the young muscles
of her body well nourished and in the pink of condition she fairly flew
over the trail.
Hour after hour she kept up the pace without halting. She passed the
mouth of the small tributary upon which she had first seen Chloe. The
place conjured vivid memories of the white woman and all she had done
for her and meant to her--memories that served as a continual spur to
her flying feet. It was well toward noon when, upon rounding a sharp
bend, she came suddenly face to face with the Indians and the dog-teams
that MacNair had despatched for provisions.
She bounded among them like a flash, singled out Wee Johnnie Tamarack,
and proceeded to deluge the old man with an avalanche of words. When
finally she paused for sheer lack of breath, the old Indian, who had
understood but the smallest fragment of what she had said, remained
obviously unimpressed. Whereupon the girl produced the letter, which
she waved before his face, accompanying the act with another tirade of
words of which the Indian understood less than he had of the previous
outburst.
Wee Johnnie Tamarack took his orders only from MacNair. MacNair had
said, "Go to the school for provisions," and to the school he must go.
Nevertheless, the sight of the letter impressed him. For in the
Northland His Majesty's mail is held sacred and must be carried to its
destination, though the heavens fall.
To the mind of Wee Johnnie Tamarack a letter was "mail," and the fact
that its status might be altered by the absence of His Majesty's stamp
upon its corner was an affair beyond the old man's comprehension.
Therefore he ordered the other Indians to continue their journey, and,
motioning the girl to a place on the sled, headed his dogs northward
and sent them skimming over the back-trail.
Wee Johnnie Tamarack was counted one of the best dog-mushers in the
North, and as the girl had succeeded in implanting in the old man's
mind an urgent need of haste, he exerted his talent to the utmost.
Mile after mile, behind the flying feet of the tireless _malamutes_,
the sled-runners slipped smoothly over the crust of the ice-hard snow.
And at midnight of the second day they dashed across the smooth surface
of the lake and brought up with a rush before the door of MacNair's own
cabin, which luckily had been spared by the flames.
It was a record drive, for a "two-man" load--that drive of Wee Johnnie
Tamarack's, having clipped twelve hours from a thirty-six-hour trail.
MacNair's door flew open to their frantic pounding. The girl thrust
the letter into his hand, and with a supreme effort told what she knew
of the disappearance of Chloe and Big Lena. Whereupon, she threw
herself at full length upon the floor and immediately sank into a
profound sleep.
MacNair fumbled upon the shelf for a candle and, lighting it, seated
himself beside the table, and tore the envelope from the letter. Never
in his life had the man read words penned by the hand of a woman. The
fingers that held the letter trembled, and he wondered at the wild
beating of his heart.
The story of the Louchoux girl had aroused in him a sudden fear. He
wondered vaguely that the disappearance of Chloe Elliston could have
caused the dull hurt in his breast. The pages in his hand were like no
letter he had ever received. There was something
personal--intimate--about them. His huge fingers gripped them lightly,
and he turned them over and over in his hand, gazing almost in awe upon
the bold, angular writing. Then, very slowly, he began to read the
words.
Unconsciously, he read them aloud, and as he read a strange lump arose
in his throat so that his voice became husky and the words faltered.
He read the letter through to the end. He leaped to his feet and
strode rapidly up and down the room, his fists clenched and his breath
coming in great gasps.
Bob MacNair was fighting. Fighting against an irresistible impulse--an
impulse as new and strange to him as though born of another world--an
impulse to find Chloe Elliston, to take her in his arms, and to crush
her close against his wildly pounding heart.
Minutes passed as the man strode up and down the length of the little
room, and then once more he seated himself at the table and read the
letter through.
"DEAR MR. MACNAIR:
"I cannot leave the North without this little word to you. I have
learned many things since I last saw you--things I should have learned
long ago. You were right about the Indians, about Lapierre, about
_me_. I know now that I have been a fool. Lapierre always removed his
hat in my presence, therefore he was a gentleman! Oh, what a fool I
was!
"I will not attempt to apologize. I have been too _nasty_, and
_hateful_, and _mean_ for any apology. You said once that some day we
should be friends. I am reminding you of this because I want you to
think of me as a friend. Wherever I may be, I will think of
you--always. Of the splendid courage of the man who, surrounded by
treachery and intrigue and the vicious attacks of the powers that prey,
dares to stand upon his convictions and to fight alone for the good of
the North--for the cause of those who will never be able to fight for
themselves.
"It will not be necessary to tell you that I shall go straight to the
headquarters of the Mounted and withdraw my charge against you. I have
heard of your lawless raids into the far North; I think they are
_splendid_! Keep the good work up! Shoot as straight as you can--as
straight as you shot that night on Snare Lake. I should love to stand
at your side and shoot, too. But that can never be.
"Just a word more. Lena is going to marry LeFroy; and, knowing Lena as
I do, I think his reformation is assured. I am leaving everything to
them. The contents of the storehouse will set them up as independent
traders.
"And now farewell. I want you to have my most valued possession, the
portrait of my grandfather, Tiger Elliston, the man I have always
admired more than any other until----"
Until what? wondered MacNair. The word had been crossed out, and he
finished the letter still wondering.
"When you look at the picture in its splintered frame, think sometimes
of the 'fool moose-calf,' who, having succeeded by the narrowest margin
in eluding the fangs of 'the wolf' is returning, wiser, to its
mountains.
"Yours very truly--and very, very repentantly,
"CHLOE ELLISTON."
Bob MacNair lost his fight. He arose once more, his great frame
trembling in the grip of a new thrill. He stretched his great arms to
the southward in a silent sign of surrender. He sought not to dodge
the issue, strange and wonderful as it seemed to him. He loved this
woman--loved her as he knew he could love no other--as he had never
dreamed it was in the heart of man to love.
And then, with the force of a blow, came the realization that this
woman--his woman--was at that very instant, in all probability, at the
mercy of a fiend who would stop at nothing to gain his own ends.
He leaped to the door.
"By God, I'll tear his heart out!" he roared as he wrenched at the
latch. And the next instant the shores of Snare Lake echoed to the
wild weird sound of the wolf-cry--the call of MacNair to his clan!
Other calls and other summons might be ignored upon provocation, but
when the terrible wolf-cry shattered the silence of the forest
MacNair's Indians rushed to his side.
Only death itself could deter them from fore-gathering at the sound of
the wolf-cry. Before the echoes of MacNair's voice had died away dark
forms were speeding through the moonlight. From all directions they
came; from the cabins that yet remained standing, from the tents
pitched close against the unburned walls of the stockade, from rude
wickiups of skins and of brushwood.
Old men and young men they answered the call, and each in his hand bore
a rifle. MacNair snapped a few quick orders. Men rushed to harness
the dog-teams while others provisioned the sleds for the trail.
With one arm MacNair swung the Louchoux girl from the floor, and,
picking up his rifle, dashed out into the night.
Wee Johnnie Tamarack, just in from a twenty-four-hour trail, stood at
the head of MacNair's own dogs--the seven great Athabasca River dogs
that had carried him into the North. With a cry to his Indians to
follow and to bring the Louchoux girl, MacNair threw himself belly-wise
onto his sled, gave voice to a weird cry as his dogs shot out across
the white snow-level of Snare Lake, and headed south-ward toward the
Yellow Knife.
He laughed aloud as he glanced over the back-trail and noted that half
of his Indians were already following. He had chosen that last cry
well. Never before had the Indians heard it from the white man's lips,
and they thrilled at the sound to the marrow. The blood surged through
the veins of the wild men as it had not surged in long decades. _It
was the war-cry of the Yellow Knives_!