It was late in the afternoon when Philip's instructions came from the
inspector. They were tersely official in form, gave him all necessary
authority, and ordered him to leave for Le Pas that night. Pinned to the
order was a small slip of paper, and on this MacGregor had repeated in
writing his words of a few hours before: “Whatever happens, bring back
your prisoner.”
There was no signature to this slip, and the first two words were
heavily underscored. What did this double caution mean? Coming from a
man like MacGregor, who was as choice as a king of his advice, Philip
knew that it was of unusual significance. If it was intended as a
warning, why had not the inspector given him more detail? During the
hour in which he was preparing for his journey he racked his brain
for some clew to the situation. The task which he was about to perform
seemed simple enough. A man named Thorpe had attempted murder at
Wekusko. He was already a prisoner, and he was to bring him down. The
biggest coward in Saskatchewan, or a man from a hospital bed, could do
this much, and yet--
He read the inspector's words over and over again. “Whatever happens!”
In spite of himself a little stir of excitement crept into his blood.
Since that thrilling hour in which he had seen Bucky Nome desert from
the service he had not felt himself moved as now, and in a moment of
mental excitement he found himself asking a question which a few minutes
before he would have regarded as a mark of insanity. Was it possible
that in the whole of the Northland there could be another woman as
beautiful as Colonel Becker's wife--a woman so beautiful that she had
turned even Inspector MacGregor's head, as Mrs. Becker had turned Bucky
Nome's--and his? Was it possible that between these two women--between
this wife of an attempted murderer and Mrs. Becker there was some
connecting link--some association--
He cut his thoughts short with a low exclamation of disgust. The
absurdity of the questions he had asked himself brought a flush into
his face. But he could not destroy the undercurrent of emotions they had
aroused. Anyway, something was going to happen. He was sure of that. The
inspector's actions, his words, his mysterious nervousness, the strange
catch in his voice as they parted, all assured him that there was a
good reason for the repeated warning. And whatever did happen was to be
brought about by the woman whose girlish beauty he had looked upon in
the picture. That MacGregor was aware of the nature of his peril, if he
was to run into danger at all, he was sure, and he was equally certain
that some strong motive restrained the inspector from saying more than
he had. Already he began to scent in the adventure ahead of him those
elements of mystery, of excitement, even of romance, the craving for
which was an inherited part of his being. And with these things there
came another sensation, one that surprised and disquieted him. A few
days before his one desire had been to get out of the north country, to
place as much distance as possible between himself and Lac Bain. And now
he found himself visibly affected by the thought that his duty was to
take him once more in the direction of the woman whose sweet face had
become an indissoluble part of his existence. He would not see her. Even
at Wekusko he would be many days' journey from Lac Bain. But she would
be nearer to him, and it was this that quickened his pulse.
He was ten minutes early for his train, and employed that interval in
mingling among the people at the station. MacGregor had as much as told
him that whatever unusual thing might develop depended entirely upon the
appearance of the woman and he began to look for her. She was not at
the station. Twice he walked through the coaches of his train without
discovering a face that resembled that in the photograph.
It was late when he arrived at Etomami, where the sixty mile line of the
Hudson's Bay Railroad branches off to the north. At dawn he entered
the caboose of the work train, which was to take him up through the
wilderness to Le Pas. He was the only passenger.
“There ain't even a hand-car gone up ahead of us,” informed the brakeman
in response to his inquiry. “This is the only train in five days.”
After all, it was to be a tame affair, in spite of the inspector's
uneasiness and warnings, thought Philip. The woman was not ahead of
him. Two days before she had been in MacGregor's office, and under the
circumstances it was impossible for her to be at Le Pas or at Wekusko,
unless she had traveled steadily on dog sledge. Philip swore softly to
himself in his disappointment, ate breakfast with the train gang, went
to sleep, and awoke when they plowed their way into the snow-smothered
outpost on the Saskatchewan.
The brakeman handed him a letter.
“This came on the Le Pas mail,” he explained. “I kept it out for you
instead of sending it to the office.”
“Thank you,” said Philip. “A special--from headquarters. Why in thunder
didn't they send me a messenger instead of a letter, Braky? They could
have caught me on the train.”
He tore open the departmental envelope as he spoke and drew forth a bit
of folded paper. It was not the official letter-head, but at a glance
Philip recognized the inspector's scrawling writing and his signature.
It was one of MacGregor's quiet boasts that the man did not live who
could forge his name. An astonished whistle broke from his lips as he
read these few lines:
Follow your conscience, whatever you do. Both God and man will reward
you in the end.
Felix MacGregor.
And this was all. There was no date, no word of explanation; even his
own name had been omitted from this second order. He picked up the
envelope which had fallen to the floor and looked at the postmark. It
had been stamped four-thirty. It was after five, an hour later, that he
had received his verbal instructions from MacGregor! The inspector
must have written the note before their interview of the preceding
afternoon--before his repeated injunction of “Whatever happens, bring
back your prisoner!” But this letter was evidently intended as final
instructions since it had been sent so as to reach him at this time.
What did it mean? The question buzzed in Philip's brain, repeated itself
twenty times, fifty times, as he hurried through the gathering darkness
of the semi-polar night toward the log hotel of the place. He was
convinced that there was some hidden motive in the inspector's actions.
What was he to understand?
Suddenly he stopped, a hundred yards from the glimmering lights of the
Little Saskatchewan hotel, and chuckled audibly as he stuffed his pipe.
It flashed upon him now why MacGregor had chosen him instead of an
ordinary service man to bring down the prisoner from Wekusko. MacGregor
knew that he, Philip Steele, college man and man of the world, would
reason out the key to this little puzzle, whereas Sergeant Moody and
others of his type would turn back for explanations. And Inspector
MacGregor, twenty years in the service, and recognized as the shrewdest
man-hunter between the coasts, wished to give no explanation. Philip's
blood tingled with fresh excitement as the tremendous risk which the
inspector himself was running, dawned upon him. Publicity of the note
which he held in his hand would mean the disgrace and retirement even of
Felix MacGregor.
He thrust the letter in his pocket and hurried on. The lights of the
settlement were already agleam. From the edge of the frozen river there
came the sound of a wheezy accordion in a Chinese cafe, and the howling
of a dog, either struck by man or worsted in a fight. Where the more
numerous lights of the one street shone red against the black background
of forest, a drunken half-breed was chanting in half-Cree, half-French,
the chorus of the caribou song. He heard the distant snapping of a whip,
the yelping response of huskies, and a moment later a sledge and six
dogs passed him so close that he was compelled to leap from their path.
This was Le Pas--the wilderness! Beyond it, just over the frozen river
which lay white and silent before him, stretched that endless desolation
of romance and mystery which he had grown to love, a world of deep
snows, of silent-tongued men, of hardship and battle for life where the
law of nature was the survival of the fittest, and that of man, “Do
unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.” Never did Philip
Steele's heart throb with the wild, free pulse of life and joy as in
such moments as these, when his fortune, his clubs, and his friends
were a thousand miles away, and he stood on the edge of the big northern
Unknown.
As he had slept through the trainmen's dinner hour, he was as hungry as
a wolf, and he lost no time in seating himself in a warm corner of the
low, log-ceilinged dining-room of the Little Saskatchewan. Although a
quarter of an hour early, he had hardly placed himself at his table when
another person entered the room. Casually he glanced up from the two
letters which he had spread out before him. The one who had followed him
was a woman. She had turned sharply upon seeing him and seated herself
at the next table, her back so toward him that he caught only her half
profile.
It was enough to assure him that she was young and pretty. On her head
she wore a turban of silver lynx fur, and about this she had drawn her
glossy brown hair, which shone like burnished copper in the lamp-glow,
and had gathered it in a bewitchingly coquettish knot low on her neck,
where it shone with a new richness and a new warmth with every turn of
her head. But not once did she turn so that Philip could see more than
the tantalizing pink of her cheek and the prettiness of her chin, which
at times was partly concealed in a collarette of the same silver gray
lynx fur.
He ate his supper almost mechanically, in spite of his hunger, for his
mind was deep in the mysterious problem which confronted him. Half a
dozen times he broke in upon his thoughts to glance at the girl at the
opposite table. Once he was sure that she had been looking at him and
that she had turned just in time to keep her face from him. Philip
admired pretty women, and of all beauty in woman he loved beautiful
hair, so that more and more frequently his eyes traveled to the shining
wealth of copper-colored tresses near him. He had almost finished his
supper when a movement at the other table drew his eyes up squarely, and
his heart gave a sudden jump. The girl had risen. She was facing him,
and as for an instant their eyes met she hesitated, as if she were on
the point of speaking. In that moment he recognized her.
It was the girl in the photograph, older, more beautiful--the same soft,
sweet contour of face, the same dark eyes that had looked at him in
MacGregor's office, filled with an indescribable sadness now, instead of
the laughing joy of girlhood. In another moment he would have responded
to her hesitation, to the pathetic tremble of her lips, but before words
could form themselves she had turned and was gone. And yet at the
door, even as she disappeared, he saw her face turned to him again,
pleadingly, entreatingly, as if she knew his mission and sent to him a
silent prayer for mercy.
Thrusting back his chair, he caught up his hat from a rack and followed.
He was in time to see her pass through the low door out into the night.
Without hesitation his mind had leaped to a definite purpose. He would
overtake her outside, introduce himself, and then perhaps he would
understand the conflicting orders of Inspector MacGregor.
The girl was passing swiftly down the main street when he took up the
pursuit. Suddenly she turned into a path dug through the snow that led
riverward. Ahead of her there was only the starlit gloom of night and
the distant blackness of the wilderness edge. Philip's blood ran a
little faster. She had expected that he would follow, knew that he was
close behind her, and had turned down into this deserted place that they
might not be observed! He made no effort now to overtake her, but kept
the same distance between them, whistling carelessly and knowing that
she would stop to wait for him. Ahead of them there loomed up out of
the darkness a clump of sapling spruce, and into their shadow the girl
disappeared.
A dozen paces more and Philip himself was buried in the thick gloom. He
heard quick, light footsteps in the snow-crust ahead of him. Then there
came another sound--a step close behind him, a noise of disturbed brush,
a low voice which was not that of a woman, and before his hand could
slip, to the holster at his belt a human form launched itself upon him
from the side, and a second form from behind, and under their weight
he fell a helpless heap into the snow. Powerful hands wrenched his arms
behind his back and other hands drew a cloth about his mouth. A stout
cord was twisted around his wrists, his legs were tied, and then his
captors relieved him of their weight.
Not a word had been spoken during the brief struggle. Not a word was
spoken now as his mysterious assailants hoisted him between them and
followed in the footsteps of the woman. Scarcely a hundred paces beyond
the spruce the dark shadow of a cabin came into view. Into this he was
carried and placed on something which he took to be a box. Then a light
was struck.
For the first time Philip's astonished eyes had a view of his captors.
One of them was an old man, a giant in physique, with a long gray beard
and grayish yellow hair that fell to his shoulders. His companion was
scarcely more than a boy, yet in his supple body, as he moved about,
Philip recognized the animal-like strength of the forest breed. A word
spoken in a whisper by the boy revealed the fact that the two were
father and son. From that side of the room which was at Philip's back
they dragged forth a long pine box, and were engaged in this occupation
when the door opened and a third man entered. Never had Philip looked on
a more unprepossessing face than that of the newcomer, in whose little
black eyes there seemed to be a gloating triumph as he leered at the
prisoner. He was short, with a huge breadth of shoulders. His eyes and
mouth and nose were all but engulfed in superfluous flesh, and as he
turned from Philip to the man and boy over the box he snapped the joints
of his fingers in a startling manner.
“Howdy, howdy!” he wheezed, like one afflicted with asthma. “Good!
good!” With these four words he lapsed into the silence of the older man
and the boy.
As the box was dragged full into the light, a look of horror shot into
Philip's eyes. It was the rough-box of a coffin! Without a word, and
apparently without a signal, the three surrounded him and lifted him
bodily into it. To his surprise he found himself lying upon something
soft, as if the interior of his strange prison had been padded with
cushions. Then, with extreme caution, his arms were freed from under his
back and strapped to his side, and other straps, broad and firm, were
fastened from side to side of the box across his limbs and body, as
if there were danger of his flying up and out through the top. Another
moment and a shadow fell above him, pitch gloom engulfed him.
They were dragging on the cover to the box! He heard the rapid beating
of a hammer, the biting of nails into wood, and he writhed and struggled
to free his hands, to cry out, to gain the use of his legs, but not the
fraction of an inch could he relieve himself of his fetters. After a
time his straining muscles relaxed, and he stopped to get his breath and
listen. Faintly there came to him the sound of subdued voices, and he
caught a glimmer of light, then another, and still a third. He saw now
that half a dozen holes had been bored into the cover and sides of the
box. The discovery brought with it a sense of relief. At least he was
not to be suffocated. He found, after an interval, that he was even
comfortable, and that his captors had not only given him a bed to lie
upon, but had placed a pillow under his head.