Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                           THE HEART OF UNAGA

                           BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

AUTHOR OF "_The Triumph of John Kars_," "_The Law Breakers_," "_The Way
of the Strong_," _etc._


A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers        New York

Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons

COPYRIGHT, 1920
BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

Made in the United States of America

The Knickerbocker Press, New York




CONTENTS


PART I

       I.--JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS

      II.--THE PASSING OF A DREAM

     III.--THE GOING OF STEVE

      IV.--UNAGA

       V.--MARCEL BRAND

      VI.--AN-INA

     VII.--THE HARVEST OF WINTER

    VIII.--BIG CHIEF WANAK-AHA

      IX.--THE VISION OF THE SPIRE

       X.--THE RUSH OUTFIT

      XI.--STEVE LISTENS

     XII.--REINDEER

    XIII.--"ADRESOL"

     XIV.--MALLARD'S

      XV.--THE SET COURSE


PART II

       I.--AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS

      II.--THE SPRING OF LIFE

     III.--MANHOOD

      IV.--KEEKO

       V.--A DUEL

      VI.--THE KING OF THE FOREST

     VII.--SUMMER DAYS

    VIII.--THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS

      IX.--THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON

       X.--THE FAREWELL

      XI.--THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN

     XII.--KEEKO RETURNS HOME

    XIII.--THE FAITH OF MEN

     XIV.--THE VALLEY OF DREAMS

      XV.--THE HEART OF UNAGA

     XVI.--KEEKO AND NICOL

    XVII.--THE DEVOTION OF A GREAT WOMAN

   XVIII.--THE VIGIL

     XIX.--THE STORE-HOUSE

      XX.--THE HOME-COMING

     XXI.--THE GREAT REWARD




The Heart of Unaga




PART I




CHAPTER I

JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS


Steve Allenwood raked the fire together. A shower of sparks flew up and
cascaded in the still air of the summer night. A moment later his
smiling eyes were peering through the thin veil of smoke at the two
dusky figures beyond the fire. They were Indian figures, huddled down on
their haunches, with their moccasined feet in dangerous proximity to the
live cinders strewn upon the ground.

"Oh, yes?" he said. "And you guess they sleep all the time?"

The tone of his voice was incredulous.

"Sure, boss," one of the Indians returned, quite unaffected by the tone.
The other Indian remained silent. He was in that happy condition between
sleep and waking which is the very essence of enjoyment to his kind.

Inspector Allenwood picked up a live coal in his bare fingers. He
dropped it into the bowl of his pipe. Then, after a deep inhalation or
two, he knocked it out again.

"'Hibernate'--eh? That's how we call it," he said presently. Then he
shook his head. The smile had passed out of his eyes. "No. It's a dandy
notion. But--it's not true. They'd starve plumb to death. You see,
Julyman, they're human folks--the same as we are."

The flat denial of his "boss" was quite without effect upon Julyman.
Oolak, beside him, roused himself sufficiently to turn his head and
blink enquiry at him. He was a silent creature whose admiration for
those who could sustain prolonged talk was profound.

"All same, boss, that so," Julyman protested without emotion. "Him same
like all men. Him just man, squaw, pappoose. All same him
sleep--sleep--sleep, when snow comes," Julyman sucked deeply at his pipe
and spoke through a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Julyman not lie. Oh, no.
Him all true. When Julyman young man--very young--him father tell him of
Land of Big Fire. Him say all Indian man sleeping--so." He leant over
sideways, with his hands pressed together against his cheek to
illustrate his meaning. "Him father say this. Him say when snow come All
Indian sleep. One week--two week. Then him wake--so." He stretched
himself, giving a great display of a weary half-waking condition. "Him
sit up. The food there by him, an' he eat--eat plenty much. Then him
drink. An' bimeby him drink the spirit stuff again. Bimeby, too, him
roll up in blanket. Then him sleep some more. One week--two week. So.
An' bimeby winter him all gone. Oh, him very wise man. Him no work lak
hell same lak white man. No. Him sleep--sleep all him winter. An' when
him wake it all sun, an' snow all gone. All very much good. Indian man
him go out. Him hunt the caribou. Him fish plenty good. Him kill much
seal. Make big trade. Oh, yes. Plenty big trade. So him come plenty old
man. No him die young. Only very old. Him much wise man."

The white man smiled tolerantly. He shrugged.

"Guess you got a nightmare, Julyman," he said. "Best turn over."

Steve had nothing to add. He knew his scouts as he knew all other
Indians in the wide wilderness of the extreme Canadian north. These
creatures were submerged under a mental cloud of superstition and
mystery. He had no more reason to believe the story of "hibernating"
Indians than he had for believing the hundred and one stories of Indian
folklore he had listened to in his time.

Julyman, too, considered the subject closed. He had said all he had to
say. So the spasm of talk was swallowed up by the silence of the summer
night.

The fire burned low, and was replenished from the wood pile which stood
between the two teepees standing a few yards away in the shadow of the
bush which lined the trail. These men, both white and coloured, had the
habit of the trail deeply ingrained in them. But then, was it not their
life, practically the whole of it? Stephen Allenwood was a police
officer who represented the white man's law in a district as wide as a
good-sized European country, and these scouts were his only assistants.

They were at headquarters now enjoying a brief respite from the endless
trail which claimed all their life and energies. And such was the nature
of their work, and so absorbing the endless struggle of it, that their
focus of holiday-making was little better than sitting over a camp-fire
at night smoking, and occasionally talking, and waiting for the call of
nature summoning them to their blankets.

It was a wonderful night, still and calm, and with a radiance of
starlight overhead. There was the busy hum of insect life from the
adjacent woods, a deep murmur from the sluggish tide of the great
Caribou River which drained the country for miles around. The occasional
sigh that floated upon the air spoke of lofty pine crests bending under
a light top breeze which refrained from disturbing the lower air. The
night left the impression of unbreakable peace, of human content, and a
world where elemental storms were unknown.

But the impression was misleading, as are all such impressions in
nature's wild, and where the human heart beats strongly. There was no
content in the grey eyes of the white man as he sat gazing into the
heart of the fire. Then, too, not one of them but knew the cruel moods
of the great Northland.

A wonderful companionship existed between these men. It was something
more than the companionship of the long trail. They had fought the
battle of life together for eight long years, enduring perils and
hardships which had brought them an understanding and mutual regard
which no difference in colour, or education could lessen. For all the
distinction of the police officer's rank and his white man's learning,
for all the Indians were dark-skinned, uncultured products of the great
white outlands, they were three friends held by bonds which only the
hearts of real men could weld.

The territory over which Steve Allenwood exercised his police control
was well-nigh limitless from a "one-man" point of view. From his
headquarters, which lay within the confines of the Allowa Indian Reserve
on the Caribou River, it reached away to the north as far as the Arctic
Circle. To the west, only the barrier of the great McKenzie River marked
its limits. To the south, there was nothing beyond the Reserve claiming
his official capacity, except the newly grown township of Deadwater, two
miles away. Eastwards? Well, East was East. So far as Inspector
Allenwood knew his district had no limits in that direction, unless it
were the rugged coast line of the Hudson's Bay itself.

His task left Steve Allenwood without complaint. It was never his way to
complain. Doubtless there were moments in his life when he realized the
overwhelming nature of it all. But he no more yielded to it than he
would yield to the overwhelming nature of a winter storm. That was the
man. Patient; alive with invincible courage and dispassionate
determination. Square, calm, strong, like the professional gambler he
always seemed to have a winning card to play at the right moment. And
none knew better than his scouts how often that card had meant the
difference between a pipe over the warm camp-fire and the cold comfort
of an icy grave.

Julyman was troubled at the unease he observed in the white man's eyes.
It had been there on and off for some days now. It had been there more
markedly earlier in the evening when the white man had helped his girl
wife into the rig in which Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, was
driving Dr. and Mrs. Ross, and their two daughters, to the dance which
was being given down at the township by the bachelors of Deadwater.
Since then the look had deepened, and Julyman, in spite of his best
efforts, had failed to dispel it. Even his story of a race of
"hibernating" Indians had been without effect.

But Julyman did not accept defeat easily. And presently he removed the
foul pipe from his thin lips, and spat with great accuracy into the
heart of the fire.

"Bimeby she come," he said, in his low, even tones, while his black,
luminous eyes were definitely raised to the white man's face. "Oh, yes.
Bimeby she come. An' boss then him laff lak hell. Julyman know. Julyman
have much squaw. Plenty."

Steve started. For a moment he stared. Then his easy smile crept into
his steady eyes again and he nodded.

"Sure," he said. "Bimeby she come. Then I laff--like hell."

Julyman's sympathy warmed. He felt he had struck the right note. His
wide Indian face lit with an unusual smile.

"Missis, him young. Very much young," he observed profoundly. "Him lak
dance plenty--heap. It good. Very good. Bimeby winter him come. Cold lak
hell. Missis no laff. Missis not go out. Boss him by the long trail. So.
Missis him sit. Oh yes. Him sit with little pappoose. No dance. No
nothin'. Only snow an' cold--lak hell."

This time the man's effort elicited a different response. Perhaps he had
over-reached. Certainly the white man's eyes had lost the look that had
inspired the Indian. They were frowning. It was the cold frown of
displeasure. Julyman knew the look. He understood it well. So he went no
further. Instead he spat again into the fire and gave himself up to a
luxurious hate of Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, whom all Indians
hated.

Julyman was only a shade removed from his original savagery. There were
times when he was not removed from savagery at all. This was such a
moment. For he abandoned himself to the silent contemplation of a vision
of the heart of the Indian Agent roasting over the fire before him. It
was stuck on the cleaning-rod of his own rifle like a piece of bread to
be toasted. Furthermore his was the hand holding the cleaning-rod. He
would willingly throw the foul heart to the camp dogs--when it was
properly cooked.

His vision was suddenly swept away by a sound which came from somewhere
along the trail in the direction of Deadwater. There was a faint,
indistinct blur of voices. There was also the rattle of wheels, and the
sharp clip of horses' hoofs upon the hard-beaten road. He instinctively
turned his head in the direction. And as he did so Steve Allenwood stood
up. Just for a moment the white man stood gazing down the shadowed
trail. Then he moved off in the direction of his four-roomed log house.

Left alone the Indians remained at the fireside; Oolak--the
silent--indifferent to everything about him except the pleasant warmth
of the fire; Julyman, on the contrary, angrily alert. He was listening
to the sounds which grew momentarily louder and more distinct. And with
vicious relish he had already distinguished Hervey Garstaing's voice
amongst the rest. It was loud and harsh. How he hated it. How its tones
set the dark blood in his veins surging to his head.

"Why sure," he heard him say, "the boys did it good. They're bright
boys."

In his crude fashion the scout understood that the Agent was referring
to the evening's entertainment. It was the soft voice of Mrs. Ross which
replied, and Julyman welcomed the sound. All Indians loved the "med'cine
woman," as they affectionately called the doctor's wife.

"It was the best party we've had in a year," she cried enthusiastically.
"You wouldn't have known old Abe's saloon from a city hall at Christmas
time, with its decorations and its "cuddle-corners" all picked out with
Turkey red and evergreens. And you girls! My! you had a real swell time.
There were boys enough and to spare for you all. And they weren't the
sort to lose much time either. The lunch was real elegant, too, with the
oysters and the claret cup. My! it certainly was a swell party."

The wagon had drawn considerably nearer. The quick ears of the Indian
had no difficulty with the language of the white folk. His main source
of interest was the identity of those who were speaking. And, in
particular, he was listening for one voice which he had not as yet been
able to distinguish. Hervey Garstaing seemed to do most of the talking.
And how he hated the sound of that voice.

"Why, say, Dora," he heard him exclaim in good-natured protest, as the
outline of the team loomed up out of the distance. "I don't guess Mrs.
Allenwood and I sat out but two dances. Ain't that so, Nita?"

Julyman's ears suddenly pricked. He may have been an uncultured savage,
but he was a man, and very human. And the subtle inflection, as the
Agent addressed himself to Steve Allenwood's wife, was by no means lost
upon him.

"Three!"

The answer came in chorus from the two daughters of the doctor. And it
came with a giggle.

"Oh, if you're going to count a supper 'extra,' why--Anyway what's three
out of twenty-seven. There's no kick coming to that. Guess a feller
would be all sorts of a fool----"

"If he didn't take all that's coming his way at a dance," broke in the
doctor's genial voice, with a laugh.

The wagon was abreast of him, and Julyman's eyes were studiously
concerned with the glowing heart of the fire. But nothing escaped them.
Nothing ever did escape them. He closely scanned the occupants of the
wagon. Dr. and Mrs. Ross were in the back seat, and their two daughters
were facing them. Hervey Garstaing was driving, and Nita Allenwood was
sitting beside him. It was all just as it had been earlier in the
evening when he had seen them set out for Deadwater.

Oh, yes. It was all the same--with just a shade of difference. Nita was
sitting close--very close to the teamster. She was sitting much closer
than when Steve, earlier in the evening had tucked the rug about her to
keep the chill summer evening air from penetrating the light dancing
frock she was wearing. They were both tucked under one great buffalo
robe now. It was a robe he knew to be Hervey Garstaing's.

As the vehicle passed the fire Dr. Ross flung a genial greeting at the
two Indians. Julyman responded with a swift raising of his eyes, and one
of his broad, unfrequent smiles. Then, as the wagon passed, his eyes
dropped again to the fire.

He knew. Oh, yes, he knew. Had he not sat with many squaws who seemed
desirable in his eyes? Yes, he had sat just so. Close. Oh, very close.
Yes, he was glad his boss had taken himself off. Maybe he was looking
down into the depths of the basket which held the little white pappoose
back there in his home. It was good to look at the little pappoose when
there was trouble at the back of a father's eyes. It made the trouble
much better. How he hated the white man, Hervey Garstaing.

       *       *       *       *       *

For once Julyman's instincts were at fault. He had read the meaning of
Steve Allenwood's sudden departure in the light of his own
interpretation of the trouble he had seen in the man's grey eyes. He was
entirely wrong.

Steve had heard the approaching wagon, and he knew that his wife and the
other folk were returning from the dance. But almost at the same instant
he had detected the sound of horses' hoofs in an opposite direction. It
was in the direction of his home. Julyman had missed the latter in his
absorbed interest in the return of these folk from Deadwater.

Steve reached the log home in the bluff at the same moment as a horseman
reined up at his door. The man in the saddle leant over, peering into
the face of the Inspector. The darkness left him uncertain.

"Deadwater post?" he demanded abruptly.

Steve had recognized the man's outfit. The brown tunic and side-arms,
the prairie hat, and the glimpse of a broad yellow stripe on the side of
the riding breeches just where the man's leather chapps terminated on
his hips. These things were all sufficient.

"Sure."

"Inspector Allenwood, sir?"

The man's abrupt tone had changed to respectful inquiry.

"I'm your man, Corporal."

The Corporal flung out of the saddle.

"Sorry I didn't rec'nize you, sir," he said saluting quickly. "It's
pretty dark. It's a letter from the Superintendent--urgent." He drew a
long, blue envelope from his saddle wallets and passed it to his
superior. "Maybe you can direct me to the Indian Agent, Major Garstaing,
sir. I got a letter for him."

Steve Allenwood glanced up from the envelope he had just received.

"Sure. Best cut through the bluff. There's a trail straight through
brings you to his house. It's mostly a mile and a half. Say, you'll need
supper. Get right along back when you've finished with him. When did you
start out?"

"Yesterday morning, sir."

The Inspector whistled.

"Fifty miles a day. You travelled some."

The Corporal patted his steaming horse's neck.

"He's pretty tough, is old Nigger, sir," he said, with quiet pride. "Mr.
McDowell wanted me to pick up a horse at Beaufort last night, but I
wouldn't have done any better. Nigger can play the game a week without a
worry. Guess I'll get on, sir, and make back after awhile. That the
barn, sir?" he went on, pointing at a second log building a few yards
from the house, as he swung himself into the saddle again. "I won't need
supper. I had that ten miles back on the trail. I off-saddled at an
Indian lodge where they lent me fire to boil my tea."

Steve nodded.

"Very well, Corporal. There's blankets here in the office when you come
back. This room, here," he added, throwing open the door. "I'll set a
lamp for you. There's feed and litter for your plug at the barn. Rub him
down good."

"Thank you, sir."

The man turned his horse and headed away for the trail through the
bluff, and Steve watched him go. Nor could he help a feeling of
admiration for the easy, debonair disregard of difficulties and hardship
which these men of his own force displayed in the execution of their
work. In his utter unself-consciousness he was quite unaware that
wherever the police were known his own name was a household word for
these very things which he admired in another.

He passed into his office and lit the lamp. Then he seated himself at
the simple desk where his official reports were made out. It was a
plain, whitewood table, and his office chair was of the hard Windsor
type.

He tore open his letter and glanced at its contents. It was from his own
immediate superior, Superintendent McDowell, and dated at Fort Reindeer.
It was quite brief and unilluminating. It was a simple official order to
place himself entirely at the disposal of Major Hervey Garstaing, the
Indian Agent of the Allowa Indian Reserve--who was receiving full
instructions from the Indian Commissioner at Ottawa--on a matter which
came under his department.

He read the letter through twice. He was about to read it for a third
time, but laid it aside. Instead he rose from the table and moved
towards the door as the wagon from Deadwater drew up outside.




CHAPTER II

THE PASSING OF A DREAM


Steve and his wife were in the parlour of their little home. It was the
home which Steve had had built to replace his bachelor shanty, and which
together they had watched grow, and over the furnishing of which they
had spent hours of profound thought and happy discussions.

The office was entirely separate, that is, it had its own entrance door
and no communication with the rest. The private quarters consisted of
three rooms. The parlour, a bedroom for Steve and Nita, and, leading out
of the latter, a small apartment sacred to the tiny atom of humanity
which they had christened Coqueline, and whom the man, from the moment
his eyes had been permitted to gaze upon her, some fifteen months
earlier, regarded as the most perfect, wonderful, priceless treasure in
the world. Beyond this, a simple lean-to kitchen provided all they
needed for their creature comfort.

It was all characteristic of the Northern world. The walls were of
lateral logs, and the roof was of a similar material, while the entire
interior was lined with red pine match-boarding. It was strong, and
square, and proof against the fiercest storm that ever blew off the
Arctic ice, which was all sufficient in a country where endurance was
man's chief concern.

Nita was seated in the rocking-chair which Steve had set ready for her
beside the stove, whose warmth was welcome enough even on a summer
night. She was sipping a cup of steaming coffee which he had also
prepared. But there was nothing of the smiling delight in her eyes which
the memory of her evening's entertainment should have left there.

The man himself was standing. He was propped against the square table
under the window. He was smoking, and watching the girl wife he idolized
as she silently munched the slice of layer cake which he had passed her.
He was wondering if the long-expected, and long-feared moment of crisis
in their brief married life had arrived. He had watched its approach for
weeks. And he knew that sooner or later it must be faced. He was even
inclined to force it now, for such was his way. Trouble was in her eyes,
and he felt certain of its nature. Nita was not made of the stuff that
could withstand the grind of the dour life of the Northland which he
loved.

They had been married about three years and Nita had as yet spoken no
actual word of complaint. But the complaint was there at the back of her
pretty eyes. It had been there for months now. Steve had watched it
grow. And its growth had been rapid enough with the passing of the first
months of the delirious happiness which had been theirs, and which had
culminated in the precious arrival of their little daughter Coqueline.

"Guess you must have had a real good time," Steve said, by way of
breaking the prolonged silence.

For reply the girl only nodded.

The contrast between them was strongly marked. Nita was
pretty--extremely pretty, and looked as out of place in this land she
was native to as Steve looked surely a part of it. But her charm was of
that purely physical type which gains nothing from within. Her eyes
were wide, child-like, and of a deep violet. Her hair was fair and
softly wavy. Her colouring had all the delicacy which suggested the
laying on by an artist's brush, and which no storm or sun seemed to have
power to destroy. Her slight figure possessed all those perfect contours
which are completely irresistible in early youth. Furthermore these
things were supported to the utmost by the party frock she was wearing,
and over which she had spent weeks of precious thought and labour.

Steve was of the trail. Face and body were beaten hard with the endless
struggle of it all. His rough clothing, which had no relation to the
smart Inspector's uniform he was entitled to wear, bore witness to the
life that claimed him. His only claim to distinction was the sanity and
strength that looked out of his steady grey eyes, the firmness and
decision of his clean-shaven lips, and his broad, sturdy body with its
muscles of iron.

"You'll be tired, too," he went on kindly. "You'd best get to bed when
you've had a warm. I'll fix the chores."

He moved from his position at the table, and, passing out into the
lean-to kitchen, returned a moment later with a small saucepan which he
placed on the shining top of the stove.

"Mrs. Ross seems to figure it was all sorts of a swell party," he went
on. "She guesses the boys must have worried themselves to death fixing
Abe's saloon so it didn't look like--Abe's saloon."

The man's smile was gently humorous. For once he had not the courage to
pursue the downright course which his nature prompted. Little Coqueline
was foremost in his thoughts. Then there was the memory of all the
happiness his home meant to him, and he feared that which undue
precipitancy might bring about.

The girl looked up from the stove. Her eyes abandoned their intense
regard with seeming reluctance.

"It was all--wonderful. Just wonderful," she said in the tone of one
roused from a beautiful dream.

"Abe's saloon?"

Steve's incautious satire suddenly precipitated the crisis he feared.
The girl's eyes flashed a hot look of resentment. He was laughing at
her. She was in no mood to be made sport of, or to have her words made
sport of. She sat up with a start and leant forward in her chair in an
attitude that gave force to her sharp enquiry.

"And why not?" she demanded, her violet eyes darkening under the frown
of swift anger which drew her pretty brows together. "Why not Abe's
saloon, or--or any other place?" She set her coffee cup on the floor
with a clatter, and her hands clasped the arms of her chair as though
she were about to spring to her feet. "Yes," she continued, with
increasing heat, "why not Abe's saloon? It's not the place. It's not the
folk, even. Those things don't matter. It's the thing itself. The whole
thing. The glimpse of life when you're condemned to existence on this
fierce outworld. It's the meaning of it. A dance. It doesn't sound much.
Maybe it doesn't mean a thing to you but something to laugh at, or to
sneer at. It's different to me, and to other folks, who--who aren't
crazy for the long trail and the terrible country we're buried in. The
decorations. The flags. Yes, the cheap Turkey red, and the fiddler's
music--a half-breed fiddler--and the music of a pianist who spends most
of his time getting sober. The folks who are all different from what we
see them every day. Tough, hard-living, hard-swearing men all hidden up
in their Sunday suits, and handing you ceremony as if you were some
queen. Then the sense of pleasure in every heart, with all the cares and
troubles of life pushed into the background--at least for a while. These
things are a glimpse of life to us poor folk who spend all our years in
the endless chores of an inhospitable country. You can smile, Steve. You
can sneer at Abe's saloon. But I tell you you haven't a right to just
because these things don't mean a thing to you. There's nothing means
anything to you but your work----"

"And my wife, and my kiddie, and my--home."

The man's deep voice broke in sharply upon the light, strident tones of
the angry girl. He spoke while he stirred the contents of the saucepan
he had placed on the stove. But the interruption only seemed to add fuel
to the girl's volcanic flood of bitter feeling. A laugh was the prompt
retort he received.

"Your wife. Oh, yes, I know. You'd have her around all the time in her
home, slaving at the chores that would break the spirit of a galley
slave. Oh, it's no use pretending. It's got to come out. It's here," she
rushed on, pressing her hands hysterically against her softly rounded
bosom. "The dream is past. All dreams are past. I'm awake now--to this,"
she indicated the room about her, simple almost to bareness in its
furnishing, with a gesture of indescribable feeling. "It's all I've got
to waken to. All I've got to look forward to. I've tried to tell myself
there's a good time coming, when I can peer into the great light world,
and snatch something of the joy of it all. I've tried, I've tried. But
there isn't. It's the cold drear of this northland. It's chores from
daylight to dark, and all the best years of life hurrying behind me as
if they were yearning to make me old before I can get a chance to--live.
I'm sick thinking. Show me. What is there? You're an Inspector, and we
get a thousand dollars a year, and the rations we draw from the Indian
Agency. You'll never get a Superintendent. You've no political pull,
shut off up here well nigh in sight of the Arctic ice. I'm twenty-two
with years and years of it before me, and all the time I'll need to go
on counting up my cents how I can get through till next pay-day comes
around. Don't talk to me of your wife."

The injustice of the girl's unreasoning complaint was staggering. But it
smote the heart of the man no less for that. Whatever his inward
feelings, however, outwardly he gave no sign. He did not even raise his
eyes from the saucepan he was stirring with so much deliberation and
care.

"You're wrong, little girl," he said with quiet emphasis, and without
one shadow of the emotion that was stirring behind the words. "You're
dead wrong. You've got all those things before you. The things you're
crazy for. And when they come along I guess they'll be all the sweeter
for the waiting, all the better for the round of chores you're hating
now, all the more welcome for the figgering you need to do now with the
cents we get each month. You don't know how I stand with Ottawa. I do.
There's just two years between me and the promotion you reckon I can't
get. That's not a long time. Then we move to a big post where you can
get all the dancing you need, and that won't be in Abe's saloon. You
know that when my old father goes--and I'm not yearning for him to
go--he'll pass me all he has, which is fifty thousand dollars and his
swell farm in Ontario."

He paused and dipped out some of the contents of the saucepan in the
spoon he was stirring it with. He tested its temperature. Then he went
on with his preparations.

"Is there a reasonable kick coming to any woman in those things?" he
demanded. "You knew most of what I'm telling you now when you guessed
you loved me enough to marry me, and to help me along the road I'd
marked out. Have I done a thing less than I promised?" he went on
passing back to the table and picking up the glass bottle lying there,
and removing its top. "If I have just tell me, and I'll do all I
know--" He shook his head. "It's all unreasonable. Maybe you're tired.
Maybe----"

"It isn't unreasonable," Nita cried sharply. "That's how men always say
to a woman when they can't understand. I tell you I'm sick with the
hopelessness of it all. You aren't sure of your promotion. You haven't
got it yet. And maybe your father will live another twenty years. Oh,
God, to think of another twenty years of this. Do you know you're away
from home nine months out of twelve? Do you know that more than half my
time I spend guessing if you're alive or dead? And all the time the
grind of the work. The same thing day after day without relief." She
watched the man as he poured the contents of the saucepan into the
bottle, and her eyes were hot with the state of hysterical anger she had
worked herself into. "Oh," she cried with a helpless, despairing
gesture, as Steve returned the saucepan to the table. "I'm sick of it
all. I hate it all, when I think of what life could be. The thought of
it drives me mad. I hate everything. I hate myself. I hate----"

"Stop it!"

Steve thrust the stopper into the neck of the bottle. He had turned. His
steady eyes were sternly compelling. They were shining with a light Nita
had never witnessed in them before. She suddenly became afraid. And her
silence was instant and complete. She sat breathlessly waiting.

"I've done with this fool talk," Steve cried almost roughly. "I've
listened to too much already. I'm not figgering to let you break things
between us. There's more than you and me in it. There's that poor
little kiddie in the other room. Say, I've seen this coming. I've seen
it coming--weeks. I've seen a whole heap that hurts a man that loves his
wife, and guesses he wants to see her happy. I've seen what isn't good
for a father to see, either. You've told me the things you guess you
feel, and now I'm going to tell you the things I feel. You reckon the
things I say about your good time coming are hot air. They're not. But
you've got to get fool notions out of your head, and work for the things
you want, the same as I reckon to. I'm out to make good--for you.
Understand, for you, and for little Coqueline. I'm out to make good with
all that's in me. And it don't matter a curse to me if all hell freezes
over, I'm going to make good. Get that, and get it good. It's a sort of
life-line that ought to make things easy for you. There's just one thing
that can break my play, Nita. Only one. It's your weakening. It's up to
me to see you don't weaken. You need to take hold of the notion we're
partners in this thing. And don't forget I'm senior partner, and my word
goes. Just now my word is kind of simple. If you don't feel like
carrying on for me, you need to remember there's our little Coqueline.
She's part of you. She's part of me. And she's got a claim on you that
no human law can ever rob her of. Well, the proposition between us has
two sides. My side means the trail, and the job that's mine. I need to
face it with a clear head, and an easy mind. My side means I got to get
busy with every nerve in my body to get you an ultimate good time, and
see you get all you need to make you good an' happy. That's the one
purpose I dream about. Maybe your side's different. But I don't guess
it's any easier. You've got to wait around till those things come along.
But you've got more to do than that. You've got to play this old game
right. Your work's by this home. It don't matter if it's winter or
summer, if it's storming or sunshine. You've got to do the chores you're
guessing you hate, and you need to do them right, and willingly. We're
man and wife. And these chores are yours by all the laws of God, and the
Nature that made you the mother of our little Coqueline. You've got to
cut this crazy notion for fool pleasures right out, till the pleasure
time comes around. That time isn't yet. The woman who lets her child and
her home suffer for joy notions isn't worth the room she'll take in hell
later. Well, see and get busy, and let's have no more fool talk and
crazy notions. Here, take this," he went on, in his deliberate, forceful
way, thrusting the baby's feeding bottle into the girl's hands. "That's
the kiddie's feed. Guess I fixed it because--well, maybe because you're
tired. Take it to her. Give it to her. And, as long as you live don't
you ever forget she's the right to your love, and to my love, and every
darn thing we know to make things right for her."

The force of the man was irresistible. It was something the girl had
never witnessed before. She had only known the husband, devoted, gentle,
almost yielding in his great love. The man that had finished talking now
was the man Julyman regarded above all others.

Nita took the bottle thrust into her hands, and, without a word, she
rose from her chair and passed into the bedroom which the baby's room
adjoined.

Steve watched her go. His hungry eyes followed her every movement. His
heart was torn by conflicting emotions. His love told him that he had
been harsh almost to brutality, but his sense warned him he had taken
the only course which could hope to achieve the peace and happiness
which was Nita's right as well as his own.

He had meant to fight for these things as he would fight on the trail
against the forces of Nature seeking to overwhelm him. He would yield
nothing. For all his words had cost him he was conscious of the
rightness of the course he had taken. But he was fighting a battle in
which forces were arrayed against him of which he was wholly unaware.

As Nita passed into the bedroom the sound of footsteps outside broke the
silence of the room. A moment later he turned in response to a knock on
his door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten minutes later Steve was seated at the desk in his office. He was in
the company of Major Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent. The Corporal,
from Reindeer, was already rolled up in the blankets which were spread
out in the corner of the room. His work had been accomplished. He was
physically weary. And, judging by the sound of his regular breathing,
Nature had claimed her own the moment his head had touched the carefully
folded overcoat which served him for a pillow.

The bare severity of the room was uninviting. There was little display
in the work of the police. Utility and purpose was the keynote of their
lives and at the year's end the tally of work accomplished was the thing
that mattered.

Steve preferred to receive the Indian Agent in his office. Garstaing had
never been an intimate of his. Their relations were official, and just
sufficiently neighbourly for men who lived within two miles of each
other in a country where human companionship was at a premium.

The office table stood between them. The spare chair beyond the desk
always stood ready for a visitor, and Garstaing had accepted it. Steve
had moved the oil lamp on one side, that their view of each other might
be uninterrupted.

They were both smoking, and Garstaing was doing the talking. At all
times Steve preferred that his visitors should do most of the talking.

"I guessed I best come right along," he said, regarding the other
closely. "You see, I'll be handin' out Treaty Money to the darn neches
to-morrow morning. It'll take me best part of the day." He removed the
pipe from his rather wide mouth, and held it poised significantly. "This
thing won't stand keeping. It's--murder. There's two of 'em, I guess.
Traders. Marcel Brand and his partner, Cyrus Allshore. Those are
the names. Can't say I've heard of 'em before. Both of 'em
dead--murdered--up there somewhere around the Unaga country. It's the
Indians or Eskimo, whatever they are, who've done it."

"Yes."

Steve's gaze was directed searchingly at his visitor's good-looking
face. At the moment it almost seemed as if he were regarding the man
rather than his mission. And Garstaing was a somewhat interesting
personality. It should have been a pleasant personality, if looks were
any real indication. Garstaing was distinctly handsome. He was dark, and
his swift-moving dark eyes looked always to be ready to smile. Then he
possessed a superbly powerful body. But the threatened smile rarely
matured, and when it did it added nothing of a pleasant nature for the
student of psychology.

In age the two men were well matched, but they had little else in
common. Garstaing's reputation, at least amongst men, was not a happy
one. He was known to be a hard drinker. He was hot-headed and
pleasure-loving. Furthermore he was given to an overbearing intolerance,
in the indulgence of which his position as Indian Agent yielded him wide
scope.

He ruled the Indians with an iron hand, and for all the stories of his
cruelty and complete unscrupulousness which reached beyond the confines
of the reserve and the bitter hatred of the Indians he remained complete
master of the situation.

There was little enough which Steve had not heard of the unsavouriness
of this man's administration. He by no means gave credence to all of it,
but it was not without effect upon his personal attitude towards him.

"I'm not wise to your instructions," Garstaing went on as Steve offered
no further comment, "but mine are pretty clear, and they are straight
from my Commissioner."

"I've to place myself entirely at your disposal."

Steve's reply came without any hesitation. His tone suggested unconcern.
Garstaing's dark eyes snapped. Then they smiled their approval. It was
that smile which added nothing pleasant to his personality.

"I guessed it was that way from the instructions they handed me," he
said. Then he withdrew a bunch of papers from an inner pocket, and
opened them, and selected a particular sheet. "Here it is," he said, and
promptly read out an extract from the letter. "'You will at once place
yourself in touch with the police in your district, and see that the
whole matter is investigated--forthwith.'"

He glanced up as he uttered the final word.

"You know what that means?" he enquired, searching the eyes that were so
profoundly observing him across the table.

Steve nodded.

"Sure."

"It means you'll have to make the Unaga country right away."

"Sure."

Again came Steve's monosyllabic agreement.

"It means one hell of a long trip," the Agent went on.

"Two years."

The simple finality of the police officer's reply left the other
speechless for the moment. The tone of it amazed him. He had hastened
across from the Agency directly he had received the Corporal's dispatch,
not because he had to pay out Treaty Money in the morning, not because
the whole matter would not keep even a week if necessary. Instantly on
reading his instructions from the Indian Commissioner all thought of the
crime to be investigated had passed out of his mind. His thoughts had
flown to Steve Allenwood, and from him they had passed on to another. A
vision of a sweet face with deep, violet eyes, and softly waving fair
hair had leapt to his mind. Furthermore he still retained the sensation
of a soft, warm hand which had been clasped within his under cover of
the friendly fur robe as he drove the wagon back from the dance at
Deadwater.

Two years. The man had spoken with as much indifference as if he had
been contemplating a trip of two days. Garstaing drew a deep breath,
and, returning his pipe to his capacious mouth ignited a match over the
lamp chimney and re-lit it. Then, with a quick, nervous movement he
picked up a separate bunch of the papers on the table before him and
flung them across to his host.

"There you are," he cried, "that's the whole darn official story. You
best keep it awhile, and read it. I got orders to hand you all you need.
Indians, dog-team, rations. Any old thing you fancy. But--" he paused.
His quick-moving eyes became suddenly still. They were gazing directly
into those of the husband beyond the table. "You'll need to start
out--right away."

Steve rose from his seat with a nod.

"I shall know when to start," he replied shortly.

Then he raised his arms above his head and stretched himself luxuriously
while Garstaing sat watching him, endeavouring to penetrate the man's
tremendous barrier of reserve. But it remained impenetrable, and there
was nothing left for him but to comply with his host's tacit invitation.
He, too, rose from his seat.

"You best take a copy of the story," he said, as Steve moved towards the
door. "Anyway I'll need the original later."

He was talking because the other compelled him to talk. And because he
had that in his mind which made it impossible for him to remain silent.

Steve opened the door and peered out. The night was brilliantly
star-lit. Garstaing was close behind him.

"It's tough on you, Allenwood," he said in a tone intended to express
sympathy. "Two years. Gee!"

Steve's only reply was to move aside to let him pass out. It was as
though Garstaing's expression of sympathy had at last found a weakness
in his armour of reserve. His movement had been abrupt--startlingly
abrupt.

"So long," he said coldly.

Just for one moment their eyes met. Steve's were frigidly non-committal.
There was neither friendliness nor dislike in them. There was no emotion
whatsoever. Garstaing's were questioning, searching, and full of an
impulse that might have meant anything. But it was the police officer
who controlled the situation, and the headstrong, intolerant Indian
Agent who was obeying. He passed out, and his "So long" came back to the
man in the doorway as the night swallowed him up.

Steve moved back to the table. In his deliberate fashion he leant over
the lamp chimney and blew the light out. Then he passed out of the room
and closed the door gently. He paused for a moment outside, and stood
gazing in the direction which he knew Garstaing had taken. Presently he
raised one hand and passed it across his broad forehead. It remained
for a moment pressed against the skin, which had suddenly become coldly
moist. His fingers searched their way up through his abundant dark hair.
It was a movement that expressed something like helpless bewilderment.

"Two years!" he muttered. "Two years!"

Then his arm dropped almost nervelessly to his side.




CHAPTER III

THE GOING OF STEVE


There are some personalities which never fail to permeate their
neighbourhood with their presence. Of such was Dr. Ian Ross. His
presence never failed to impress itself. The moment he crossed the
threshold of his home the household became aware of it. There was his
big voice, his deep-throated husky laugh. There was that strong-hearted
kindly humanity always shining in his deep-set, blue eyes.

He had returned from his surgery at the agency for his midday meal, and
his abundant toned hail reached his wife in a remote bedroom in the
almost luxurious home which he had had set up amidst the spruce woods
lining the Deadwater trail.

"Ho, Millie!" he cried. "Ho you, Mill!" he called again, without waiting
for any response.

"I'll be right along, Mac," came back the cheerful reply.

"Fine. But don't stop to change your gown, there's a good soul. Guess
it's feed time, anyway. And not so much 'Mac.' Guess I'm Ross of the
Ross of Ardairlie, which is in the Highlands of Scotland, which is part
of a small group of islands, which are dumped down in the Atlantic off
the west coast of Europe. Maybe--you've heard tell."

The man flung his wide-brimmed hat on a side table in the hall with a
comfortable laugh. Then seating himself in a big chair, he ran his
fingers through his crisp iron-grey hair.

He was a raw-boned, powerfully built man who seemed by nature the beau
ideal for the healing of a race of savages who regard disease as
inevitable, a visitation by the powers of evil, and something which must
be submitted to in patience lest worse befall. Almost brusque of manner,
forceful, he was as strong and kindly of heart as he was skilful. He was
a product of the best Scottish school of medicine, and one of those rare
souls whose whole desire in life is the relief of human suffering.
Fortune had favoured him very practically. He had ample private means
which enabled him to accept the paltry salary the Government offered him
to take charge of a herd of its coloured children up on the Caribou
River. Furthermore he had had the good fortune to marry a Canadian woman
whose whole heart was wrapped up in him and his life's purpose.

So these two, with their two young children, had made their way north.
The man had set up an ample, even luxurious home on the confines of the
reserve, and they had settled down to battle with the exterminating
diseases, which, since the civilizing process set in, the Indian seems
to have become heir to. So far the battle had raged, for ten years, and
it looked likely to last far beyond Ian Ross's lifetime.

Whatever other successes and failures he had had during that time he had
achieved an affection from his patients quite as great as the hatred
achieved by Hervey Garstaing in less than half that number of years.

The plump round figure of Millie Ross rustled into the hall.

"Where's Dora?"

The man's question came without turning from the sunlit view beyond the
doorway. A wonderful stretch of undulating wood-clad country lay spread
out before him. It was a waste of virgin territory chequered with
woodland bluffs, with here and there the rigid Indian teepee poles
supporting their rawhide dwellings, peeping out from all sorts of
natural shelters.

"Dora? Why, Dora's over with Nita Allenwood. That child spends most of
her time there now."

Millie's cheerful, easy manner was perhaps the greatest blessing of Ian
Ross's life. Her happy good temper spoke of a perfectly healthy body,
and a mind full of a pleasant humour.

Dr. Ross withdrew a timepiece from his pocket.

"Now?" he cried. "Oh, you mean because of Steve's going off on the long
trail. Five days isn't it before he goes?" He chuckled in his pleasant,
tolerant fashion. "Sort of sympathetic butting in, isn't it? Guess heart
and sense never were a good team. I'd say Dora's chock full of heart."

"And it's just as well for someone around this house to have a bunch of
heart that can feel for other folks," Millie retorted promptly. "Say,
you, Mac, there's two days past since word went round of Steve's going,
and you haven't done a thing. Not a thing but continue to make life
miserable for those poor neches who can't help themselves, and have to
spend their play time in swallowing the dope you can't make filthy
enough to please your notions of humanity."

The man laughed up into the smiling, admonishing eyes of the woman who
meant so much to him.

"Hell!" he cried. "What would you have me do? Isn't it my job to see
those poor devils right? Why, they'd lap up dope till you couldn't tell
'em from a New York drug store. The fouler it tastes the more surely
they come back for more. I'd say I've lengthened the sick list of this
reserve till you'd think it was a Free Hospital, and there wasn't a
healthy neche, squaw, or pappoose north of 60°."

Millie picked up the hat he had flung on the side table and hung it on a
peg of the coat rack.

"What would I have you do?" she said, ignoring the rest of his remarks
for the thought in her mind, and coming back to his chair and resting
her plump hand on his crisp hair. "Why something else besides think of
these scalliwag Indians. I'm all worried to death about Nita Allenwood
and Steve."

The man stirred uneasily under the caressing fingers.

"So am I," he cried brusquely. "Well?"

"That's just what it isn't," Millie had withdrawn her hand. She moved to
the doorway and gazed out into the sunlight. "I want to do something and
just don't know how to do it. I know you hate folks who 'slop over.' But
just think of the position. Steve's going to be away for two years,
according to his reckoning. They've sent Corporal Munday to take over
his post in his absence. What--what on earth is Nita to do in his
absence? She'll get her rations, and her pay, and all that. But--she
can't live around the post sort of keeping house for this boy--Munday.
She can't live there by herself anyway. Think of her by that shack with
her kiddie. Two years, here in a country----Besides--"

"'Besides' nothing," exclaimed the man with that curious irritation of a
troubled mind. "Is there need of 'besides' when you think of a
good-looker girl who's barely twenty-two, with as dandy a baby as I've
ever set eyes on, and who I helped into daylight, sitting around without
her husband in a country that's peopled with white men whose morals
would disgrace a dog-wolf? Two years! Why, it makes me sweat thinking.
If that feller Steve don't see my way of looking at things I'm going to
tell him just what his parents ought to've been."

"And what's your way of thinking, Mac?" enquired his wife with the
confidence of certain knowledge.

"My way? My way?" the man exploded, his blue eyes widening with
incredulity. "Why, the way he's got to look. The way sense lies. That
girl and her kiddie have got to come right along here and camp with us
till the boy gets back. There's going to be no darn nonsense," he added
threateningly, as though Millie were protesting. "She's going to come
right here, where you can keep your dandy eye on her till----"

"Eyes--plural, Mac." Millie's smile was a goodly match for the summer
day.

The doctor flung his head back in a deep-throated guffaw.

"Have it your own way," he cried. "One or two, they don't miss much.
Anyway, I guessed I'd put it to you before I went over to fix things
up."

"Sure," laughed Millie comfortably. "You most generally ask my consent
before you get busy." Then, in a moment, she became serious. "But you're
right, Mac," she said. "Dora and I have been talking that way ever since
we heard. And Mabel swears she's going to write the Commissioner of
Police all she thinks about it, and that's 'some.' It's cruel sending
off a married man on a trip like that without fixing things for his
wife. You see and fix things, Mac. Nita's just as welcome as a ray of
sunshine right here with us. It's a shame! It's a wicked downright
shame! And Steve ought to know better than to stand for it. He ought
to----"

"He can't kick." The man shook his head. "He's looking to get a
superintendentship. A kick would fix that for good. No, he's got no kick
coming. You need to understand the Police force right. It's no use
talking that way. It's the work of the force first, last, and all the
time. Everything else is nowhere, and the womenfolk, whom they
discourage, last of all. And mind you, they're right. You can't run a
family, and this hellish country at the same time. If the Police weren't
what they were it would need seventy thousand of them instead of seven
hundred to make this territory better than a sink of crime for every low
down skunk who can't keep out of penitentiary anywhere else. This thing
has me so worried I haven't appetite enough to care it's gone my feed
time by a quarter hour. Isn't Miss Prue through with the darn potatoes,
or--something?"

Millie laughed indulgently.

"I'll get along and see. You see, Miss Prue's a good and God-fearing
squaw, when she isn't smoking her pipe or sitting asleep over the
cook-stove. Anyway, I'll chase her up," and she bustled off in the
direction of the kitchen.

Left to himself Ian Ross forgot entirely that he was awaiting his
dinner. His deep-set eyes were turned to the view beyond the door, and
his thoughts were still further afield. He was thinking of the pretty,
eager face he had watched at the bachelors' dance at Deadwater. He was
thinking of the men who had approached Nita with the ceremony which had
so delighted her. He was old enough and wise enough to appreciate fully
the dangers she would be confronted with in Steve's absence, dangers
which it was more than likely Steve could not realize.

He liked Steve. For all their disparity of years a great friendship
existed between them. Steve was a man who would succeed in anything he
undertook. The doctor was sure of that. But--and this was the matter
that troubled him most--Steve had utter and complete faith in his wife,
the same as he had in all those who possessed his regard. Steve was a
man of single, simple purpose. Strong as a lion in the open battle where
the danger was apparent, but in the more subtle dangers of life he was a
child.

Well, there were men in their world who constituted just one of those
grave subtle dangers to Steve in Steve's absence. Ian Ross shared with
everybody else the hatred of Hervey Garstaing. He had seen Garstaing and
Nita together at the dance. He had seen them together at other times.
Oh,--he had never seen anything that was not perhaps perfectly
legitimate. But he knew Hervey Garstaing better than most people at
Deadwater. He saw far more of him than he desired. And Hervey was a
good-looking man. Nita was young and full of a youthful desire for a
good time. And then Hervey was also an unscrupulous hound whom it would
have given the doctor the greatest pleasure in life to shoot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ian Ross laughed out loud as he strode through the woods on his way to
the police post. A thought had occurred to him which pleased his simple
mind mightily. It was not a very profound thought. And the humour of it
was difficult to detect. But it pleased him, and he had to laugh, and
when he laughed the echoes rang. It had occurred to him that it took a
man of real brain to be a perfect "damn fool."

The inspiration of his thought was undoubtedly Steve Allenwood. Steve
Allenwood and his affairs had occupied his thoughts all the morning, and
had interfered with a due appreciation of the dinner he had just eaten.
He was perturbed, and Millie had set the match to the powder train of
his emotions and energies. His admiration for Steve was as unstinted as
his sympathy for the call that had been suddenly made on him. But he
knew Steve, and realized the difficulties that lay before him in
carrying out the programme of kindly purpose Millie and he had worked
out over their midday meal. It was this which had brought him to the
conclusion which had inspired his laugh.

In that brief instant the complete silence of the woods about him had
been broken up in startling fashion. No shot from a rifle, no mournful
cry of timber-wolf could disturb the spell of nature like the jarring
note of the human voice.

But it had another effect. It elicited a response no less startling to
the man who had laughed.

"Ho you, Mac!"

Ian Ross halted. He had recognized the voice instantly.

"That you, Steve?"

"Sure," came back the reply.

Instantly the Scotsman's lack of self-consciousness became apparent.

"How in hell did you know it was me?"

It was the turn of the invisible police officer to laugh.

"Guess there's only one laugh like yours north of 60°--less a bull moose
can act that way." Then he went on. "Sharp to your left. I'm down here
on the creek. I was making your place and this way cuts off quite a
piece."

Ross turned off at once and his burly figure crashed its way through the
barrier of delicate-hued spruce. A moment later he was confronting the
officer on the bank of the creek.

Steve's smile was one of cordial welcome.

"I was figgering to get you before you went back to the agency," he said
in explanation.

The doctor's eyes twinkled.

"And I was guessing to get you--before I went."

Steve nodded.

"We were chasing each other."

"Which is mostly a fool stunt."

"Mostly."

They stood smiling into each other's eyes for a moment.

"You were needing me--particular?" Steve enquired after a pause.

Ross glanced down at the gurgling water of the shallow stream as it
passed over its rough gravel bed.

"I was needing a yarn. Nothing amiss at the post? You wanted
me--particular?"

The smile in Steve's eyes deepened.

"No. I was needing a--yarn."

The doctor's twinkling eyes searched the clearing. A fallen tree was
sprawling near by, with its upper boughs helping to cascade the waters
of the stream. He pointed at it.

"Guess we don't need to wear our legs out."

Steve laughed shortly.

"That's where the neches beat us every time. You need to sit at a
pow-wow."

"Sure. Their wise men sit most all the time."

They moved over to the tree trunk, and Ross accepted the extreme base of
it and sat with his back against the up-torn roots. Steve sat astride
the trunk facing him. Then by a common impulse the men produced their
pipes. Steve's was alight first and he held a match for the other.

"You were chasing me up?" he said. "Nothing on the Reserve?"

"No." The doctor's pipe was glowing under the efforts of his powerful
lungs. "Most of the neches are sleeping off the dope. It's queer how
they're crazy for physic. How's Nita and the kiddie? I haven't seen
Nita since the dance."

Steve's smile died out quite suddenly. The doctor's observant eyes lost
nothing of the change, although the sunshine on the dancing waters
seemed to absorb his whole attention.

"Guess little Coqueline absorbs more bottles to the twenty-four hours
than you'd ever guess she was made to fit," Steve replied with a half
laugh. "She kind of reminds you of one of those African sand rivers in
the rainy season. Nita's the same as usual. She had a good time at the
dance."

"Yes." The doctor bestirred himself and withdrew his gaze from the
tumbling waters. "You had something to say to me," he demanded abruptly,
his blue eyes squarely challenging.

Steve nodded. A half smile lit his steady eyes.

"Sure. And--it isn't easy."

The Scotsman returned the half smile with interest.

"I haven't noticed it hard for folks to talk, unless it is to tell of
their own shortcomings. Guess you aren't figgering that way. Maybe I can
help you. I'd hate to be setting out on a two years' trip and leaving
Millie to scratch around without me."

Steve's eyes lit.

"That's it, Doc," he said with a nod which told the other of the
emotions stirring under his calm exterior. "Two years!" He laughed
without any amusement. "It may be more, a hell of a sight. Maybe even I
won't get back. You see, you never can figger what this north country's
got waiting on you. It's up in the Unaga country. And I guess it's new
to me. I'd say it's new to anyone. It's mostly a thousand miles I've got
to make, right up somewhere on the north-west shores of Hudson's Bay."

"A--thousand miles! It's tough." Dr. Ross shook his head.

"An' it comes at a bad time for me," Steve went on thoughtfully. "Still,
I guess it can't be helped. You see, it's murder! Or they reckon it is.
A letter got through from Seal Bay. That's on the Hudson coast. The
Indian Department don't know where it comes from. It seems to have been
handed in by an Indian named Lupite. The folks tried to get out of him
where he came from, but I guess he didn't seem to know. Anyway he didn't
tell them. He said Unaga, and kind of indicated the north. Just the
north. Well, it isn't a heap to go on. Still, that's the way of these
things. I've got to locate the things the folks at Seal Bay couldn't
locate. It seems there's a biggish trading post way up hidden somewhere
on the plateau of Unaga. It was run by two partners, and they had a sort
of secret trade. The man at Seal Bay--Lorson Harris--reckons it's a hell
of an important trade. The names of these traders were Marcel Brand--a
chemist--and Cy Allshore, a pretty tough northern man. These fellers
used to come down and trade at Seal Bay. Well, I don't know much more
except this letter came into Seal Bay--it's written in a woman's hand
and in English--to say her husband, Marcel Brand, and this, Cy Allshore,
have been murdered. And she guesses by Indians. She don't seem dead
sure. But they've been missing over a year. I'm just handing you this so
you'll know the sort of thing I'm up against. And I've got to leave
Nita, and my little baby girl, for two years--sure."

The kindly doctor nodded. He removed his pipe, and cleared his throat.
His eyes were alight with a ready smile that was full of sympathy.

"Say, you haven't got to worry a thing for them that way," he said.
"It's tough leaving them. Mighty tough. I get all that. And it sort of
makes me wonder. But--Say, it's queer," he went on. "I was coming right
along over to help fix things for you. And I was scared to death
wondering how to do it without butting in. You were coming along over to
me to set the same sort of proposition, and were scared to death I'd
feel like turning you down. One of these days some bright darn fool'll
fix up mental telepathy to suit all pocket-books. It'll save us all a
deal of worry when that comes along. Now if that mental telepathy were
working right now it would be handing the things passing in your head
something like this: 'Why in hell can't that damned dope merchant, and
that dandy woman who don't know better than to waste her time being his
wife, come right along and fix something so Nita and the kiddie ain't
left lonesome and unprotected while I'm away.' That's the kind of
message I'd be getting from you. And you'd be getting one from me
something in this way: 'If I don't screw up the two measly cents' worth
of courage I've got, and go right across to Steve, and put the
proposition Millie and I are crazy to make, why--why, Millie'll beat my
brains out with a flat iron, and generally make things eternally
unpleasant.' Having got these messages satisfactorily you and I would
have set out--on the same path, mind. We'd have met right here: I should
have said, 'Steve, my boy, your little gal Nita and that bright little
bit of a bottle worrier you call your baby are coming right over to make
their homes with Millie, and the gals, and me, till you get back. We're
going to do just the best we know for them--same as we would for our
own. It's going to be a real comfort for us to have them, and something
more than a pleasure, and if you don't let 'em come--well, we'll be most
damnably disappointed!' And you, being a straight, sound-thinking man in
the main, but with a heap of notions that aren't always sound, but
which you can't just help, would say: 'See, right here, Doc, I don't
approve boosting my burdens on other folks' shoulders. That's not my
way, but anyway I'll be mighty thankful not to disappoint you, and to go
away feeling my bits of property aren't lying around at the mercy of a
country, and a race of folk that'll always remain a blot on any
Creator's escutcheon!' Having said all this we'd likely go on talking
for awhile about the folks and things we know, such as the men of our
acquaintance who reckon they're white, and the rotten acts they do
because rye whisky and the climate of the Northland's killed the only
shreds of conscience they ever had. And then--why, maybe then we just
part, and go back to our work feeling what darn fine fellers we are, and
how almighty glad we are we aren't as--the other folk."

The smile which the doctor's whimsical manner had provoked in Steve's
eyes was good to see. An overwhelming gratitude urged him to verbal
thanks, but somehow a great feeling deep down on his heart forbade such
expression.

"You mean--all that, Doc?" he said almost incredulously at last.

The other raised his broad loose shoulders expressively.

"I wish it was more."

Steve breathed a deep sigh. He shook his head. Then, with an impulsive
movement, he thrust out one powerful hand.

Just for one moment the two men gripped in silence.

"I'll fix it with Nita," Steve said, as their hands fell apart.

"Yep. And Millie and the gals will go along over. She can't refuse
them."

Steve flashed a sharply enquiring look into the other's eyes.

"Why should she want to?" he demanded.

The doctor suddenly realized the doubt he had implied. His own train of
thought had found unconscious expression.

"There isn't a reason in the world," he protested, "except--she's a
woman."

But his reply, for all its promptness, entirely missed its purpose. It
failed completely to banish the trouble which had displaced the smile in
Steve's eyes.

When Steve spoke his voice was low, and he seemed to be speaking to
himself rather than to his companion.

"That's so," he said at last. And Ian Ross knew there was more in
Steve's mind than the fear of the common dangers to which his wife and
child would be exposed in his absence. How much he did not know. Perhaps
he had no desire to know. Anyway, being a man of some wisdom, being
possessed of a home, and a wife, and family of his own, he applied
himself assiduously to the pipe which never failed to soothe his
feelings, however much they might be disturbed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was exactly a week from the time he had received his instructions
that Steve's preparations were completed and the hour of his departure
came round.

The afternoon was well advanced. Already the brilliant sun was drooping
towards the misty range of lofty hills which cut the western skyline in
the region of the Peace River country. Steve's horse was saddled and
bridled, and tethered to the post outside the office door, where
Corporal Munday was seated upon the sill awaiting the departure.

The "outfit" was already on the trail. That had left at sunrise. Its
preparations had been simple, and even spare. But it was adequate. Steve
and his Indians knew to the last fraction the requirements of a journey
such as lay before them. Year in, year out, they were accustomed to
preparations for the long trail. This was longer than usual. That was
all.

The officer's plans were considered to the last detail. Nothing that
could be foreseen was neglected. Every stage of the journey to the Unaga
country was measured in his mind, both for time and distance. Only the
elements were perforce omitted from his calculations. This was in the
nature of things. The elemental side of his undertaking was
incalculable.

His way lay due north for a while along the course of the great Caribou
River. This would bring him to the half-breed settlement at the Landing
on the great lakes. It would also take him through the country of the
Hiada Indians. Arrived at Ruge's trading post at the Landing, his horses
and police, half-spring wagons would be left to the trader's care, for
beyond this point their services would be dispensed with.

The second stage of the journey would be by water and portage. In this
neighbourhood, where the wilderness of sparsely travelled country opened
out, he would make for the headwaters of the beautiful Theton River. The
river of a hundred lakes draining a wide tract of wooded country. It was
a trail which was not unfamiliar; for his work not infrequently carried
him into the territory of peaceful Caribou-Eater Indians, who so often
became the victims of the warlike, hot-headed Yellow-Knives.

The river journey he calculated should bring him to Fort Duggan at the
height of summer, and it was without any feeling of enthusiasm that he
contemplated that fly-and-mosquito-ridden country at such a time of
year. But it was necessary, and so he was left without alternative. Fort
Duggan was the deserted ruin of an old-time trading post, it was the
home of the Shaunekuk Indians who were half Eskimo. It was also the
gate of the mystery land of Unaga.

Unaga! The riddle of the wide northern-world. The land from which weird,
incredible stories percolated through to the outside. They were stories
of wealth. They were stories of savage romance. They were stories of the
weird, terrible, and even monstrous. It was a land so unexplored as to
be reputed something little better than a sealed book even to the
intrepid Arctic explorer, who, at so great an expenditure of physical
effort and courage, rarely accomplishes more than the blazing of a trail
which seals up again behind him, and adds his toll to the graveyard
which claims so many of the world's dauntless souls.

Unaga! The land unknown to the white man. And yet--news had come of the
murder of two white men within its secret heart. Therefore the machinery
of white man's law was set in motion, and the long, lean arm was
reaching out.

Not less than a thousand miles of weary toil and infinite peril lay
before Steve and his two Indian helpers. And a second thousand miles
before the little home at Deadwater could hope to see him again. It was
an overwhelming thought. Small blame to the heart that quailed before
such an undertaking.

Steve had no thought for the immensity of the labour confronting him. He
had no thought for anything but the purpose of his life. He knew that
successful completion of the work before him would set the seal to his
ambitions. He would then be able to lay at the feet of the girl who was
the mother of his child the promotion to Superintendentship which should
take her away from the dreary life of hardship which he knew to be so
rapidly undermining that moral strength which was not abundantly hers.

These were the moments of the man's farewell to all that made up the
spiritual side of his earthly life. It might be a final farewell. He
could not tell. He knew the perils that lay ahead of him. But a great,
passionate optimism burned deep down in his heart and refused him
thought of disaster.

He was in the partially dismantled parlour with Nita and his baby girl.
The last detail for the future of these two had been considered and
prepared. At the moment of his going, Nita, too, would bid farewell to
the post. And the precious home, the work of months of happy labour,
would be passed on to the service of Steve's successor.

It was a moment that would surely live in the hearts of both. It was a
moment when tearful eyes would leave to memory a picture perhaps to
lighten the dreary months to come, a sign, a beacon, a consolation and
support, a living hope for the painful months of separation when no word
or sign could pass between them. They were moments sacred to husband and
wife, upon which no earthly eyes have right to gaze.

The door opened and Steve passed out into the smiling sunshine. His
steady eyes were dull and lustreless. His firm lips were a shade more
tightly compressed. For the rest his limbs moved vigorously, his step
lacked nothing of its wonted Spring.

As he left the doorway his place was taken by Nita, who bore the waking
infant Coqueline in her arms. Both were dressed ready to pass on to
their new home.

Steve was clad for the summer trail, and his leather chapps creaked, and
his spurs clanked as he passed round to the tying post at which his
horse was tethered. Force of habit made him test the cinchas of his
saddle before mounting.

He spoke over his shoulder to the man who had risen to his feet at his
coming.

"Guess you got everything right, Corporal?" he said.

"Everything, sir."

"Good. My diary's right up to date," Steve went on. "Things are quiet
just now. They'll get busy later."

He swung into the saddle and held out a hand.

"So long," he said, as the Corporal promptly gripped it.

"So long, sir. And--good luck."

"Thanks."

The horse moved away and Steve passed round to Nita. He drew rein
opposite the door but did not dismount.

"Let's--get another peck at her, Nita," he said, and it almost seemed as
if the words were jerked from under the restraint he was putting on
himself.

The girl had no words with which to answer him. Her eyes were wide and
dry. But from her pallor it was obvious deep emotion was stirring. She
came to his side, and held the baby up to him, a movement that had
something of the tragic in it.

The father swept his hat from his head and bent down in the saddle, and
gazed yearningly into the sleeping child's cherubic face. Then he
reached lower and kissed the pretty forehead tenderly.

"She'll be getting big when I see her again," he said, in a voice that
was not quite steady.

Then a passionate light flooded his eyes as he looked into the face of
his girl wife.

"For God's sake care for her, Nita," he cried. "She's ours--and she's
all we've got. Here, kiss me, dear. I can't stop another moment, or--or
I'll make a fool of myself."

The girl turned her face up and the man's passionate kisses were given
across the small atom which was the pledge of their early love. Then
Steve straightened up in the saddle and replaced his hat. A moment
later he had vanished within the woods through which he must pass on his
way to Ian Ross and his wife, to whom he desired to convey his final
word of thanks.

Nita stood silent, dry-eyed gazing after him. He was gone, and she knew
she would not see him again for two years.

       *       *       *       *       *

The woodland shadows were lengthening. The delicate green of the trees
had lost something of its brightness. Already the distance was taking on
that softened hue which denotes the dying efforts of daylight.

Nita was passing rapidly over the footpath which would take her to her
new home. She was alone with her child in her arms, and carrying a small
bundle. Her violet eyes were widely serious, the pallor of her pretty
cheeks was unchanged. But whatever the emotions that inspired these
things she lacked all those outward signs of feeling which few women,
under similar circumstances, could have resisted. There were no tears.
Yet her brows were puckered threateningly. She was absorbed, deeply
absorbed, but it was hardly with the absorption of blind grief.

She paused abruptly. The startled look in her eyes displayed real
apprehension. The sound of someone or something moving in the
low-growing scrub beside her had stirred her to a physical fear of
woodland solitudes she had never been able to conquer.

She stood glancing in apprehension this way and that. She was utterly
powerless. Flight never entered her head. Panic completely prevailed.

A moment later a man thrust his way into the clearing of the path.

"Hervey!"

His name broke from Nita in a world of relief. Then reaction set in.

"You--you scared me to death. Why didn't you speak, or--or something?"

Hervey Garstaing stood smilingly before her. His dark eyes hungrily
devouring her flushed face and half-angry eyes.

"You wouldn't have me hollering your dandy name, with him only just
clear of Ross's house? I'm not chasing trouble."

"Has Steve only just gone?"

"Sure. I waited for that before I came along."

The man moistened his lips. It was a curiously unpleasant operation.
Then he came a step nearer.

"Well, Nita," he said, with a world of meaning in eyes and tone. "We're
rid of him for two years--anyway."

The girl started. The flush in her cheeks deepened, and the angry light
again leapt into her eyes.

"What d'you mean?" she cried.

The man laughed.

"Mean? Do you need to ask? Ain't you glad?"

"Glad? I--" Suddenly pallor had replaced the flush in the girl's cheeks,
and a curious light shone in eyes which a moment before had been alight
with swift resentment. "--I--don't know."

The man nodded confidently, and drew still closer.

"That's all right," he said. "I do."




CHAPTER IV

UNAGA


It was the last of the night watch. The depths of the primeval forest
were alive with sound, those sounds which are calculated to set the
human pulse athrob. Steve Allenwood crouched over the fire. He was
still, silent, and he squatted with his hands locked about his knees.

The fitful firelight only served to emphasize the intensity of
surrounding darkness. It yielded little more than a point of attraction
for the prowling, unseen creatures haunting the wild. The snow outside
was falling silently, heavily, for it was late in the year, and October
was near its close! Here there was shelter under the wide canopy which
the centuries had grown.

As yet the falling temperature was still above zero. Later it would be
different. The cap on the man's head was pressed low over his ears, and
his summer buckskin shirt had been replaced by the furs which would
stand between him and the fierce breath of winter during the long months
to come. His eyes were wide. Every sense was alert. For all he was
gazing into the fire, he was listening, always listening to those sounds
which he dared not ignore for one single moment.

The sounds were many. And each had a meaning which he read with a
sureness that was almost instinctive. The deep unease of the myriads of
bare tree-trunks about him, supporting their snow-laden canopy, told
him of the burden which the pitiless northern heavens were thrusting
upon them. It also told him of the strength of the breeze which was
driving the banking snow outside. The not infrequent booming crash of a
falling tree spoke of a burden already too great to bear. So with the
splitting of an age-rotted limb torn from the parent trunk.

Of deeper significance, and more deadly, is the sound which never dies
out completely. It is a sound as of falling leaves, pattering softly
upon the underlay of rotting cones and dead pine needles. Its insistence
is peculiar. There are moments when it is distant. And moments, again,
when it is near, desperately near.

It is at times such as the latter that the man at the fire unlocks his
hands. With a swift movement, he reaches down to the fire and seizes a
blazing brand. For a moment a trail of fire arcs against the black
depths of the forest and falls to the ground. Then, with a hasty
scuttling, the sounds die away in the distance, and a fierce snarling
challenge is flung from the safer depths.

The challenge is without effect. The man rises swiftly to his feet, and,
a moment later, the smouldering firebrand is gathered up, and all signs
of fire where it has fallen are stamped out. Again he returns to the
comforting warmth to continue his watch, whilst his companions sleep on
securely in their arctic, fur-lined bags.

But the threat is real and deadly. Woe betide the foolish human soul who
ignores it, or fails to read it aright. The eyes of the forest are wide
awake. They are everywhere watching. They are there, in pairs,
merciless, savage eyes, only awaiting opportunity. It is the primeval
forest world where man is no more than those other creatures who seek to
support the life that is thrust upon them.

These things were only a few of the voiceless hauntings which never
ceased. Steve and his companions knew them all by heart. Every sound,
every cadence told its tale. Every danger, with which they were
surrounded, was calculated to a fraction and left them undisturbed.

Slowly the power of the firelight lessened. For all the stirring and
replenishing, the flickering blaze yielded before the steadily growing
twilight, and presently it sulkily abandoned the unequal contest. The
dawn had come.

It was sufficient. Steve rose from his seat and stretched himself. Then,
moving over to the wood pile he replenished the fire and set the camp
kettle to boil. After that he passed on to the two figures still
sleeping under their furs.

Oolak was the first to reach full wakefulness, and he promptly crawled
from his sleeping-bag. Steve's instructions were brief and to the point.

"Fix the dogs," he ordered. And Oolak grunted his simple acquiescence.

As Julyman broke from his spell of dreaming Steve indicated the camp
kettle.

"I've set it to boil. I'll take a look outside," he said.

He passed on without waiting for reply and his way followed the track
which the sled had left in the rotting underlay, where over night it had
been laboriously hauled into the shelter of the woods.

His movements were vigorous. The bulk of his outer clothing robbed him
of much of such height as he possessed, but it added to the natural
appearance of muscular sturdiness which was always his. His mission was
important, for on his accurate reading of the elemental conditions
depended immediate movements, and safety or disaster for his expedition.

As he neared the break in the forest, through which their course lay,
the twilight gave before the light of day, and through the aisles of
bare tree-trunks ahead he beheld the white carpet which night had laid.
Nearly a foot of snow had fallen, and everywhere under its burden the
foliage drooped dismally in the perfect morning light.

These things, however, were without serious concern. Steve knew that for
the next seven months the earth would lie deep buried under its winter
pall. That was the condition under which most of his work was carried
on. It was the sunrise, and the wind, which must tell him the things he
desired to know.

Passing beyond the shadowed aisles he moved out over the soft snow,
where the crisp breeze swept down through the break. He was a few
hundred yards from the summit of the high ridge over which, for miles,
to the north and south, the primeval forest spread its mantle. It was a
barrier set up and shutting off the view of the final stage of his
journey; that final stage towards which he had laboured for so many
weeks. He had reached so nearly the heart of Unaga, and beyond,
somewhere towards the shores of Hudson's Bay lay that winter goal where
he hoped to find the friendly shelter of the home of the seal-hunting
Eskimo who peopled the regions.

He ploughed his way through the snow towards the summit of the ridge.

       *       *       *       *       *

For all his outward calm Steve Allenwood was deeply stirred. For all he
knew the wide Northland, with its mystery, its harshnesses, the sight
that met his gaze from the summit of the ridge was one that left him
wondering, and amazed, and not a little overwhelmed.

The immensity of it all! The harsh, unyielding magnificence! The bitter
breath from the north-east stung his cheeks with its fierce caresses. He
felt like a man who has stolen into the studio of a great artist and
finds himself confronted with a canvas upon which is roughly outlined
the masterly impression of a creation yet to be completed. It seemed to
him as if he were gazing upon the bold, rough draft of the Almighty
Creator's uncompleted work.

The blazing arc of the rising sun was lifting over the tattered skyline,
and its light burnished the snow-crowned glacial beds to an almost
blinding whiteness. As yet it only caught the hill tops within its
range. The hollows, the shadowed woodlands, remained lost beneath the
early morning mists. It gave the impression of gazing down upon one vast
steaming lake, out of which was slowly emerging ridges of white-crested
land chequered with masses of primeval forest.

In all directions it was the same; a hidden world having laboriously to
free itself from the bondage of the mists.

The churning mists rolled on. They cleared for a moment at a point to
let the sunlight shafts illuminate some sweep of glacial ice. Then they
closed down again, swiftly, as though to hide once more those secrets
inadvertently revealed. The sun rose higher. The movement of the mists
became more rapid. They thinned. They deepened once more. And with every
change the sense of urgent movement grew. It was like the panic movement
of a beaten force. The all-powerful light of day was absorbing, draining
the moisture-laden shadows, and reducing them to gossamer.

It was with the final passing of the mists that a sharp ejaculation
broke from the watching man. It verily seemed to have been wrung from
him. His gaze was fixed at a point of the broken skyline. A great cloud
lay banked above the rising crest of the snowy barrier. It was stirring.
It was lifting. Slowly. Reluctantly.

The moments passed. It was like the rising of the curtain upon a
wonderful stage picture. Unlike the mists the cloud did not disperse. It
lifted up, up before the man's amazed eyes, and settled a dense dark
mass to crown that which it had revealed.

"Gee!"

The startled monosyllable was thrilling with every emotion of wonder.

A spire towered over the serrated skyline. Its height was utterly beyond
Steve's calculation. Its final peak was lost amidst the heavy cloud.
Sheer up it rose. Sheer above its monstrous surroundings. It rose like
the spire of some cathedral of Nature's moulding, and dwarfed the world
about it. It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendour
outspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock.

"Boss--look!"

It was the first intimation of Julyman's presence. Steve accepted it
without question. He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld. The Indian
was at his side pointing at the monstrous tower.

"Him Unaga--Unaga Spire. Julyman know. Him Father wise man. Him tell of
Unaga Spire. Him hot. Him hot lak hell. Him all burn up snow--ice. Him
burn up all thing. Come. It not good. Him Unaga Spire!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A wide declining expanse stretched out before them as Steve and Julyman
swung along over the snow. They were following the track of a dog train,
leaving behind them the added tracks of their own snow-shoes to mark the
way. Ahead of them lay another short rise whose crest was dotted with
timber bluffs. It was beyond this they hoped to discover the winter
shelter they were seeking. Somewhere behind them the indomitable Oolak,
silent, enduring, was shepherding their own dog train over their tracks.

The end of the month had come and their fortunes were at a crisis. A
thousand miles of territory had been covered since the early summer day
when Steve had bade farewell to his wife and child.

The effort had been tremendous. Far more tremendous than these men knew.
And the story of the journey, the endurance, the hardship of it, would
have made an epic of man's silent heroism. With Steve each hardship,
each difficulty encountered had been a matter of course. Accident was a
thing simply to be avoided, and when avoidance was impossible then to be
accepted without complaint. And these things had been so many.

Now the wide Northland had been traversed from west to east and they had
crossed the fierce bosom of Unaga's plateau. The reality of it was no
better and only little worse than had been anticipated. It had been a
journey of hills, everlasting hills, and interminable primordial
forests, with dreary breaks of open plains. Each season had brought its
own troubles, with always lying ahead the deadly anticipation of the
winter yet to come.

It was the thought of this, and the indications everywhere about them,
that had spurred Steve to hunt down the sled track upon which they had
miraculously fallen.

They moved on in silence for a long time. Such was the way of these men.
The great silences had eaten into their bones. The life and labours of
the trail would have been intolerable amidst the chatter of useless
talk.

The rolling swing of their gait carried them swiftly to their vantage
ground, and hope stirred Steve to give expression to his thoughts.

"It would be queer to find those fancy 'Sleeper Indians' of yours," he
said.

Julyman cast a glance over his left shoulder in the direction of the
steely north. Somewhere back there far beyond his view stood the great
Spire of Unaga, and the black cloud hovering about its crest. It had
been left far, far behind them, but it still remained a memory.

"No Sleeper Indian man," he said decidedly. Then he added with a final
shake of his head: "Oh no."

Steve laughed. It was not often these men laughed on the trail. Just
now, however, the excitement of hope had robbed the white man of
something of his habit.

"Guess your yarn didn't just locate them. Where d'you reckon they are?"

Julyman slackened his gait as they breasted the final rise where the
sled track vanished over the brow of the hill. His dark, questioning
eyes were turned enquiringly upon his boss, and he searched the smiling
face that looked back at him out of its framing of heavy fur. He feared
to be laughed at. He pointed at the northern horizon.

"Him--Unaga," was all he said.

Steve followed the direction of the mitted hand pointing northward, and
the smile died out of his eyes. That strange Spire filled his memory
still in spite of himself. Something of the Indian's awe communicated
itself to him.

But he thrust it from him and gazed out ahead again, searching the
tracks they were following.

"We'll find something, anyway," he said presently. "This track's not
half a day old. There's folks beyond the rise. Say, maybe we can winter
hereabouts, and work along the coast. The coast line's warmer. It never
hits zero on the coast till you make inside the Arctic Circle. We'll get
back to home next winter. It'll be good getting back to your squaws on
Caribou, eh?"

There was a note in Steve's voice which did not fail to impress itself
on the Indian's keen understanding. He knew his boss was thinking of his
own white squaw and the pretty blue eyes of the pappoose which made the
father forget every trouble and concern when he gazed down into them.
Oh, yes, Julyman understood. He understood pretty well every mood of his
boss. And who should understand them if he did not? Men on the trail
together learn to read each other like a book.

"Squaws him trash!" exclaimed the Indian. And he spat to emphasize his
cynical opinion.

"Some squaws," corrected Steve.

Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mere
slits before the biting drift of the wind.

"All squaw," he said doggedly. Then he went on. "Squaw him all smile.
Him soft. Him mak dam fool of Indian man. Squaw no good--only mak
pappoose, feed pappoose. Raise him. All the time squaw mak pappoose. Him
not think nothin' more. Just pappoose. Indian man think all things. Him
squaw only mak pappoose an'--trouble."

"Trouble?" Steve's smile was alight with humour.

The Indian nodded.

"All time," he said decidedly. "No man, no pappoose, then squaw him mak
trouble all time. It all same. Him find man sure. All man dam fool.
Squaw mak him dam fool. Julyman stand by teepee. Him tak rawhide. Him
say, 'do so!' Squaw him do. Julyman mak long trail. Him not care. Him
come back him find plenty much other squaw. So!"

The Indian's watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead. But he
had seen. The humour had completely vanished out of Steve's eyes. So had
his smile. Julyman's purpose was not quite clear. He loved and revered
his chief. He had no desire to hurt him. But Steve knew that the man
had been saying what he had said for his benefit.

"You're a damn scoundrel, Julyman," he said, and there was less than the
usual tolerance in his tone.

The Indian shrugged under his furs.

"Julyman wise man," he protested. "All the time white man say, 'one
squaw.' It good! So! It fine! Indian man say one--two--five--ten squaw.
Then him not care little dam!"

Steve made no reply. The man's cynicism was sufficiently brutal to make
it impossible to reply without heat. And Steve had no desire to quarrel
with his chief lieutenant. Besides, he was deeply attached to the
rascal. So they swung up the last sharp incline in the voiceless manner
in which so much of their work was done.

It was Steve who reached the brow first, and it was his arm, and his
voice that indicated the discoveries beyond.

"Right!" he exclaimed. "Look, Julyman," he went on pointing. "A lodge. A
lodge of neches. And--see! What's that?" There was excitement in the
tone of his question. "It's--a fort!" he cried, his eyes reflecting the
excitement he could no longer restrain. "A--post! A white man's trading
post! What in hell! Come on!"

He moved on impetuously, and in a moment the two men were speeding down
the last incline.

The last recollection of the Indian's deplorable philosophy had passed
from Steve's mind. His eyes were on the distant encampment. He had been
prepared for some discovery. But never, in his wildest dreaming, had he
anticipated a white man's trading post.

It was something amazing. As far as Steve could reckon they were
somewhere within a hundred miles of the great inland sea. It might be
thirty miles. It might be sixty. He could not tell. Far as the eye could
see there was little change from what they had been travelling over for
weeks. Appalling wastes of snow, and hill, and forest, with every here
and there a loftier rise supporting a glacial bed. There were
watercourses. Oh, yes, rivers abounded in that wide, unknown land. But
they were frozen deeply, and later would, freeze doubtless to their very
beds.

But here was a wide shallow valley with a high range of hill country
densely forest clad forming its northeastern boundary. The hither side
was formed by the low rising ground over which they had just passed. The
hollow passed away, narrowing more deeply to the southeast, and lost
itself in the dark depths of a forest. To the north-west the valley
seemed to wander on amidst a labyrinth of sharp hills, which, in the
distance, seemed to grow loftier and more broken as they merged
themselves into the range Steve believed supported the mysterious Spire
of Unaga.

The point of deepest interest and wonder was that which lay in the heart
of the valley less than three miles further on. Numberless small bluffs
chequered the open and suggested the parentage of one which stood out
amongst them, wide, and dark, and lofty. Here there was a long wavering
line of low bush reaching out down the heart of the valley indicating
the course of a river. It was on this river bank, snuggled against the
fringe of the great pine bluff that a cluster of dome-roofed habitations
were plainly visible.

But the wonder of all stood a short distance away to the right where the
woods came down towards the river. It was a wide group of buildings of
lateral logs, with log roofs, and surrounded by a stockade of similar
material. The touch of the white man's hand was unmistakable. No race of
northern Indians or Eskimo could have built such a place.

They sped on over the snow unconscious of the increase of their speed.
And as they approached each man realized the same thought. There was no
sign of life anywhere. There was not even a prowling dog to be seen
searching amongst the refuse of the encampment.

As they drew nearer they failed to discover any addition to the solitary
track they were following. It was curious. It was almost ominous. But
its significance was lost in the thought that here at least was shelter
for themselves against the real winter yet to come.

They reached the banks of the river. It was a good-sized creek frozen
solid, and already deep buried under snow. Without a pause they crossed
to the other side and broke their way through the scrubby snow-laden
bush on the opposite bank.

"Hello!"

The two men came to an abrupt halt. They were confronting a small child
of perhaps five or six years. He was clad in furs from head to foot. A
pretty, robust, white-skinned child, wide-eyed, and smiling his frankly
cordial greeting.




CHAPTER V

MARCEL BRAND


For a moment astonishment robbed Steve of speech. Julyman was, perhaps,
less affected. He stood beside his boss grinning down at the apparition
till his eyes were almost entirely hidden by their closing lids, and his
copper skin was wrinkled into a maze of creases.

Steve's ultimate effort was a responsive, "Hello!"

It seemed to meet with the child's approval, for he came trustfully
towards the strangers.

"Mummy's sick," he informed them, gazing smilingly up into the white
man's face. "The Injuns is all asleep. Pop's all gone away. So's Uncle
Cy. Gone long time. There's An-ina and me. That's all. I likes
An-ina--only hers always wash me."

The whole story of the post was told. The direct childish mind had taken
the short cut which maturity would probably have missed.

Steve had recovered himself, and he smiled down into the pretty, eager,
up-turned face.

"What's your name, little man?" he asked kindly.

"Marcel," the boy returned, without the least shyness.

Steve stooped down into a squatting position, and held out his hands
invitingly. There could be no mistaking his attitude. There could be no
mistaking the appeal this lonely little creature made to his generous
manhood.

"That all? Any other?"

The boy came confidently within reach of the outstretched arms, and, as
the man's mitted hands closed about him, he held up his face for the
expected caress. Steve bent his head and kissed the ready lips.

"'Es, Brand. Marcel Brand," the boy said in that slightly halting
fashion of pronouncing unaccustomed words.

Steve looked up with a start. His eyes encountered the still grinning
face of the scout.

"Do you hear that?" he demanded. "Marcel Brand. It's--it's the place
we're chasing for. Gee! it's well nigh a miracle!"

Quite suddenly he released the child and stood up. Then he picked the
little fellow up in his strong arms.

"Come on, old fellow," he said quickly. "We'll go right along up and see
your Mummy."

And forthwith he started for the frowning stockade under its mantle of
snow.

Once in Steve's arms the child allowed an arm to encircle the stranger's
neck. It was an action of complete abandonment to the new friendship,
and it thrilled the man. It carried him back over a thousand miles of
territory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and other
infant caresses.

"'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?"

Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readily
given his, and now he looked for the natural return.

Steve laughed delightedly.

"Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood. 'Uncle' Steve. And this
is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys.
Don't we, Julyman?"

The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed
features as he moved along beside his boss.

"Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em--plenty, much."

"Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scout
and in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.

Steve noted the change. He understood it. White and colour. This child
had been bred amongst Indians, and his parents were white. It was always
so. Even in so small a child the distinction was definite. He replied
for Julyman, while the Indian only continued to grin.

"Julyman only sleeps at night," he said.

But Marcel pointed at the domed huts which looked so like a collection
of white ant heaps.

"All Indians sleeps. All winter. My Pop says so. So does Uncle Cy. They
sleeps all the time. Only An-ina don't sleep. 'Cep' at night. I doesn't
sleep 'cep' at night. Indians does."

The white man and Indian exchanged glances. Julyman's was triumphant.
Steve's was negatively smiling. He looked up into the child's face which
was just above his level.

"These Indians sleep all winter?" he questioned.

"'Es, them sleeps. My Pop says they eats so much they has to sleep.
An'," he went on eagerly, stumbling over his words, "they's so funny
when they's sleep. They makes drefful noises, an' my Pop says they's
snores. He says they's dreaming all funny things 'bout fairies, an'
seals, an' hunting, an' all the things thems do's. They's wakes up
sometimes. But sleeps again. Why does they sleep? Why does them eat so
much? It's wolves eats till they bursts, isn't it, Uncle Steve?"

Steve pressed the little man closer to him. That "Uncle Steve" so
naturally said warmed his heart to a passionate degree. The little
fellow's mother was sick and he knew that his father and Uncle Cy were
dead; murdered somewhere out in that cold vastness. What had this bright
happy little life to look forward to on the desolate plateau of the
Sleeper Indians.

"Wolves are great greedy creatures," he said. "They eat up everything
they can get. They're real wicked."

"So's Injuns then."

Steve laughed at the childish logic, as the little man rattled on.

"I's hunt wolves when I grows big. I hunts 'em like Uncle Cy, an' seals,
too. I kills 'em. I kills everything wicked. That's what my Pop says. He
says, good boys kills everything bad, then God smile, an' all the
people's happy."

They reached the stockade which the practised eye of Steve saw to be
wonderfully constructed. Not only was its strength superlative, but it
was loopholed for defence and he knew that such defences were not
against the great grey wolves of the forest or any other creatures of
the wild. They were defences against attack by human marauders, and he
read into them the story of hostile Indians, and all those scenes which
had doubtless been kept carefully hidden from little Marcel's eyes.

Furthermore he realized that the post was of comparatively recent
construction. Perhaps it was five or ten years old. It could not have
been more. It entirely lacked that appearance of age which green timbers
acquire so readily under the fierce Northern storms. And it set him
wondering at the nature of the lure which had brought men of obvious
means, with wife and child, to the inhospitable plateau of Unaga.

He set the boy on the ground while he removed his snow-shoes. Then, hand
in hand, the little fellow led him round to the gateway which opened out
in full view of the valley.

It was a wide enclosure, and its ordering and construction appealed to
the man of the trail. There was thought and experience in every detail
of it. There was, too, the obvious expenditure of money and infinite
labour. The great central building stood clear of everything else. It
was long and low, with good windows of glass, and doors as powerful as
human hands could make them. To the practical eyes of the Northern man
it was clearly half store and half dwelling house, built always with an
eye to a final defence.

Beyond this there were a number of outbuildings. Some were of simple
Indian construction. But three of them, a large barn, and two buildings
that suggested store-houses, were like the house, heavily built of logs.

But he was given little time for deep investigation, for little Marcel
eagerly dragged him towards the door of the store. To the man there was
something almost pathetic in the child's excitement and joy in his new
discovery. His childish treble silenced the bristling dogs that leapt
out at them in fierce welcome. And his imperious command promptly
reduced them to snuffing suspiciously at the furs of the scout and the
white man whom they seemed to regard with considerable doubt. He
chattered the whole time, stumbling over his words in his eager
excitement. He was endeavouring to impart everything he knew to this
newly found friend, and, in the course of the brief interval of their
approach to the house Steve learned all the dogs' names, their
achievements, what little Marcel liked most to eat, and how he disliked
being washed by An-ina, and how ugly his nurse was, and how his father
was the cleverest man in the world, and how he made long journeys every
winter to look for something he couldn't find.

It was all told without regard for continuity or purpose. It seemed to
Steve as if the little fellow was loosing a long pent tide held up from
lack of companionship till the bursting point had been reached.

As they came to the house, however, a sudden change came over the scene.
The door abruptly opened, and a tall, handsome squaw, dressed in the
clothes of rougher civilization, stood regarding them unsmilingly. To
his surprise she was not only beautiful but quite young.

The boy's chatter ceased instantly and his face fell. One small mitted
hand approached the corner of his pretty mouth, and he regarded the
woman with quaint, childish reproach. It was only for a moment, however.
With a sudden brightening of hope he turned and gazed up appealingly at
his new friend.

"Don't let hers wash us, Uncle Steve," he implored.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deep distress looked out of Steve's steady eyes. He was gazing at a
wreck of beautiful womanhood lying on the bed. There was no doubt of the
beauty of this mother of little Marcel. It was there in every line of
the pale, hollow cheeks, in her clear, broad brow. In the great, soft
grey eyes which were hot with fever as they gazed at him out of their
hollow settings. Then the abundant dark hair, parted now in the centre,
Indian fashion, and flooding the pillow with its masses. It was dull and
lustreless, but all its beauty of texture remained.

She had summoned him at once to her sick room through An-ina. And in her
greeting had briefly told him of the trouble which had befallen her.

"Maybe you'll think it queer my receiving you this way," she said, in a
tired voice, "but I can't just help myself. You see, I can't move hand
or foot." Then a pitiful smile crept into the wistful eyes. "It happened
two weeks ago. Oh, those two weeks. I was felling saplings with An-ina
in the woods out back. Maybe a woman can't do those things right.
Anyway, one fell on me, and it just crushed me to the ground, and held
me pinned there. I thought I was dead. But I wasn't. I was only broken.
Maybe I'll die here--soon. An-ina got me clear and carried me home. And
now--why, if it wasn't for my little Marcel I'd be glad--so glad to be
rid of all the pain."

The note of despair, the tragedy in the brief recital were overwhelming.
The full force of them smote Steve to the heart, and left him incapable
of expression, beyond that which looked out of his eyes. Words would
have been impossible. He realized she was on her deathbed. It required
only the poor creature's obvious intense sufferings to tell him that. It
was a matter of perhaps hours before little Marcel would be robbed of
his second parent.

The brief daylight was pouring in through the double glass window of the
room. It lit an interior which had only filled him with added wonder at
these folks, and the guiding hand which inspired everything he beheld.
The furnishing of the room was simple enough. But it was of the
manufacture of civilization, and he could only guess at the haulage it
had required to bring it to the heart of Unaga. Then there was distinct
taste in the arrangement of the room. It was the taste of a woman of
education and refinement, and one who must have been heart and soul with
her husband, and the enterprise he was embarked upon.

An-ina had left him there to talk with the mother of those things which
it was her care should not reach the ears of little Marcel.

Steve told her at once that he was a police officer, and that he was on
a mission of investigation into the--he said "disappearance"--of Marcel
Brand, who, he explained, was supposed to be a trader, with his partner
Cyrus Allshore, somewhere in the direction north of Seal Bay in the
Unaga country. He told her that he had travelled one thousand miles
overland to carry out the work, and that something little short of a
miracle had brought him direct to her door.

And the woman had listened to him with the eagerness of one who has
suddenly realized a ray of hope in the blackness of her despair.

After his brief introduction she breathed a deep sigh and her eyes
closed under the pain that racked her broken body.

"Then my message got through," she said, almost to herself. "Lupite must
have reached Seal Bay." Then her eyes opened and she spoke with added
effort. "I didn't dare to hope. It was all I could do," she explained.
"Lupite said he'd get through or die. He was a good and faithful neche.
I--I wonder what's happened him since. He's not got back, and--the
others have all deserted me. There's no one here now but An-ina, and my
little boy, and," she added bitterly, "What's left of me. Oh, God, will
it never end! This pain. This dreadful, dreadful pain."

After a moment of troubled regard, while he watched the cold dew of
agony break upon her brow, Steve ventured his reply.

"Yes. It must have got through, I guess," he said. "It must have reached
the Indian Department at Ottawa. They sent it right along to the man at
the Allowa Reserve where I'm stationed, and communicated with the
police. That's how I received my instructions. They said your husband
was supposed to be--murdered. And his partner, too."

"I put that in my letter," the woman said quickly. "I just had to. You
see--" she broke off. But after a brief hesitation she went on. "But I
don't know. I don't know anything that's happened really. He went away
on a trip eighteen months ago, with Cy. It was to Seal Bay, with trade.
He ought to have been back that fall. I haven't had a word since. I've
been eighteen months here alone with An-ina, and--these Sleepers. He
might have met with accident. But it's more likely murder. These
Sleepers suspected. They were frightened he'd found out. You see, this
stuff--this Adresol--is sacred to them. They would kill anyone who found
out where they get it from."

A spasm of pain contorted her drawn face and again her eyes closed under
the agony. She re-opened them at the sound of Steve's voice.

"Will you tell me, ma'm?" he said.

Steve's manner was gentle. His sympathy for this stricken creature was
real and deep. She was a woman, suffering and alone in a God-forsaken
land. The thought appalled him.

For some moments his invitation remained without response. The woman lay
there unmoving, inert. Only was life in her hot eyes, and the trifling
rise and fall of the bed covering as she breathed. Obviously she was
considering. Perhaps she was wondering how much she had a right to tell
this officer. She was completely without guidance. If her husband had
been alive doubtless her lips would have remained sealed. But he was not
there, and she knew not what had become of him. Then there was little
Marcel, and she knew that when she left that bed it would be only for a
cold grave on this bleak plateau of Unaga.

Steve waited with infinite patience. He felt it to be a moment for
patience. Suddenly she began to talk in a rapid, feverish way.

"Yes, yes," she cried. "I must tell you now, and quickly. Maybe when
you've heard it all you'll help me. There's no one else can help me.
You see, it's my boy--my little boy. He's all I have in the world--now.
He's the sun and light of my life. It's the thought of him alone, with
only An-ina, in this terrible land that sets me well-nigh crazy. The
police. I wonder. Would they look after him? Could you take him back
with you when I'm dead? Do they look after poor orphans, poor little
bits of life like him? Or is he too small a thing in the work they have
to do? I pray God you'll take him out of this when I'm dead."

Steve strove to keep a steady tone. The appeal was heartrending.

"Don't you fret that way, ma'm," he cried earnestly. "If those things
happen you reckon are going to, I'll see that no harm, I can help, comes
to him. He's just a bright little ray of light, and I guess God didn't
set him on this earth to leave him helpless in such a country as this."

A world of relief in the mother's eyes thanked him.

"I--I--" she began, and the man promptly broke in.

"You needn't try to thank me ..." Steve's manner was gravely kind.
"Maybe when you've told me things I'll be able to locate your husband.
And maybe he isn't dead."

The woman's eyes denied him hopelessly.

"He's dead--sure," she said. "Whatever's happened he's--dead. Say,
listen, I'd best try and tell you all from the start," she went on, with
renewed energy. "It's the only way. And it's a straight story without
much shame in it. My husband, Marcel Brand, is a Dane, with French blood
in his veins. He's a great chemist, who learned everything the Germans
could teach him. He absorbed their knowledge, but not their ways. He was
a good and great man, whose whole idea of life was to care for his wife
and child, and expend all his knowledge to help the world of suffering
humanity. It was for that reason that seven years ago he realized all he
possessed, and, taking Cy Allshore as a partner, came up here."

"To help suffering humanity?"

Incredulity found expression almost before Steve was aware of it.

"Yes, I know. It sounds crazy," the sick woman went on. "But it isn't.
Nothing Marcel ever did was crazy. All his life he has been studying
drugs, and his studies have taken him into all sorts of crazy corners of
the world. Thibet, Siberia, Brazil, Tropical Africa, India, and
now--Unaga. It was he who discovered Adresol, that wonderful, priceless
drug, which if it could only be obtained in sufficient quantities would
be the greatest boon to humanity for--as he used to say himself--all
time. Oh, I can't tell you about that," she exclaimed wearily, "guess it
would need someone cleverer than I. But it's that brought us here, and
kept us here for seven years. And maybe we'd have spent years more. You
see, Marcel was years hunting over the world for the stuff growing in
quantities. It was a chance story about these Indians he'd listened to
that brought him here first, and when he discovered they were using the
stuff, he believed it was the hand of Providence guiding him. With the
use of it he found the Indians hibernated each winter, and yet remained
healthy, robust creatures, retaining their faculties unimpaired, and
living to an extreme old age."

"I'd heard of the 'Sleepers,' ma'm," Steve admitted. "But," he added,
with a half smile, "I couldn't just believe the yarn."

"Oh, it's surely real," the woman returned promptly. "You can see for
yourself. We call them the Ant Indians, because of their queer huts.
They're all around the fort, and they're sleeping now, with their food
and their dope near by for each time they wake. Yes, you can see it all
for yourself. They look like dead things."

After another agonized spasm she took up her story more rapidly, as
though fearing lest her strength should fail and she would be left
without sufficient time to finish it.

"When Marcel came here he found himself up against tremendous
difficulties. Oh, it wasn't the climate. It wasn't a thing to do with
the country. It was the Indians themselves. He found they held the drug
sacred, and the secret of their supply something more precious than life
itself. It's the whole key to his death. Oh, I know it. I am sure, sure.
He found that these mostly peaceful creatures were ready to defend their
secret to the uttermost. No money could buy it from them, and they
violently resented Marcel's attempts in that direction. For awhile the
position was deadly, as maybe the defences we had to set up outside have
told you. Marcel had blundered, and it was only after months of trouble
he remedied it, and came to an understanding with these folk. They were
won over by the prospect of trade, and agreed to trade small quantities
of weed provided we would make no attempt to look for the source of
their supply."

"Maybe we're to be blamed," she hurried on, "I don't know. Anyway,
Marcel reckoned he was working for the good of humanity. He saw his
opportunity in that agreement. The Indians were satisfied. Their good
nature re-asserted itself, and all went smoothly with our trade in seals
and the weed. But our opportunity lay in the winter. In the sleep-time
of this folk. Maybe the Indians reckoned their secret was safe in
winter. The storming, the cruel terror of winter which they dared not
face would surely be too much for any white man. Maybe they thought
that way, but if they did they were wrong. Marcel determined to use
their sleep time to discover the secret he needed. He and Cy were ready
for any chances. They would stand for nothing. That was their way. So,
with our own boys, they made the long trail every winter.

"But they failed. Oh, yes, they failed." The woman sighed. "Sometimes it
was climate beat them. Sometimes it wasn't. Anyway they never found the
growing stuff. They never got a clue to its whereabouts. Maybe it was
all buried up in snow. We always reckoned on that. The winter passed,
and with each year that slipped away the chances seemed to recede
farther and farther. Then all of a sudden the Indians got suspicious
again. That was three years ago. I just don't know how it happened.
Maybe one of our boys gave it away. Anyhow they turned sulky. That was
the first sign. Then they refused to trade their weed. Then we knew the
trouble had come. But Marcel was ready for them. He was ready for most
things. He refused to trade their seals if they refused their weed. It
was a bad time, but we finally got through. You see they needed our
trade, once having begun it, and in the end Marcel managed to patch
things up. But they frankly told us they knew of our winter expeditions
to rob them, and, if they were continued, they would kill us all, and
burn up the post. Well, things settled down after that and trade went
on. But it wasn't the same. The Indians became desperately watchful, and
for one whole winter half of them didn't sleep. I knew trouble was
coming.

"Then came the time when Marcel had to make a trip to Seal Bay. He'd
postponed it as long as he could. But our stuff had accumulated, and we
had to get rid of it, and so, at last, he was forced to go. The post was
well fortified, as you've seen, and we were liberally supplied with
means of defence. Lupite was faithful, and I could rely on my other
fighting neches. So Marcel and Cy set out, and--well, there's nothing
more to tell," she said wearily. "They've both disappeared, vanished.
And they should have been back more than a year ago. In desperation I
sent the message by Lupite. He's not returned either, and, one by one,
all our own Indians have deserted me. Oh," she went on passionately,
"it's no accident that's happened. Marcel has been killed, murdered by
these miserable folk, and all his years of work have gone for nothing.
Why they haven't killed me and little Marcel, I can't think. Maybe they
think we're of no account without Marcel. Maybe they find our store
useful. For I've carried on the trade ever since Marcel went. But now my
supplies are running out and when the Indians wake up and find that is
so--but I shall be already dead. Poor little Marcel. But--but you won't
let that happen, will you? It--it is surely God's hand that has sent you
here now."

The woman's voice died out in a sob, and her eyes closed upon the tears
gathered in them. It was the final weakening of her courage. For all its
brevity, for all it was told in such desperate haste, the story lost
nothing of its appeal, nothing of its pathos.

It left Steve feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.
At that moment he would have given all he possessed for the sound of the
deep, cheerful voice of Ian Ross in that room of death.

Mrs. Brand's eyes remained closed, and her breathing laboured under her
failing strength. She had put forth a tremendous effort, and the
reaction was terrible. The ghastly hue of her cheeks and lips terrified
Steve. He dreaded lest at that moment the final struggle was actually
taking place.

He waited breathlessly. He had risen from his seat. The feeble throb of
the pulse was visibly beating at the woman's temples. He knew he could
do nothing, and, presently, as the eyes showed no sign of re-opening, he
turned, and stole out to summon An-ina.




CHAPTER VI

AN-INA


The brief daylight had nearly passed. Accompanied by its fiery
Satellites the sun was lolling moodily to its rest. Steve was searching
the near distance for a sight of Oolak and the dog train, which should
shortly arrive at the post. There was deep reflection in his whole
attitude, in the keen lines of his strong face, in the far-off look in
his steady eyes. Beside him little Marcel, in his warmth-giving bundle
of furs, was emulating the attitude of his new "uncle." He, too, was
searching the distance. He, too, was still and silent. Perhaps, even, in
his childish way, he was striving to read the pages of the mystery book,
which the bleak, snowbound prospect represented.

Beyond the low ridge of crystal whiteness, less than three miles
distant, the land rose steadily, ridge on ridge. It looked like a series
of giant steps blotched and chequered with dark patches of forest which
contained so many secrets hidden from the eyes of man. As the distance
gained the crystal of it all mellowed softly till a deep purple
dominated the whole prospect.

The wintering sun had almost completed its course. At this season of the
year it simply passed low above the horizon towards the west, like a
rolling ball of fire, until, weary of its effort, it submerged again
beyond the broken line of the hills. And each day that passed, its
course dropped lower and lower.

It was a stern enough picture for all winter had not yet finally closed
its doors upon the dying season. And none could know better the meaning
of its frowning than Steve.

"Wot's us looking at, Uncle Steve?"

The childish treble piped its demand without the boy withdrawing his
gaze from the grim picture of winter's approach.

In a moment Steve's pre-occupation vanished. He smiled down on the
fascinating little bundle of furs as he replied.

"Oolak, old fellow, Oolak, and Uncle Steve's outfit. Guess he's got
uncle's bed, and all his food."

"Wot food?"

Interest in such a subject superceded all interest in the sunset. Little
Marcel's eyes were eagerly enquiring as they gazed up into those of his
new found friend.

"Why, there's some frozen black-tail deer. Maybe there's a jack rabbit
or so. Then I guess there's biscuit, and coffee, and tea, and maybe even
sugar."

The boy nodded appreciatively.

"I likes 'em," he said. Then after a moment. "I likes plenty sugar.
There's sugar at the store. My Mummy, hers keep it for me cos I likes
'em."

Steve understood. He interpreted the announcement in his own fashion. He
knew that stores were running short, and that those others, those two
devoted women, were hoarding the last remains of their sugar for the
little life that needed it.

He turned abruptly towards the horizon again. Perhaps he did not desire
the eyes of the child to witness the feeling he had stirred.

He need have had no fear. At that moment the boy's treble shrilled with
excitement.

"Look, Uncle Steve!" he cried pointing. "Him's Oolak. Wiv dogs, an'
sled, an' food, an' everything. Him's coming down--"

But he waited for no more. He waited for no reply. He waited for no
guiding mandate. He raced off across the frozen surface of the snow as
fast as his jolly little legs could carry him. It seemed as if he
considered anything or anyone belonging to "Uncle Steve" to be also part
of his small life, and was entitled to all the welcome he could give.

Steve watched the little fellow with a tender smile. He was so small, so
full of happy life and engaging simplicity. Then he had such a wonderful
picture face, with its fringe of curling hair which thrust its way out
from under the thick, arctic helmet of fur which was part of his outer
clothing. For a moment, as he bundled over the snow like a brown woolly
ball, Steve wondered how he managed it, so encased was his small figure
in seal-skin. But he did, and his high-pitched greeting to the man with
the dog train floated back upon the still, cold air as he floundered
farther and farther away.

"Hello!--hello!--hello!"

The greeting came back at intervals. And Steve wondered at the feelings
of the silent Oolak when he heard that voice, and saw that baby figure
sprinting and wobbling over the snow towards him.

"Missis gone--dead."

"Gone--dead!"

Steve turned with a start. He was looking into the handsome face of the
squaw, An-ina, whose words he had echoed.

"Missis all gone--dead!" the squaw repeated with a solemn inclination of
the head.

But the re-affirmation was unneeded. Full confirmation was in her wide
dark eyes, which were full of every grievous emotion short of tears.
Tears were something of which her stoic Indian nature was incapable.
But Steve knew well enough the weight of grief which lay behind the
stricken expression which looked out of the enveloping hood of the
woman's tunic of seal.

For a moment he gazed into An-ina's face in helpless silence. For the
moment the tragedy of the whole thing left him groping. He knew this
woman had come to him seeking guidance. In that moment of disaster he
felt that the destiny of little Marcel and his devoted nurse had been
flung into his hands.

"Come," he said with swift decision. "We'll get right back--to her."

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve was at the bedside. He was bending low over the still, calm
figure, so straight, so rigid under the blanket covering. He was reading
for himself, and in his own way, the brief account of those last moments
when her spirit had yielded before those other overwhelming powers it
had been impossible to resist.

Every disfiguring line of suffering had passed out of the beautiful,
youthful face. For all the marble coldness which had taken possession of
it Steve realized something of the splendid, smiling, courageous
womanhood which had struggled so recklessly in support of the man for
whom she had given up her life. And the full force of the tragedy of it
all found a deep echo of pitying admiration in his heart. It seemed to
him that the hand of Providence had fallen hard, and, in his human
understanding, with more than questionable justice.

His examination completed he turned to the dusky creature at his side.

"I guess her sufferings are over--sure. Her poor soul's gone to join her
man, and the boy's just--alone."

The squaw's dark eyes were soft with that velvet look so peculiar to
the Indian woman in moments of deep emotion.

"Maybe it best so," she said, in a manner which bespoke long association
with white folk. "Him good woman. Him suffer much--so much. Poor--poor
Missis. It not him fault. Oh, no. Him think all the time for her man,
an' little Marcel. Oh, yes. Not think nothing else all time. This devil
man come. Him kill her man. She not know. Poor Missis. She not think.
Only so she please her man. So this devil man kill her man. So."

"What d'you mean?"

The man's gaze was compelling. Its steady light searched the soft eyes
of the squaw. The woman withstood his gaze unflinchingly. Then she
suddenly bent across, and drew the coverlet up, and tenderly hid the
face of the dead. Then she looked up again into Steve's face.

"Come," she said quietly. "I tell you."

Without waiting for reply she led the way out of the room into the store
beyond, with its bare counter, and shelves, and bins so meagrely
supplied. Steve followed without a word. He had suddenly realized that
as yet he knew only a part of the story of these people. There was more
to be told.

The store displayed much the same purpose and care which everything else
about the work of Marcel Brand revealed. The completeness of it all must
have been surprising, had not Steve understood that the chemist had come
here to carry his life's work to its logical completion. There were
signs everywhere of capacity, and unstinted expenditure of money. But
the haulage of it all. The thought was always in Steve's mind. The great
stove in the corner of the long, low room. The carpentered shelvings,
and drawers, and cupboards. The counter, too, no makeshift barrier set
up for the purposes of traffic, but with every sign of skilled
workmanship about it. He felt certain that all these things must have
been borne up the slopes of the great table-land, hauled overland, or by
water, from the workshops of civilization.

Habit was strong and An-ina moved at once to the great stove radiating
its pleasant warmth. Steve took up his position opposite her.

The squaw began at once. She had nothing to conceal from this man who
represented the law of the white men. Besides, was she not thinking of
the boy who had stolen so closely into her mother heart?

"An-ina not say to Missis all," she said, in her simple way. "Oh, no.
Missis much afraid. Much suffer. Him sick--much sick. No man--then all
gone. She 'fraid. She all break up her heart. Marcel not come. Why? Why?
An-ina know. She hear from Indian man. All Indian man know. Marcel him
all killed dead. Indian man not kill him. Oh, no. Cy Allshore him kill
him. Marcel him kill Cy too. Both kill each one. Oh, yes. Cy devil man.
Cy think him kill up Marcel. Then him have Missis--have all things. Oh,
yes. Indian man know. Indian man find both, all killed dead. Indian man
tell An-ina. An-ina say no tell Missis. Maybe she all kill dead--too.
Yes? An-ina love Missis. Love her much. She no hurt Missis. So she not
say. Oh, no."

The searching eyes of Steve never left the woman's dusky face for a
moment. They were boring their way to pierce the unemotional exterior
for the truth that lay behind.

"Say, just stop right there," he commanded. "I need to get this right.
You reckon this feller Cy--Cy Allshore was out for plunder--murder. You
guess he kind of loved your Missis, and she didn't know. He reckoned to
kill Marcel, and steal all this, and--his wife. That so?"

"Sure. That so."

"How d'you know?"

"An-ina see. An-ina have two eyes. She see all thing. Oh, yes."

"Tell me."

"How An-ina tell? She not know. She woman. She see. That all. Cy him
hard. Him have bad eye for woman. Him think money all time. Him say,
'An-ina you good squaw.' Him say, 'Cy have no squaw. Cy like squaw.'
An-ina say, no! She know. Then him hate An-ina. Him hate An-ina plenty,
big. An-ina say nothing. She not 'fraid. Cy know she maybe kill him.
Then him talk much with Missis. An-ina watch. Yes. Missis not know. Him
good woman. An-ina know. Cy bad. An-ina think her mak big talk with
Marcel. Her say much. No. Her not mak big talk. Marcel him kill Cy. Then
all thing here--no good. Oh, yes. So An-ina say nothing. So him Cy an'
Marcel go long trail. Marcel him not think nothin'. Him dream--dream.
All time dream. Cy think bad all time.

"So." An-ina shrugged expressively. "Much long time. No Cy. No Marcel.
Then Indian man mak big talk. Him say Indian man come by the big water.
What you call him?"

"Hudson's Bay?"

"No, no. Not so big water."

"Chesterfield Inlet?"

The woman's eyes cleared of their perplexity.

"So. Chest-fiel' Inlet. Him big water. Indian man come with much seal.
Him mak camp. Bimeby him mak big trail for Unaga. Then him find him
trail. Cy an' Marcel. Him follow him trail, an' bimeby him come big,
deep place. Cy an' Marcel, all gone--dead. Him dogs all gone--dead. An'
wolves eat up all flesh. Oh yes."

"How did they recognize the bones?"

"Him sled, him outfit. All 'Sleeper.' Indian man know."

"And you reckon Cy Allshore killed Marcel--murdered him?"

There was a sharpness in Steve's demand that suggested doubt. He did not
doubt the woman's story. It was her assertion that Cy had murdered his
partner. He saw no evidence for her assumption. He felt that she had
given run to her own personal feelings against the man.

"That so. I tell you," An-ina returned composedly. She read his doubt
and understood. "I not lie. Oh, no. Indian man wise. Sleeper man wise.
Not bad. No. They find him bones. All eat clean. They see big place.
They look an' look. No fall. Oh, no. No break 'em all up. No. Him say
Marcel wise man. Cy wise man. Not care for wolf. Oh, no. So him look
much. Him take him bone an' look. Him find him head--two. Maybe
Marcel--maybe Cy. Him find him hole. Little hole--big hole. Same like
each. Then him find gun. Two much little gun. Two big gun. Little gun
him both shoot. Two time--three time. Him say big fight--plenty. So. It
easy. Oh, yes. Marcel him no fight plenty. Oh, no. Him so as brother
with Cy. Cy him not so. An-ina know. Cy him steal, steal, so," An-ina
bent her lithe body in an attitude of stealing upon a victim. "Then him
little gun go--one I Marcel know. Him quick like lightning. Him
brave--much brave. Then him little gun go--one. So. Both all kill
up--dead."

For all the broken way of her talk, An-ina carried conviction. She knew
both men. And her woman's heart and mind had read Cy Allshore to the
dregs of what she believed was an infamous heart. Steve knew the danger
of accepting her story without reserve. He was convinced of her
sincerity. It would have been impossible to doubt. But----

The sound of little Marcel's piping voice reached them from the outside.
Steve turned and glanced out of the window. Oolak was bringing in his
train, with its five powerful dogs. Julyman with a club was busy, with
little Marcel's assistance, beating off the ferocious welcome of dogs of
the post.

For a moment he watched the boy's amazing efforts. Then as the tumult
subsided he turned again to the patient woman awaiting his verdict.

"You're a good woman, An-ina," he said simply. "You've told me the whole
thing as you see it. Well, I guess I can't ask more. Anyway I'm camping
here for the winter, an' during that time I'll need to wake some of
these 'sleepers.' I've got to get out and see what happened at that 'big
place.' Later on, when the snow goes, why--Say, I guess there isn't a
thing to keep you and little Marcel around here--now."




CHAPTER VII

THE HARVEST OF WINTER


Steve was confronted with six months of desperate winter on the plateau
of Unaga. It was an outlook that demanded all the strength of his simple
faith. He was equal to the tasks lying before him, but not for one
moment did he underestimate them.

For all the harshness of the life which claimed him Steve's whole nature
was imbued with a saneness of sympathy, a deep kindliness of spirit that
left him master of himself under every emotion. The great governing
factor in his life was a strength of honest purpose. A purpose, in its
turn, prompted by his sense of right and justice, and those things which
have their inspiration in a broad generosity of spirit. So it was that
under all conditions his conscience remained at peace.

It was supported by such feelings that he faced the tasks which the
desperate heart of Unaga imposed upon him. He had the care of an
orphaned child, he had the care of that child's Indian nurse, and the
lives and well-being of his own two men charged up against him. He also
had the investigations which he had been sent to make, and furthermore,
there was his own life to be preserved for the woman he loved, and the
infant child of their love, waiting for his return a thousand miles
away. The work was the work of a giant rather than a man; but never for
one moment did his confidence fail him.

The days following the arrival at the post were urgent. They were days
of swift thought and prompt action. The open season was gone, and the
struggle for existence might begin without a moment's warning. Steve
knew. Everyone knew. That is, everyone except little Marcel.

The boy accepted every changing condition without thought, and busied
himself with the preparations of his new friends. It had no significance
for him that all day long the forest rang with the clip of the felling
axe. Neither did the unceasing work of the buck-saw, as it ploughed its
way through an endless stream of sapling trunks, afford him anything
beyond the joy of lending his assistance. Then, too, the morning survey
of the elemental prospect, when his elders searched the skies, fearing
and hoping, and grimly accepting that which the fates decreed, was only
one amongst his many joys. It was all a great and fascinating game, full
of interest and excitement for a budding capacity which Steve was quick
to recognize.

But the child's greatest delight was the moment when "Uncle Steve"
invited him to assist him in discovering the economic resources of his
own home. As the examination proceeded Steve learned many things which
could never have reached him through any other source. He obtained a
peep into the lives of these people through the intimate eyes of the
child, and his keen perception read through the tumbling, eager words to
the great truths of which the child was wholly unaware. And it was a
story which left him with the profoundest admiration and pity for the
dead man who was the genius of it all.

Not for one moment did Steve permit a shadow to cross the child's sunny,
smiling face. From the first moment when the responsibility for Marcel's
little life had fallen into his hands his mind was made up. By every
artifice the boy must be kept from all knowledge of the tragedy that
had befallen him. When he asked for his mother he was told that she was
so sick that she could not be worried. This was during the first two
days. After that he was told that she had gone away. She had gone away
to meet his father, and that when she came back she would bring his
"pop" with her. A few added details of a fictitious nature completely
satisfied, and the child accepted without question that which his hero
told him.

He was permitted to see nothing of the little silent cortège that left
the post late on the second night. He saw nothing of the grief-laden
eyes of An-ina as she followed the three men bearing their burden of the
dead mother, enclosed in a coffin made out of the packing cases with
which the fort was so abundantly supplied. He had seen the men digging
in the forest earlier in the day, and had been more than satisfied when
"Uncle Steve" assured him they were digging a well. Later on he would
discover the great beacon of stones which marked the "well." But, for
the moment, while the curtain was being rung down on the tragedy of his
life, he was sleeping calmly, and dreaming those happy things which only
child slumbers may know.

Good fortune smiled on the early efforts at the fort For ten days the
arch-enemy withheld his hand. For ten days the weary sun was dragged
from its rest by the evil "dogs" which seemed to dominate its movements
completely. But each day their evil eyes grew more and more portentious
and threatening as they watched the human labourers they seemed to
regard with so much contempt.

Then came the change. It was the morning of the eleventh day. The "dogs"
had hidden their faces and the weary sun remained obscured behind a mass
of grey cloud. The crisp breeze which had swept the valley with its
invigorating breath had died out, and the world had suddenly become
threateningly silent.

A few great snowflakes fluttered silently to the ground. Steve was at
the gateway of the stockade, and his constant attendant was beside him
in his bundle of furs. The man's eyes were measuring as they gazed up at
the grey sky. Little Marcel was wisely studying, too.

"Maybe us has snow," he observed sapiently at last, as he watched the
falling flakes.

"Yes. I guess we'll get snow."

Steve smiled down at the little figure beside him.

"Wot makes snow, Uncle Steve?" the boy demanded.

"Why, the cold, I guess. It just freezes the rain in the clouds. And
when they get so heavy they can't stay up any longer, why--they just
come tumbling down and makes folk sit around the stove and wish they
wouldn't."

"Does us wish they wouldn't?"

"Most all the time."

The child considered deeply. Then his face brightened hopefully.

"Bimeby us digs, Uncle Steve," he said. "Boy likes digging."

Steve held out a hand and Marcel yielded his.

"Boy'll help 'Uncle Steve,' eh?"

"I's always help Uncle Steve."

The spontaneity of the assurance remained unanswerable.

Steve glanced back into the enclosure. Then his hand tightened upon the
boy's with gentle pressure.

"Come on, old fellow. We'll get along in, and make that stove, and--wish
it wouldn't."

He led the way back to the house.

The snowfall grew in weight and density. Silent, still, the world of
Unaga seemed to have lost all semblance of life. White, white, eternal
white, and above the heavy grey of an overburdened sky. Solitude,
loneliness, desperately complete. It was the silence which well nigh
drives the human brain to madness. From minutes to hours; from inches to
feet. Day and night. Day and night. Snow, snow all the time, till the
tally of days grew, and the weeks slowly passed. It almost seemed as if
Nature, in her shame, were seeking to hide up the sight of her own
creation.

For three silent weeks the snow continued to fall without a break. Then
it ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the fort buried well nigh
to the eaves. The herald of change was a wild rush of wind sweeping down
the valley from the broken hills which formed its northern limits. And,
within half an hour, the silence was torn, and ripped, and tattered, and
the world transformed, and given up to complete and utter chaos. A
hurricane descended on the post, and its timbers groaned under the added
burden. The forest giants laboured and protested at the merciless
onslaught, while the crashing of trees boomed out its deep note amidst
the shriek of the storm. As the fury of it all rose, so rose up the
snowfall of weeks into a blinding fog which shut out every sight of the
desolate plateau as though it had never been.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five weeks saw the extent of winter's first onslaught. And after that
for awhile, the battle resolved itself into a test of human endurance,
with the temperature hovering somewhere below 60° below zero. For a few
short hours the sun would deign to appear above the horizon, prosecute
its weary journey across the skyline, and ultimately die its daily death
with almost pitiful indifference. Then some twenty hours, when the world
was abandoned to the starry magnificence of the Arctic night, supported
by the brilliant light of a splendid aurora.

It was during this time that Steve pursued his researches into the lives
of these people. He was sitting now in the laboratory, which was a
building apart from all the rest. It was the home of the chemist's
research. It was equipped with wonderful completeness. Besides the
shelves containing all the paraphernalia of a chemist's profession, and
the counter which supported a distilling apparatus, and which was
clearly intended for other experiment as well, there was a desk, and a
small wood stove, which was alight, and radiating a pleasant heat.

It was the desk which held most interest for Steve. It was here he
looked to find, in the dead man's papers, in his letters, in his records
and books, the answer to every question in his mind.

For some hours he had been reading from one of the volumes of the man's
exhaustive diary. It was a living document containing a fascinating
story of the chemist's hopes and fears for the great objects which had
led to his abandonment of the civilized world for the bitter heights of
Unaga. And in every line of it Steve realized it could only have been
written by a man of strong, deep conviction and enthusiasm, a man whose
purpose soared far above the mere desire for gain. He felt, in the
reading, he was listening to the words of a man who was all and more,
far more, than his wife had claimed for him.

At last the fire in the stove shook down and he became aware of the work
of busy shovels going on just outside. He pulled out his watch, and the
yellow light of the oil lamp told him that he had been reading for
nearly three hours. Setting a marker in the book he closed it
reluctantly, and prepared to return the litter of documents to the
drawers which stood open beside him.

At that moment the door opened, and the tall figure of the squaw An-ina
stood in the framing.

"Him supper all fixed," she announced, in her quietly assured fashion.

Steve looked up, and his eyes gazed squarely into the woman's handsome
face. He was thinking rapidly.

"Say An-ina," he began at last. "I've been reading a whole heap. It's
what the man, Brand, wrote. He seems to have been a pretty great
feller."

The woman nodded as he paused.

"Heap good man," she commented.

Her eyes lit with an emotion there could be no misunderstanding. For all
the savage stock from which she sprang the dead white man had claimed a
great loyalty and devotion.

"You see, An-ina," Steve went on, "I came along up here to chase up the
murder of two men. My work's to locate all the facts, arrest the
murderers, take them back to where I come from, and make my report."

"Sure. That how An-ina mak it so."

The woman's eyes were questioning. She was wondering at the meaning of
all this preliminary. And she was not without disquiet. She had come to
realize that, with the death of her mistress, only this man and his
scouts stood between her and disaster. She could not rid herself of the
dread which pursued her now. Little Marcel was a white child. This man
was white. She--she was just a squaw. She was of the colour of these
"Sleeper" Indians. Would they take the child of her mother heart from
her, and leave her to her fate amongst these folk who slept the whole
winter through?

"Yes," Steve was gazing thoughtfully at the light which came from under
the rough cardboard shade of the lamp. "Well, the whole look of things
has kind of changed since I've--" he indicated the papers on the
desk--"taken a look into all these."

"Him read--much. Him look--always look. So."

Steve nodded.

"That's so. Well, I've got to get busy now, and do the things I was sent
up to do. But it seems likely there's going to be no murderer to take
back with me. It looks like a report of two men dead, by each other's
hand, a woman dead through accident, and you, and little Marcel left
alive. That being so I guess I can't leave you two up here. Do you get
that?" He set his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands.
"There's the boy, he's white," he said, watching the squaw's troubled
face. "He's got to go right back with me, when my work's done. And
you--why, you'd best come, too. I'd hate to rob you of the boy. You'll
both need to come right along. And the big folk will say what's to be
done with you when we get back. How do you say?"

The trouble had completely vanished from the woman's eyes. It was like
the passing of a great shadow. Their velvet softness radiated her
thankfulness, her gratitude.

"It good. Much good," she cried, with a sudden abandonment of that stoic
unemotional manner which was native to her. "An-ina love white boy. She
love him much. Boy go? Then An-ina all go dead. An-ina wait. So storm
devil him come. Then An-ina go out, and sleep, sleep, and not wake never
no more. An-ina keep boy? Then An-ina much happy. An-ina help white man
officer. An-ina strong. Mak long trail. An-ina no sick. No mak tire.
Work all time. An' help--much help white man officer. So."

Steve's smiling eyes indicated his acceptance of the woman's
protestations.

"That's all right," he said. Then he went on after a moment's thought:
"Now, you know these folk. These 'Sleepers.' Do you know their
lingo--their language? I've got to make a big pow-wow with their head
man. I guess that can't be done till they wake. You figger they wake at
intervals, and they dope themselves again. If that's so, I've got to get
their big chief right at that time. D' you guess you could take me right
along to get a look at these folk, and, after that, fix things so I can
grab their big man first time he wakes?"

The woman nodded at once, and her eyes wore a contented smile.

"Sure. An-ina know. Show him white man officer. Oh, yes. Show him all
this folk. Oh, yes. When? Now? Oh, yes. Him not snow. It good. Then
sometime An-ina watch. She watch, watch, all time, and when him wake,
an' eat, then him white man come an' mak pow-wow. Good?"

"Fine." Steve returned all the papers to the drawers in the desk and
stood up. "Guess I'll eat right away, and after that we'll get along an'
take a peek at these folks. The boys got the snow clear outside?"

"Him dig much. Snow plenty gone."

"Good. And little Marcel?" Steve enquired, with a tender smile. "Has he
been digging?"

The squaw's eyes lit.

"Oh, yes, him boy dig. An' Julyman, an' him Oolak all laff. Boy dig all
time, everywhere." An-ina laughed in her silent way. Then she sobered,
and a great warmth shone in her eyes. "Boss white man officer love him
boy? Yes?"

Steve nodded in his friendly way.

"Oh, I guess so," he admitted. "You see, I've got a little girl baby of
my own way back--where I come from."

"So."

There was no mistaking the understanding in the woman's significant
ejaculation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve and An-ina passed out into the wonderful glowing twilight. There
was no need for the sun in the steely glittering heavens. The full
moonlight of the lower latitudes was incomparable with the Arctic night.
From end to end in a great arc the aurora lit the world, and left the
stars blazing impotently. The cold was at its lowest depths, and not a
breath of wind stirred the air. Up to the eyes in furs the two figures
moved out beyond the stockade into the shadowed world.

The squaw led the way, floundering over the frozen snow-drifts with the
gentle padding sound of her moccasined feet. Steve kept hard behind her
yielding himself entirely to her guidance.

Out in the open no sign remained of the dome-roofed settlement of the
Sleepers. The huts had served to buttress the snow for the blizzard.
They were buried deep under the great white ridges which the storm had
left.

It was something upon which Steve had not calculated. And he swiftly
drew the squaw's attention.

"Say," he cried, pointing at the place where the huts had been visible,
"I kind of forgot the snow."

The squaw's eyes were just visible under her fur hood. Their brightness
suggested a smile.

"No 'Sleeper' man by this hut. Oh, no," she exclaimed decidedly. "No
winter, then him 'Sleeper' man live by this hut. Winter come, then him
sleep by woods. Much hut. Plenty. All cover, hid-up. Come, I show."

Steve was more than relieved. The snow had looked like upsetting all his
calculation.

Once clear of the banked snow-drifts, which rose to the height of the
stockade, they moved rapidly over the crusted surface towards the dark
wall of woods which frowned down upon them in the twilight, and, in a
few moments, the light of the splendid aurora was shut out, and the
myriad of night lights were suddenly extinguished.

"Keep him much close," An-ina cried, her mitted hand grasping Steve by
the arm. "Bimeby him bush go all thick. An-ina know."

They trudged on, and as they proceeded deeper and deeper into the
darkness of the forest, Steve's eyes became accustomed. The snow broke
into patches, and soon they found themselves more often walking over the
underlay of rotting pine cones than the winter carpet of the Northern
world. The temperature, too, rose, and Steve, at least, was glad to
loosen the furs from about his cheeks and nose.

Half an hour of rapid walking proved the squaw's words. The lank
tree-trunks, down aisles of which they had been passing, became lost in
a wealth of dense undergrowth. It was here that the woman paused for her
bearings. But her fault was brief, and in a few moments she picked up
the opening of a distinct but winding pathway. The windings, the
entanglement of the growth which lined it, made the path seem
interminable. But the confidence and decision of his guide left Steve
without the slightest doubt. Presently his confidence was justified.

The path led directly to the entrance of a stoutly constructed
habitation. Even in the darkness Steve saw that the hut exactly occupied
a cleared space. The surrounding bush, in its wild entanglement,
completely overgrew it. The result was an extraordinarily effective
hiding. Only precise knowledge could ever have hoped to discover it.

An-ina paused at the low door and pointed beyond.

"Track him go long way. More hut. Much, plenty. Oh, yes. Much hut. This,
big man chief. All him fam'ly. Come."

She bent low, and passed into the tunnel-like entrance, built of closely
interlaced Arctic willow. A dozen paces or more brought them to a
hanging curtain of skins. The woman raised this, and held it while Steve
passed beyond. A few paces farther on was a second curtain, and An-ina
paused before she raised it.

"So," she said, pointing at it. "All him Sleepers."

Steve understood. And with a queer feeling, almost of excitement, he
waited while the woman cautiously raised the last barrier. He scarcely
knew what to expect. Perhaps complete darkness, and the sound of
stertorous, drugged slumber. That which was revealed, however, came as a
complete surprise.

The first thing he became aware of was light, and a reeking atmosphere
of burning oil. The next was the warmth and flicker of two wood fires.
And after that a general odour which he recognized at once. It was the
same heavy, pungent aroma that pervaded the fort where the dead chemist
stored the small but precious quantities of the strange weed he traded.

They stepped cautiously within, and stood in silent contemplation of the
fantastic picture revealed by the three primitive lights. They emanated
from what looked like earthenware bowls of oil, upon which some sort of
worsted wicks were floating. These were augmented by the ruddy flicker
of two considerable wood fires, which burned within circular embankments
constructed on the hard earthen floor.

The lights and fires were a revelation to the man, and he wondered at
them, and the means by which they were tended. But his speculations were
quickly swallowed up by the greater interest of the rest of the scene.

The hut was large. Far larger than might have been supposed; and Steve
estimated it at something like thirty feet long by twenty wide. The roof
was thatched with reedy grass, bound down with thongs of rawhide to the
sapling rafters. The ridge of the pitched roof was supported by two
tree-trunks, which had been cut to the desired height, and left rooted
in the ground, while the two ends of it rested upon the end walls. The
walls themselves were constructed of thick mud plaster, overlaying a
foundation of laced willow branches. The whole construction was of
unusual solidity, and the smoke-blackened thatch yielded two holes,
Indian fashion, through which the fire smoke was permitted exit.

But Steve's main interest lay in the drug-suspended life which the place
contained. It was there, still, silent. It lay in two rows down the
length of either side of the great interior. In the dim light he counted
it. There were forty-two distinct piles of furs, each yielding the rough
outline of a prone human figure beneath it. Each figure was deathly
still. And the whole suggested some primitive mortuary, with its
freight, awaiting identification.

For many moments Steve remained powerless to withdraw his fascinated
gaze. And all the while he was thinking of Julyman, and the story he had
been told so long ago. He remembered how he had derided it as beyond
belief.

At last the fascination passed, and he turned his gaze in search of
those things which made this extraordinary scene possible. They were
there. Oh, yes. Julyman had not lied. No one had lied about these
creatures of hibernation. Piles of food were set out in earthenware
bowls, similar to the bowls which contained the floating lights. Then
there were other vessels, set ready to hand beside the food, and he
conjectured their contents to be the necessary brew of the famous drug.

An-ina's voice broke in upon his reflections.

"Him all much sleep," she said. "No wake now. Bimeby. Oh, yes."

She spoke in her ordinary tone. She had no fear of waking these "dead"
creatures.

"Tell me," Steve said after a pause, "who keeps these fires going? Who
watches them? And those oil lights. Do they burn by themselves?"

An-ina made a little sound. It was almost a laugh.

"Him light burn all time. Him seal oil," she explained. "Indian man much
'fraid for devil-man come. Him light keep him devil-man 'way all time.
Winter, yes. Summer, yes. Plenty oil. Only wind mak him blow out. Fire,
oh yes. When him wakes bimeby him mak plenty fire. Each man. Him sit by
fire all time eat. Then him sleep once more plenty. Each man wake, each
man mak fire. So fire all time. No freeze dead."

"None awake now," demurred Steve lowering his voice unconsciously.

"Oh, no," returned the squaw. "No man wake now. Bimeby yes. H'st!"

The woman's sudden, low-voiced warning startled Steve. Her Indian eyes
had been quicker than his. There was a movement under the fur robes of
one of the curious heaps in the distance, to the left, and she pointed
at it.

Steve followed the direction indicated. Sure enough there was movement.
One of the men had turned over on his back.

"Him wake--bimeby," whispered the squaw. "Come!"

She moved towards the doorway, and Steve followed closely. In a moment
they had passed the curtained barriers out into the fresh night air.

Steve paused.

"Would that be the headman?" he demanded.

An-ina shook her head.

"Him headman by door. Him sleep where we stand. Him sleep by door. Him
brave. Keep devil-man away. So."

"I see," Steve moved on down the path. "Well, we'll get right back. I'm
going to reckon on you, An-ina. Each day you go. When the headman wakes
you speak with him. You tell him white man officer of the Great White
Chief come. He looks for dead white men. You must tell him to keep awake
while you bring white man officer. See?"

"Sure. An-ina know. An-ina mak him fix all so."




CHAPTER VIII

BIG CHIEF WANAK-AHA


The enclosure of the fort was at last cleared of snow. It was now ready,
waiting for the elements to render abortive in a few short hours the
labour of many days. Julyman and Steve had spent the brief daylight in
setting up a snow-break before the open sheds which housed the sleds and
canoes. Oolak was at the quarters of the train dogs at the back of the
store. These were his charge. He drove them, he fed them, and cared for
them. And his art lay in his nimble manipulation of the club, at once
the key to discipline, and his only means of opening up a way to their
savage intelligence. Steve shared in every labour and none knew better
than he the value of work and discipline under the conditions of their
long imprisonment upon the bitter plateau.

Daylight had merged into twilight, and the cold blaze of the Northern
night had again enthroned itself. It was on the abandonment of his own
labours that Steve's attention was at once drawn to others going on
beyond the wall of the stockade. And forthwith he passed out of the
gates to investigate.

That which he discovered brought a smile to his eyes. From the summit of
a drift, which stood the height of the timbered walls, he found himself
gazing down upon the quaintly associated figures of little Marcel and
his nurse. They were busy, particularly the boy. Amidst a confusion of
coiled, rawhide ropes An-ina, hammer in hand, was securing a rope end
to the angle of the wall, while Marcel, with tireless vocal energy, was
encouraging and instructing her to his own complete satisfaction.

The sturdy, busy little figure, so overburdened with its bulk of furs,
was always a sight that delighted Steve. The childish enthusiasm was so
inspiriting, so heedless, so lost to everything but the sheer delight of
existence.

While he stood there the rope was made secure and the squaw's efforts
ceased. Instantly the scene changed. The high spirits of the boy sought
to forestall the next move. With unthinking abandon he flung himself
upon the pile of ropes, and manfully struggled to gather them into his
baby arms. The result was inevitable. In a moment hopeless confusion
reigned and An-ina was to the rescue disentangling him. It was in the
midst of this that Marcel became aware of Steve's presence. The moment
he was successfully freed he abandoned his nurse for the object of his
new worship.

"Us makes life-line," he panted, scrambling up the snow-drift. "Boy fix
it all a way through the forest to 'Sleeper' men."

Steve reached out a helping hand, and hauled the little fellow up to his
side.

"Ah. I was guessing that way," he said. "And An-ina was helping boy,
eh?"

"Oh, 'ess. An-ina help. An-ina always help boy. And boy help Uncle
Steve."

Steve led the way down. An-ina was waiting with smiling patience.

"Setting out a line to the Sleepers' camp?" he said, as they reached the
woman's side.

An-ina nodded and began to coil the ropes afresh.

"It much good," she said. "Bimeby it storm plenty. So. Each day An-ina
mak headman hut. When him wake then white man officer go mak big talk.
Storm, it not matter nothin'. No."

"Fine," Steve agreed warmly. "You're a good squaw, An-ina."

His approval had instant effect.

"Him good? An-ina glad," she observed contentedly.

An-ina moved on towards the forest bearing her burden of ropes, paying
out the line as she went.

Steve watched her, his steady eyes full of profound thought.

"Us helps An-ina, Uncle Steve?" enquired the boy doubtfully.

The man had almost forgotten the mitted hand he was still clasping. Now
he looked down into the up-turned, enquiring eyes.

"I don't guess An-ina needs us for awhile," he said. Then, after a
pause: "No," he added. "Boy's worked hard--very hard. Maybe we'll go
back to the fort. And--Uncle tell boy a story? Eh?"

Steve had no need to wait for the torrent of verbal appreciation that
came. The boy's delight at the prospect was instant. So they forthwith
abandoned the snow-drifts for the warm interior of the store.

Their furs removed, Steve settled himself on the bench which stood
before the stove. The room was shadowed by the twilight outside, but he
did not light a lamp. There was oil enough for their needs in the
stores, but eventualities had to be considered, and rigid economy in all
things was necessary.

The picture was complete. The dimly lit store, with its traffic counter
deserted, and its shelves sadly depleted of trade. The staunch,
plastered and lime-washed walls, which revealed the stress of climate in
the gaping cracks that were by no means infrequent. The hard-beaten
earth floor swept clean. The glowing stove that knew no attention from
the cleaner's brush. Then the two figures on the rough bench, which was
worn and polished by long years of use.

The completion of the picture, however, lay in the personalities for
which the rest was only a setting. Steve, in his buckskin shirt and
moleskin trousers, which divested him of the last sign of his
relationship to the force which administered the white man's law. His
young face so set and weather-tanned, so full of decision and strength,
and his eyes, far gazing, like those of the men of the deep seas. And
the boy upon his knee, his little hands clasping each other in his lap.
With his curling, fair hair, and his wide, questioning eyes gazing up
into the man's face. With his small body clad from head to foot in the
beaded buckskin, which it was his nurse's joy to fashion for him. There
was a wonderfully intimate touch in it all. It was a touch that
powerfully illustrated the lives of those who are far removed from the
luxury of civilization, and who depend for every comfort, even for their
very existence, upon those personal physical efforts, the failure of
which, at any moment, must mean final and complete disaster.

"Tell boy of bears, an' wolves, an' Injuns, an' debble-men, wot An-ina
hers scairt of."

The demand was prompt and decided.

"An-ina scared of devil-men?" Steve smilingly shook his head. "It's only
stupid 'Sleeper' men scared of devil-men. Anyway there's no devil-men.
Just wolves, and bears, that boy'll hunt and kill when he grows up."

"But hers says ther's debble-men," the boy protested, his eyes wide with
awe.

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Uncle Steve knows. He knows better than Indians.
Better than An-ina. Boy always remember that."

"Oh, 'ess, boy 'members."

The child impulsively thrust an arm about the man's neck and Steve's arm
tightened unconsciously about the little body.

"Tell us 'tory," the child urged.

Steve's contemplative eyes were upon the glowing stove.

"What'll it be about?" he said at last. Then, as though suddenly
inspired, "Why, I know, sure. It's about a little boy. A real bright
little boy. Oh, I guess he was all sorts of a boy--like--like Marcel."

"Wot's 'all sorts'?" the child demanded.

"Why, just a sample of all the good things a boy can be. Same as you."

The explanation seemed sufficient, and Marcel's eyes were turned
dreamily upon the red patch on the side of the stove.

"'Ess," he agreed.

"Well, Uncle Steve travelled a great, long way. It was dreadful hard.
There were bears, and wolves, I guess, and queer Indian folk, and
rivers, and lakes, and forests; forests much bigger and darker than
boy's ever seen."

"Wos thems bigger than the Sleepers' forest?" The challenge was
instantly taken up.

"Oh, yes."

"An' darker, an' fuller of debble-men?"

"Much darker, and there were no devil-men, because there just aren't
any."

"No. Course not," the boy agreed readily.

"That's so. Well, Uncle Steve came a long, long way, and his dogs were
tired, and his Indians were tired----"

"Wos thems like Julyman an' Oolak?"

"Yes. That's who the Indians were. Uncle always has Julyman and Oolak.
Well, he came to a valley where he found a little boy. All sorts of a
boy. And he liked the little boy, and the little boy liked him. Didn't
he?"

"'Ess."

"Well, the little chap was alone."

"Didn't hims have no An-ina?"

"Oh, yes. He had his nurse. But his Pop had gone away, and so had his
Mummy. So he was kind of alone. Well, the little boy and Uncle Steve
became great friends. Oh, big friends. Ever so big. And Uncle Steve
didn't want ever to leave the little boy. And I don't guess the little
boy ever wanted to leave Uncle Steve. But then you see there was the Pop
and Mummy, who'd gone away, and of course the boy liked them ever so
much. So Uncle Steve was in a dilemma."

"Wot's 'd'lemma'?"

"Why just a 'fix.' Like boy was in when he got all mussed up with the
ropes just now."

"Wos you mussed up with ropes?"

"Oh, no. Only in a 'fix.'"

"'Ess." The briefest explanations seemed to satisfy.

"Well, Uncle Steve guessed the Pop an' Mummy wouldn't come back for ever
so long, maybe not till the boy was grown up. So he guessed he'd take
the little boy--such a jolly little chap--with him, back to his home,
where there was a nice Auntie, and a little baby cousin. A little girl,
such a pretty little dear, all eyes, and fat cheeks, that sort of tell
you life's the bulliest thing ever. Well, he took him to his home, such
a long, long way, over snow, and over rivers and lakes, where there's
fishes, and through forests where there's wolves, an' bears----"

"Does hims see any debble-mens?"

"No. Because Uncle Steve says there just aren't any."

"But An-ina sezes ther' is."

"An-ina's a squaw."

"'Ess."

"Well, after long time this funny little fellow finds his new Auntie,
and he loves his little cousin right away, and he has such a bully time
with her. They play together. Such games. She pulls his hair and laughs,
and the boy, who's such a bright little kid, likes it because she's a
little girl, and they grow, and grow up together, and then--and
then----"

"Does hims marry her, an' live happy ever after?"

The question was disconcerting. But Steve did his best.

"Well, I can't just say, old fellow," he demurred. "You see, I hadn't
fixed that."

"But they allus does in my Mummy's 'tories," came the instant protest.

"Do they? Well, then I guess these'll have to," the man agreed. "We'll
fix it that way."

"'Ess. An' then----"

But the prompting failed in its purpose.

"An' then? Why--I guess that's just all. You see, when folks get
married, and live happy ever after, there's most generally no more story
to tell. Is there?"

"No." Then the child sat up. His appetite had been whetted. "Tell boy
'nother 'tory. Great big, long one. Ever so long."

Steve shook his head.

"Guess Uncle Steve's not great on yarns," he admitted. "You see, I was
kind of thinking. Say, how'd boy like to go with Uncle Steve, and see
the nice Auntie, and the little dear, with lovely, lovely curly hair and
blue eyes, and cheeks like--like----"

"'Ess. Us goes," the child cried, with a sudden enthusiasm. "Us finds
all the lakes, an' rivers, an' forests, an' wolves, an' bears, an' the
little dear. Boy likes 'em. Us goes now?"

The headlong nature of the demand set Steve smiling.

"Well, I guess we can't go till winter quits," he said. "We'll need to
wait awhile till it's not dark any more. Then we'll take An-ina. And
Julyman. And Oolak. And the dogs. How's that? Then, after awhile, when
boy's Pop and his Mummy come back, then maybe we'll come right back,
too. Eh?"

The anticipation of it all was ravishing to the child mind, and the boy
resettled himself.

"'Ess," he agreed, with a great sigh. "An' the little dear, an' the nice
Auntie. Us all come back." Then with infantile persistence he returned
to his old love. "More 'tory," he demanded. "'Bout debble-mens." Then,
as an after-thought: "Wot isn't, cos Uncle says they doesn't, an' An-ina
says him is when he wasn't, cos he can't be."

Steve sprang to his feet with a great laugh, bearing the little fellow
in his strong arms. He had accomplished his task and all was well.

"No more 'tory," he cried setting him on the ground. "All us men have
work to do. We need to help An-ina. Come on, old fellow."

And with a great feeling of relief and contentment he began the
re-adjustment of the furs which protected the little life which had
become so precious to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

For all the nights were almost interminable, and the days so desperately
short time passed rapidly. It was nearly three weeks later that the
patient, indefatigable An-ina brought the word Steve awaited.

The daylight had passed, engulfed by the Arctic night which had added a
dull, misty moon to its splendid illumination. The temperature had
risen. Steve knew a change was coming. The signs were all too plain. He
knew that the period of peace had nearly run its course, and the
elements were swiftly mobilizing for a fresh attack.

He was standing in the great gateway considering these things when
An-ina came to him. She appeared abruptly over the top of the great
snow-drift, which had been driven against the angle of the stockade. The
soft "pad" of her moccasined feet first drew his attention, and
immediately all thought of the coming storm passed from his mind.

"Him big chief wake all up," she announced urgently, as she reached his
side.

"Did you speak to him?"

The man's enquiry was sharpened by responsive eagerness. The squaw
nodded.

"An-ina say, 'Boss white man officer come mak big talk with big chief,
Wanak-aha. Him look for dead white man by the big water. Yes.' Him big
chief say, 'White man officer? Him not know this man. Who?' An-ina say
much--plenty. Big chief all go mad. Oh, much angry. Then An-ina mak big
talk plenty. She say, 'Big Chief not mak big talk, then boss white man
officer of Great White Chief come kill up all Indian man.' Big chief
very old. Him all 'fraid. Him shake all over like so as seal fat. Much
scare. Oh, yes." She laughed in her silent fashion. "So him say, 'Boss
white man officer come, then Big Chief Wanak-aha mak plenty big talk.'
Then him sleep. Oh, yes."

The woman's amusement at the chief's panic was infectious. Steve smiled.

"I guess we'll go right along," he said. Then he indicated the moon with
its misty halo. "Storm."

Again An-ina nodded.

"Him storm plenty--sure," she agreed. "Boss come quick?"

"Right away."

A moment later An-ina was leading the way up the long slope of the
snow-drift, returning over the tracks which her own moccasins had left.

       *       *       *       *       *

The atmosphere of the hut was oppressive. It reeked with the smoke of
wood fire. It was nauseating with a dreadful human foulness. But over
all hung the sickly sweet odour of the Adresol drug, which oppressed the
brain and weighted down the eyelids of those who had just left the pure
cold air beyond the curtained doorway.

Steve was not without a feeling of apprehension. He was in the presence
of the active operation of the subtle drug. He had read the dead
chemist's papers. He knew the deadly exhalations of the weed when
growing, or when in an undried state. He also knew that distillation
robbed it of its poisonous effect, but for all that, the sickly
atmosphere left him with a feeling of nausea.

He and An-ina were sitting beyond one of the two wood fires that had
been replenished. The old chief, Wanak-aha, was squatting on his
haunches amongst his frowsy fur robes at the opposite side. He was a
shrivelled, age-weazened creature whose buckskin garments looked never
to have been removed from his aged body. His years would have been
impossible to guess at. All that was certain about him was that his
mahogany face was like creased parchment, that his eyes peered out in
the dim light of the hut through the narrowest of slits, that he was
alert, vital to an astounding degree, and that he suggested a foulness
such as humanity rarely sinks to.

An-ina was speaking in the tongue native to the old man, who was
replying in his monosyllabic fashion while he kept all his regard for
the stern-eyed white man, who, the squaw was explaining, represented all
the unlimited power of the white peoples.

Steve waited in patience for the completion of these necessary
preliminaries, and acted his part with the confidence of wide
experience. And presently An-ina turned to him. Her eyes were serious,
but there was a smile behind her words.

"Him say him much big friend for white man," she said, in her broken
way. "Him love all white man so as a brother. White man mak plenty good
trade with Indian man. It much good. So him big chief plenty friend. Oh,
yes."

Steve inclined his head seriously.

"Tell him that's all right," he said. "Tell him white man good friend,
too. White man love all Indian man. Tell him all white man children of
Great White Chief. When they die Great White Chief know. If Indian man
kill white man then Great White Chief send all thunder and lightning and
kill up all Indian man. Tell him Great White Chief know that two white
men all killed dead by great waters. He know Chief Wanak-aha's young men
find them. Great White Chief knows Indian man didn't kill them, but, as
he knows where they are, he must show the Great White Chief's Officer
where they are, so he can take their bones back to their own country, or
bury them as he sees fit. If Chief Wanak-aha does not tell White
Officer, and his young men don't show him this place, then the thunders
and lightning will come and kill up all Indian 'Sleeper' men."

An-ina interpreted rapidly. And by the length of her harangue, and by
the attitude of the old man, Steve shrewdly suspected she was adding
liberal embellishments such as her own savage mind suggested as being
salutory. It was always so. An Indian on the side of the police was
merciless to his own people.

The old man replied with surprising energy, and it was obvious to Steve
that panic had achieved all he desired. So he was content to watch
silently while the soft-voiced woman, with unsmiling eyes, spurred the
little, old, great man to decisions which it is more than probable only
real fear could have hastened.

At last An-ina ceased speaking. She turned to Steve who received the net
results she had achieved in concrete form.

"It much good," she said, without permitting the smallest display of
feeling before the watchful eyes of the old chief. "Him say all as
An-ina tell boss white man officer. Young men find dead white men all
kill up. In great, deep place by big waters. So. Him say when winter him
all go then young men take boss white man officer, show him all. Help
him much plenty. All him dog-train, all him young man for boss white man
officer. Yes. Not so as snow him not go. Not find. All kill dead, sure.
'Sleeper' man sleep plenty. Then him all wake. Boss white man say 'go.'
Yes."

The purpose of the visit was achieved. Steve desired nothing more. These
Indians would take him to the place where the two white men had fought
out the old, old battle for a woman. Yes, he was convinced now that
An-ina's original story was the true one. His visit to these squalid
creatures had served a double purpose. The old man's willingness to
comply with his demands amply convinced him that the wife's belief had
no foundation in the facts. Had the Indians murdered Marcel Brand and
his partner, the whole attitude of the chief must have been very
different.

It was some moments before he replied. It was necessary that he should
play his part to the end. So he appeared to consider deeply before he
accepted the chief's offer.

At length he raised his eyes from the flickering blaze of the fire. He
gazed round the dimly lit room where the Indians lay about in their
deathlike slumber. There was a stirring as of waking in a far corner,
and for awhile he contemplated the direction. Then, at last, his eyes
came back to the crumpled face of the old man awaiting anxiously his
reply.

"Tell him," he said, addressing the squaw without withdrawing his gaze
from the face of the old man, "that the officer of the Great White Chief
will wait till the snow goes. Tell him he'll need to have his young men
ready then to make the trail. And when they've shown the officer all
they've found, and told him all they know, then the officer will tell
the Great White Chief that the 'Sleeper' men are good men, who deserve
all that is good. Tell him, there will be no thunder or lightning. And
if white men come again to the fort and find it as it has been left,
nothing taken, nothing destroyed, then maybe they'll bring good trade
for the Indian men, and presents for the big chief. But if they come and
find that one little thing has been destroyed or stolen, then the
thunder and lightning will speak, and there'll be no more Indians."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Steve and An-ina emerged from the woods utter and complete darkness
reigned. The world had been swallowed up under an inky pall. The moon,
the brilliant stars, the blazing northern lights--all were extinguished,
and not a ray of light was left to guide them the last few hundred yards
to safety. Furthermore snow was falling. It was falling in great flakes
half as big as a man's hand.

The life-line which the woman had set up was all that stood between them
and complete disaster.




CHAPTER IX

THE VISION OF THE SPIRE


Winter with all its deadly perils had become a memory. Life was supreme
again on the plateau of Unaga. It was in the air, in the breezes
sweeping down from the Northern hills, where the crystal snow caps no
longer had power to inspire distrust. It was in the flowing waters of
the river. It was in the flights of swarming wildfowl, winging to fresh
pastures of melting snows. It was in the new-born grass blades,
thrusting up their delicate heads to rid the world of winter's
unsightliness. The animal world, too, was seeking to alleviate the pangs
of semi-starvation to which it had so long been condemned. The sense of
gladness was stirring, lifting the world upon a glorious pinacle of
youthful hope.

Gladness was in An-ina's heart as she moved over the dripping grass,
bearing the water fresh dipped from the river whose banks were a-flood
in every direction. Was not the darkness of winter swallowed up by the
brilliant sunlight? Was not the child of her heart trudging manfully at
her side, firmly grasping the bucket handle in a vain belief in the
measure of his help? Was not the moment rapidly approaching, when the
white man officer would return with the young men of the Sleepers from
the "deep place" by the "big waters?" Would not the day soon come when
the trail to the southlands would again be broken? And would she not
gaze once more upon the pleasant lands that gave her birth? Oh, yes. She
knew. It was a great rush to the promised home, far from the desperate
life on the plateau of Unaga, with the child, whose dancing eyes and
happy smile were like a ray of sunshine amidst the shadows of her life.

Morning and night, now, An-ina looked for the return of those who had
set out before the break of the winter. A month had passed since Steve's
going. She was quite alone with her boy, with the wakened Indians
preparing for their labours of the open season. The "white man officer"
would return. An-ina had no fear for him even on the winter trail of
Unaga. He would return, and then--and then--And so she watched and
waited, and worked with all the will of her simple, savage heart.

It was no easy task that lay ahead. An-ina knew that. Steve had told her
much during those dark days of winter. He had spoken of a thousand
miles. What was a mile? She did not know. A sun. A moon. These things
she knew. But his tone she understood. And she knew what he meant when
he declared his intention of beating schedule, and his determination not
to spend another winter on Unaga if it were the last trail he ever made.
She was ready. And, in her simple woman's way she beguiled the days of
waiting with speculation as to the white woman who had inspired in this
white man's heart so great a desire.

Life was more than good to An-ina just now. She was young. She was
thrilling with the wild emotions of her untamed blood. She was an Indian
of the finest ancestry, but more than all she was a devoted woman. She
had lost a mistress whom she had loved, and a master whom she had been
glad to serve. She had found one to take their places, one whose first
act had been his re-assurance that she should not be robbed of the
child who was her all. There was no one greater in all the world to her
than the "white man officer" whose courage and will she counted as
powers greater than the storms of Unaga.

All day she laboured at her many tasks. And the boy, faithful to his
doctrine of helpfulness, found a world of recreation in his idea. Thus,
with the passing of the sun, they stood together at the gateway of the
fort with eyes searching, as many times they had searched before, for a
sign of the return of the trail men.

"Us wants Uncle Steve."

There was a plaintive appeal in the boy's tone which found an echo in
the woman's heart. She sighed, but her voice was steady as she replied:

"Bimeby him come," she said.

"'Ess. Bimeby him come."

But the boy's agreement lacked conviction. A moment later, with his big
eyes turned to the southeast, the way he had seen the expedition set
out, he went on:

"Boy's Pop didn't come. An-ina said him's do. Boy's Mummy go 'way 'cos
Uncle Steve said her does. Uncle Steve hims all goes, too. Boy want
Uncle Steve."

"Him come bimeby."

The woman had no words with which to comfort. It was not lack of desire.
Though her conviction was unwavering, she, too, in her heart, echoed the
plaint.

For some moments they continued their evening vigil. The eyes of both
searched the growing shadows. And, as was always the case, it was the
child who finally broke the silence.

"Us cries," he said half tearfully.

It was then the Indian in the woman asserted itself.

"Squaw-men him weeps. 'Brave' him fight. No cry. Oh, no. Only fight. Boy
great white 'brave.' Him not cry. No."

Marcel nodded, but his eyes were turned to the hills.

"'Ess. Boy great white 'brave,'" he agreed, in a choking voice. "Boy not
cry--never. What's hims little things all dancing in the fog, An-ina?"
he enquired, his mind suddenly distracted, pointing at a gap between two
low hills, where a thin vapour of fog was slowly rising. "Is them's
debble-mens?"

The keen eyes of the squaw followed the pointing finger. In a moment
there leapt into them a light which required no words to interpret. But
even in her excited joy the Indian calm remained uppermost. She drew
nearer the child, and one of her soft brown hands rested caressingly on
his shoulder.

"Him not devil-men," she said, in a deep tone of exaltation. "Him Uncle
Steve an' all fool 'Sleeper' men. They all come so as An-ina say."

Then the smile in her eyes suddenly transformed her, and her joy could
no longer be denied. She stooped over the small figure and pressed her
lips upon the soft white forehead.

"Us go by river. An-ina hide. Boy hide. Then Uncle Steve come. Boy jump
out. Him say 'Boo!' Uncle Steve all scairt. Much frightened all dead.
So?"

The appeal was irresistible. The boy's excitement leapt. In a moment he
was transformed from a tearful "brave" to a happy, laughing child. He
set off at a run for the river, with An-ina close upon his heels,
utterly regardless of the fact that they were within full view of the
on-coming trail men. This was a detail. The child's enthusiasm permitted
no second thought, and his breathless orders to his nurse were flung
back as he ran. The cover of the bush-lined river was reached, and the
hiding-place was selected just short of the flood water.

The child crouched down trembling with excitement. And the sound of
Uncle Steve's voice giving orders as he came up on the far side of the
water made the suspense almost unendurable. He talked to An-ina, who
crouched at his side. He chattered incessantly. The splash of a canoe,
dropped into the water, was exquisite torture. The dip of paddles set
him well-nigh beside himself. Then, a few moments later, when the light
craft slithered on the mud of the shallows, just beyond the
hiding-place, he felt the psychological moment had come. Out he sprang
at his victim, who was still ankle deep in the water.

"Boo-o-o!" he shrieked, with all the power of his little lungs, and, a
moment later, he was gathered into the caressing arms of a terrified
"uncle."

       *       *       *       *       *

The work was accomplished. The police officer had fulfilled his mission,
a mission detailed to him coldly, officially, without a shadow of regard
for the tremendous trials entailed, and with only an eye for the
capacity of the officer selected.

So far he had beaten his own schedule. He had calculated his work would
occupy two years from the moment of his going to his return to
Deadwater, but he meant to cut this down by something like six months.
The resolve to do so had been taken during the drear of winter. He had
been haunted by the appealing eyes of the woman he loved, and by the
memory of the soft clutch of baby hands. And his desire had become
irresistible.

Under his new resolve it had become necessary to speed the waking of the
Indians. He had had no scruple. Again he had bearded the chief and
forced his will upon him. For all the old man's fears of the white man's
threats it had been no easy task. But at last he had convinced him of
the hopeless recklessness of denying him. So twenty of the young men
were found who reluctantly enough gave up the last month of their
winter's sleep. And now he had returned with his work accomplished.

Steve had no illusions upon the desperate nature of the rush for home.
He knew the chances he was taking. A week's preparation. He could spare
no more time. A journey on foot of some hundreds of miles. An Indian
carry-all hauled by reindeer for the boy and the camp outfit, the dogs
to be herded without burden till their usefulness could serve. For each
man, and An-ina, the burden of a heavy pack. Such preparations were
wholly inadequate. He knew that. He was staking the courage and
endurance of those he was responsible for against a ruthless,
inhospitable world.

Oh, yes, his eyes were wide to the dangers that lay ahead. He knew them
all. He had visions of a dripping, melting land. He knew the spring
rains with their awesome powers of washout and flood. The blinding,
steaming fogs of the high altitudes. So with the glacial avalanches, and
the terror of thawing tundra, shaking, treacherous, bottomless.

The week passed rapidly and the moment for the "pull-out" came. The
Indians were awake, and their winter quarters in the woods had been
abandoned for the domed igloos of the open season. The fort was alive
with their comings and goings. They were alert for the promised spoils.

Peaceable, kindly, the sturdy undersized people of the outlands were
driven to a supreme selfishness by reason of the conditions under which
they lived. They cared little for anything but that which the white folk
could provide. Without interest or ambitions, beyond such comfort as
they could snatch from life, they desired only to be left in peace. But
with real amiability they wished the stranger well in his going.

The post presented a curious enough scene on the morning of departure.
And to Steve, at least, thought of it was to recur many times in the
great struggle that lay before him. The poles of the carry-all, their
ends trailing upon the ground, loaded with camp outfit and ready for the
boy, stood just within the stockade. The dogs were ready and waiting
under Oolak's charge. Inside the store, Steve supported by Julyman and
An-ina, and the child Marcel, occupied the well-worn bench beside the
stove.

He was receiving the farewell words of the old chief, Wanak-aha, who was
thankful enough to see the last of the disturber of his winter sleep.
The old man was surrounded by his equally aged counsellors, and the
whole deputation squatted ceremonially upon their haunches about him.
The store had been stripped of all supplies. The shelves were bare and
only a litter of packings remained to mark the end of the chemist's
great enterprise.

Steve addressed the chief through An-ina without relaxing his authority.
He told the old man that everything that was good in the store had been
handed over a present to his people for their valuable services to the
Great White Chief. The store was now empty of everything that was good.
He told him that this was the way the Great White Chief always acted
towards those who served him. The things that remained in the store were
only evil things that were full of evil magic. The Great White Chief had
hidden these things deeply, and he had set a spell upon them. This had
been done so that no harm should come to the Indian. In this he was
referring to the contents of the dead man's laboratory. He told him that
the Great White Chief had ordered him to place the store and fort in the
chief's safe keeping. No Indian man was to enter it to destroy it. If he
did the evil spirits would break loose, and death and disaster for the
whole tribe would undoubtedly follow. Therefore he had summoned the
council that Wanak-aha might give his pledge for the safety of the
property of the Great White Chief.

He told them he was going now because he wanted the Indians to live in
peace, with their slumbers undisturbed. He might never come again. He
could not say. But if the Great White Chief sent anybody, it would only
be for the purpose of giving great benefit to the Indians, whom he
undoubtedly regarded as a very wise and good people.

It was a masterly exhibition of Steve's understanding of the savage it
was his work to deal with, and the happy effect was promptly evidenced.
Ten minutes of monosyllabic discussion between the chief and his
counsellors produced the pledge Steve desired, and he knew from the
manner of it that the pledge would be kept to the letter. But it brought
forth something more. An-ina was called upon to interpret an expression
of the friendly spirit in which the Indians parted from the disturber of
their slumbers.

The old man in a long peroration explained all he and his people felt.
They were in no way behind the Great White Chief in their regard, he
assured Steve. They loved the white man, whose ways were not always
Indian ways. He re-affirmed his solemn promise that the fort should be
safe in Indian hands. Furthermore he told him they had no desire to
anger the evil spirits it contained. In conclusion he produced a beaded
seal-skin bag which he asked the white man to accept. It contained, he
explained, the bones of the right hand of one of his ancestors who had
been a great hunter and warrior, and withal a lucky and mighty chief who
was only murdered by his people after a long and fierce reign. This bag,
with its contents, was a sure talisman and guard against the evil
spirits of Unaga, and they were very, very many, and very cruel.

With due solemnity Steve accepted this priceless gift, and, to add to
his display of gratification, he drew little Marcel to him and secured
it about his neck. Then, turning to the chief, he explained. He pointed
at the child, and assured him that the white man regarded his children
before all things--even before his own life. Therefore, to display his
gratitude to the great chief, he bestowed the gift upon the child whose
safety he desired above all things in the world. Approval was unanimous.
To every one of these simple creatures the white man's act was one of
the greatest self-sacrifice. And even in the more enlightened minds of
An-ina and Julyman there was a deep appreciation of the act.

When the council broke up, and the fur-clad Indians moved out, Steve
might well have been forgiven had he felt that his work had been well
and truly done.

With the going of the last Indian he promptly shouldered his pack, and
Julyman and An-ina did the same. A moment later he took the child in his
arms.

"Come," he said, and led the way out of the building.

Ten minutes later the outfit was on the move, and the great adventure,
with the new-born mosquitoes and flies swarming, began in a blaze of
spring sunshine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Out on a snow-clad ridge, a saddle between two forest-clad hills, a
meagre camp was set. The shelter of woods against the keen north wind
made the resting-place possible. Two weeks of struggle, two weeks of
tremendous effort left the choice of daylight camping ground a matter of
small moment, but just now the bleak ridge had been selected for a
definite reason.

Steve and An-ina were standing out in the gap, with little Marcel
between them. Oolak was somewhere within the woods, tending his savage
dogs. Julyman was hugging the fire, with complete disregard for all but
its precious warmth.

Those in the gap were staring out at the north-east with eyes held
fascinated by the wonder of it all. It was the Spire, the amazing Spire
of Unaga rearing its mighty crest out of the far-off distance. Even the
child was awed to silence by the spell of the inspiring vision.

They were gazing upon a world of fire and smoke. And the fire was
belching out of the bowels of the earth and lighting up the whole
skyline far and wide. It was a scene no words could adequately describe.
It was a scene to awe the stoutest heart. The whole country in the
distant north seemed to lie prostrate at the mercy of a world of
devouring flame.




CHAPTER X

THE RUSH OUTFIT


"Curse 'em!"

Ian Ross raised a hand and swept it across the back of his muscular
neck. Then he wiped his palm on his cord breeches leaving there the
stain of his own blood, and the crushed remains of hundreds of
mosquitoes.

"Get a look at that," he cried, in genial disgust.

The man riding at his side turned and laughed without mirth. His eyes
remained serious.

"Sure," he said indifferently. "We've got to get 'em, this time of year,
Doc. We need a head breeze."

"Got to get? What we're getting is hell--plumb hell," exploded the
Scotsman.

The other nodded.

"Sure. But there's worse hell on the trail, and it isn't us who's got
it."

The rebuke was without offence. But it was sufficient. In a moment Ross
was flung headlong back to the haunting thoughts of the great effort he
and his companion were engaged upon.

"Another day--and no sign," he said.

"No."

There was no great display, yet the doctor's words, and the monosyllabic
reply, were deeply significant.

Jack Belton--Inspector Jack Belton--and the doctor were on a "rush
outfit" of rescue. They were riding back to camp after a long day of
search along the banks of the Theton River. Their search was systematic.
Each day they rode out and followed the intricate course of the smiling
river with its endless chain of lakes. Each day their camp broke up and
followed a similar course, but taking the direct and shortest route down
the river. Then, at nightfall, the two men rejoined their outfit, only
to follow a similar procedure next day. Thus they had left the
headwaters far behind, and were steadily working their way down the
river. Somewhere along that river was Steve Allenwood, alive or dead.
They could not guess which. They could not estimate where. It was their
purpose to leave no creek, or lake, or yard of the great river
unexplored, until the secret was yielded up.

"And when we find him, what then?" the doctor exclaimed in a desperate
fashion. "Maybe he's sick. Maybe--whatever it is we've got to heal him,
and break him at the same time. God!"

"Yes." Jack Belton turned his dark eyes on his companion. They were hot
with feeling. "Say, Doc, I'm crazy to find that boy, and find him
cursing the skitters with a wholesome vocabulary, same as you and me.
But I'd hand over my Commission in the force with pleasure to my biggest
enemy rather than pass him the dope you and me need to."

The Scotsman nodded, and the kindly face reflected the bitterness of his
feelings.

"And I handed him my promise, and Millie's," he aid. "He was crazy about
them both--God help him."

"Poor devil!"

The great valley was lit from end to end by the last flaming rays of the
setting summer sun. The green carpet was dotted by a thousand wooded
bluffs, and a wonderful tracery of watercourses caught and reflected
the dying light. Not a breath of air stirred. And the warm, cloudless
evening was alive with the hum of insects, and the incessant chorus of
the frogs at the water's edge. Now and again the far-off cry of coyote
or wolf came dolefully across the trackless grass. For the rest a
wonderful peace reigned--that peace which belongs to the wilderness
where human habitation has not yet been set up.

It had been a tremendous time for both these men, and for those under
the Inspector's command. The whole thing had been an exhibition of human
energy, rarely to be witnessed. It had all been the result of an episode
on a similar, calm summer afternoon, which would remain for all time a
landmark in the doctor's life.

He had been reading in his shanty surgery on the Allowa Reserve. The
stream of his medicine-loving patients had ceased to flow. The little
room was heavy with the reek of his pipe. So he had risen from his chair
and passed to the door for a breath of air. It was then that he was
confronted by a gaudy coloured apparition. An Indian, whose race was
foreign to him, was patiently sitting on the back of a mean-looking
skewbald pony, clad in a parti-coloured blanket of flaming hues. The
moment Ross appeared in the doorway the Indian produced a crumpled,
folded paper from the folds of his blanket and offered it to him without
a word.

He accepted it with a keen curiosity. He unfolded it and glanced at the
handwriting. It was unrecognizable. But that which stirred him to the
depths of his soul, and flooded his heart with something like panic, was
the signature at the bottom of it. It was Steve's--Steve Allenwood.

The perusal of that letter was the work of a few moments. And throughout
the reading Ross was aware--painfully aware--of the aggravating calm of
the man who had written it. But under its unemotional words urgency,
deep, terrible urgency, was revealed. Accident and sickness had hit the
writer hard. His position was desperate. And the final paragraph
epitomized his extremity in no uncertain fashion.

     I mean to do all a man can to make the headwaters of the Theton
     River. Maybe I'll succeed. I can't say. If I don't you'll
     understand. Maybe you'll break it to Nita as easy as you can. If
     you can help her, and the kiddie, I'll be mighty thankful. Thank
     God the little one won't understand. I'm sending this by a
     Yellow-Knife. He reckons he knows Deadwater, and can get through
     quick. Please pay him well. I can't get farther than the
     headwater--if that. After that--well, it depends on the help that
     can reach us.

Optimism and energy were amongst Ian Ross's strongest characteristics.
His decision was taken on the instant. With the aid of an interpreter he
questioned the Yellow-Knife, who knew no language but his own and that
of the Caribou-Eaters.

The man's story was broken but lurid.

The white man, he said, had arrived at Fort Duggan on foot, pursued by
the evil spirits of Unaga. He assured the doctor that these devils had
torn the clothes from him, and left him well-nigh naked. So with all the
party. There was blood on his feet and hands, where the spirits had
sought to devour him. Yes, they had even devoured his shoes. The white
man had a small white pappoose tied on to his back. The child was
sleeping, or sick, or dead. There was a squaw and an Indian with him,
whose bones looked out of their skins, and whose eyes were fierce and
wild like those who have looked the evil spirits in the face. These two
living-dead were hauling a sort of sled. And on the sled was another
Indian who was broken, and maybe dead. No, there were no dogs, no
outfit. It was just as he said. The Shaunekuks were good Indians, and
they gave the strangers food, and milk, and clothes to replace those the
evil spirits had devoured. They also had the canoes which the white man
had left with them a year ago. He, the messenger, was on a visit to the
Shaunekuks at the time, for a caribou hunt. But he abandoned the hunt at
the white man's request, who said he, the doctor, would pay him well.

The man was paid under promise of guiding an outfit back to the Theton
River country, and then began a hustle of a cyclonic nature.

Corporal Munday set out for Reindeer forthwith, and made headquarters in
record time. Within half an hour of his arrival Superintendent McDowell
had issued his orders for a "rush outfit." And three hours later saw it
on the trail. There was no hesitation. There was no question. There was
a comrade in peril, and with him others. There was a woman--although
only a squaw--and a white child. No greater incentive was needed, and
young Jack Belton was selected to lead the "rush" for his known speed
and capacity on the trail.

Something of the feelings stirring found expression in McDowell's final
instructions to his subordinate at the moment of departure.

"I don't care a curse if you kill every darn horse between here and the
Landing," he said. "Commandeer all you need--and plenty. I don't care
what you do. You've got to bring Allenwood back alive, or--or break your
darn neck."

And Belton had needed no urging. He had cut down the month's journey to
the Theton River to something like twenty days. He had foundered six
teams of horses and worn his two men and his scouts well-nigh
threadbare with night and day travel. But the doctor had proved
invincible, as had the Yellow-Knife scout on his skewbald pony, which,
for all its meanness of shape and size, had stood up to it all.

They had already been pursuing the river course for four days, and, so
far, it had withheld its secret. Somewhere out there on those wide
shining waters a man was struggling in a great final effort to defeat
once more the ruthless forces of Nature against which he had battled so
long and so successfully.

And what would victory mean for him? Ross knew. Jack Belton knew. And
their knowledge of that which was awaiting him, should a final triumph
be his, added a deep depression to the silence which had fallen between
them.

The great sun went to its death in a blaze of splendour, and the long
Northern twilight softened the scene with misty, velvet shadows which
crept down from distant hills to the north and south. The woodland
bluffs, too, promptly lost their sharpness of outline, and the green of
the trackless grass mellowed to a delicate softness which seemed to
round off the peace of the airless evening.

Now they picked up the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire, and direction
was promptly changed towards it.

"I sort of feel he'll make it," the Scotsman said abruptly, as though in
simple continuation of his unspoken thought.

"You can't kill--him," replied the other emphatically. "I haven't a
doubt. He guessed he could make the headwaters. He'll make them. I'm
only scared to miss him in the night."

The doctor shook his head.

"I don't fancy that's going to happen. Our camp's always on the main
water, in the open. There's our watch. No. I'm a deal more scared of him
making a day camp, resting. Even then we haven't missed anything large
enough to hide up a skitter."

"No."

Now the spot light of the camp-fire shone out of the soft twilight, and
the sound of voices came back from the water's edge.

"I'm wondering about what he needs to be told," Ross said presently.
"It's for me I guess."

"How's that?"

The younger man turned quickly. The thought of this thing had weighed
heavily with him. He was a police officer who was ready to face any
hardship, any of the hundred and one risks and dangers his calling
demanded. But from the moment he was detailed for his present duty he
had been oppressed by the thought of the story which would have to be
told Steve, and which duty, as leader of the rescue party, he calculated
must certainly fall to his lot. He had known Steve from the moment of
his joining the force. He had worked with him on the trail. He had been
present at his senior's wedding, and he remembered his comrade's
happiness at the consummation of a real love match. And now? The
doctor's words had lifted a great load from his mind.

"There's two sides to be told," Ross said, with a sigh. "There's the
police side, which deals mostly with the Treaty Money, I guess, and
there's that other which should be mine. You see, he left them in my
care. And so there's a big account to be squared between him and me.
Best let me handle the whole rotten thing." Then with a sound that was a
laugh without the least mirth: "It's a doctor's job to hand out
unpleasant dope to a patient. It's a policeman's job to act unpleasant.
Guess the act isn't needed, but the dope is. Yes, it's mine, Belton.
Will you leave it that?"

"I'll be so glad to," the other replied with a sigh of relief, "I don't
know how to tell you about it. It had me scared to death. That's so.
Even McDowell shirked it. He told me Steve had to get the whole yarn
before he got into Reindeer. That's the sort of folk we are. And it's
not a thing to brag about."

The other shook his head.

"It needs good men to hate hurting another," he said. "Guess it's a
scare you don't need to be ashamed of. I'll tell him because I've got
to. I hate it worse than hell. But I owe the hurt to myself for the way
I've--failed his trust."

"I don't see you need to blame yourself, Doc," the youngster returned,
becoming judicial under his relief. "Steve won't, if I know him. This
sort of thing happens right along under a husband's nose. Just as long
as woman's what she is, and there's low down skunks of men around,
why--But, say, there's something doing at the camp!"

He lifted his reins and urged his weary horse into a rapid canter, and
the doctor's horse clung close to its flank. The eager eyes of both were
searching for the meaning of the stir which the youthful Inspector had
detected. And instinctively they gazed out down the broad waters of the
placid river as far as the rapidly deepening twilight would permit.

Simultaneously their eyes rested on two objects, a little indistinct,
floating upon the water. They looked so small in the immensity of the
spread of the river. But even so their outline was familiar enough.

"Canoes!" cried Belton.

"It's him!" came in the deep tones of the doctor.

Five minutes later they were out of the saddle and standing with others
on the grassy river bank watching the steady approach of two canoes,
paddling their way up against the easy, sluggish stream.

Near by were the two four-horsed wagons, and the camp-fire with the
forgotten supper still wafting its pleasant odours upon the breathless
air. Flies, too, and mosquitoes were in abundance. But these, like the
rest, were forgotten. The men of the police outfit had eyes and thoughts
for the canoes only. Each and all were wondering at that which they were
to reveal.

Suddenly a shout broke the profound stillness. It came from the young
officer who could restrain himself no longer.

"Ho, you, Steve!"

The shout carried away over the water. Those on the bank could almost
hear it travel. Then followed what seemed an interminable interval. But
it was seconds only before a faint call came back.

"Hoo-y!"

The policeman was given no opportunity for reply. The doctor's great
husky voice anticipated him.

"Ho, Steve! It's Doc Ross!"

He had recognized the answering voice and flung his excited greeting in
a tumult of feeling.

       *       *       *       *       *

The canoes drove head on for the river bank.

As Belton and Ross sought to discover the nature of their freight the
coursing blood of excited hope stagnated. There was only the quickening
of apprehension.

A grim, strange figure was confronting them. It was kneeling up in the
prow of the nearest vessel. A wild, straining, desperate light shone
feverishly in eyes looking out of a face lost in a tangle of beard and
whisker. The brows were fiercely depressed, suggesting a bitter
defensive spirit. The eyes were lost in cavernous sockets, and the
cheeks were sunken and scored with lines of ravening hunger. The whole
was clad in the discoloured buckskin of a Northern Indian, with a mat of
untended hair reaching to its shoulders.

The waiting men understood. This was their comrade, the man to whose
succour they had rushed. A tragic story of suffering was in that single
figure, which, paddle in hand, was battling with a burden too great for
any one man to bear. Only he, and the squat figures of Shaunekuk
paddlers were to be seen. For the rest nothing was visible to the
onlookers.

As the canoe grounded on the reed-grown mud the doctor's deep-voiced
"Thank God!" met with no response. The wild-looking figure scrambled off
the boat, and plunged nearly knee-deep into the mud. Those on the bank
seemed to concern him not at all, for he turned, as was perhaps his long
habit, to haul the vessel inshore himself.

But the rescue party forestalled him. The men from the bank, policemen
and Indian scouts, seized the boat, while Ross's friendly hand was laid
on the man's shoulder.

"The boys'll fix things," he said, in a voice deep with intense feeling.
"Best come right up to camp, Steve."

The sound of the husky voice, whose words were not quite steady, brought
a swift turn from Steve. For a moment he stared at the speaker. He
seemed to be striving to restore the broken threads of memory. Finally
he shook his head.

"No," he said. And turned again to the boat.

Ian Ross made no further attempt. He understood. He turned and flung all
his energies into the work of unloading the tragic freight. The wild
figure of Steve had prepared him. And, in a few moments, his
professional mind was absorbed to the exclusion of everything else.

Starvation had nearly defeated the otherwise invincible spirit of Steve.
It was there in the bottom of the light vessels, in the drawn faces and
attenuated bodies of the paddler crew of Shaunekuks. It was in the
display of Steve's side-arms strapped to a strut of the canoe ready to
his hand, with holsters agape, and his loaded guns protruding
threateningly. It was in a similar display in the second boat, which the
well-nigh demented Julyman had commanded. Oh, yes. No words were needed
to tell the story. It was there for all to read.

The rescuers understood the uselessness of questions. Help was needed,
and it was freely given. The urgency of it all held them utterly silent,
except for sharp, brief orders.

Ross and the two teamsters dealt with Steve's boat. Jack Belton and the
camp scouts devoted themselves to the second.

In Steve's boat were the fever-ridden body of An-ina, and the scarcely
living shadow of the child, Marcel. Ross lifted the half-dead woman and
carried her up the bank to the tent which had been set up. Then he
returned in haste for the child. On his way he paused for a moment to
glance at the broken body of Oolak, who was being removed from the
second boat by Jack Belton.

"Guess it's not starvation here," he said significantly.

"No," Belton admitted. "It's a bad smash, I guess. Say----"

The Scotsman glanced back at the river, following the horrified gaze of
his companion. His big heart thrilled with instant pity, and he set off
on the run.

Steve, wild, unkempt, was labouring up from the water's edge, hobbling
painfully on feet that were bound up in great pads of blanket. He was
bearing in his arms the emaciated, unconscious body of the child, and
his whole attitude was one of infinite tenderness, and care, and
disregard for his own sufferings.

The doctor reached the struggling man and held out his arms.

"Give me the little chap," he demanded in his brusque fashion.

Steve turned his head. He stared at him in the fashion of a blind man.

"No!" he said sharply. Then he added with almost insane passion, "Not on
your life!"




CHAPTER XI

STEVE LISTENS


"We've got 'em beat."

The man of healing recovered the sick man's feet with the blanket, and
rolled the old dressings he had just removed into a bundle ready for the
camp-fire outside.

"You mean----"

Steve was lying in his blankets propped into a half-sitting position. A
candle, stuck in the neck of a bottle, lit the tent sufficiently for Ian
Ross to complete his work.

"Why, the evil spirits of Unaga, I guess," he replied, with a forced
lightness. Then he shook his head. "They did their best--sure. Another
week or so and you'd have moved about on stumps the rest of your life.
And I'm reckoning that would have been the best you could have hoped.
It's been a darned near thing."

Steve nodded. His manner was curiously indifferent.

"How's the boy?" he demanded abruptly.

Ross put his instruments away and set the water bowl aside. Then he set
the stoppered bottles back into his case.

"He'll be 'whooping' it up with the boys in a couple of days," he said.

"An-ina?"

"Beating the 'reaper' out of sight."

Steve drew a deep breath.

"Oolak was all to pieces," he said doubtfully.

"He was about as broken as he could be and still hang together. He's
been a tough case." It was the doctor's turn to take a deep breath.
"He'll be a man again. But I wouldn't gamble on his shape. Say, Steve,
it's the biggest bluff I've seen put up against death. Those darn
niggers who toted your boats, they're tickled to death with the food the
boys hand out to them. And as for Julyman he's as near cast iron
as--as--you."

"Yes, it was pretty tough."

"Tough? Gee!"

The doctor's final exclamation was one of genuine amazement.

"It's near three weeks since we hauled the remains of you from that
skitter-ridden river," he went on, "and a deal's happened in that time.
Jack Belton's gone in for stores, and to report. We've shifted camp
where the flies, and bugs, and things'll let you folks forget the darn
river, and the nightmare I guess you dreamt on it. You're all beating
the game, some of you by yards, and others by inches. But you're beating
it. And I'm still guessing at those things you all know like you were
born to 'em. When are you going to hand me the yarn, Steve? When are you
going to feel like thinking about the things that two weeks ago looked
like leaving you plumb crazed?"

Steve knitted his brows. To the man watching him it seemed as if the
sudden recalling of the past was still a thing to be avoided. But his
diagnosis was in error. Steve became impatient.

"Oh hell!" he exclaimed. "Do you need me to hand it you? Do you need me
to tell you the fool stunt I played to beat schedule, and get back to
Nita and the kiddie? Do you need to know about a darn territory that
every Indian north of 60° is scared to death of? A territory only fit
for devils and such folk, like the neches reckon it's peopled with? Do
you want to hear about an outfit that found everything Nature ever set
for the world's biggest fools? Do you want to know about storms that
leave the worst Northern trails a summer picnic, and muskegs and tundra
that leave you searching for something bigger than miles to measure
with, and barren, fly-ridden territory without a leaf or blade of grass
and scored every way at once with rifts and water canyons so you can't
tell the north from the Desert of Sahara? If you do, read the old report
I've been writing. I'll hand you a story that won't shout credit for the
feller who designed it. But it'll tell you of the guts of the folk who
stood behind him every darn step of the way, and made him crazy to get
them through alive. If you'd asked me that two weeks ago I'd have cried
like a babe. Now it's different. You've got a sick woman under your
hands now, Doc, and two copper coloured neches. And when I say they're
the world's best, why--I just mean it."

A deep flush of emotion underlaid the toughened skin of Steve's face. He
was deeply stirred by the thoughts and feelings which the other's demand
had conjured.

The doctor glanced down at the sheets of paper on which Steve had
written his report. But he made no attempt to accept the invitation to
read it. The moment had come to tell this man of that disaster which yet
awaited him. So he had sought to test him in the only fashion that lay
to his hand. The break which had so sorely threatened in the reaction
following upon Steve's rescue had been completely averted, and the
Scotsman felt that now, at last, he was strong enough to bear the truth
which he had denied him on his first enquiry after his wife and child.

The flush died out of Steve's cheeks. The steady eyes were never more
steady as they looked into the strong face before them. He ran his
fingers through his long dark hair, and resettled his shoulders against
the pile of blankets supporting them.

"It kind of startles you to find guts in folks when you're up against
it. You can't help it. Maybe it's conceit makes you feel that way," he
went on quietly. "Those two boys of mine, and An-ina. You couldn't beat
'em. Nothing could. When Oolak dropped over the side of a canyon, with
most of the outfit the reindeer went with him. You see, we'd rid
ourselves of the dogs. We couldn't feed 'em. Well, I guessed the end had
come. But it hadn't. Julyman and An-ina took up the work of hauling,
while I carried Marcel. Only they hauled Oolak instead of the outfit.
They hauled him for nigh on a month, and we lived on dog meat till it
got putrid, and even then didn't feel like giving it up. I didn't have
to worry a thing except for their sanity. You see, they were Indian for
all their grit, and--I just didn't know. It was tough, Doc! Oh, gee! it
was tough! And when you've read the stuff I've doped out for
headquarters you won't need me to talk if you've two cents of
imagination about you. If you'd asked me awhile back, when I asked you
about Nita, and my little girl, and you told me they were good and
happy, and crazy to have me back, as I said, I'd have cried like a kid.
Yes, and I guess you'd have needed a gun to hold me here while you
hacked those slabs off my feet. But it's right now. My head was never
clearer, and there's just one thought in it. It's to get back to
Deadwater."

The doctor listened with a surge of feeling driving through his heart.
His own words, the words he had told to the man whom he knew at the time
to be floundering on the edge of a complete mental breakdown, were
ringing through his brain. He had lied. He had had to lie. And now----

He took refuge in his pipe. He knew he would need it. He filled it from
the pouch which had become common between them and urged Steve to do the
same. In a few moments both men were smoking in an atmosphere of perfect
calm.

"You were pretty bad that time," Ross said steadily. "Yes, I don't guess
you know how bad you were."

"I think I do--now."

The doctor seemed to be absorbed in pressing down the tobacco in his
pipe. He struck another match.

"The strain had been so big the break must have come if you'd had to go
on," he said, blowing smoke till it partly obscured his patient's
unflinching eyes. "You were weak--physically. There was nothing to
support your nerve and brain. It was in your eyes. You scarcely
recognized us. You hardly knew what our presence meant to you. And,
later, the reaction made things even worse for you. A shock, and the
balance would have gone hopelessly. So--I lied to you!"

"You--lied to me?"

The pipe had been suddenly jerked from Steve's lips. He was sitting up.
A sudden fierce light had leapt to his eyes.

The Scotsman, too, had removed his pipe. His eyes were squarely
confronting the other. All his mental force and bodily energy were
summoned to his aid.

"Yes. I had to lie," he said firmly. "It was that or carry you back to
Deadwater a crazy man. I was the doctor then. Guess I'm a man now. Maybe
you won't reckon there's a difference. But there surely is. You see, I'm
not going to lie. I don't need to. Nita isn't at my shanty. She isn't at
Deadwater. Neither is Garstaing. And they've taken your little girl with
them."

"They?"

The man on the blankets had moved again. His knees were drawn up as
though he were about to spring from the sick bed he was still condemned
to.

Ross nodded.

"Yes." Then he pointed at the attitude of the other. "Say, straighten
out, Steve. Push those feet down under the blankets. You're a big man up
against disaster most times. Well, don't forget it. You're up against
disaster now. Sit back, boy, and get a grip on yourself. It's the only
way. I've got to tell you the whole rotten story, and when I've done
I'll ask you to forget the way I had to lie to you. If you can't,
why--it's up to you. My duty was to heal you first, and I don't guess
there's any rules in the game."

Ross was talking for time. He had to be sure. He was ready at a sign to
launch into his story, but he was looking for that sign.

And Steve gave it. It was the only sign the other would accept. Ross was
a powerful man, and Steve was still sick and weak. These things are as
well when a man knows that his purpose means the breaking of a strong
heart. Steve slid his injured feet down under the blankets. His legs
straightened out, and he leant his back against the pillow. But his pipe
was laid aside, and a quickening of his breathing warned the other of
the immense effort for restraint he was putting forth.

"Tell me," he said. Then he added with a sudden note of sharpness,
"Quick!"

The Scotsman nodded.

"It's best that way. Garstaing and Nita bolted. They took your little
girl with them. It's six months ago. When the Indian Treaty Money came
up. Hervey Garstaing waited for that. The Indians never saw it. He
pouched it, and beat the trail, as I said, with Nita and the kiddie.
Say, I needn't tell you more than that. I don't know any more except the
police have been chasing his trail since."

He fumbled in a pocket, and drew out a sealed envelope addressed in a
woman's handwriting, and another that was opened. The sealed envelope he
passed across to Steve. The other he retained.

"She left these two letters in her room," he went on. "That's for you,
and this one was for Millie. Maybe you'll read yours later. This one
you'd best read now. It's just a line as you'll see."

He held the letter out and Steve accepted it. And Ross watched him all
the time as he drew the note from its cover and perused it. The moment
of shock had passed, and the fierce light in Steve's eyes had died out,
leaving in its place a stony frigidity which gave the other a feeling of
unutterable regret. He would have been thankful for some passionate
outburst, some violent display. He felt it would have been more natural,
and he would have known better how to deal with it. But there was none.
Steve returned the letter to its envelope and remained silently
regarding the superscription.

"It's a bad letter," Ross went on. "If I thought Nita had written it
herself I'd say you're well rid of something that would have cursed the
rest of your life. But the stuff that's written there is the stuff that
comes out of Garstaing's rotten head. I'd bet my soul on it. She says
her marriage with you was a mistake. She didn't know. She had no
experience when she married you. She needs the things the world can show
her. The North is driving her crazy. All that muck. It's the sort of
stuff that hasn't a gasp of truth in it. If there was you need to thank
God you're quit of her. No. That hound of hell told her what to say.
Poor little fool. He's got her where he wants her, and she's as much
chance as an angel in hell. She went in the night, and they took a
storming night for it. There was two feet of snow on the ground, and
more falling. How she went we can't guess. There wasn't a track or a
sign in the morning, and it went on storming for days, so even the
police couldn't follow them up. The whole thing was well planned, and
Garstaing took no sort of chances. He got away with nearly fifty
thousand dollars of Indian money, and, so far, hasn't left a trace. We
don't know to this day if he made north, south, east, or west. All we
know are these two letters, that they got away in a 'jumper' and team,
and that Nita and the kiddie were with him."

"Say, Steve," Ross went on after a moment's pause, his voice deepening
with an emotion he could no longer deny. "I handed you a big talk of
seeing your Nita and the little kid safe till you got back. We did all
we knew. Millie and the gals did all they knew. Nita wanted for nothing.
The things that were good enough for my two we didn't reckon good enough
for her, and we saw she had one better all the time. Happy? Gee, she
seemed happy all the time, right up to the night she went. And as for
Coqueline she was the greatest ever. But he'd got her, that skunk had
her, and the thing must have been going on all the time. Still, we never
saw a sign. Not a sign. Millie never liked Garstaing, and he wasn't ever
encouraged to get around our shanty. And we had him there less after
Nita came. There's times I'm guessing it didn't begin after you went.
There's times I think there was a beginning earlier. Millie feels that
way, too. I know it don't make things better talking this way. But it's
what I feel, and think, and it's best to say it right out. I can't tell
you how I feel about it. And anyway it wouldn't make things easier for
you. I promised you, and all I said is not just hot air. I'm sick to
death--just sick to death."

Ross's voice died away, and the silence it left was heavy with disaster.
Steve had no reply. No questions. He seemed utterly and completely
beyond words. His strong eyes were expressionless. He lay there still,
quite still, with his unopened letter lying on the blankets before him.

Ross was no longer observing. His distress was pitiful. It was there in
his kindly eyes, in the purposeless fashion in which he fingered his
pipe. He was torn between two desires. One was to continue talking at
all costs. The other was precipitate, ignominious flight from the sight
of the other's voiceless despair. He knew Steve, and well enough he
realized what the strong wall the man had set up in defence concealed.
But he was held there silent by a force he had no power to deny, so he
sat and lit, and re-lit a pipe in which the tobacco was entirely
consumed.

How long it was before the silence was finally broken he never knew. It
seemed ages. Ages of intolerable suspense and waiting before Steve
displayed any sign beyond the deep rise and fall of his broad chest.
Then, quite suddenly, he reached out for the collected sheets of his
official report. These he laid on the blankets beside the unopened
letter his erring wife had addressed to him. Then he looked into the
face of the man whose blow had crushed the very soul of him. Their eyes
met, and, to the doctor, it seemed that mind had triumphed over the
havoc wrought. Steve's voice came harshly.

"When'll I be fit to move?" he demanded.

"A week--if Belton gets back."

Ross was startled and wondering.

"Belton don't cut any ice."

"But we need the wagon."

The protest, however, was promptly swept aside.

"I tell you it don't cut any ice. I move in a week That's fixed!"

For some moments Steve became deeply absorbed again. Then the watching
man saw the decision in his eyes waver, and his lean hand move up to his
head, and its fingers pass wearily through his long hair.

Then, quite suddenly, a harsh exclamation broke from him.

"Tchah!" he cried. "What's the use?"

With a great effort he seemed to pull himself together. He raised his
eyes, and the pitiful half smile in them wrung the Scotsman's heart.

"Say, Doc, I'm--kind of glad it was you handed me--this. It's hurt you,
too. Hurt you pretty bad. Yes," he went on wearily, hopelessly, "pretty
bad. But I got to thank you. Oh, yes. I want to thank you. I mean that.
For all you've done to help me. But I can't talk about it. I just can't.
That's all. I don't guess you need to read the stuff I've written now.
You see I'll need to make another report."

"Why?"

Ross's interrogation broke from him almost before he was aware of it.

"Why?" Steve's eyes widened. Then they dropped before the questioner's
searching gaze. "Yes," he went on dully. "I'll need to make a fresh one.
There's things--Say," he cried, with sudden, almost volcanic passion.
"For God's sake, why did you get around? Why didn't you leave me to the
dog's death that was yearning for me?" He laughed harshly, mirthlessly.
"Death? There was better than that. I'd have been crazy in days. Plumb,
stark crazy. And I wouldn't have known or cared a thing."




CHAPTER XII

REINDEER


It was the hospital hut at the police headquarters at Reindeer. A
cheerless, primitive place of healing, severe but adequate, as were
most things which concerned the lives of the riders of the plains and
the trail.

Steve was in occupation of the officer's ward, with its single bed, and
its boarded floor bare of all covering and scrubbed to a chilly
whiteness. For days he had contemplated its hygienic lack of comfort.
For days his weary, ceaseless thought had battered itself against
kalsomined walls, while his body, made feverishly restless, had sought
distraction between the hard Windsor chair at the only table, and the
iron bed-cot which seemed to add to his mental sufferings.

He had met his superior. He had supported the official half hour of
congratulations upon work successfully accomplished and a fortunate
escape from disaster without a sign. He had yielded to the post doctor's
ministrations, and satisfied his curiosity with explanations which could
never have been more matter-of-fact. He had been visited by two comrades
of his own rank, who contrived, with the best will in the world, by
deliberate avoidance of anything of an intimate nature, to display to
him their perfect knowledge of his domestic disaster.

All these things he had faced with a heart crying out for mercy, but
with an outward calm that left those whom he encountered guessing. And
something of the general opinion found expression in Superintendent
McDowell's remarks to his subordinate, who filled the office of
acting-adjutant.

"It seems to me, Syme, we needn't have worried a thing," he said.
"Allenwood isn't the feller to get up and shout any time. He's the sort
of boy to take a punch and come up for more. There's no woman got grip
enough on him to break him to small meat. I don't guess there's anything
could fix him that way--and after the way he made this last trip. He's
quite a feller when it comes to grit."

"Yes, sir." Syme smiled into his superior's keen face. "Maybe he doesn't
care. I've heard some fellers are that way after being married a few
years."

The cynicism of the younger man drew a responsive smile in reply. But it
also drew a very definite and decided shake of the head.

Whatever the general opinion, one man knew, one man had witnessed the
momentary baring of a man's soul torn with agony, in the candle-lit tent
on the banks of the Theton River. And now, had he been in Reindeer to
witness, he would have understood the reality of suffering under the
stern, almost forbidding front with which Steve confronted his little
world.

Not a sign did Steve give. His habitual, shadowy smile was ready when he
felt it to be due. He discussed everything that needed discussion with
the apparent interest of a mind wholly unabsorbed. He forced a
cheerfulness which carried conviction, and even drew forth such cynical
comments as those of Inspector Syme. But under it all the agony of mind
was something bordering on the insupportable.

The desolation of his outlook was appalling. And during his weary hours
of solitude the hopelessness of it stirred him to a bitterness that at
moments became almost insanely profane. Shadows, too, crept into his
mind. Ugly shadows that gained power with the passing of days. Had not
such shadows come he must have been more than human. But he was very
simply human, capable of the deepest passion subject to the human heart.
Hate seized upon him with a force even greater perhaps than the passions
that had hitherto swayed him, and hard on the heels of hate came a deep,
burning desire for revenge.

His desire was not against the woman who had wronged and deceived him. A
sort of pitying contempt had replaced the wealth of passionate devotion
he had lavished. His whole desire was against the man. And, curiously
enough, this fevered desire became a sort of palliative drug which left
him with the necessary strength to withstand the pain of his heart.

Slowly at first it took possession of him, but, with each passing day,
it grew, until, at last, it occupied him to the exclusion of everything.
Even the thought of his child, that tender atom of humanity who had been
a living part of him, and whose soft lips and baby hands could never
again become anything more than a memory, was powerless to rob him of
one particle of the cold delight, as, in a hundred ways, he discovered
the broken, dead body of the man who had wronged him within the grasp of
his merciless hands.

But none of this was outwardly visible. It was concealed with the rest.
And so the cynicism of Syme, and the general comfort of those who came
to cheer the sick room of a valued comrade.

So it came that one day, towards the end of Steve's convalescence, the
Superintendent found himself occupying the solitary chair, with Steve
lounging smoking on the be-patterned coverlet of the bed, talking of the
Unaga Indians and their habits of hibernation which sounded so
incredible to the man who had never seen for himself.

Steve had a bunch of mail lying on the bed beside him. He had been
reading when his superior had made his appearance. But his reading had
been discarded while he gave full attention to the man under whom he had
served so long and for whom he possessed no small measure of regard.

Steve had been talking in his deliberate, assured manner, and McDowell,
alert, keen-eyed, half smiling had been listening to the story of a
mysterious weed of marvellous narcotic powers. Curiously enough Steve
had imparted only the briefest outline. He had told nothing of all that
which he had read and discovered in Marcel Brand's laboratory. He had
forgotten even to point the fact that he was a chemist first and only a
trader through circumstances. There were many other things, too, that
Steve omitted. Nor was the reason for the omission clear. It may have
been forgetfulness. It may have been lack of interest. Yet neither of
these suggested the reality.

"Well, it all sounds crazy enough, Allenwood, and I admit if Belton or
Syme had told me the yarn I'd have sent 'em on leave to get a rest.
But--anyway you've handed me a good report and it's gone on down to the
Department without a word altered, and only my own comment added,
which," he went on with smiling goodwill, "I don't guess I need to tell
you about. Meanwhile I'd not be surprised if you hear things. Your
seniority runs high. And this should hand you a jump--"

Steve shook his head.

"I'm not yearning, sir," he said. "But I need to thank you for your
comments without seeing them. I can guess how they run--knowing you."

The Superintendent's eyes had suddenly become seriously searching.

"Not yearning? How--d'you mean?" he demanded.

A slight smile lit Steve's eyes at the abrupt change in the other's
tone.

"You said just now if Belton or Syme had told you my yarn you'd have
handed them leave--for a rest. I'd be glad for you to include my name
with theirs."

"You want leave?"

Steve nodded.

"I'd be glad to have six months' leave pending resignation."

"But--resignation? You want to quit? You?"

McDowell was startled completely out of all official attitude. Such a
thing as Allenwood's resignation from the force had never for a moment
entered his thoughts. It would have been simply unthinkable.

"Yes." Steve was very deliberate. He picked up one of the letters at his
side and tapped it with a forefinger.

"It's this, sir," he said. "You can read this, and--the others. I'd be
glad for you to take them away with you and read them, and then attach
them to my papers asking for my discharge. These letters were waiting me
here, and there's quite a number. They're from my father's attorneys.
You see, sir, he's dead, and I'm his heir. It's only a matter of some
fifty thousand dollars and his farm in Ontario. But I'll have to get
around and fix things."

"Oh, I'm sor--I see," McDowell had recovered from surprise, and promptly
saw his advantage. "But resignation, Steve," he cried, dropping into an
unusual familiarity. "Where's the need? You can get twelve months'
leave, if necessary, to straighten these things out. After that you'll
get back to us a Superintendent, and with money to burn. If you quit
you'll be pitching away years of big work. You'll be sacrificing more.
With means like your father's left you you can get into politics, and
then, through your official associations you don't need to get off the
political ladder till you're tired. Man, it would be crazy. Think."

Steve folded his letters with precise care while McDowell pointed to the
position as he saw it. Then he laid them together in a small pile. And
all the while his eyes remained hidden from the other as though wilfully
avoiding him. Nor, as his superior ceased speaking, did he look up.

"I have thought, sir," he said in level tones. "I've had days--weeks to
think in. Yes, and nights, too." He shook his head. "A year ago the
things you're handing me now would have sounded bully. A year ago I'd
all sorts of notions, just like you're talking now. And I was crazy to
get busy. That was a year ago. I'm still crazy to get busy, but--in a
different way. I've got to get that leave, sir. I've got to make my
resignation."

McDowell had suddenly become aware of an unusual restraint in Steve's
tone. He had also realized the avoidance of his eyes. A wave of
suspicion startled him out of his comfortable equanimity.

"You're entitled to your leave, you're entitled to resign your
commission if you want to," he said with a quick return to his more
official attitude. Then, with a sudden unbending under the pressure of
curiosity and even sympathy: "I'm sorry. I'm darn sorry. You're the one
man in my command I'd just hate to lose. Still--What do you figure to
do?"

"Do?"

The sharp interrogation came with startling force. It came full of a
world of suppressed feeling. Irony, bitterness, harsh, inflexible
purpose. These things and others, which were beyond McDowell's
estimation, rang in that sharp exclamation. Steve laughed, and even to
the Superintendent there was something utterly hateful in the sound that
broke on his ears.

"Just forget you're my superior officer, McDowell," Steve cried, raising
a pair of eyes which blazed with a frigid passion of hate. "Just figure
we're two plain men, no better and no worse than most. You've a wife and
two kiddies, both growing as you'd have them. A schoolgirl and a boy,
and round whom you've built up all your notions of life. I had a wife
and one kiddie, and round them I'd built up all my notions of life.
Well, those notions of life are wrecked. They'd been building years.
Years before I had a wife. To-day they're gone completely. I haven't a
wife, and, God help me, I haven't a kiddie. And this because of one man.
I've got to find that man."

The two men were gazing eye to eye, McDowell's darkly keen and
questioning, Steve's full of irrevocable decision and cold hate.

"And when you--find him?"

Steve made a movement of the hands. It was indescribable but
significant. His lips parted to speak, and, in parting, his even teeth
were unusually bared.

"He's going to die!"

The words were spoken without emotion, without colour. They were quiet,
and carried a conviction that left the other without a shadow of doubt.

"I'm telling you this, McDowell, so you shall know clearly what's on my
mind." Steve went on after a pause. "Maybe you'll feel, as an officer of
police, it's up to you to do everything to prevent what I intend. But I
tell you you can't prevent it. I demand the right of a man from a man, a
husband, and a father. I'm quitting. If you try to hold me it'll make no
difference. You can delay. It'll make no difference. I shall
quit--eventually. And then I shall carry out my purpose. Get that. Then
we'll understand each other."

"We do, Steve." A flush lit the Superintendent's cheek. A deep fire was
alight in his dark eyes. "We understand each other better than you
think. You'll get your discharge just as quickly as I can put it
through. You hadn't said much, and I thought--but I'm glad you've told
me as a man, and not as--an officer."

He stood up from his chair with an abruptness which betrayed something
of his feelings. Steve held out the packet of letters.

"Will you take these, sir?" he said with a return to their official
relations.

McDowell nodded.

"Yes. Say, about that boy and the squaw you brought down. You left them
at Deadwater? It looks like some proposition. We'll need to hand them
over to the Reserve missionary. It's hell these white men, when they get
away north, bringing these bastard half-breeds into the world. What's
the mother? One of those Sleeper Indians?"

For a moment Steve remained gazing out of the window at the view of the
parade ground which the sunlight rendered almost picturesque. He was
thinking of the two reports which he had prepared. The first one that
had been the simple truth, and the second one which had been only partly
the true story, the rest changed in view of his own position. A tender
light for a moment melted the cold hatred of his eyes. He was thinking
of the white boy which he had reported as the bastard of An-ina, with a
view to obviate the official claim on him as a white child.

"Yes," he said. "And I guess we'd need to hand them over to the
missionary for a while. But Doc Ross and his wife were crazy to look
after them. You see, they've a pretty swell place, and they're the best
folks I know. I left them with them, and I'd say we can't do better,
anyway for a while."

"Yes," McDowell agreed. "It'll make things easy. I'll put that into a
letter to the Commissioner and it'll save worrying with the folk of the
Indian Department. Well, so long, Steve. Yes, I'll take these letters,
and put the thing through for you. But when you quit, for God's sake
don't go and mess things. Don't queer one of the best lives it's ever
been my good fortune to have under my command."

Steve's eyes were serious as he watched McDowell move towards the door.

"Don't worry, sir. The queering's done already. Whatever I do will
be--well, just what I've fixed to do. No more and no less."




CHAPTER XIII

"ADRESOL"


The horrible aroma of a gently smouldering smudge fire, battling with
invading mosquitoes; the pleasant smell of tobacco, adding to the
enjoyment of the crisp Northern air; the resplendent sunset, slashing a
broken sky with a sea of multitudinous colours, and lighting a prospect
of verdant woods at the foot of a line of distant hills; a wide,
sheltered stoop with deep-seated rocking-chairs; these things were the
key to the deeper recesses of the hearts of men who have learned to play
the great game of life upon the lonely wastes of a Northern world.

Ian Ross raised a warning finger as the sounds of laughter came from
some distant part of the house behind him. There was a child's laughter,
fresh, happy, and the light laugh of a woman, who has learned, through
her own, the perfect happiness which childhood can inspire in those
whose instincts remain unimpaired.

"Do you need to ask me?" he said, in reply to the other's question.
"That kiddie is just crazy with happiness--so's Millie. Guess she'll be
down along after awhile, when she's quit fooling with him in his bath."

Steve breathed deeply, and his far gazing eyes rested unblinkingly upon
the sunset of a myriad hues. The reek of tobacco hung upon the still
air, and the light veil of smoke from the "smudge" sailed gently across
the view beyond the veranda.

He was full healed now--outwardly. There was little change in him as he
sat back in his deep rocker on the veranda of Ian Ross's house at
Deadwater. His steady eyes looked out with their uncompromising
directness. But there were lines about his eyes and mouth, and between
his level brows, which had been less noticeable twelve months ago. This
was the front which he set up before the eyes of the little world he
knew. In moments of solitude, when no eyes were there to observe, it may
have been different. But he desired neither sympathy nor support. He
desired only to be left to himself, to those purposes which he would
permit nothing to change or interfere with.

He had rid himself of all signs of his connection with the police force
as though he had determined to cut himself off from a period of his life
which had only yielded bitter memories. Nor had he anything about him
reminiscent of the trail, which had been so much a part of his life. He
was clad in the tweeds of civilization, which robbed him of some of that
distinction which the rougher wear had always pronounced.

"I'm glad," he said, and went on smoking in the silent fashion which
only real companionship understands.

After a few moments of voiceless contemplation of the wide view over the
Reservation the Scotsman stirred in his chair. The thoughtful knitting
of his heavy brows relaxed, and he glanced at the preoccupied face of
his companion.

"There's a heap of things I'd like to ask you, Steve," he said bluntly.
"And a whole heap I wouldn't. It's the sort of position I don't
generally reckon to find myself in," he added, with a twinkle in his
deep-set eyes. "You see, I mostly know the things I want to say. Maybe
you've got things you want to tell me, as well as things you don't. It's
up to you."

Steve nodded.

"It's best that way," he said. "Yes, there's things I want to say. And
it's mostly about the boy, and--An-ina. There's other things, too." He
paused. Then he went on: "You see, Doc, I haven't made a heap of
friends. There's about no one, except you. I'd like to talk straight
out. McDowell's a decent enough citizen, but he's not the sort you can
hand out some things to. Jack Belton and those others, well, they're
good enough boys, but--Anyway, it don't cut any ice. You're just
different and I want to hand you what'll maybe make you wish I hadn't.
The first is just this. I want you to forget the things that's
happened--to me. I want you just to tell yourself 'He don't care a
curse.' It won't be the truth, but I want you to act as if it were.
Those things are mine. Just mine. I've set them in a sort of grave, and
it's only going to be my hands that open it, and my eyes that look into
it. You don't need to avoid talk of Nita and little Coqueline if you
feel that way. You can't open that grave. It's mine. And it's deep. You
can't add hurt to that already done."

Steve's eyes were gazing unflinchingly into his companion's, and Ross's
feelings were stirred to their depths by the stern courage underlying
his words. He knew. He understood.

"Yes," he said. "I get that. It's best that way for--the man who can
stand it."

"I'm going East," Steve went on, "and I'll be away maybe a year. Maybe
less, maybe more. I can't say. You see, there's a big lot to be done,
and it depends on how quick I get through. There's my father's affairs
to fix up and--other things."

"Other things?"

"Yes."

Steve's eyes were on the rapidly softening colours of the sunset. Their
far-off look of pre-occupation had returned to them.

"I don't know how I'll come back," he went on after a moment. "Maybe in
a hurry." His brows suddenly depressed. "I can't say. But it'll be for
the boy and An-ina, and, anyway, it'll likely be the last time you'll
see me on this earth. I don't need to tell you more on this thing. Maybe
a time'll come when you'll feel glad you didn't know any more."

"I think--I understand."

Ross breathed heavily through his pipe. He was thinking of the man,
Garstaing. He was thinking of himself in Steve's place. And he felt it
was more than likely that in that case he, too, might desire to return
to his home _in a hurry_, and, perhaps, leave it again for the--last
time.

"Sure. I guessed you'd understand," Steve said. "That's why I'm
talking."

Again followed a brief, thoughtful pause.

"That boy," he went on. "It's him I want to tell you about. He's shown
me how to get a grip on myself. He's a sort of anchor that's held me
safe till the storm's blown itself out. He's been a sort of act of
Providence and the life that's left to me is for him. You get that?"

"I've had it all the time. Maybe you don't remember I tried to take him
from you when you crawled out of that darn canoe."

A shadowy smile hovered in Steve's eyes.

"I remember it--good," he said. "Well, if things should happen so I
don't get back I'll fix it so the boy gets all the stuff my father's
handed me, and I'll ask you to raise him as if he was your own. You
haven't a son, Doc. He won't be a worry. An-ina's his nurse, and he
couldn't have a better. If I come back I'm hoping your Millie won't be
too grieved at parting from him. Can you fix that, too? You see," he
added, "I'm asking you a whole heap."

"You can't ask too much, boy."

Steve's nod thanked the bluff heartiness of the big man.

"Good. Now for the things you don't know, Doc," he went on, his manner
relaxing as he felt that his difficulties were lessening. "You didn't
read the report I'd written. It told the whole story of the boy right. I
tore it up after you'd--told me. I had to. If I hadn't, why, I'd have
lost that anchor God Almighty flung out to me in my trouble. Next to my
own little kiddie I love that boy. He's got into my heart good--what's
left of it. You see, he's white, and he's no folks. That means the State
handing him over to the folks set to deal with the 'strays' of God's
world. It means his being out of my life when I most need him. I
couldn't stand for that. If Nita and my little girl had been here it
wouldn't have been that way. I'd have persuaded them to leave him with
me. With no home to take him to I'd have no case. So I got busy on a
report that made him out the bastard of An-ina and the dead trader. They
can't claim him from his mother, even though she's a squaw. And anyway
I've fixed it with McDowell they both remain with you."

Ross nodded prompt agreement.

"He's a bright kid and I'm glad. Glad for him and glad for you," he said
heartily.

"I hoped that way," Steve went on quickly. "You see, Doc, I didn't tell
you a thing till it was done. I was scared to take a chance." He sighed
a deep relief. "The other things come easy with that fixed. I cut that
report to the bone, and hid up all that concerned the boy. The work they
asked of me was investigation into the death of two white men who were
thought to be traders up in Unaga, where they didn't reckon there were
any white folk. So I told them a yarn that's simple truth, but which
hid up all the things I didn't see putting them wise to. They guessed
these men had been murdered by the Eskimo. Well, they weren't. They
fought to the death for the mother of this boy, and she was a white
woman, and the wife of his father. It was the old game. A game I hope to
play. Only the other man was a partner in the enterprise, and not the
Indian Agent of the Allowa Reserve. I told them of the Indians, too. A
race that sleeps half the year."

"The boy's been talking of them."

Ross sat up. A pair of keen eyes were shrewdly questioning.

Steve nodded.

"I guessed he'd be talking of them."

"The old yarn of hibernating folks," the Scotsman said, his eyes alight
with tolerant amusement.

"Just that. Only, it's no--yarn."

Steve had no responsive smile. His eyes were serious with a conviction
that promptly changed the other's attitude. He searched an inner pocket
and drew forth a neatly tied packet. This he unfastened while the other
watched him curiously.

The wrappings removed, a bunch of something that looked rather like
dried seaweed lay revealed. And a curious sweet odour made itself
apparent on the still air.

Steve passed it across to his companion without comment. And Ross took
it, and, for some thoughtful moments, sat gazing upon the strange
product of the hidden Unaga. Then he gingerly picked up some of the
shrivelled weed for a closer examination, and, a moment later, pressed
it against his nose and inhaled deeply. As he did so, Steve, watching
him, beheld a sudden excited lighting of his eyes.

"You know it, Doc," he said. "I don't need to ask."

Steve spoke quite quietly, and the other continued to contemplate the
stuff in the intent, absorbed fashion of a suddenly startled scientific
mind. At last he withdrew his fascinated gaze.

"'Adresol!'" he exclaimed. And his tone was thrilling with the joy of
the enthusiast.

"Yes."

"You knew it?"

The Scotsman's sharp question was accompanied by the searching of
astonished eyes.

"Sure."

Ross made no attempt to return the weed. It seemed as though he found it
impossible to deny its fascination.

"Tell me about it," he said, fingering the stuff with the tenderness of
an artist contemplating some precious work of delicate craftsmanship.

"It's the key to the hibernating yarn," Steve said. "Yes, I need to hand
it you all. That way you'll understand the things I've got in my mind."

It was a long enough story. Steve was anxious that nothing should be
omitted that could convince the only man who could assist him in
carrying out his plans. Sunset had nearly faded out of the sky by the
time it was finished. He told everything as he knew it both from An-ina
and the mother of Marcel. Also that which he had learned first hand, and
from the diaries of Marcel Brand. The story of the dead chemist who had
abandoned everything, even life itself, in the pursuit of the elusive
weed lost nothing from his wide sympathy. And the crude use of the drug
by the Indians formed a picture full of colour and romance.

Ross absorbed it all, and wonder and interest grew in his mind as he
listened to the story of it.

At the conclusion he re-lit his forgotten pipe.

"And it grows there--in plenty?" he said, in profound amazement.
"Steve, boy, do you know what it means to find a big source of that
stuff? Oh," he cried with a rush of enthusiasm, "it means--it means the
greatest thing for suffering humanity that's been discovered in a
thousand years. Here, I'll tell you. Oh, it's known to us folk, who've
studied dope as a special study. It's been found in places, but not in
much bigger quantities than would dope a fair-sized litter of piebald
kittens. It's sort of like radium, and half a pint of the distilled drug
would be worth over twenty-five thousand dollars. Maybe that'll tell you
how much there is of it on the market. But it's not that. Oh, no, it's a
heap bigger than that, boy. The plant itself is deadly in the green
state. It exhales a poison you couldn't stand for ten seconds. Dried,
its poison is killed stone dead. But it leaves behind it its priceless
narcotic properties. And these are perfectly innocuous, and even
health-giving. I don't need to worry you with the scientific side of it,
but it'll tell you something of what it means when I say it suspends
life, and you don't need to worry about the condition of the person
who's doped with it. You said those darn Indians live to a great age. I
believe it. You see, they live only _six months of the year_. They're
dead the rest. Or anyway their life is suspended. I seem to know the
name of that man Brand. I seem to recall it in association with
'Adresol.' Anyway, the work he's done mustn't be wasted. We'll have to
get an outfit. A big outfit that can't fail to grab the secret of those
neches upon Unaga. There's no small crowd of folk has any right to deny
the rest of the world the benefits of this wonderful drug. We----"

"That's how I reckon," Steve broke in quickly. "But the thing's to be
done the way I've figured."

"How's that?"

Steve was sitting up in his rocking-chair.

"I didn't hand you that stuff and my story of these things for pastime,
Doc. I guess I'd learnt all you've told me from the books and papers of
the boy's father. Knowing you for the man you are, and the way you most
generally try to make a ten-pound heart look like a sparrow's egg by
shouting at folks, I reckoned you'd see with me in this thing. That poor
feller Brand. As you say, his work isn't to be wasted. He's left behind
him a kiddie which hasn't a thing in the world, and if I'm any judge of
things that kiddie was the whole sun, moon, and stars of his life. I'm
thinking of that kiddie now. And I'm thinking of him alone. You're
thinking of a suffering world. If there's twenty-five thousand dollars
for a half pint of that dope the money belongs to the helpless kid of
the man who's given his life to locate it. We don't need an outfit to
get the neches' secret. We don't need a thing. There's just one man
knows how to locate the place where Marcel Brand lived, and that's me.
There's not a living soul, not even Julyman, or Oolak, or An-ina, could
ever make it without me. And I tell you right here there's no one ever
learns it from me. That secret is for Marcel, and I figure to hand it to
him, and all that's coming out of it. That's why I've told you these
things. Now you'll understand what's in my mind when I say that I'm
coming along back when I've settled with Garstaing, or failed to locate
him. If I've settled with him I'll be in a hurry. And I'm going up
north--north where no one can ever hope to follow me, with An-ina, and
Marcel, and maybe Julyman and Oolak again, and I'm going to work this
thing for the rest of my life for--Marcel. It's his, all of it. And
what's left over is for the suffering humanity you're thinking about.
See, here, Doc, you and me, we aren't any sort of twin brothers of
friends. We haven't been raised together. I hadn't a notion of you till
I took charge of this station. But I know a man--a real man. And if
you've the guts I reckon you have, then you'll help me to do the thing
that's going to shut the gates of the hell that's opened to swallow me
up."

"You mean the care of the boy and An-ina?"

"Till I get back. Then you'll hand 'em over without--a kick."

Ross ran his great fingers through his hair, while he sought the last
glow of sunset for inspiration.

"It's a hell of a country--up there," he protested, after a moment. He
was thinking of the child. He was thinking of Millie's possible protests
at sacrificing the child to the terrors of Unaga.

"He was bred there." Steve's eyes were urgent. "It's handing to him the
things his father would have wanted him to have. Think, Doc. By every
moral right the 'Adresol' secret is his. It cost him a father. It cost
him a mother. It would have cost him his life--a white man's life--if it
hadn't been for the hand of Providence sending me along to him. Besides,
it's all here, Doc," he went on tapping his breast. "He's been my
anchor, my small, little anchor, but a mighty powerful one. He's saved
me from all sorts of hell, and I want to hand him the life he's saved in
return. I want to raise him to a great manhood, and hand him a future
that'll stagger half the world. And if I fail I'll have done all a
mortal man can."

The rustle of a woman's dress in the hallway behind them heralded
Millie's approach. Ross stood up hastily. He was just a shade relieved
at the interruption. In a moment the atmosphere was changed from Steve's
passionate urgency to the domestic lightness of a happy wife's presence.

"Why, Mac," she cried, as she stood framed in the doorway, "you two boys
still doping yourselves with smudge and tobacco smoke? That kiddie's
only just gone off to sleep. He's a terrible tyrant, Steve, and just
the sweetest ever."

She glanced quickly from one to the other, and in a moment the smile
died out of her eyes in response to the seriousness she beheld in the
faces confronting her.

"You've got around in the nick o' time," the husband said. "Steve's
going away--East. He'll be back in awhile. Maybe a year. Maybe more. And
when he comes back he--wants the boy. He wants to take him right away,
and to raise him as his own. He reckons he's kind of adrift now, and the
kiddie looks like handing him an anchor. He's yearning to make good for
him, in a way that, maybe we, with our own two, couldn't hope to. We're
guessing it's up to you. A year or so, and then you--hand him to his
'Uncle Steve.'"

Millie turned to the man who had battled for the boy's life. Her kindly
eyes were promptly lit with all a good woman's sympathy. She remembered
the man's passionate devotion to his own. She remembered the terrible
disaster that had overtaken him. Her thought went no further. At the
moment it was incapable of going further.

She turned to the husband awaiting her reply, and there was a suspicious
moisture in her clear smiling eyes.

"Say, Mac," she cried in her half tender, half humourous way, "by the
way you talk folk might guess you were scared to death of the wife who
didn't know better than to take you for better or worse. Steve doesn't
need to worry a thing. You know that. I don't know the rights of his
claim by the laws of the folks who're set to worry us. But there's God's
claim that don't need lawyers to make plain. Little Marcel, bless him,
is his. If he comes, night or day, one year's time or ten, God willing,
he'll be here waiting for him, and I'll hand him over with two of
everything for the comfort of his sweet little body."




CHAPTER XIV

MALLARD'S


The ladder of crime has its bottom rung in Mallard's. Those who essay
the perilous descent inevitably gravitate, sooner or later, at
Mallard's. It was Saney who was responsible for the statement; and Saney
was a shrewd "investigator," and certainly one of the most experienced
amongst those whose lives were spent in an endeavour to beat the
criminal mind of Eastern Canada.

Mallard's was somewhere on the water front of Quebec. It stood in a
backwater where the busy tide of seafaring traffic passed it by. But it
was sufficiently adjacent to permit its clientele swift and convenient
access to the docks, at once a safety valve and the source of its
popularity.

It was nominally a sailors' boarding-house. Heredity also conferred upon
it the dignity of "hotel." Furthermore, its licence carried with it the
privileges of a saloon. But its claims were by no means exhausted by
these things.

According to Saney's view there was no criminal in the country, and very
few of those who were worth while in the criminal world of the United
States, who, at some time in their careers, had not passed through one
of its many concealed exits. It might, in consequence, be supposed that
Mallard's was a more than usually happy hunting-ground for the
investigator of crime. But here again Saney must be quoted. Mallard's,
he said, was a life study, and, even so, three score and ten years was
no more than sufficient for a very elementary apprenticeship. Further,
he considered that Mallard's was the cemetery of all reputations in
criminal investigation.

Outwardly Mallard's was no different from the other houses which
surrounded it. It was part of a block of buildings which had grown up
and developed in the course of a century or more. Its floors were
several, and its windows were set one over the other without any
pretence other than sheer utility. Its main doorway always stood open,
and gave on to a passage, narrow and dark, and usually deserted. The
passage ran directly into the heart of the building where rose a short
staircase exactly filling the breadth of the passage. At the top of the
eight treads of this staircase was a landing of similar width, out of
which turned two corridors at right angles. Beyond these the landing
terminated in a downward stairway, exactly similar to the one by which
it was approached. Beyond this, all description of this celebrated haunt
of crime would be impossible, for the rest was a labyrinth of apparently
useless passages and stairways, ascending and descending, the following
of which was only to invite complete and utter confusion of mind. The
legend ran that the cellars, many floors deep, undermined half a dozen
adjacent streets, and, in the block in which the place stood, no one had
ever been found who could say where the house began and where it ended.

As a refuge for its benighted guests there was always a bed, of sorts, a
meal and drink--at a price. If the visitor were legitimate in his claims
on its hospitality he would fare no worse than a lightened purse at the
time of his departure. If he were other than he pretended then it would
have been better for him to have shunned the darkened passage as he
would a plague spot.

The owner of the place was never seen by the guests. It was
administered, as far as could be judged, by a number of men who only
intruded upon their clients when definite necessity arose. Then the
intrusion was something cyclonic. On these occasions the police were
never called in, and the nature of the disturbance, and the result of
it, was never permitted to reach the outside. Mallard's was capable of
hiding up anything. Its own crimes as well as the crimes of others.

On one of the many floors was a large sort of office and lounging-room.
It had been extended, as necessity demanded, by the simple process of
taking down partition walls. It was low-ceiled and dingy. Its walls were
mostly panelled with dull, shabby graining over many coats of paint. The
floor was bare and unscrubbed, and littered with frowsy-looking wooden
cuspidors filled with cinders. There were many small tables scattered
about, and the rest of the space seemed to be filled up with Windsor
chairs, which jostled one another to an extent that made passage a
matter of patient effort. At one end of the room was a long counter with
an iron grid protecting those behind it. And, in this region there were
several telephone boxes with unusually heavy and sound-proof doors.

For the rest it was peopled by the hard-faced, powerful-looking clerks
behind the iron grid of the counter, and a gathering of men sitting
about at the small tables, or lounging with their feet on the anthracite
stove which stood out in the centre of the great apartment.

It was a mixed enough gathering. There were well-dressed men, and men
who were obviously of the sea. There were the flashily dressed crooks,
whose work was the haunt of sidewalk, and trains, and the surface cars.
There were out and out toughs, careless of all appearance, and with
their evil hall-marked on harsh faces and in their watchful eyes. Then
there were others whom no one but the police of the city could have
placed. There were Chinamen and Lascars. There were square-headed
Germans, and the Dagos from Italy and other Latin countries. There were
niggers, too, which was a tribute to the generosity of Mallard's
hospitality.

Those at the tables were mostly drinking and gambling. Poker seemed to
be the favoured pastime, but "shooting craps" was not without its
devotees. There were one or two groups in close confabulation over their
drinks. While round the stove was a scattering of loungers.

A dark good-looking man, with an ample brown beard, was amongst the
latter. He was reclining with little more than his back resting on the
seat of an armed Windsor chair. His feet, well shod, were thrust up on
the stove in approved fashion. He was smoking a cheap cigar which
retained its highly coloured band, and contemplating the brazen pages of
an early edition of a leading evening paper.

A man beside him, an Englishman, to judge by the make of his clothes and
his manner of speech, had a news sheet lying in his lap. But he was not
reading. His fair face and blue eyes were turned with unfailing interest
on the dull sides of the glowing stove. Occasionally he spoke to his
bearded neighbour, who also seemed to be something of a companion.

"I can't find anything that's likely to be of any use to me," he said.

His speech was curiously refined and seemed utterly out of place in the
office of Mallard's. "I quit London because--It seems to me cities are
all the same. They're all full to overflowing, and the only jobs going
are the jobs no one wants. Why in hell do we congregate in cities?"

The man beside him replied without looking up from his paper.

"Because we've a ten cent sense with a fi' dollar scare." He laughed
harshly. "How long have you been out? Six months? Six months, an' you've
learned to guess hard when you see Saney bumming around, or a uniform in
the crowd. You've learned to wish you 'hadn't,' so you dream things all
night. You're yearning to get back to things as they were before you
guessed you'd fancy them diff'rent, and you find that way the door's
shut tight, and a feller with a darn sharp sword is sitting around
waiting on you. Take a chance, man. Get out in the open. It's big, and
it's good. It's a hell of a sight in front of a city, anyway. If they
get you--well, what of it? You've asked for it. And anyway they're going
to get you some time. You can't get away with the play all the time."

"Yes. I s'pose that's right. It's a big country, and--" The man's fair
brows drew together. The regret was plain enough in his eyes. There was
more weakness than crime in them.

The bearded man tapped the page of the news sheet he was reading with an
emphatic forefinger that was none too clean.

"What in hell?" he exclaimed. "These fellers beat me. Here, look at
that, and read the stuff some darn hoodlum has doped out."

He passed the paper to the Englishman. That at which the other pointed
was the photograph of a man. The letterpress was underneath it.

"Get a good look at the picture. Then read," the other exclaimed, while
his dark eyes searched the Englishman's face.

He waited, watchful, alert. He saw the other's eyes scan the
letterpress. Then he saw them revert again to the picture.

"Well, what d'you make out? Aren't they darn suckers? Look at that job
line in bum ink. Could you get that face from a Limburger cheese? And
the dope? After handing you a valentine that 'ud scare a blind Choyeuse,
and you couldn't rec'nize for a man without a spy glass, they set right
in to tell you he's 'wanted' for things he did in the North-west two and
a haf years ago. The p'lice have been chasing him for two and a haf
years. They've never located him, and he's likely living in the heart of
Sahara or some other darn place by now. And now--now some buzzy-headed
'cop' reckons he's got a line, and dopes out that stuff to warn him
they're coming along, so he can get well away in time. Makes you laff."

There was irritation in the man's tone. There was something else
besides.

The blue-eyed English crook was studying the picture closely.

"It sort of seems foolish," he said at last.

"Foolish? Gee!"

"Still, it is the face of a man, and a good-looking man," he went on.
"And there's something familiar about it, too; I seem to know the face."
Suddenly he looked round, and his pale, searching eyes looked hard at
his companion. "Say, he's not unlike you. He's got the same forehead,
and the same eyes and nose. If you'd got no beard, and your hair was
brushed smooth----"

"Tchah!"

The bearded man reclaimed the paper with a laugh that carried no
conviction.

"The courts 'ud hand me big money damages for a libel like that," he
declared.

"Would they?"

The smiling eyes of the Englishman were challenging. The other shrugged
as well as his attitude would permit, and, emitting a cloud of smoke
from his rank cigar, pretended to continue his reading.

At that moment a stir recurred amongst the "crap-shooters" under one of
the windows, and the Englishman looked round. His alert ears had caught
the sound of Saney's name on the lips of one of the men who had ceased
his play to peer out of the window.

He rose swiftly from his chair and joined the group. The man with the
beard had made no movement. He, too, had heard Saney's name, and a keen,
alert, sidelong glance followed his neighbour's movements.

The other was away some seconds. When he returned his breathing seemed
to have quickened, and a light of uncertainty shone in his eyes.

"It's Saney," he said, without waiting for any question. "He's coming
down the street. I should think he's coming here. He's crossed over as
if he were."

"Alone?"

The bearded man's question was sharp.

"No. There's another fellow with him. He's in plain clothes. A youngish
looking fellow, with a clean shaven face, and a pair of shoulders like
an ox. Looks to me like a cavalryman in mufti. He certainly looks as if
he ought to have a saddle under him. I----"

The other waited for no more. He was on his feet and across the room at
the window in a twinkling. And the smiling eyes of the Englishman gazed
after him. In the other's absence he picked up the paper which had
fallen upon the floor, and looked again at the portrait of the man, and
re-read the letterpress underneath it.

"Hervey Garstaing," he murmured, as though impressing the name upon his
mind. Then he laid the paper quickly aside as the thrusting of chairs
announced his companion's return.

The next few minutes were full of a tense interest for the man who had
only just crossed the border line into the world of crime. The man with
the brown beard passed him by without a word. He thrust the chairs,
which stood in his way, hastily aside. He seemed to have no regard for
anything but his own rapid progress. He was making for the counter with
its iron defences.

The smile in the Englishman's eyes deepened. His interest rose to a wave
of excitement. He felt assured that "things" were about to happen.

A hard-faced clerk with the shoulders of a prizefighter, was waiting to
receive the hurried approach of his client.

These men were always alert and ready at the first sign.

The bearded man's demand came sharply back across the room.

"Guess I need to 'phone--quick!" he said. "I'll take No. 1."

The face of the clerk remained expressionless, but the tone of his reply
had doubt in it.

"No. 1?" he said.

"That's how I said."

"It'll cost you a hundred dollars."

"You needn't hand me the tariff," returned the bearded man with a laugh
that jarred. "Here's the stuff. Only open it--quick."

The onlooker saw the applicant dive a hand into his hip pocket and draw
out a roll of money. He heard the crumple of paper as he counted out a
number of bills. Then, in a moment, his whole attention was diverted to
the entrance door of the room. The swing door was thrust open and two
men pushed their way in.

The man who came first was of medium height and square build. He had a
disarming, florid face, and the bland, good-natured expression of a
genial farmer. The other glanced swiftly over the room. He was the
shorter of the two, and his clean shaven face and his undistinctive
tweed clothing would have left him quite unremarkable but for his air of
definite decision and purpose.

The first man the Englishman recognized as Saney, head of the Criminal
Investigation Department of the province. The other was a stranger.

From the newcomers, the onlooker's attention was suddenly distracted by
the slamming of a heavy door. It was the door of a telephone box, and he
knew it was the door of "No. 1," the use of which had cost his friend
one hundred dollars. He looked for the man with the beard. He had gone.

Saney's inspection of the room was rapid, and every individual
foregathered came under his eye. Then he stepped up to the counter and
spoke to the clerk.

His voice did not carry to the rest of the room, but the clerk's swift
reply was plainly audible.

"I haven't had a sight of him, if that's what he's like," he said,
handing back a photograph. "Still, the place is here for you to go
through if you fancy that way. You know that, Mr. Saney. It's open to
you the whole time."

The officer's reply was inaudible. But the voice of the stranger came
sharply.

"Guess we'll just have a look at the fellow that passed into that 'phone
box as we came in," he said.

Again came the clerk's reply.

"There's no one in them boxes, Mister. I haven't sold a call in haf an
hour," he said with a smile that lent no softening to his watchful eyes.
He stooped and released a series of levers. "Get a peek for yourselves,
gents."

Each door was set ajar and the stranger moved swiftly across and flung
them wide open in rapid succession. The boxes were empty. At "No. 1" he
paused considering. Then he passed within. And, for a few moments, stood
examining the instrument, which was no different from any other 'phone
in any other hotel in the city.

After the examination the two men passed out of the room and the
Englishman watched the smiling contempt that promptly lit the eyes of
the clerk as he looked after them.

Outside on the landing Saney led the way. Nor did the two men speak
until they had passed down the stairs and out into the street.

"Well?"

Saney spoke with an ironical smile lighting his genial eyes.

"You'll search the place?" the other suggested.

Saney shrugged.

"If you feel that way. But it's useless," he said. "I said that to you
before. You've tracked this feller to this city. You've tracked him to
Mallard's. It's taken you nearly two years. We've all been out after
him, and failed. You've succeeded in hunting him down to Mallard's.
Well, I'd say your work's only just started. Maybe he's there right now.
If we searched with a hundred men we couldn't exhaust that darn gopher
nest. If we blocked every outlet we know and don't know, he could still
sit tight and laff at us. No. We need to start right in again. So long
as he's got the stuff, and hangs to Mallard's, he's safe."

"You might have those 'phone boxes torn down. I saw a feller go into one
of them as we came in. I'd swear to that."

Saney nodded.

"So would I. A feller did go in. Maybe it was some guy that didn't fancy
seeing me. Maybe it was your man. It wouldn't help us tearing out those
boxes. We know them. 'No. 1' is a clear way out of that room. Guess the
whole back of it opens into some darn passage, which you could easily
reach from anywhere outside that room. That's the trick of the place.
Short of pulling the place down you can't do a thing that 'ud help. It's
honeycombed with concealed doors, that in themselves don't mean a thing
but a 'get out' of any old room. It's the whole place that's the riddle.
Meanwhile it's a gravitating spot for crooks, and so has its uses--for
us."

       *       *       *       *       *

The room was sufficiently large, but it was low ceiled and suggested the
basement of an old-fashioned house. It was badly lit, too. Only an
oil-lamp, on a table set with a cold supper for two, sought to discover
the obscure limits of its tunnel-like length.

There was no suggestion of poverty about the place. It was modest. That
was all. Its chief characteristic lay in the fact that it was obviously
the full extent of the present home of its occupants. At the far end
stood a bedstead, and by its side a large wicker hamper. The centre was
occupied by the supper table, and, at the other end, under the window,
which was carefully covered by heavy curtains, stood a child's cot.

For the rest there were the usual furnishings of a cheap apartment
house, where the proprietors only cater for the class of custom which
lives in a state of frequent and rapid migration.

A woman was sitting in front of a small anthracite stove. A book was in
her lap. But she was not reading. Her deep violet eyes were widely
gazing down into the fire glow through the mica front, in that dreaming
fashion which so soon becomes the habit of those condemned to prolonged
hours of solitude.

It was by no means the face of a completely happy and contented woman.
It was a tired face with the weariness which is of the mind rather than
of the body. There were a few tracings of lines about the eyes and the
pretty forehead which were out of place in a woman of her age. Only
anxiety could have set them there. Suspense, an unspoken dread of
something which never ceased to threaten. Now, in an unguarded moment,
when all disguise was permitted to fall from her, they were pronounced,
painfully pronounced.

Her thought was plainly regretful. It was also obviously troubled.
Occasionally she would start and listen as some sound outside penetrated
the profound stillness of the room. It was at these moments that her
glance would turn swiftly, and with some display of anxiety, to the
child's cot where she knew her baby lay sleeping. Once she sprang
nervously to her feet and passed over to the cot. She stood bending over
the child gazing yearningly, hungrily down at the innocent, beautiful
three-year-old life dreaming its hours away without understanding of
that which surrounded it, or that which haunted the mind of its mother.

Then the stove and the wicker chair claimed her again, as did the
suspense of waiting, with its burden of apprehension.

At last relief leapt to the troubled eyes, and, in a moment it seemed,
every line which had been so deeply indicative before was suddenly
smoothed out of her pretty face. The woman sprang from her chair
transformed with an expression of deep relief and content. She glanced
swiftly over the supper table as a key turned in the latch of the door.

A man with a brown beard thrust his way in and glanced swiftly over the
whole length of the room. It was the searching look of a mind concerned,
deeply concerned, with safety. Then his dark eyes came to the woman's
face which was turned upon him questioningly.

"Well?" she demanded.

The monosyllable was full of deep significance. It asked a hundred
questions.

Just for a moment no answer was forthcoming. The man turned from the
woman, and his eyes sought the child's cot. There was no softness in his
regard. It was deeply contemplative. That was all. It was the woman who
displayed feeling as she followed his gaze, and the lighting of her
beautiful eyes was with swift apprehension.

"Something's the matter, Hervey!" she demanded sharply.

The lamplight caught the man's eyes as they came back to her face, and
its rays left them shining with a curious, lurid reflection.

"Matter?" A sharp, impotent oath broke from him. Then he checked his
impulse to rave. "Yes. See here, Nita," he went on, with a restraint
which added deep impressiveness, "we've got to quit. We've got to get
out--quick. Steve's hard on our trail. I've seen him to-day at
Mallard's. He didn't see me. Only my back. But I saw him. He came with
Saney. And there's only one thing I guess to bring Steve to Mallard's.
Saney's never given me a moment's nightmare. But Steve--Steve back from
Unaga, Steve in plain clothes in Quebec _with Saney_, and me sheltering
at Mallard's, tells its own story to anyone with _savee_. It means he's
got a hot scent, and he's following it right up. He's not the sort to
let go of it--easy. It's quit for us--and quit right away."

Nita sighed. She passed a shaking hand across her forehead, and when it
had passed all the tracery of lines had returned and stood out even more
sharply.

"It's come--at last," she said, in a weary, hopeless tone. "It was bound
to. I knew it right along. I told you."

"Oh, yes, you told me," Garstaing retorted, with a sneer that was always
ready when anger supervened. "Guess you told me a whole heap of fool
stuff one time and another. But you needn't reckon we're going to sit
around under things, just because Mister Steve seems to put the fear of
God into you. It's hastened the things I've had in my mind quite awhile.
That's all. We're going to beat it. We're quitting for up north. It was
my notion from the start. Only I weakened with your squeal about the
country. Well, your squeals are no account now. We got to save our
skins. I'm going to beat Mister Steve, and show you he's just the same
as most other folks who've got a grip on the game. We're making north
where, if he gets a notion to follow, he'll need to play the lone hand.
And Steve on a lone hand can't scare me five cents. Up there I'll meet
him. We won't need to live a gopher's life in a cellar. And when he
comes along, if he's the guts you reckon he has, I'll meet him, and kill
him as sure as Hell's waiting for him." The man's hot eyes were suddenly
turned on the distant child's cot, and he nodded at it. "It's that makes
me sick," he cried vehemently. "It's his!"

"She's mine!" Nita cried sharply. "And where I go she goes."

Nita read the man's mood with all the instinct of a mother. Three years
ago when she brought Coqueline into the world the infant claim upon her
had been loose enough. It was different now. Her woman's weakness and
discontent had yielded her a ready victim to the showy promises and good
looks of Hervey Garstaing. But the road they had had to travel since had
been by no means easy. It had been full of disillusionment for the silly
woman. They had lived in fear of the law, in fear of Steve, for over two
years. And the grind of it, for the pleasure-loving wife who had buoyed
herself with dreams of gaiety and delight which her life in the North
had denied her, had driven her back upon the elemental that was only
latent in her. Coqueline was her all now. Nita clung to her baby as the
one indestructible link with that purity of life which no woman, however
fallen, can ever wholly disregard, or forget. The child was a
sheet-anchor for all time. Whatever the future had in store, little
Coqueline was her child, born in wedlock, the pledge of her maiden
dreams.

"Tchah! She's his!" The man's restraint was giving before the brutal,
the criminal, that was the essence of him. "Why in hell should I feed
his brat? Why should I be burdened with it? Can't you see? We've got to
drag her wherever we go, delaying us, an unhallowed worry, and a darn
danger at all times. Cut it out. Pass her along to some blamed orphan
outfit. Leave her to the mule-headed folks who guess their mission in
life is to round up other folks' 'strays.' Steve's not a thing to you
now, Nita, and never will be again. You can't ever go back to him. He'd
kick you out without mercy, if I know Steve. He's hard--hard as hell.
You're mine, my dear, mine for keeps. Steve don't want any woman who's
shared her bed with another feller. You know that well enough. Well,
say, be reasonable. Let the kid go. You don't need her. You and me
together, we can play the game out. I can make good up there. And all I
make you've a half share stake in. It's up to you, kid. Just say the
word, and I'll fix things so that brat can get to an institution. Will
you----?"

"It's no use, Hervey." Nita shook her head decidedly. But his
coarseness, his brutality had had its effect. The violet of her eyes
remained hidden lest it should reveal the terror that lay in her heart.
"We've argued all this before. I'll go where you like, when you like,
but--my baby girl goes with me."

The decision was irrevocable and the man understood the obstinacy which
was so great a part of Nita's character. So he added no further pressure
at the moment. Only his dark eyes regarded her while his thought
travelled swiftly. At last, as he made no reply, Nita raised her eyes to
his face. Her gaze encountered his, and she turned abruptly from the
lurid reflection of the lamplight she beheld in his eyes, to the refuge
of the child's cot, which never failed her.

Garstaing laughed. It was a coarse, hard laugh that meant nothing. He
threw his hat aside.

"Let's eat," he cried. "Then we'll start right in to pack up our outfit.
We're taking no chances. We got to be on the road north by noon
to-morrow. We'll take the kid. Oh, yes, we'll take his precious kid," he
laughed. "But God help you if things happen through it. You know what
this thing means? If Steve and I come up with each other there's going
to be a killing. And murder's a big thing beside pouching the Treaty
Money of a bunch of darn neches."




CHAPTER XV

THE SET COURSE


Delight and excitement were running high. It was a game. In Marcel's
child-mind there was nothing better in the world. And it was An-ina's
invention. It was the gopher hunt.

They often played it in the cool summer evenings. The gophers destroyed
the crops of men, therefore men must destroy the gophers. It was the
simple logic that satisfied the child-hunter's mind. Besides, it was his
own game which An-ina had taught him, and no one else played it in the
same way. Every dead gopher An-ina told him meant more food for the
pappoose on the Reserve. And it was the child's desire that the pappoose
on the Reserve should eat to repletion.

The game entailed the lighting of a fire. That in itself demanded a
hundred excited instructions to the faithful An-ina, who contrived the
fire unfailingly, in her quick Indian way, in spite of them. Then there
was the collection of dried grass which demanded a search and laborious
consideration as to its suitability. Then came the stuffing of it into a
score and more of the principal holes in the selected gopher warren.
During this operation strict silence had to be observed. Then the
crowning moment. Erect, alert, in his woolen jersey and the briefest of
knickers, the child took his stand in the centre, where, with youthful
optimism, he sought to take within his purview the numberless exits for
the panic-stricken quarry. With stick raised, and every nerve quivering
with excitement, he was there to do battle with the destructive foe.

So he waited whilst An-ina advanced with her fire brand. With rapid
breathing and shining eyes the hunter watched as each plugging of dried
grass was fired. The smoke, rising in a circle about him, left him a
picture like some child martyr being burned at the stake.

Her work completed An-ina stood looking on, her beautiful dusky face
wreathed in a smiling delight which the sight of the boy's happiness
never failed to inspire.

A wild shriek. A flourishing and slashing of the stick. A scuttle of
racing moccasined feet. The quarry had broken cover and the chase had
begun!

A dozen gophers with bristling tails bounded clear of the smoke ring.
They scattered in every direction. The boy was in pursuit. Shrieking,
laughing, slashing, headlong he ran, nimble as the gophers themselves.

It was wide open grassland, and An-ina contented herself with watching
from the distance. It was the boy's game. His was the chase. Hers was
the simple happiness of witnessing his enjoyment.

"Gee!"

An-ina started at the sound of the exclamation behind her. She turned,
and her movement had something of the swiftness of some wild animal. But
it was not a defensive movement. There was no apprehension in it. She
knew the voice. It was the voice she had been yearning to hear again for
something over two years.

"Boss Steve!" she cried, and there was that in her wide, soft eyes which
her aboriginal mind made no effort to conceal.

Steve was standing some yards away, with his horse's reins linked over
his arm. As the woman approached he moved forward to meet her. But his
eyes were on the boy, still in vain pursuit of the escaped gophers,
pausing, stalking, completely and utterly absorbed.

The woman realized the white man's pre-occupation. She was even glad of
it. So, in her simple way, she explained.

"This--his game," she said. "He mak' great hunter," she added with
simple pride. "An-ina tell him gophers bad--much. So he say Marcel hunt
'em. Him kill 'em. Him say Uncle Steve say all things bad must be kill."

"He still thinks of--Uncle Steve?"

The enquiry came with a smile. But the man had withdrawn his gaze from
the distant child, and was earnestly searching the woman's smiling face.

"Marcel think Uncle Steve all man," she said quickly. "Uncle Mac, oh,
yes. Auntie Millie, oh, very good. An-ina. Yes. An-ina help in all
things. Uncle Steve? Uncle Steve come bimeby, then all things no
matter."

"Is that so? Does he feel that way? After two years?"

"Marcel think all things for Uncle Steve--always. An-ina tell him Uncle
Steve come bimeby. Sure come. She tell him all time. So Marcel think. He
not forget. No. He speak with the good spirit each night: 'God bless
Uncle Steve, an' send him back to boy.'"

The man's smile thanked her. And a deep tenderness looked out of his
steady eyes as they were turned again in the direction of the distant,
running figure.

"You come back--yes?"

The woman's voice was low. It was thrilling with a hope and emotion
which her words failed to express.

"Yes. I'm back for keeps." Steve's gaze came back to the soft eyes of
the woman. "That is, I'm going back to Unaga--with the boy. Will An-ina
come, too?"

"Boss Steve go back--Unaga?"

A startled light had replaced the softness of the Woman's eyes. Then,
after a moment, as no reply was forthcoming, she went on.

"Oh, yes. An-ina know." She glanced away in the direction where the
police post stood, and a woman's understanding was in the sympathy
shining in her eyes. "White man officer no more. Oh, yes. No little baby
girl. No. No nothing. Only Marcel, an'--maybe An-ina. So. Oh, yes.
Unaga. When we go?"

There was no hesitation, no doubt in the woman's mind. And the utter and
complete self-abnegation of it all was overwhelming to the man.

"You--you're a good soul, An-ina," he said, in the clumsy fashion of a
man unused to giving expression to his deeper feelings. "God made you a
squaw. He handed you a colour that sets you a race apart from white
folk, but he gave you a heart so big and white that an angel might envy.
Yes, I want you An-ina. So does Marcel. We both want you bad.
Unaga--it's a hell of a country, but you come along right up there with
us, and I'll fix things so you'll be as happy as that darn country'll
let you be. Julyman and Oolak are going along with us. They've quit the
police, same as I have. I can't do without them, same as we can't do
without An-ina. We're going there for the boy. Not for ourselves. It's
the weed. We got to do all that Marcel's father reckoned to do. And when
we've done it Marcel will be rich and great. Same as you would have him
be. There's 'no nothing' for me anywhere now but with Marcel. You
understand? You'll help?"

All the softness had returned to the woman's eyes, untaught to hide
those inner feelings of her elemental soul.

"An-ina help? Oh, yes." Then she added with a smile of patient content:
"An-ina always help. She love boy, too. You fix all things. You say
'go.' An-ina go. So we come by Unaga. It storm. Oh, yes. It snow. It
freeze. It no matter. Nothing not matter. Auntie Millie mak' boy and
An-ina speak with the Great Spirit each night. An' He bless you all
time. Him mak' you safe all time. An-ina know--sure."

The frank simplicity of it all left the white man searching for words to
express his gratitude. But complete and utter helplessness supervened.

"Thanks, An-ina," he articulated. And he dared not trust himself to
more.

Diversion came at a moment when he was never more thankful for it. The
shrill treble of the boy reached them across the stretch of tawny,
summer grass.

"Uncle Stee-e-ve! Uncle St-ee-ee-ve!"

Little Marcel was unstinting in all things. His call was not simply
preliminary. His enthusiasm for the hunt was incomparable with his new
enthusiasm. His call of recognition came as he ran towards the object of
his hero-worship, and he ran with all his might.

It was a breathless child that was lifted into Steve's arms and hugged
with an embrace the sight of which added to the squaw's smile of
happiness. The boy's arms were flung about the man's neck with complete
and utter abandonment. An-ina looked on, and no cloud of jealousy
shadowed her joy. She had done all in her power that the white man
should not be forgotten in his absence. The great white man, who was her
king of men. And she had her reward.

The first wild moments of greeting over, the boy's chatter flowed forth
in a breathless torrent. And all the while the man was observing those
things that mattered most to his maturer mind.

Marcel had grown astoundingly in the prolonged interval. The promise of
the sturdy body Steve had so often watched trundling across the snows of
Unaga in its bundle of furs had developed out of all knowledge under the
ample hospitality of Millie Ross's home. Tall, straight, muscular it had
shot up many inches. The boy was probably seven years of age. Steve did
not know for sure. Nor did it signify greatly. The things that mattered
were the ruddy, sunburnt cheeks of perfect health, the big, intelligent
blue eyes, the shapely mouth, and the sunny, wavy hair, all containing
the promise of a fine manhood to come. Then the firm, stout limbs, and
the powerful ribs. That which was in the handsome boyish face was in the
body, too. God willing, the man knew that the coming manhood would be
amply worth.

Slackening excitement brought the boy back to the thing which held his
vital interest, and he told of the great game he and An-ina were engaged
upon. He told of his failures and successes with impartial enthusiasm.
And finally invited his "Uncle" to join in the game.

"No, old fellow," he said. "I've got to get right along down to the
house to see Uncle Mac and Auntie Millie. You see, I've only just got
along from Reindeer. Guess I've been chasing a gopher for two years and
more. But like you I just didn't get him. Some day----"

"You been hunting gophers, Uncle Steve?" The childish interest leapt
afresh.

The man nodded, and his smiling eyes encountered those of the squaw. He
read the understanding he beheld there, and turned quickly to the child
again.

"Sure," he said drily. "But I didn't get him."

"No." The boy turned regretful eyes towards the open, where he, too, had
just failed to bag his quarry. "You kill 'em when you get 'em, Uncle. We
do, don't we, An-ina?" he added, appealing for corroboration.

"We always kills 'em, Uncle Steve," he went on, "'cos gophers are very
bad."

"Yes. Gophers are bad, old fellow. Always kill them. That's how I'd have
done if I'd got the one I was after. But I didn't get him. He ran too
fast for me. Maybe I'll find him another time. You never know. Do you?
Boy and Uncle and An-ina are going a great long way soon. We'll find
better than gophers to hunt, eh?"

"Yes--wolves! Where we go?"

"We go back to the Sleepers--and the old fort."

Steve searched the child's face anxiously as he made the announcement.
He was half afraid of a lingering memory that might jeopardize his
plans, or, at least make their fulfilment more difficult. But he need
have had no fear. The child remembered, but only with delight. And again
the man recognized the guiding hand of the squaw.

"Oo-o, Uncle! Soon? We go soon?" Marcel cried, his eyes shining. "The
forests where the wolves are. And the Sleepers. And the snow comes down,
and we dig ourselves out. And the dogs, and sleds, and--we go soon--very
soon! Can't we go now? Oo-o!"

"Not now, but--soon."

Steve's satisfaction was in the glance of thanks which he flashed into
An-ina's watching eyes.

"But now I must really go along to the house, old fellow," he said, with
a sigh. "Guess boy'll come, too, or maybe he'll go on with his game?"

The question was superfluous. Gopher hunting was a glorious sport, but
walking hand in hand with Uncle Steve back to the house, even though bed
and a bath were awaiting him, was a delight Marcel had no idea of
renouncing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The plump figure of Millie Ross half filled the doorway, while the
sunset sought out the obscure corners of the comfortably furnished hall
place behind her.

The doctor's great figure was supported on the table on which he had
flung his hat while he welcomed Steve. The latter's arrival had been
quite unheralded, completely unexpected. So long was it since his going
that husband and wife had almost abandoned the thought that some day
they would be called upon to render an account of their stewardship with
regard to young Marcel, and hand over the little human "capital"
originally entrusted to them. It was not to be wondered at. They loved
the boy. They had their two girls, but they had no son. And
Marcel--well, Steve was so long overdue, and his absence had been one
long, unbroken silence. So, all unconsciously, they had come to think
that something had happened, something which had caused him to change
his mind, or which had made it physically impossible for him to return.
Now, after the first warmth and delight of the meeting had passed, a
certain pre-occupation restrained the buoyancy so natural to the
warm-hearted pair.

Steve was seated in the chair beside the table, the chair which the
doctor was wont to adopt when the mosquitoes outside made the veranda
impossible. Perhaps he understood the preoccupation which more
particularly looked out of Millie's eyes. He felt the burden of his debt
to these people, a debt he could never repay; he understood the feelings
which his return must inspire if the child, left in their care, had
become to them a tithe of that which he had become to him. He knew it
was his purpose to tear the child out of their lives. And the wrench
would be no less for the thought that he purposed carrying him off to
those regions of desolation which had already come very near to costing
the child's helpless little life.

So his steady eyes were watchful of the woman's attitude, and he looked
for the sign of those feelings which he knew his return must have set
stirring. He knew that, whatever the big Scotsman felt and thought, the
woman was the real factor with which he must reckon.

With this understanding he frankly laid bare much which he otherwise
would have kept deep hidden. He told these two, who listened in deep
sympathy, the story of his pursuit of the man who had wronged him, from
the beginning to the end. And, in the telling, so shorn of all
unnecessary colouring, the simple deliberateness of his purpose,
contemplated in the coldly passionate desire of an implacable nature,
the story gained a tremendous force, the more so that his pursuit had
ended in failure.

He told them how for nearly a year, after winding up the affairs of his
dead father, which had left him with even a better fortune than he had
expected, he had systematically devoted himself to spreading a wide net
of enquiries. In this process he had to travel some thousands of miles,
and had to write many hundreds of letters, and had spent countless hours
in the official bureau of local police.

He told them how finally he had discovered the trail he, sought in a
remote haunt in the poorer quarters of Winnipeg. This, after many
tortuous wanderings and blind alley searchings, had finally led him to
the waterside of Quebec, and the purlieus of Mallard's, where, under the
guidance of the celebrated Maurice Saney, he ran up against the blank
wall of that redoubtable harbour of crime.

"All this," he said, without emotion, "took me over two years. And I
guess it wasn't till I hit up against Mallard's that I sat down and took
a big think. You see," he went on simply, "I wanted to kill that feller.
I wanted to kill that feller, and take my poor girl back and get back
my little, little baby. I had a notion I might have to hang for the job,
but, anyway, I'd have saved her from a life--well, I'd have saved them
both, and been able to fix them so they didn't need a thing in life.
What happened to me didn't seem to worry any. But when I hit up against
Mallard's, and I'd listened some to Saney I started in to figure. To get
that far had taken me over two years, and big money. There might be
still years of it ahead of me. And when I'd done, was I sure I'd get
Nita and the kiddie back? And if I did, how would I be able to fix them
after all the expense? Then there was Marcel. Maybe it was something
else urging me to quit. Something I wasn't just aware of. I don't know.
I've heard say that a feller who yearns to kill, either kills quick or
goes crazy. There wasn't a thing foolish about me. I hadn't any of the
foolishness of a crazy man. Which is a way of saying the yearning to
kill hadn't the grip on me it had. It was a big fight, but sense--or
something else--won out. I quit for those other things I'd got in my
head. Guess I heard that little feller's 'Hullo!' ringing in my ears.
Same as I heard it up in Unaga. So I cut out the other, and got busy
right away fixing things for the big play I mean to put up for the
kiddie that Providence has left to me. There are times when my whole
body kicks at the thought of that skunk getting away with his play. But
there's others when I'm glad--real glad--I quit. I can't judge the thing
right. I'm sort of torn in different directions. Anyway, there it is.
Maybe the thing I haven't been allowed to do will be done sometime by
the Providence that reckons to straighten out most things as it sees
fit. I hope the way it sees is my way. That's all. Now I'm ready for the
big play. My outfit has gone up by water on Hudson's Bay, a special
charter. It's to be landed and cached on the shores of Chesterfield
Inlet. I've sunk every cent of my inheritance in it. It's an outfit
that'll give Marcel and me a life stake in the work lying ahead. And all
that comes out of it is for him. With all this fixed I got back right
away."

"But not--in a 'hurry.'"

There was a half smile in the Scotsman's eyes.

"The only 'hurry' I'm in is to get all the season we need," Steve
replied simply.

"That means you want Marcel--right away."

Millie spoke without turning from her contemplation of the view beyond
the doorway. And there was that in her voice which told Steve of the
inroads Marcel had made upon her mother's heart.

"I've thought of all this a whole heap," he said gently. "It's one of
the things that clinched my idea of quitting. Later I don't guess I'd
have had the nerve to--ask for Marcel."

Millie turned abruptly. And the husband was watching her as urgently as
Steve himself.

"That's not fair, Steve," she declared, without attempting to soften the
challenge.

"But, Millie--"

The husband's protest was cut short.

"Don't worry, Mac," Millie cried. "I know just the feelings that
prompted Steve to think that way. But it's not fair. It's making out
that I'd like to go back on my word, and refuse to give Marcel up to the
moloch of Unaga. That's the part that isn't fair. Steve, if you'd come
to me in twenty years my word would have gone every time. That boy might
be my own son, I never had a son, and maybe you can guess just what that
means to me when I say it. But there's bigger things in the world than
my feelings, and I'm full wise to them. That boy loves you the same as
if you were his father. I've helped to see to that. I and An-ina. You've
been through hell for him. You've been through a hell of your own
besides. Now you're ready to give your all for him--including your life.
Do you know what I feel in my fool woman's way? I'll try and tell you,"
she went on, forcing back the threatening tears. "There's men in the
world made to give their everything for those they love. You're one of
them. To rob you of an object for you to work and sacrifice yourself for
would be to rob you of the greatest thing in your life. It would be an
unforgivable crime, and though it broke my heart I would refuse to
commit that crime. Marcel is ready for you the moment you ask for him.
Oh, yes, it's just as I said. His outfit is ready. We've enlarged it as
he's grown. An-ina has done her share. There's two of everything, as I
said there would be--and a good deal over. But," she added, with a
little pitiful break in her voice that showed how near were her tears,
"I wish, oh, how I wish, it was not Unaga, and that, some day, I might
hope to see his smiling, happy face again. You'll be good to him, Steve,
won't you? Raise him, train him, teach him. Don't let him become a wild
man. I want to think of him, to always remember him as he is now, and to
think that when he grows to manhood at least he's as good a man as
you."




PART II




CHAPTER I

AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS


It was boasted of Seal Bay that its inhabitants produced more wealth per
head than any other community in the Northern world, not even excluding
the gold cities of Alaska and the Yukon. It was a considerable boast,
but with more than usual justice. A cynic once declared that it was the
only distinction of merit the place could fairly claim.

The boast of Seal Bay was sufficiently alluring to those who had not yet
set foot on its pestilential shores. For once, by some extraordinary
chance, truth had been spoken in Seal Bay. No one need starve upon its
deplorable streets, if sufficiently clever and unscrupulous.

A photographic plate would have yielded a choice scene of desolation, if
sun enough could have been found to achieve the necessary record. The
long, low foreshore of Seal Bay was dotted with a large number of mud
huts, thatched with reeds from adjacent marshes, and a fair sprinkling
of frame houses of varying shapes and sizes. There were no streets in
the modern sense, only stretches of mire which were more or less
bottomless for about seven months in the year, and lost in the grip of
an Arctic winter for the rest of the time. Foot traffic was only made
possible in the softer portion of the year by means of disjointed
sections of wooden sidewalks laid down by those who preferred the
expense and labour to the necessary discomfort of frequent bathing.

There was no doubt that Seal Bay as a trading port owed its existence to
two spits of mud and sand on either side of a completely inhospitable
foreshore. They stretched out, forming the two horns of a horseshoe,
like puny arms seeking to embrace the wide waters of Hudson's Bay.

Within their embrace was a more or less safe anchorage for light draft
craft. There was a pier. At least it was called a pier by the more
reckless. It was propped and bolstered in every conceivable way to keep
it from sinking out of sight in its muddy bed, and became a source of
political discord on the subject of its outrageous cost of maintenance.

As for the setting which Seal Bay claimed it was no more happy than the
rest. There was no background until the far-off distance was reached,
and then it was only a serrated line of low and apparently barren hills.
Everything else was a wide expanse of deplorable morass and reed-grown
tundra, through which ran a few safe tracks, which, except in winter,
were a deadly nightmare to all travellers.

The handiwork of man is not usually wholly without merit, but Seal Bay
would have sent the most hardened real estate agent seeking shelter in a
sanatorium as a result of overwork. Still, traffic was possible. Seal
Bay was an ideal spot for robbing Indian and half-breed fur traders who
knew no better, and the plunder could be more or less safely dispatched
to the markets of the world outside. Oh, yes, there was easy money and
plenty. So what else mattered?

These were the opinions of those who really counted, such men as Lorson
Harris, head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation, and Alroy Leclerc,
who kept a mud shelter of extensive dimensions for the sale of drink and
food and gambling. There were others, those who came over the great
white trail from the north, who possessed very definite opinions of
their own, but were wise enough to refrain from ventilating them within
the city limits.

A man who hugged to himself very strong views had just entered the city.
He always came when Seal Bay was quite at its best. It may have been
simple chance. Anyway, it was one of the coldest days of winter, with a
sharp north wind blowing, and the thermometer hard down to zero. Seal
Bay's sins lay concealed under a thick garment of snow, while its
surrounding terrors were rendered innocuous by the iron grip of frost.

Seal Bay was astir. It always was astir when this man paid his annual
visit. He excited a curiosity that never flagged. His coming was looked
for. His going was watched. His coming and going were two of the most
baffling riddles confronting the sophisticated minds of a people whose
pursuits had no relation to purity or honesty.

The man came with three great dog-trains. Sometimes he came with four,
and even five. His sleds were heavy laden, packed to the limits of the
capacity of his dogs. They, in turn, were more powerful and better
conditioned than any Indian train that visited the place, and each was a
full train of five savage creatures more than half wolf.

He drove straight through the main thoroughfare of the town. The
onlookers were fully aware of his destination. It was the great
store-house over which Lorson Harris presided. And this knowledge set
much ill-feeling and resentment stirring. It was always the same. The
sturdy, hard-faced man from the north ignored Seal Bay as a community,
and only recognized a fellow creature in the great man who wove the net
which the Seal Bay Trading Corporation spread over the Northern world.

Something of the position found illumination in the dialogue which
passed between two men lounging in Alroy's doorway as the great train
passed them by.

"Gee! Makes you wonder if us folks has the plague," laughed Kid
Restless, the most successful gambler that haunted Alroy's dive. "He
don't see a thing but Lorson's. He'd hate to pass a 'how-dy' to a cur.
But his trade ain't as big as last year. Guess Lorson'll halve his
smile. He's been coming along fourteen year, ain't it?"

Dupont nodded, his contemplative gaze following the procession of sleds
under the skilful driving of their attendants.

"Yep." Dupont was a lesser trader who lived in a state of furious
discontent at the monopoly of the greater store. "The Brand outfit's
been trading here fourteen years--and more."

"How's that?"

"Oh, ther's a heap queer about that outfit," said the envious whiskered
man, whose dark, sallow features suggested plainly enough his Jewish
origin. "Maybe it's that makes that feller act same as if we had
the--plague. He calls himself Brand, but he ain't the Brand who traded
here more than twenty years ago. Guess you wasn't around then. Guess I
wasn't, neither. I'd be crazy by now if I had been. But the story's
right enough. Brand--Marcel Brand--and his pardner traded here with
Lorson more than twenty years back. He came from God knows where, an' he
just went right back to the same place. Then him an' his pardner got
done up. The darn Eskimos, or neches, or ha'f-breeds, shot 'em both up
to small chunks. Lorson was nigh crazy for the trade he lost, for all
Brand was a free-trader like Lorson hates best. Then, three years or so
later, along comes this guy with the name of 'Marcel Brand,' and carried
on the trade. And he's a white man same as the other. It was then Lorson
took to smiling plenty again."

"You figger he's the feller that?----"

"I don't know. I 'low' got notions though."

Kid Restless was interested. There was little enough to interest him in
Seal Bay beyond the life of piracy he carried on at the card tables.

"It's some queer sort o' trade, ain't it?" he asked.

"Queer?" Dupont spat. "Oh, he trades pelts, some o' the best seals ever
reach this darnation swamp. But the trade that makes Lorson smile is
queer. I've seen bales of it shipped out of this harbour, an' it looks
like dried seaweed, an' smells like some serrupy flower you'd hate to
have around. Lorson just loves it to death, and I guess it needs to be a
good trade that sets him lovin'. But he keeps his face closed. Same as
the feller that calls himself Brand. Oh, yes, Lorson's the kind of
oyster you couldn't hammer open with a haf ton maul."

"Why don't they trail him--this guy?" demanded Kid sharply.

"Trail? Why, the sharps are after him all the time. But he skins 'em to
death. Lorson's at the game, too. Oh, yes. Guess Lorson 'ud jump the
claim if he could get wise. But he ain't wise. No one is. But they'll
get that way one time, and then that mule-faced guy, who guesses we'll
hand him plague, will forget to get around in snow time. You can't beat
the Seal Bay 'sharps' all the time, though I allow he's beat 'em plumb
to death fourteen years."

"I'd guess it'll need grit to beat him," returned the Kid. "That is," he
added thoughtfully, "if you can judge the face of a--mule."

"Oh, _he's_ got grit--in plenty. Even Lorson gets his hat off to him
when he's around."

Dupont laughed maliciously.

"You mean----?"

"I was remembering Lorson's play," the trader went on. "He had his
'toughs' that time. Brand had pulled out two weeks and more. Then one
day a bunch of Northern neches pulled in. They'd beat down the coast in
a big-water canoe. The folks didn't notice them. It's the sort of thing
frequent happens. But Lorson got the scare of his life. He woke up next
morning with his pet 'tough'--a big breed--lying across his home
doorstep. He guessed he was dead. But he wasn't. He woke up about midday
and started guessing where he was. Later on he handed out a fancy yarn
what the neches had done to him. An', happening to dove a hand into a
pocket, he hauled out a letter addressed to Lorson himself. It just said
four words, an' Lorson spoke them. I don't guess they'd mean a thing to
the likes of him. They just said, 'Play the darn game.' And under them
was wrote 'Brand.'"

Kid grinned back into the other's eyes which were alight with malicious
delight.

"That's the med'cine to hand a feller that can understand white--not
Lorson," the gambler said. "I like that guy that calls himself 'Brand.'"

"Guess he's some boy all right. But--I was thinkin' of that breed. He
was doped."

The other nodded.

"You're guessing about that--queer trade," he said.

Dupont gazed out in the direction whence the dog train had disappeared
behind the group of great frame buildings which represented the
establishment of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.

"Yep," he said thoughtfully.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lorson Harris was a type common enough in outland places, where money is
easy and conscience does not exist. He was vulgar, he was brutal, he was
a sensualist in his desire for all that wealth could buy him. He was not
a man of education. Far from it. He was a clever, unscrupulous schemer,
a product of conditions--rough conditions.

He was a large, coarse man who had permitted his passions to gain the
upper hand in the control of his life, but they by no means interfered
with his capacity as the head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.

He overflowed a big armchair before his desk in the office of his great
store, and beamed a hard-breathing good-nature upon all those who seemed
likely to be useful in his multitudinous schemes. Just now the victim of
his smile was a man at the zenith of middle life. He was of medium
height, but of herculean muscle, and the fact was patent enough even
under the dense bulk of fur-lined buckskin clothing he was wearing.

There was no more sympathy in the two men's appearance than there was in
their condition of mind. While a passionate desire for the flesh-pots
enjoyed by other magnates of commerce, whose good fortune had provided
them with a happier hunting-ground than Seal Bay, was the primal motive
power of the trader, the man who had just come off the great white trail
was driven by a desire no less strong, but only selfish in that the
final achievement should be entirely his.

Just now the fur cap was removed from the visitor's head, and a tingeing
of grey was apparent in the shock of brown hair he had bared. A few
sharp lines scored his forehead and played about his clean-shaven mouth,
but the steady, serious eyes, with their strongly marked, even brows
were quite devoid of all sign of passing years. They accentuated the
impression of tremendous vigour and capacity his personality conveyed.

The smiling eyes of Lorson read all these things. It was his business to
read his visitors. He pushed the cigar box across the desk invitingly.

"They're some cigars, boy," he said complacently. "Try one."

The other shook his head.

"Don't use 'em, thanks. Maybe I'll try my pipe."

"Sure. Do. A horn of whisky--imported Scotch?"

The same definite shake of the head followed, but before the visitor
could pass a verbal negative the trader laughed.

"Nothing doing?" he said amiably. "Well, maybe you're right. You boys
need fit stomachs. Drink's a darn fool play, but--Here's 'how,'" he
added, as he gulped down the dash of spirit he had poured out for
himself. He smacked his heavy, appreciative lips, and fondly
contemplated the label on the bottle. But he was not really reading it.

"Your trade in the dope's growing," he said, his fat fingers fondling
the glass bottle neck as though he were loth to release it. "Nearly
fifty thousand dollars. That's your credit for a year's trade. It's the
biggest in--fourteen years. And it don't begin to touch the demand I got
for the darn stuff. I could sell you a hundred thousand dollars' worth,
and still ask for more at the same price. You don't get what that means
to me," he went on, with a laugh intended to be disarming. "You ain't
running a great store that's crazy to hand out dividends. Here's a
market gasping. Prices are sky high, an' we can't 'touch.' I tell you it
wouldn't lower the price a haf cent if you quadrupled your output. I
want to weep. I sure do."

The man in buckskin was filling his pipe from a bag of Indian
manufacture.

"Sure," he nodded. "I get that." Then he added very deliberately.
"That's why you send your boys out scouting my trail."

Lorson laughed immoderately to hide the effect of the quietly spoken
challenge.

"That's business, boy. I buy your stuff--all you can hand me. But if I
can jump into your market, why--it's up to me."

"It certainly is up to you." The man lit his pipe and pressed down the
tobacco with one of his powerful fingers. "It's up to you more than you
know. I once sent back one of your boys. I shan't worry to send back any
more. Best save their skins whole, Harris. You'll never jump my market
till you can find a feller who can hit a trail such as you never dreamed
of. And it's a trail they got to locate first."

The trader leant back in his chair and linked his fat fingers across his
wide stomach. His eyes were twinkling as he regarded the visitor from
the North. The smile was still in them, but there was a keen speculation
in them, too.

"You can't blame me, boy," he said, with perfect amiability. "Hand me
all the stuff I'm asking, and your market's as sacred as a woman's
virtue. But you don't hand it me, or maybe you can't. Well, it's up to
me to supply my needs any way I know. There's nothing crooked in that.
If you're reckoning to squeeze my market you can't kick if I try to open
it wide. You see, Brand, this stuff _grows_. I guess it grows in plenty,
because you admit you trade it, and I know the Northern neche well
enough to guess he only trades sufficient for his needs. See? Well,
I've the same right you have to get on to that source. If you know it,
hand me what I'm asking for. If you don't, then you can't stop me trying
to locate it for myself. If all business propositions were as straight
as that there'd be no kick coming to anyone. As it is, the man who's got
a kick is me--not you."

"I get all that," the visitor said, without relaxing his attention.
"There's no kick on the moral side of this thing. I never said there
was. I said save your boys' skins whole. That's all. If you fancy
jumping my claim, jump it, but I guess I don't need to tell you what to
expect. You sit around here and order other folks to the job. It's they
who're going to suffer. Not you."

"I pay them. They take it on with their darn eyes open," snapped the
trader, his amiability slipping from him in a moment.

The other gathered a half smile at the display. He blew a great cloud of
smoke, and removed his pipe.

"I'd best tell you something I haven't seen necessary to tell you
before," he said. "And it's because I'm not yearning for any feller to
get hurt in this thing. And, further, I'm telling you because you'll see
the horse sense in cutting out sharp business for real business. There's
a big source of this stuff. Oh, yes. I know that. I've been chasing it
for fourteen years, and--I haven't found it. When I do--if I do, I'll
hand you all you need, and save that weep you threatened. Meanwhile
you're sinking dollars in a play that maybe fits your notion of
business, but is going to snuff out uselessly the lights of some of your
boys, who I agree 'ud be better off the earth. Here's where the horse
sense comes in. I know all about this stuff, all there is to know. I
know the folks, all of them, who can supply me. They wouldn't trade with
your folks. They wouldn't trade with a soul but me. This is simple
fact, and no sort of bluff. But the whole point is that I--I wish an
outfit ready to face anything the North can hand me, with the confidence
of the folks who know the source, have been chasing for it fourteen
years and failed, while you, with a bunch of toughs who couldn't live
five minutes on one of my winter trails, are guessing to do something
that for fourteen years has beaten me. That's the horse sense I want to
hand you, and I'm only handing it you so you don't pitchfork any more
lives into the trouble that's waiting on them. They won't find it. I'll
see to that, and what I don't see to the Northern trail will. If you
don't see the sense of this, it's up to you, and anyway, as I'm needing
to pull out early, I'll take a draft on the bank for those dollars. I'll
be along down again this time next year."

He rose from his chair preparatory to departure, and picked up the warm
seal cap he had flung aside.

For a moment the trader sat lost in thought. Then, quite suddenly, he
stirred, and reached the check book lying on the desk. He wrote rapidly,
and finally tore the draft from its counterfoil and blotted it. Then he
looked up, and his smiling amiability was uppermost once more.

"Thanks, Brand," he said. "I'm not sure you aren't right. It's hoss
sense anyway. You aren't given to talk most times. I wanted to know how
you stood about that stuff. I'm glad you told me. What's more, I guess
it's true. Still, what I figger to do in the future don't concern anyone
but me. All I can say is I built this enterprise up on a definite hard
rule. I never compromise with a rival trading concern, particularly with
a free-trading outfit. I trade with 'em, but I'm out to beat 'em all the
time."

The other accepted the draft and signed a receipt. Then he thrust his
cap over his head and his steady eyes smiled down into the amiable face
smiling up at him.

"That's all right, Harris," he said easily. "The feller who don't know
wins a pot now and again. But it's the feller who knows wins in the long
run. You back the game if you feel that way. You won't hand me a
nightmare. Later you'll wake up and get a fresh dream. The game's lost
before you start. So long."

       *       *       *       *       *

Alroy Leclerc beamed on the man who was perhaps the greatest curiosity
amongst the many to be found in Seal Bay. His "hotel" had sheltered the
trader, who called himself Brand, for three days. A fact sufficiently
unusual to stir the saloon-keeper to a high pitch of cordiality. For all
his most liberal sources of revenue came from the scallywags of the
town, Alroy, with sound instinct, infinitely preferred the custom of the
stable men of the Northern world. Brand was more than desirable.

It was early morning. Much too early for Alroy. He felt lonely in the
emptiness of the place. A grey daylight, peering in through the window
of the office, scarcely lit the remote corners of the room. Brand had
breakfasted by lamplight. The saloon-keeper was more than thankful for
the comforting warmth of the great wood stove they were standing over.

"Guess it looks like bein' our last real cold snap," Alroy said, by way
of making talk with a man who was always difficult. "We'll be running
into May in a week. 'Tain't as easy with your folks. We git the warm
wind of this darn old bay, with all that means, which," he added with a
laugh, "is mostly rain. You'll be runnin' into cold right up to July."

The man from the trail was unrolling a bundle of notes for the
settlement of the bill Alroy had presented. He glanced up with a smiling
amusement in his eyes.

"Guess that's as may be," he said indifferently. "We get fancy patterns
where I come from."

He passed the account and a number of bills to the other, and returned
his roll to his pocket.

"And wher' may that be?" enquired the saloon-keeper, with as much
indifference as his curiosity would permit.

"Just north," returned the other. "Guess you'll find that right.
Twenty-five fifty. I'll take a receipt."

Alroy turned hastily to the table supporting the hotel register, and,
producing an ornate fountain pen, forthwith prepared to scratch a
receipt, which was rarely enough demanded by his customers amongst the
trail men.

"Sure," Brand went on, while the other bent over his unaccustomed work.
"We get all sorts. You can't figger anything this time of year, except
it'll be a hell of a sight more cussed than when winter's shut down
tight. I once knew a red hot chinook that turned the whole darn country
into a swamp in April, and never let it freeze up again. I once broke
trail at Fort Duggan at the start of May on open water with the skitters
running, like midsummer."

Alroy looked up.

"Duggan?" he questioned sharply. "That's the place Lorson opened up last
spring. It's right on the edge of a territory they call Unaga, ain't it?
The boys were full of it last summer and were guessing what sort of
murder lay behind his play."

Brand took the receipt the other handed him and folded it. He thrust it
into a pocket inside his fur-lined tunic.

"Why?" he demanded, in the curt fashion that seemed so natural to him.

"Why?" Alroy laughed. "Well, the boys around here guess they know Lorson
Harris, and ain't impressed with his virtues. You see, Fort Duggan, they
reckon, is a bum sort of location, eaten up by bugs an' a poor sort of
neche race. There's an old fort there, ain't there? One o' them places
where a hundred an' more years ago the old fur-traders stole, and
looted, and murdered the darn neches, and mostly drank themselves to
death when they didn't do it by shootin'. That don't figure a heap in
the boys' reckonin'. What does, is the feller Lorson sent there. The
yarn goes that this feller Nicol--David Nicol--that's his name, I
reckon, has been working for the Seal Bay Trading for some years. He
seems to be some crook, and Harris found him out. Guess he seems to have
cost the Seal Bay outfit a big bunch of money. They were all for sending
him down for penitentiary. Then a sort of miracle happened. Lorson
begged off. Why? It ain't usually Lorson's way. Next thing happens is
Lorson opens up Fort Duggan, and puts the tough in. So the boys are
guessin'. There sure is some sort of murder behind it. Lorson don't miss
things. His chances are mostly a cinch."

"Yes, he's pretty wise." The thoughtful eyes of the trail man were
turned on the sides of the glowing stove so that the saloon-keeper had
no chance of observing them. "You can't guess the things behind Lorson's
smile," he went on. "But I reckon you can figger there's always
something. As far as I can recollect of Fort Duggan--and I haven't been
there these years--I'd say he's no mean judge. I always wondered when a
big corporation would come along and open it up. There's big trade there
in pelts. Still, it's a tough sort of place."

"From what I hear it can't be too tough for the feller Lorson's sent
there. There'll be blood and murder amongst the neches there if they
don't hand over easy."

Alroy laughed immoderately at the prospect he contemplated, and held out
his hand in friendly farewell as his customer prepared to depart.

"Well, so long, Mister," he grinned amiably. "I guess there's things
worse in the world than the shelter of this old shanty. Anyway I'd
sooner you hit the Northern trail than me. I'll be mighty pleased to see
you around come--next year."

"So long."

Alroy's cordiality found very little that was responsive in the other.
Perhaps the trail man understood its exact value. Perhaps he was simply
indifferent. The saloon-keeper served a purpose, and was amply paid for
his service. Anyway he shook hands, and departed without any other
response.

Alroy watched him go. There was nothing else to do at this early hour
with his entire establishment still abed, and Seal Bay's main
thoroughfare still a desert of dirty, rutted snow, some foot or more
deep. He stood in his doorway gazing out at the cheerless grey of early
morning, watching with interest the handling of the three great dog
trains which he had seen come into town with their laden sleds only
three days before.

For all the cold and the early morning drear, for all he was of the life
of the desolate shores of Seal Bay, for all the comings and goings of
the men of the trails, for whom he mostly entertained a more or less
profound contempt, for Alroy Leclerc there was still a fascination
attached to the mysterious beyond to which these people belonged.
Somewhere out there was a great white world whose secrets he could only
guess at. The life was a life he did not envy. He knew it by the
thousand and one stories of disaster and miraculous escape he had
listened to, but that was all. There was more in it, he knew. Much more.
It held fascinated the adventurous, untamed spirits of men whose
superhuman efforts, yielding them little better than a pittance, still
made possible the enormous profits of a parasitic world which battened
upon them, and sucked them dry. Oh, yes. Whatever his sympathies he had
a pretty wide understanding of the lives of these men. He also knew that
he was one of the parasites which battened upon them. But he had no
scruples. Nor had he envy. Only a sort of fascination which never failed
at the sight of a sled, and a powerful train of well-handled dogs.

It was that which he looked upon now. He watched the two Indians stir
the savage creatures from their crouching upon the snow. It was the
harsh law of the club administered by skilled but merciless hands. The
great, grey beasts, fully half wolf, understood nothing more gentle.

In moments only the whole of the three trains were alert and ready on
their feet straining against the rawhide breast draws of their harness.
Then the white man shouted the word to "mush." The long hardwood poles
of the men broke out the sleds from the frozen grip of snow, and the
whole of the lightened outfit dashed off at a rapid, almost headlong
gait.

For a few moments Alroy remained at his post gazing after them. Then of
a sudden his attention was drawn in an opposite direction.

It was an incoming train. A single sled, heavily laden, but with only a
team of three dogs, far inferior to those which had just passed out of
the town. They cut into the main thoroughfare out of a side turning and
headed at once for the store of the Seal Bay Trading Company.

He looked for the owner. The owner was always his chief interest. He
anticipated that a liberal share of the value of the man's cargo would
find its way across his counter, and the extent of his profit would
depend on the man's identity.

He was destined to receive the surprise of his life. He looked for an
Indian, a half-breed, or a white man. Some well-known man of the trail.
But it was none of these. Despite the fur-lined tunic almost to the
knees, despite the tough, warm nether garments, and the felt leggings,
and beaded moccasins, and the well-strung snow-shoes, there remained no
doubt in his startled mind. None whatsoever. It was a woman! A girl!

Alroy ran a hand across his astonished eyes. He pushed back his fur cap
and stared. The girl was moving down the trail towards him. He had a
full view of the face looking out of the fur hood which surrounded it. A
white girl, with the heightened colour and brightening eyes of youth and
perfect health and strength. She was tall, beautifully tall, and as she
swept on past him in her gliding snow-shoes he had a fleeting vision of
a strand of fair hair escaped from beneath her fur hood, and a pair of
beautiful blue eyes, and pretty, parted lips which left him hugging
himself.

The vision had rewarded him for his early rising.




CHAPTER II

THE SPRING OF LIFE


It was a moment when memories were stirring. An-ina searched the
distance with eyes untroubled and full of a glad content. Had she not
every reason for content? Oh, yes. She knew.

It was the same scene she had gazed upon for many seasons, for many
years, and the limit of her vision had become practically the limits of
her world. There stretched the white snow-clad valley with the still
frozen river winding its way throughout its length to the north and
south. There were the far-off hills beyond, white, grey; and purpling as
the distance gained. Dark forest patches chequered the prospect. It was
the same all ways, north, south, and west.

For all the few changings of aspect with the passing of the seasons
there was no weariness in the woman's heart. She was bound up to the
exclusion of all else with the human associations which were hers. No
prison could hold bondage for her, so long as those associations were
not denied her.

Out of the tail of her eyes she glanced at the great figure that was
standing near her in the gateway of the fort. It was a figure, the sight
of which filled her with a great sense of pride, and joy, and gratitude.
In her simple way she understood something of the debt owed her for her
years of untiring, watchful care of the small body which had grown to
such splendid manhood. But the thought of its discharge never occurred
to her uncalculating mind. That which she beheld more than repaid.

Marcel was great for Indian eyes to gaze upon. Tall as was the woman,
comely in her maturing years, she was left dwarfed beside the youthful
manhood she had watched grow from its earliest days. The young man had
the erect, supple, muscular body of a trained athlete and the face of
the mother who had long since been laid to rest in the woods of the
Sleeper Indians. He had moreover the strength of the father's unspoiled
character, and all the purposeful method which the patient upbringing of
"Uncle Steve" had been capable of inspiring. He was a simple human
product, unspoiled by contamination with the evil which lurks under the
veneer of civilization, yet he possessed all the trained mind that both
Steve and he had been able to achieve from the wealth of learning which
his father's laboratory had been found to contain.

Beyond this, the bubbling springs of youth were in full flood, and the
tide ran strong in his rich veins. A passionate enthusiasm was the
outlet for this tide. A buoyant, fearless energy, a youthful pride in
strenuous achievement. It was with these he faced the bitterness of the
cruel Northland which he had grown to look upon like the Indians, who
knew no better, as the whole setting of human life and all that was to
be desired.

He was a hunter and a man of the trail before all things. His every
thought was wrapt up in the immensity of the striving. He had absorbed
the teachings of Steve, and added to them his own natural instincts. And
in all this he had raised himself to that ideal of manhood which nature
had implanted in An-ina's Indian heart. If she had thought of him as she
would have thought of him years ago in the teepees of her race, she
would have been content that he was a great "brave" and a "mighty
hunter." As it was her feelings were restricted to an immense pride that
she had been permitted the inestimable privilege of raising a real white
child to well-nigh perfect manhood.

Marcel knocked out the pipe he was smoking. It was with something like
reluctance he withdrew his gaze from the far distance.

"I've only two days more, An-ina," he said. "The outfit's ready to the
last ounce of tea and the filling of the last cartridge. The Sleepers
are wide awake, and squatting around waiting for the word to 'mush.' We
just daren't lose the snow for the run to our headquarters. I wish Uncle
Steve would get around. I just can't quit till he comes."

"No."

The squaw's reply was one of complete agreement. She understood. The
long summer trail was claiming the man. The hunter in him was clamouring
for the silent forests, where King Moose reigned supreme, the racing
mountain streams alive with trout and an untold wealth of salmon, the
open stretches of plain where the caribou browsed upon the weedy, tufted
Northern grass, the marsh land and lakes, where the beavers spend the
open season preparing their winter quarters. Then the traps, and the
wealth of fox pelts they would yield, while the eternal dazzle of the
much-prized black fox was always before his eyes. But stronger than all
was his thought for Steve. No passion, so far, was greater in his life
than his regard for this man who had been father, mother, and mentor to
him in the years of his helplessness.

An-ina pointed down the course of the winding river where it came out of
the southern hills.

"He come that way," she said. Then she smiled. "The same he come always.
The same he come long time gone, when Marcel hide by waters and make big
shout. Him much scared. Marcel think? Oh, yes."

The man laughed in a happy boyish way.

"I'd like to, but I just can't," he said. Then he added: "You always
think of that, An-ina. No," he went on with a shake of the head. "I
remember riding Uncle Steve's back. Seems it was for days and days. I
sort of remember sitting around and watching him while he looked down at
a pair of feet like raw meat, with the flies all trying to settle on
them. The sort of way flies have. Then there were his eyes. I've still
got the picture of 'em in my mind. They were red--red with blood, it
seemed. They were sort of straining, too. And they shone--shone like the
blazing coals of a camp-fire."

An-ina nodded, and into her dark eyes came a look of the dread of the
days he had recalled.

"That so," she said, in a tone of suppressed emotion. "It was bad--so
bad. Him carry Marcel. Oh, yes. Carry all time, like the squaw carry
pappoose. So you live,--and An-ina glad."

"Yes." The man bestirred himself abruptly. He stood up from his lounging
against the gatepost, and his great height and breadth of muscular
shoulders seemed suddenly to have grown. "So I live. And you are glad.
That's it. So I live. It's always that way--with you and Uncle Steve.
It's for me. All the time for me. Not a thing for yourselves--ever."

The woman's eyes were suddenly filled with startled questioning and
solicitude.

"Oh, yes? That so," she said simply. "Why not? You all Uncle Steve got.
You all An-ina got. So."

"And aren't you both all--I've got?" The man's smile disarmed the sudden
passionate force which had taken possession of his voice and manner.
"Can't I act that way, too? Can't I sort of carry you and Uncle Steve on
my back? Can't I come along and say, 'Here, you've done all this for me
when I couldn't act for myself, now it's my turn? You sit around and
look on, and act foolish, like I've done all the time, while I get
busy.' Can't I say this, same as you've acted all these years? No. You
two great creatures won't let me. And sometimes it makes me mad. And
sometimes it makes me want to stretch out these fool arms of mine and
hug you for the kindest, bravest, and best in the world."

An-ina laughed in her silent Indian fashion, and the delight in her eyes
was a reflection of the joy in her soul.

"You say all those. It make no matter," she said.

"But it does make matter." The man's handsome face flushed, and his keen
blue eyes shone with a half angry, half impatient light. With a curious
gesture of suppressed feeling he passed a hand over his clean-shaven
mouth, as though to smooth the whiskers that had never been permitted to
disfigure it. "It makes me feel a darn selfish, useless hulk of a man.
And I'm not," he cried. "I'm neither those things. Say An-ina," he went
on, more calmly, and with a light of humour in his eyes, "Don't you dare
to laff at me. Don't you dare deny the things I'm saying. I won't stand
for it. For all you're my old nurse I'll just pick you up like nothing
and throw you to the dogs back in the yard there. And maybe that'll let
you see I can do the things I figure to. I'm a grown man, and Uncle
Steve says 'no' every time I ask to take on the work of locating where
the weed grows, which he hasn't found in fourteen years, and which my
father was yearning to find before he died. 'No,' he says. 'This is for
me. It's my work. It's the thing I set out to do--for you.' When I ask
to do the trade at Seal Bay, it's the same. He guesses the 'sharps'
would beat me. Me! who could break a dozen of their heads in as many
minutes. So I'm left to the trail--the summer trail--to gather pelts,
and learn a craft I know by heart. I keep the Sleeper boys busy, and in
good heart. I'm the big hunter they like to follow. I'm the son of a
great white chief they say, and, for me, they're sort of fool dolls I
pull the strings of, while Uncle Steve does the big man's work. Can you
beat it? It's all wrong. You and Uncle Steve are twice my age. You've
crowded a life's work--for me. You both reckon to go on--always for me.
While I sit around guessing I'm a man because I know a jack-rabbit from
a bull-moose. It's got to alter. It's going to alter--after the summer.
I want the big scrap, An-ina. The real scrap life can hand a feller that
can write 'man' to his name. I'm out for it all. I want it all. And if
Uncle Steve's right, and I'm wrong, and I go under, I'm ready to take
the med'cine however it comes."

The smile of the woman was full of the mother. It was full of the
Indian, too.

"Oh, yes," she said quickly. "What you call him, 'chance.' The 'big
chance.' So it is. It good. So very, very good for the big man. Marcel
the big man. I know. Oh, yes. I know. The chance it come. Maybe easy.
Maybe not. It come. So it is always. It come, you take it. You not must
look, or you find trouble. You take it. Always take it when it come.
That how An-ina think."

Marcel laughed. His impatience had vanished before the sun of his happy
temperament.

"You've dodged the dogs, An-ina," he cried. "You're too cute for me.
You've agreed with me, and haven't handed an inch of ground. But I tell
you right here, you dear old second mother of mine, I'm going to play
the man as I see the game. And I'm going to play it good."

       *       *       *       *       *

The expression on the man's dusky face was deadly earnest. His lean
brown hands were spread out over the fire for warmth. His fur-clad body
was hunched upon his quarters, as near to the glowing embers as safety
permitted. And as he talked a look of awe and apprehension dilated his
usually unexpressive eyes.

"The fire run this way--that way," he cried, in a voice of monotonous
cadence, but with a note of urgency behind it. "The man stand by dogs.
He look--look all the time. Fire all same everywhere. It burn up all.
Nothing left. Only two men. Boss Steve and Julyman. Oh, yes. They stan'.
They look, too. They no fear. So they not burn all up. The man by the
dogs much scare. He left him club, an' beat all dogs. So they all crazed
with him club. They run. Oh, yes. An' the man turn. He run, too. Then
Oolak see him face. Oh, yes. Him face of Oolak. Him eyes big with fear.
Him cry out. So him run lak hell so the fire not get him."

The silent Oolak had committed himself to speech. He had talked long out
of the superstitious dread that beset his Indian heart. He had dreamed a
dream that filled him with fear of the future, towards which he looked
for its fulfilment.

The grey dawn was searching the obscurity of the fringe of woody shelter
in which the camp was made--the last camp on the return journey from
Seal Bay to the fort. The smell of cooked meat rose from the pan which
Julyman held over the fire. Steve sat on a fallen log, smoking, and
listening tolerantly to the man's recital, while the sharp yapping of
the dogs near by suggested the usual altercation over their daily meal
of frozen fish. The cold was intense, but the cracking, splitting
booming which came up out of the heart of the woods told of the
reluctant yielding of the tenacious grip of winter.

Something of Oolak's awe found reflection in the eyes of Julyman. He,
too, was an easy prey to the other's primitive superstition. Steve alone
seemed untroubled. He understood these men. They were comrades on the
trail. There was no distinction. There was no master and servant here.
They fought the battle together, the Indians only looking to him for
leadership. Thus he restrained the lurking smile of irony as he listened
to the awesome recital of a dream that filled the dreamer with serious
apprehension.

"And this fire? Where did it come from?" he demanded, with a seriousness
he by no means felt.

Oolak met his gaze with a look of appeal.

"The earth all fire," he said. "The hills, the valleys, the trees. All
same. Him fire everywhere. Oh, yes. It run so as water. It fill 'em up
all things--everywhere. An' it burn all up. Not boss Steve an' Julyman.
Oh, no."

Steve meditated awhile. Oolak needed an interpretation of his dream, or,
anyway, must listen to the voice of comfort. He understood this as he
gazed upon the partially crippled body of the man who was still a giant
on the trail.

The passing of years had touched Steve lightly enough. Time might almost
have stood still altogether. A few grey hairs about the temples. A
thinning of his dark hair perhaps. Then the lines of his face had
perhaps deepened. But in the fourteen years that had elapsed since his
return to Unaga the raw muscle and the powerful frame of his youthful
body had only gained in mass and left him the more capable of
withstanding the demands which his life on the merciless plateau made
upon his endurance.

Julyman, too, was much the Julyman of bygone years. The only change in
him was that opportunity had robbed him of many of those lapses he had
been wont to indulge in. But he was still no nearer the glory of a halo.
Oolak alone displayed the wear and tear of the life that was theirs. His
body was slightly askew from the disaster of the return from the first
visit to Unaga, and one leg was shorter than the other. But the effect
of these things was only in appearance. His vigour of body remained
unimpaired. His silence was even more profound. And his mastery of the
trail dogs left him a source of endless admiration to his companions.

Steve dipped some tea into a pannikin.

"Oolak had a nightmare, I guess," he said, feeling that a gentle
ridicule could do no harm.

Julyman grinned his relief that the white man saw nothing serious in
that which all Indians regard as the voice of the spirits haunting their
world.

"Oolak eat plenty, much," he observed slyly.

Steve helped himself to meat from the pan and dipped some beans from the
camp kettle beside the fire.

"Dreams are damn-fool things, anyway," he said. Then he laughed, "Guess
we've dreamed dreams these fourteen years. And we're still sitting
around waiting for things to happen."

Despite his concern Oolak tore at the meat with his sharp teeth, and ate
with noisy satisfaction.

"Him all fire. Burn up all things. Oh, yes. Bimeby we find him," he said
doggedly.

Steve was in the act of drinking. He paused, his pannikin remaining
poised.

"You guess----"

"Him fire," said Oolak, wiping the grease from his lips on the sleeve
of his furs. "Him big fires. Oolak know. Him not eat plenty. Him see
this thing. The spirits show him so he know all time."

Steve gulped his tea down, and set the pannikin on the ground.

"That's crazy," he declared. "It's not spirits who show Oolak. It's as
Julyman says. He eats plenty. So he dreams fool things that don't mean a
thing. Oolak doesn't need to believe the spirits are busy around him
when he sleeps."

He laughed in the face of the unsmiling Oolak. But his laugh was cut
short by the Indian's stolid response.

"Boss white man know all things plenty," he said, with the patient calm
of a mind made up. "He big man. Oh, yes. Him bigger as all Indian man.
Sure. But he not know the voice of the spirits that speak much with
Indian man. Oolak know him. So. An' the father of Oolak. Oh, yes. So we
find this fire sometime. We find him. This fire of the world. The
spirits tell Oolak, so him not afraid nothing."

Julyman set a pannikin down with a clatter. He raised a brown hand
pointing. He was pointing at Oolak, and his eyes were wide with
inspiration.

"He dream of Unaga--him fire of Unaga! So!"

Steve started. In a moment, at the challenge of Julyman, his mind had
bridged a gulf of fourteen years. He was gazing upon a scene he had
almost forgotten. A strange, magnificent scene in the heart of a white
world where snow and ice held nature's wonderful creation buried deep in
its crystal dungeons. The distant, towering spire rising sheer above a
surrounding of lofty mountains. The pillar of ruddy smoke and mist
piercing deep into the heart of a cloud belt lit with the vivid
reflection of blazing volcanic fires. The splendour of it had been
awesome, terrific. He remembered it now.

All thought of ridicule had died within him. For the inspiration of
Julyman had stirred his own inspiration beyond all reason. In a moment
his mind was a surge of teeming thought, with Unaga--the fires of
Unaga--the centre of a vivid, reckless imagination.

For fourteen years a wealth of dogged effort had been expended in an
accumulation of failure, as he had admitted to Lorson Harris only a few
weeks back in Seal Bay. The whole purpose of his life on Unaga had been
denied him. Where he had sought and striven for Marcel, he had only
partially made good. The promised fortune was amassing only slowly,
painfully, while the child had grown to manhood with a rapidity that far
outstripped it. The source of the elusive Adresol had remained hidden.
Nature, and the Sleeper Indians, had refused him their secret.

For fourteen years the winter trail had been faced under the direst
perils. And in all that time never once had the memory of the Spire of
Unaga come to inspire him. He had pursued his endless search along the
lines which the learning of the dead chemist had laid down. He had
sought to trap the secret of the Sleeper men by every means in his
power. But always and everywhere he had run upon the blank wall of
failure.

Now--now, at a time when he had learned in Seal Bay disquieting news
suggesting jeopardy for his whole enterprise, a flash of imagination had
stirred in him an inspiration, which, against all reason, had changed
the whole outlook of the future.

Unaga! Could it be? Was that the secret hiding-place of Nature? Could he
make it? How far? Where? Somewhere within the boundaries of the Arctic
ice? Maybe. He could not tell. The Spire was for all to see. Somewhere
beyond. Somewhere lost in the grey world of the North. A lure to--what?
A hundred miles. Two. Three. Four. No, he could not estimate. He did
not know. All he knew was that it was there, a fiery pillar, the simple
sight of which set the heart of the Indian quaking. Was it there that
the secret of the Adresol plant lay hidden? Was it there that the sturdy
Sleepers dared the summer trail for their priceless treasure? What
monstrous conditions had produced it? What amazing anachronism had
Nature created in the far-off Arctic world?

And the terror of that journey in the dead of winter. It was a journey
into the unknown, unguessed heart of a world's desolation. Was it
possible? Was it within human powers of endurance? If the land of fire
were the nursery whence the Sleepers drew their supplies of Adresol they
made the journey. But it was in summer. Winter? Was it possible?

Yes. It was possible. It must be made possible. If it were not, if the
effort were too great he could always pay the price. Marcel had grown to
manhood. Fourteen years of failure had elapsed since the taking of his
great decision. Here was a prospect. Here was a chance. Had he not in
the past fourteen years taken every chance? Well, it was no time to
shrink before the fiery heart of Unaga.

The men devoured their food. Steve had no desire to talk of his new-born
inspiration. Bald words would never convince these primitive creatures.
They looked to him for leadership. It was for him to dictate. It was for
them to follow. To discuss the project he contemplated would weaken his
authority.

So he smoked on in silence, with a tumult of thought passing behind the
steady eyes gazing so deeply into the heart of the fire.




CHAPTER III

MANHOOD


An-ina watched them pass out of the store together, her dark eyes
following them until they vanished beyond the range of the doorway. Her
regard for both was intense. The untamed Indian heart knew no
reservations. She had no thought for anything in the world but these two
men, and that which pertained to their well-being.

The depth of her devotion was unfathomable. Only its quality varied with
each. For the one it was the devotion of the wife. For the other it was
the devotion of the mother.

She made no comparison between them. How could she? Each in his way was
perfect in her eyes. Young Marcel's superb manhood had no greater claim
upon her woman's admiration than had the sturdy set of Steve's broad
shoulders. The boy's sunny smile, and often humorous eyes, were no
greater source of delight to her than the steady, honest purpose which
was in every line of the older man's strong face. Age and temperament
were far enough apart, but, to An-ina, they were children of a great
mother heart.

At the lean-to store-house, built against the stockade wall, designed by
the dead chemist to hold the bulk of Adresol he had hoped some day to
discover and which had never yet been called upon to fulfil its original
purpose, Steve came to a halt. The melting snow lay heavy upon the
sloping thatch of the roof, which was battened secure by heavy logs. It
was banked against the door. It was laden upon the sills of the one long
window. Steve kicked it clear of the door and took down the fastenings
which secured it. He passed within, with Marcel close upon his heels.

"We're going to need it, boy--after all," Steve said, with a note in his
voice and a light in his eyes that rarely found place in either. He
laughed shortly. "Yes. I think so."

"You think so?"

There was a quick glance of responsive eagerness in Marcel's eyes. Well
enough he knew the store had been built for one purpose only. He had
long since dubbed it "The Poison House." Steve's words meant----

It had a long low interior, with a heavily raftered roof, and an earthen
floor. It was a shadowed, empty tunnel that was only half lit, and
gloomily seemed to merit the name Marcel had chosen for it. At the far
end stood a small unused baling machine, and beside it a set of iron
scales. And on the bench, set up under the windows, stood a few oddments
of appliances of a scientific nature. For the rest it was pathetically
empty. It was altogether a tragic expression of the failure of the
living as well as the dead.

Steve laughed again. It was the same short laugh.

"Maybe I'm crazy," he said. "If I'm not, and there's two cents of luck
waiting around on us, why, we'll need this old store-house after all.
Yes, and I guess we'll need those poison masks your father made and
figgered to need sometime. The whole thing leaves me guessing and
wondering at the sort of fool man I am not to see what's been looking me
in the face for the last fourteen years."

The flash of excitement leapt into Marcel's eyes.

"You've--found the stuff?" he demanded, in a curious hushed tone. Then
with a rush: "Where? On the road to Seal Bay? Or the shores of Hudson's
Bay? It's the sort of thing for a coast like that. Guess it's like
seaweed. Where?"

Steve shook his head.

"Guess again," he said, with a smile of added confidence. "No, I haven't
seen it. I haven't found it. It's just a notion in my fool head." His
eyes lapsed again into their wonted seriousness. "It's a notion I've
got, and--it's right. Oh, yes. In my mind's eye I can see the stuff
growing. And--I--know--where. It's just for me to locate the place and
make the journey----"

"For us, Uncle Steve."

Steve turned sharply and gazed up into the boy's handsome, determined
face. He studied the unsmiling blue eyes that returned his look
unflinchingly. And that which he read in them left him with a
realization that a new chapter in the history of their companionship was
about to open.

"We'll get along to your father's office, boy," he said quietly. "It's
been our refuge and schoolroom for fourteen years. Maybe it's still the
best place for us both to learn our lessons."

He led the way out without waiting for reply. And as they passed from
the portals of the Poison House he again set up the fastenings.

Each had his own place in the simple room which Marcel's father had
dedicated to the science which had been his whole life. For him it had
been all sufficient. The storming of the elements outside might have
been the breathlessness of a tropical climate so far as he cared, once
absorbed in the studies that claimed him. And in a measure the
atmosphere of the room had a similar influence upon these two who came
after him.

Steve occupied the chair at the desk. Marcel had taken possession of the
chair which stood before a small table upon which he had been accustomed
to pursue the simple studies Steve had been able to prepare for him. He
had turned the chair about so that he sat with his feet upon the rail of
the stove in which summer and winter the fire was never permitted to go
out. He had come prepared to listen to the man who had always been his
guide and well-loved friend. But he had come also with the intention of
pressing those claims of manhood which were passionately crying out
within him.

The room was changed only that the belongings of these men, accumulated
in fourteen years, predominated over those things which the dead man had
left behind him. The room was intimate with the personalities of its new
tenants, while it still retained full evidence of the man who had
modelled its original character.

For some moments Steve searched amongst the drawers of the desk. Finally
he produced a number of note books and well-worn diaries. These he set
on the writing pad before him. Then he smilingly regarded the man who
was as a son to him.

"Guess I've got the things I need, boy," he said. "They're support for
the notion I'm going to tell you about. That's so you won't think I'm
crazy," he added, laying a hand on the books.

Marcel nodded keenly.

"Sure. And the notion?"

Steve understood the other's impatience.

"Ordinarily I'd hand you what's got into my mind right away," he said,
still regarding the books. "But that way I couldn't convince anything.
There's got to be arguments, and your father's got to hand us the
argument."

He thrust his fur cap back from his forehead.

"Light a pipe, boy," he went on kindly. "I've got to make a big talk.
And, for a while, anyway, you've got to listen."

Marcel laughed. He obeyed without demur. But Steve was in no way blinded
to the fact that for all his excited interest there was lying, at the
back of every thing, a tug-of-war coming between them, a tug-of-war
which he was by no means sure he was equal to.

"I'm just glad about the big talk," Marcel said. "You see, Uncle Steve,
there isn't much of the kid left in me. This country doesn't leave us
kids long. I'm still ready to act when you say so, and mostly without
question. But a whole heap of questions have been buzzing around in my
head lately, and they need to get out sometime. May as well be now. Talk
all you need, an' I'll blow the pipe."

Steve nodded. He knew the rope for the tug was laid.

"I'll begin at the right start," he said. "That way I'll have to hand
you things you already know. But I don't want to leave you guessing
anywhere along the line, because you're going to tell me all you think
when I've done. First we'll look right back. For fourteen years we've
chased over this territory where your father chased before us. We've
followed his notions to the letter set out in these old books. We've
gone further. We've tried tracking the Sleepers in the open season,
which he reckoned was a bad play. The result? Nix. We've done all he's
done and more, and we've no better result than he had. We've read and
re-read his stuff. We've dreamed, and wondered, and guessed till we know
the whole of Unaga like the pages of one of his books. We've failed to
find the growing ground of this darn Adresol, and, like your father,
we've had to content ourselves with a trade in the dried stuff these
dopey rascals choose to hand us. In twice the years he had at his
disposal we haven't advanced a step along the path he's handed to us."

He turned the pages of some of the notebooks while the smoke of Marcel's
pipe distributed a pleasant haze about the room.

"Now your father was a heap more than a clever scientific man," he went
on a moment later, "and I get that through his notes, which I well-nigh
know by heart. He was a reasoner in those things that had nothing to do
with his science. Guess he was dead practical, too, well-nigh a genius
that way. As for his courage and patience--well, I guess you've only got
to look around you at this old fort. You won't need my hot air to tell
you of it. So I'm left guessing at the wonder of it. _He just missed the
whole point of his own observations, and knowledge, and research._"

A smile crept into Steve's eyes as he made the final announcement. It
grew into his characteristic short laugh.

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you how wise I am. I'm not going to tell you
your great old father was a fool man, and I'm the wise guy that's
figgered out all he missed. I'm the fool man who's been handed a fool's
luck. I was sitting around over the camp-fire on the trail from Seal Bay
with nothing better to do than to listen to the crazy dream of an
ignorant, superstitious neche. It was in that fool yarn I found the
answer to all the questions we've asked in fourteen years. As I tell
you, it was just a crazy notion till I started in to fit it to the
arguments your father handed to us. Then I saw in a flash, and got the
start of my life. There's times that I'm still wondering if I'm not
plumb crazed."

He indicated a notebook which he had opened. Its pages were scored with
his own pencilled notes.

"I don't need to worry you with all the stuff written here," he went
on. "You know it like I do. But I'm going to read a piece so you'll get
the full drift of my argument when I hand it you. First, though, we'll
reconstruct some. The neches go out for this stuff in the open season.
They start when the ice breaks, and don't get back to home till things
freeze up again. That's important. They bring the Adresol in _dried_.
Like stuff dead for months. They don't bring it green, and dry it
themselves. They bring it _dried_. Now then, your father says that one
root would yield a thousand per cent. more Adresol than the green
foliage. And the green foliage five hundred per cent. more than the
dried. Why then do the neches bring in the dried stuff in the open
growing season? Do they prefer it that way?" He shook his head
thoughtfully. "Guess it's not that. There's a reason though. These folk
have been using this stuff for ages. Yet they never bring it green. They
never bring the root. Why not? Do they know about the yield of the
foliage, of the root? Maybe. But I don't think so. I'd like to say
_they've never seen the stuff in its growing state_. Only dead!"

Steve picked up the notebook in front of him.

"I want to read this to you, boy. You've read it. We've both read it,
but it's got a different meaning--now. Listen."

"Adresol has many features, interesting and deadly, foreign to all other
known drug-producing flora. Aconite, digitalis, and the commoner
varieties of toxins lie dormant in the producing plant. That is, there
are no exhalations of a noxious nature. In Adresol the drug is
active--violently active. Adresol extracted and duly treated (see note
X, Book C) for uses in medicine is not only harmless to the human body
in critical stages of disease, but even beneficial to the whole system
in a manner not yet fully explored. But in its active, crude state in
the growing plant, it is of a very violent and deadly character. It
would almost seem that an All-wise Creator has, for this reason, set it
to flourish in climates almost unendurable to human and animal life, and
in remotenesses almost inaccessible. No animal or human life could exist
within the range of the poison its deadly bloom exhales. The plant
belongs to the order Liliaceæ and would seem from its general form to be
closely allied with the Lilium Candidum. This, however, only applies to
its form, and by no means to its habit. Its magnificent bloom is dead
white and of intense purity. A field of this strange plant in full
bloom, viewed from above, would probably give an appearance like the
spread of a white damask table-cloth of giant proportions. The blooms
almost entirely obscure the weed-like foliage. The danger lies in the
pungent, sickly, but delicious perfume it exhales, which is so intense,
that, coming up against the wind, it could be detected miles away.
Before and after its blooming season it is only less deadly that it can
be safely approached. To cut or break the sappy stems and foliage would
be only to court prompt disaster without the use of adequate poison
masks. The newly cut plant exhales the same deadly perfume as the bloom,
one deep breath of which would frequently be fatal to human life. The
cuts in the foliage heal up quickly, however, and after a day's delay
its transport could be safely undertaken. The reference here is to
transport in the open air. The green harvest once stored in a confined
space again becomes actively dangerous. All stores containing it should
be carefully locked up, and isolated, and should only be entered by
those with poison masks carefully adjusted. The only moment at which
Adresol, in its native conditions, is perfectly innocuous is in its dead
season, when the bulbous root lies dormant. The proportion of the drug
contained in the dried foliage, however, is infinitely small.'"

Steve looked up from his reading.

"That," he said, "is all we need to convince us of the Sleepers' lack of
understanding of the nature of the plant. I'd say right here they've
never seen the plant in growth. If they had they'd be scared to get next
it by a thousand miles. Whatever we don't know of Adresol, we do surely
know Indians. But I guess there's a heap more importance in that writing
than that. How do these folk get the dead stuff in the growing
season--the blooming season? How can they face that deadly scent?
They've no scientific poison masks. Yet year after year an outfit makes
the summer trail and they get back when things freeze up with enough
Adresol for their own doping, and a big bunch for trade to us. Your
father doesn't answer that. He leaves us guessing, and thinking of
winter when the whole darn country is covered feet thick in snow and
ice."

The interest in Marcel's eyes was profound, and he drew a deep breath as
Steve paused. He had no question, however. He sat leaning forward in his
chair expectantly, waiting, his pipe dead out and forgotten.

Steve's face suddenly lit with a smile.

"Now I'm going to give you a crazy man's answer to all those things. I'd
hate for your father to hear me. I'm going to say the growing, blooming
season of this queer stuff is _dead, hard winter_. At least up here. I'm
going to say the foliage lies dead the whole of the open season, and the
root is dormant. I'm going to say these Sleepers don't know a thing but
the stuff they find, and never have known in all their history. I
believe that some where away back their ancestors found the dead weed,
and maybe used it to smoke like other weeds some of the Northern Indians
use. Maybe it doped them in the pipe. Maybe some bright squaw tried
boiling it into a drink. It's a guess. You can't say how they came to
use it as dope. Anyway the thing just developed, and has gone on without
them getting wise to any of the things your father knew."

"Oh, yes, it all sounds crazy," Steve hurried on as Marcel stirred.
"It's too crazy I guess for a scientific head like your father's. But he
hadn't listened to Oolak's fool dream, and he never saw the thing I've
seen--twice."

"You've seen?"

Marcel could deny himself no longer. Intense excitement urged him. Steve
shook his head.

"I haven't found it--yet," he said. "No. The thing I've seen you've
seen, too. You were just a bit of a kiddie and won't remember. I'll try
and fix up the picture of what I saw then in the far-away distance, and
what I see now in my crazy mind's eye."

He paused. Then, with a swift movement that had something of excitement
in it, he flung out an arm pointing while his voice took on a new note,
and his words came rapidly.

"Somewhere out there," he cried. "A land of glacial ice, endless snow
and ice. Hills everywhere, broken, bald, immense. A range of mountains.
In the midst of 'em a giant hill bigger and higher than anything I've
ever dreamed. A hill of blasting, endless fire. It never dies out. It
burns right along, belching the fiery heart out of the bowels of the
earth. And everywhere about, for maybe miles, a blistering tropical heat
that defies the deadliest cold the Arctic hands out. Do you get it? Sure
you do. You're getting my crazy notion, that isn't so crazy. Well, what
then? Winter. A temperature that turns a snowstorm into a pleasant
summer rain, and the buzzard into a summer gale. Vegetation starts into
growth. I can't guess how the absence of sun fixes it. Maybe it
grows--_white_. But it grows--grows all the time, like those things of
the folk who grow out of season. Then spring, and the sun again. Rising
temperature. The heat from this hell ripens the stuff quick, and the sun
makes it green again. This Adresol. A great field of dead white. Then,
as swiftly, it dies. Dies before the Indians come. Burnt up by the
rising temperature of the advancing season _and the blistering volcanic
heat_."

Marcel started up from his chair with an excited cry.

"You're right, Uncle," he cried, completely carried away. "But where?
Where's this place? This old hill? I've seen it? Where?"

"It's north, boy. Away north. God knows how far."

Steve's voice had lost something of its note of inspiration before the
hard facts which Marcel's question had brought home to him. He paused
for a moment with his eyes hidden. Then, with a curious movement which
suggested the determined squaring of his shoulders, he broke out again.

"Yes. It's miles--maybe hundreds of miles away north. It's somewhere in
the heart of Unaga. Some place explorers never hit. It's the great Spire
of Unaga. The unquenchable Fires of Unaga. It's a living volcano that
sets all other volcanoes looking like two cents. I've seen it twice--in
the far-off distance. You've seen it once. The boys have seen it, too.
It looked like a pillar propping up the roof of the heavens. A pillar of
fire. It set me nigh crazy with wonder. And it scared the boys to death.
They guessed it was the breeding ground of all evil spirits. But it's
there, and it grows our stuff. And I'm going right out after it."

"Yes!"

Marcel dropped back into his chair. His exclamation was a vent to the
emotions which the force of Steve's words had stirred.

"Yes. Sure," he added a moment later. "We'll go right out after it."

"We?"

Steve looked up with a start.

The boy's excitement had passed. He regarded his foster-father with a
pair of challenging, smiling eyes that were full of humour. But the
challenge was definite. He re-lit his pipe.

"Why, yes, Uncle," he said promptly. "We'll go. That's how you said. I'm
all in on this. I'm crazy to see all that wonderland can show me. It
doesn't scare me a thing. You see, it's a winter trail. I guess I know
the summer trail so I won't forget it. The winter trail's new and I'm
crazy for it. You'll need us all on this thing. I----"

Steve shook his head. Marcel broke off at the sign, and the smile passed
out of his searching eyes as he sought to read what lay behind that
silent negative.

"You mean--?" he went on, a moment later, a flush mounting to his cheeks
and suggesting a sudden stirring of passionate protest.

"I don't mean a thing but that you can come right along if you think
that way."

The smile that accompanied Steve's words was gently disarming. There was
no equivocation. It was impossible for the boy to misread what he said.
The capitulation had not waited for the passionate challenge Marcel had
been prepared to make.

"You--mean that, Uncle?"

"Surely. If you're yearning to take a hand, boy, I don't figger to get
in your way." Steve closed up the books on his desk and dropped them
back in the drawer from which he had taken them. Then he thrust back
his chair and prepared to join the other in a smoke. "I've got just two
feelings on this thing, Marcel," he went on, as he filled his pipe. "I'm
glad you feel that way, but I'm kind of sorry to think you're going
along with me. You see, I kind of think of you as my son. I've done all
I know in fourteen years to teach you my notion of what a man needs to
be. I've done the best I know that way. And I'd have hated to find you
short of the grit I reckon this enterprise is going to need." He
laughed. "If you'd have turned out a sort of 'Squaw-man' I guess I'd
have hated you like a nigger. But there wasn't a chance of it, with a
father and mother like you had. No." He lit his pipe, and settled
himself in his chair. "The way you've learned to beat the summer trail,
your woodcraft. You're a 'great hunter and brave,' as An-ina says, and
you've got every Indian I've ever known left cold behind you. You've
grown to all I've hoped, and I'm glad. And now--now this great last
enterprise is coming along, why, it just leaves me proud thinking that
you couldn't listen to the yarn of it, even, without reckoning to be on
the outfit yourself. I'm glad--just glad."

Marcel's eyes shone. Steve's approval, unqualified, was something he had
not hoped for. He had been prepared to battle for his rights as a man,
and now--now the wonder of it. He was admitted to the task confronting
them without question; with only cordial agreement. He remembered with
regret his outburst to An-ina, when he had been waiting for Steve's
return from Seal Bay.

"You see," he burst out with impulsive frankness, "I was scared you'd
hold me to the fort, Uncle, the same as it's been every winter. I was
just getting mad thinking I was only fit for the open summer trail,
chasing up pelts with a bunch of these doper neches. Oh, yes. It set me
mad. And I told An-ina. I'm not a kid, Uncle. Guess I'm all the man
I'll ever be, and I just want to get busy on a man's work. I can't stand
for seeing you doing these things for me. You don't get younger. And
I--I'm bursting with health and muscle, and my spirit's just crying out
against being nursed like a kid. I came here to kick, Uncle, I
did--sure. To kick hard--if you'd refused me. But I needn't have thought
that way--with you. And I'm sore now that I did. By Gee! It's just
great! That hill, those fires! We'll start to fix the whole thing. And
we'll get right out in the fall."

"Sure." Steve nodded. His eyes were very tender, and their smile was the
smile he always held for the boy who had now become a man. "It'll be
fall--early fall. We can't start out too early, but it mustn't be till
the dopers are asleep. You see, we've got to leave An-ina
behind--without a soul to protect her."

"Yes." Marcel's happy eyes shadowed. But they brightened at once.
"Couldn't we leave Julyman? There'd still be the three of us."

"I s'pose we could."

Steve seemed to consider for a moment, his serious eyes turned on the
stove. Marcel watched him anxiously. Presently the elder man looked up.
To the other it seemed that all doubt had passed out of his mind.

"I'd best tell you what's in my mind," he said. "I got it from Leclerc
at Seal Bay. I got it, by inference, from my talks with Lorson Harris.
The Seal Bay Co. are out after us all they know. They're out after our
stuff. Our secret. They've opened up Fort Duggan, and sent a crook
called David Nicol there to run it. And he's out to jump our claim. It
comes to this. This outfit is on the prowl. Their job is to locate us.
Well? An-ina alone! Even Julyman with her! What then if this bunch hits
up against the fort while we're away? Oh, I'm not thinking of our
'claim.' It's An-ina. The soul who's handed over her life to us. The
woman who's nursed you ever since you were born. And who'd give up her
life any hour of the day or night if she guessed it would help you. Can
we leave her to Julyman? You best tell me how you think--just how you
think."

The expressive face of Marcel reflected the emotion which Steve's words
had set stirring in his boyish heart. The delight at his contemplated
share in the great adventure had been shining in his eyes. Now they were
shadowed with anxiety at the talk of Lorson Harris and his scouts. A
moment's disappointment followed. But this was swept away by a rush of
feeling at the thought of his second mother left alone and unprotected,
except by an Indian.

In a moment all that was loyal and generous in him swamped the
selfishness of his own youthful desire. His passionate rebellion at
being shut out from all he considered as man's work was completely
forgotten. He remembered only the gentle dusky creature who needed his
man's support.

"You needn't say a thing, Uncle Steve," the youngster cried. "I was
crazy to go. I'm that way still. But--well, I just can't stand for
An-ina being left. She's more than my second mother. She's the only
mother I remember."

Steve nodded.

"I guessed you'd feel that way boy, and--I'm glad."




CHAPTER IV

KEEKO


Beyond the river, the trees came down to the water's edge, where roots
lay bare to the lap of the stream which frothed about them. They
shadowed the wide waters with a reflection of their own dark mystery.
They helped to close in the world about old Fort Duggan, deepening the
gloom of its aged walls, and serving to aggravate the shadow of
superstition with which the native mind surrounded it.

The hills rose up in every direction. They were clothed with forests
whose silence only yielded to crude sounds possessing no visible source.
The river seemed to drive its way through invisible passes. It appeared
out of a barrier of woodlands, backed by a rampart of seemingly
impassable hills, and vanished again in a similar opposite direction.
Between these points it lay there, a broad, sluggish stretch of water
upon which the old fort looked down from the rising foreshore.

The benighted instincts of the Shaunekuks know no half measure. Fort
Duggan to them was the gateway of Unaga, which was the home of all Evil
Spirits. So they looked upon the fort without favour, and left it
severely alone.

But now all that was changed. Fort Duggan was no longer silent, still,
the shadowed abode of evil spirits. Crazy white folks had come and taken
possession of it. They had dared the wrath of the Evil One, and the old
place rang with the echo of many voices.

For awhile these primitive folk had looked on in silence. They wondered.
They thought of the Evil One and waited for the blow to fall. But as the
weeks and months went by without the looked-for retribution they began
to take heart and give rein to a curiosity they could no longer resist.
Who were these folk? Why had they come? But most important of all, what
had they brought with them?

They found a white man and two white women. They found several dusky
creatures like themselves, only of different build. Oh, yes, they were
Indians, Northern Indians, but they were foreigners. They were slim,
tough creatures who gazed in silent contempt upon the undersized people
who came to observe them.

But the Shaunekuks were not concerned deeply with the men of their own
colour. It was the white man and the white women who chiefly aroused
their curiosity. Years of tradition warned them that the coming of the
white man was by no means necessarily an unmixed blessing, and so they
had doubts, very grave doubts.

Perhaps the white man understood. Anyway he promptly took steps. He
invited them to feast their eyes upon the treasures he had brought with
him from far distant lands. He assured them that he had come to give
away all these splendid things in exchange for the furs, which only
great hunters like the Shaunekuks knew how to obtain.

Capitulation was instant. The Indians forthwith held a council of their
wise men, and set about inundating the fort with priceless furs. So it
had gone on ever since. In a year the white man was complete master of
the situation. In less than two years he had assumed the office of
dictator.

The man Nicol knew his work. He had been sent there by Lorson Harris,
which was sufficient guarantee. None knew it better. Having established
in the Indian mind the necessity for his existence amongst them, he
exploited the position to its extreme limits. Through methods which knew
no scruple he usurped the authority of the wise men, or adapted it to
his own uses. He saw to it that the generosity of his original trading
was swiftly reduced to the bare bone of extortion. And the Indians
submitted. The white man had come in the midst of their darkness and had
given them light, at least he had dazzled their eyes, and excited their
cupidity by his display of trade. Furs--furs. They could always obtain
furs. If he were foolish enough to exchange simple furs for beautiful
beads, and blankets, and tobacco, and essences, and coloured prints, and
even fire-water, well, that was his lookout. At least they were not the
fools.

With the coming of the white man and the two white women with their
several Indian followers the life of the Shaunekuks at Fort Duggan was
completely revolutionized. Before the foolish Indians knew what was
happening they were captured body and soul. They quickly learned that
the white man was to be feared rather than loved. They realized it was
better to risk the anger of the Evil Spirits of Unaga rather than to
offend him. So they yielded to the course which they hoped would afford
them the greatest benefit. It was no less than submitting to an
unacknowledged slavery.

It was perhaps a dangerous condition, a situation full of risk for the
white man and all his people, should his force and ruthlessness weaken
even for one moment. But Nicol was too widely experienced, too naturally
cut out for his work to fall for weakness. He treated the Indian as he
would treat a trail dog, as a savage beast to be beaten down to the
master will, and kept alive only as long as it yielded return for the
clemency.

For the women folk of this man the benighted Indians had little concern.
One of them was sick, which made her a creature of even less
consequence. The other, the one who called herself Keeko, she seemed to
live her own life regardless of the man, regardless of everybody except
the sick woman, who was her mother. She made the summer trail after
pelts and so trespassed upon what the Indians regarded as their rights,
but since the white man seemed to approve there was little to be said.

Just now the spring freshet had subsided, which meant that the river was
clear of ice. Keeko was at the landing preparing for the trail. She was
there with her Indians looking on while the laden canoes received their
final lashings, and the joy of the open season was surging in her rich
young veins.

Keeko was more than a little tall. She was as graceful as a young fawn
in her suit of beaded buckskin. She was as slim as a well-grown boy in
her mannish suit, with muscles of steel under flesh of velvet softness.
Reliance and purpose, and the joy of living, looked out of her
beautiful, deeply fringed eyes. Her ripe lips and firm chin were as full
of decision as the oval of her wholesomely tanned cheeks was full of
girlish beauty.

An Indian looked up quickly at the sound of her keen tone of authority.
His face was crumpled and scored with advancing years, and the merciless
blast of the northern winter trail. But for all his years he was hard as
nails.

"We'll pull out after we've eaten," cried the girl. "We're days late.
Get Snake Foot, and don't leave the outfit unguarded. Guess we're not
yearning for the scalliwag Shaunekuks thieving around. It'll be two
hours. The sun'll be shining there," she pointed, indicating an immense
bank of forest trees. "Where's Med'cine Charlie? By the teepees of the
Shaunekuks? He's most generally that way."

Little One Man nodded, and grinned in his crumpled way.

"Oh, yes," he said. "But I get 'em."

"Good. See to it." The girl nodded. "Don't forget. Two hours. The sun on
the water. I come."

Keeko turned away up the rising foreshore in the direction of the long,
low building of the fort.

Once she was beyond the observation of the Indian's keen eyes her whole
expression underwent a change. The light died out of her eyes and a deep
anxiety replaced it. She was torn by conflicting feelings. The desire of
the trail had grown to a passion. The immense solitudes of the great
forests were the paradise she dreamed of during the long dark days of
winter. But deep in her heart there were other feelings that preoccupied
her no less.

Her mother was sick, sick to death with the ravages of consumption, on a
bed from which she would only be removed for a grave somewhere in the
shadows of the surrounding woods. And she loved her mother. She loved
her mother with a passionate devotion.

It was the thought of all that might happen during her prolonged absence
that robbed Keeko's eyes of their buoyant light and happy smile.
But--what could she do? She must go. She knew she must go. It had all
been arranged between her and her mother. And with each season her work
became more urgent.

As she passed up to the fort her mind had leapt back to the early days
when she had reached full young womanhood. And a scene that lived in her
memory came back again to urge her, as it never failed to urge her at
such moments.

It was one of the many times that her mother had hovered at the brink of
the grave. She and her step-father had shared the watch at the sick-bed.
Up till that time the man had displayed no regard for herself but the
treatment he would bestow upon an unwelcome burden on his life. There
had been a bitter antagonism on his part, an antagonism that suggested
positive hatred. But while they sat watching the closed, sunken eyes and
waxen features of her mother, as she lay gasping in what seemed to be
the last throes before collapse, an amazing change seemed to take place
in him. His whole attitude towards herself appeared to alter. It became
impressive in its kindliness and solicitude. He seemed suddenly to have
become far more tenderly thoughtful for her welfare than for the wife
who lay dying before his eyes. And when he spoke--But his words and
tones did more than disturb her. It was at the sound of them that the
almost dead eyes of her mother opened wide and turned a dreadful stare
upon him. For minutes it seemed they stared while the ashen lips
remained silent, unmoving. It was painful, dreadful. It was the man,
who, at last, broke the horror of it all. He rose abruptly, silently
from his chair and passed out of the room.

Then had come the great change. The moment the man had passed beyond the
door her mother stirred. She seemed to become feverishly alive in a
manner suggesting the victory of sheer will over a half dead body. She
turned on her bed, and a warm light flooded her eyes.

"Don't _you_ go, child," she had gasped eagerly. "I'm not dead yet and I
don't intend to die. I'm going to live long enough to fool him. Say,
you've got to quit nursing me. I tell you I shan't die--yet. A squaw can
do all I need. You reckon to help me. I know. You're a good girl. You're
too good to be--If you reckon to help me there's just one way. Get out.
Get right out. Learn to help yourself. Get out into the open. It's only
the woods, and the trail, and the Northern world'll teach you the same
as they taught your father. You've got to get so you can face life--when
the time comes around--alone. Learn to handle a gun--and use it. Learn
to face men, and hold them in the place that belongs them, whether
they're Indians or white. I'll die later on. But I won't die till I'm
ready. And that'll only be when I see you fit to stand alone. Then I'll
be glad, and I'll die easy."

The natural protest had promptly risen to the girl's lips.

"But I'll have Father," she cried. "Please, please let me help you,
Mother dear. I want to make you happy, and comfortable, and better. I
don't want you to die, and----"

But her plea was never completed. A hard, cold light suddenly leapt into
the sick woman's haggard eyes.

"Don't mention your father to me," she cried fiercely, "He's no father
of yours. Cut the thought of his help right out of your mind. Forget it,
and work--work as I say. Work and learn, so you don't need to fear man
or--devil."

It was more than three years ago since the scene occurred. Her mother
had said she would live. She had lived, and was still dragging on a now
completely bedridden life. She lived, and, to the girl, it sometimes
seemed that it was only the fierce purpose in her mind that kept her
alive.

From that time, despite all other inclination, Keeko had obeyed. She had
plunged herself into the battle of the Northland which only the hardiest
could hope to survive. Even the winter trail she had dared
and--conquered. Oh, yes. She had obeyed and she had realized her
mother's commands to the letter. She had reached that point now when
she feared neither man nor--devil.

But for all her ability the whole of Keeko's equipment was only a
splendid veneer. Under it all she remained the simple-hearted girl, the
loyally devoted daughter. Her mother was still her first concern, a
concern that haunted her in the far distant woods, and on the waters of
the river, in storm and sunshine alike, and amidst the snows of the
winter trail. Each time she returned to her home she feared to find her
mother gone, flown to that rest from which there was no returning. And,
as the seasons passed her fears only increased. Her mother fought with a
passion of bitter purpose, but she was struggling against an
irresistible foe.

It was this that troubled Keeko now. It was the thought of nearly six
months' absence, and that which she might return to, that robbed her
eyes of their smiling light. She must go, she knew. It was her mother's
will. But she was loth, bitterly loth.

She passed within the low doorway of the fort, and approached her
mother's room. The place was all very crude. Its atmosphere lacked all
sense of comfort. It was all makeshift, and the stern days of the old
buccaneers frowned out of every shadowed corner. Keeko had neither time
nor inclination to brighten the place to which her step-father's plans
had brought them. And her mother--? Her mother was indifferent to all
but the purpose which seemed to keep her hovering upon the brink of the
grave.

When Keeko entered the sick room the attendant squaw gladly enough
departed to the sunlight outside. And, left alone, the girl prepared to
take her customary farewell. The eyes of the sick woman lit at the sight
which was her only remaining joy in life. But the tone of her voice
retained its privileged quality of complaint.

"You're pulling out?" she demanded, in a low, husky voice, in which
there was always a gasp. "I was hoping you'd be around earlier, seeing
you won't get back till fall."

The girl understood. She did not take up the challenge.

"I had to fix the outfit right, Mother," she said. "You can't even rely
on Little One Man. But I guess it's all fixed now. How are you feeling?
Better? You're looking----"

"You don't need to ask fool questions. You don't need to worry how I
look. It's you we need to think for. How many boys are you taking?"

"Three. Little One Man, Snake Foot, and Med'cine Charlie. They're all I
need. Snake Foot and Charlie with the big canoe and outfit, and Little
One Man and me with the other. We're out after a big bunch of pelts."

The sick woman's eyes shone prompt approval, for all the fixity of their
regard.

"See and get them. You've put your cash away. You've hidden it close. I
mean the cash for your trade at Seal Bay. That way you'll be fixed all
right. Keep it close, child. This year you need a good haul. Yes, yes.
And trade it, and hide the cash. Always hide your money. How much have
you got?"

"Nearly two thousand dollars."

"Not enough. Not enough. You need more. See you get it this year."

The mother broke off in a spasm of coughing, and Keeko stood helpless
and fearing until the fit had passed.

The tragedy of it all was terrible to the girl who had to look on so
utterly helpless. The convulsed figure beneath the coloured blankets was
simply skin and bone. The alabaster of the sunken cheeks was untouched
by any hectic display. The ravages of the consumption were too far
advanced for that. The wreck was terrible, and the dreadful cough seemed
to be tearing the last remaining life out of the poor soul's body.

"Well, don't stand around, child," the sick woman gasped, after a
prolonged struggle for breath. "You're going to eat. I can smell the
cooking. Well, go and eat. It's good to be able to. You've got to get
another three thousand dollars. You can get them out of your furs--if
you've any luck. Maybe this year. Don't worry for me. I'll die when I
feel like it, but not before. God bless you, child--as you deserve. You
needn't come around again before you pull out. It's time wasted, and
you've none to spare. Good-bye. You can send Lu-cana in to me again when
you go."

The straining eyes closed as though to shut out sight of the going of
the child who was all that was left to the remnant of a mother heart.
And Keeko knew that the dismissal must be accepted. There could be no
tender farewell. Her mother forbade it. Yet the girl was longing to
nurse and caress the suffering creature in her arms. But she understood.
Her mother refused everything for herself in a burning fever of urgency.
There was time for nothing--nothing but that purpose which she had set
her heart on.

Keeko obeyed. She passed out of the room at once.

Her meal was awaiting her, a rough, plain meal prepared by the squaw of
Little One Man. She partook of it in the kitchen, the long, dark old
hallplace that had probably served as some sort of barracks for the
disreputable pirates of centuries ago. She ate with a healthy appetite,
and some half hour later quit the shadows of the gloomy fort for the
bright sunlight of a spring noon.

The hour of her departure was nearing, and Keeko glanced down at the
landing. Her canoes lay there at their moorings, but----

Her orders had been disobeyed! The canoes were deserted. Little One Man
was nowhere to be seen. Neither were the other boys. A quick frown of
displeasure darkened her pretty face, and she moved down to the water's
edge almost at a run.

But her journey was interrupted. It was the sound of a familiar, angry
voice, harsh, furious. It came from behind her, somewhere behind the
fort. The words were indistinguishable in their violence, but, as she
listened, there came another sound with which she was all too familiar.
It was the sickening flog of a rawhide quirt on a human body. It was her
step-father flogging an Indian, with all the brutality of his
ungovernable temper.

Keeko's eyes flashed in the direction of the canoes. Inspiration leapt.
Where were _her_ boys? They had no concern with the work of the fort.
They were _hers_. Something of the teachings and instincts of the life
she had learned stirred her to action. Light as a deer she ran to the
landing, and snatched up a rifle lying in one of the boats. It was the
instinct of self-preservation. But it was also an expression of her
determination to enforce her rights--if need be.

There was no hesitation. Keeko had learned so much in the past three
years. She knew the man who was her step-father. She knew his brutality
to Indians, and she suspected more. She hated the thought in her mind
now. She even feared it. But she was determined.

She was late by the seconds it had taken her to reach the spot. It was a
spot she knew well enough. A single tree standing by itself just behind
the fort. She found a group of Indians gathered about it looking on in
apparent indifference. Above their heads, in their midst, she beheld
the rise and fall of a heavy quirt.

Into the midst of this gathering she thrust her way. And, in a moment,
her worst suspicions were realized. Her boy, Snake Foot, was bound to
the tree-trunk. Bared to the waist, cowering but silent, he was
shrinking under the cruel blows of the quirt. Nicol, his dark eyes
blazing with a merciless fury, was flinging every ounce of his strength
into each blow of the terrible weapon in his hand. Keeko's horrified
eyes missed nothing. She saw that Little One Man and Med'cine Charlie
were amongst the crowd. It was all she needed.

In a moment she had flung herself in front of her Indian's bleeding
body, and whether by design or chance the muzzle of her rifle was
pointing and covering her step-father.

Her eyes were on his inflamed face. They were confronting him without a
sign of fear or any other emotion.

"Don't let that quirt fall on me!" she cried. "I want Snake Foot right
now, and I'm going to have him. Little One Man," she went on, without
removing her eyes from the furious face of the man still flourishing his
quirt aloft, "just cut him adrift right away, and hustle down to the
landing. We're going to pull out--sharp."

But Nicol had recovered from his surprise, and his mad fury suddenly
leapt into full flood again.

"Stand aside, girl!" he roared violently. "This swine refused to obey my
orders and I'm going to teach him--and anyone else--who's master here.
Get out of my way," he bellowed with an ominous threat of the quirt.

Keeko stood her ground. Her two boys had closed in towards her. They
were on either side of her, and a wicked gleam lit the eyes of Little
One Man as he watched the man with his upraised weapon. Keeko knew her
step-father had been drinking. The signs were plain enough to her. They
were all too familiar. But there was no yielding in her, whatever the
consequences of her act.

"Cut him adrift," she cried sharply, to the men beside her. Then to
Nicol her tone was only a shade less commanding. "Let that quirt touch
me, and I won't answer for the consequences. Guess you've no right to
thrash my boy, and I'm right here to see you quit. Think it over," she
added, and, with her last word, there was a movement of her rifle which
added to its aggression.

Just for a moment it looked as though a clash was inevitable. Just for a
moment it seemed as if the man's half-drunken madness was about to drive
him to extremes. But the girl's cool nerve, or more probably, perhaps,
the presence of her rifle, seemed to have a sobering effect. There was
the snick of Little One Man's razor-like knife as he released his bound
comrade from the flogging post, then Nicol, with a filthy oath, flung
his quirt on the ground, and, turning, thrust his way through the crowd,
and strode back to the fort.

Five minutes later Keeko was down at the landing. She was standing
looking on while her Indians cast off the moorings of the canoes. She
was shaking from head to foot. But not a sign of her weakness was
permitted in the sharp, clear orders she flung at her crew.




CHAPTER V

A DUEL


"What's amiss with Keeko?"

The sick woman opened a pair of startled eyes. She half turned her face
towards the darkened doorway.

Nicol was standing there. He had entered the room at that moment, but
with a quiet unusual to him. She gazed at him without reply. Perhaps the
activity of her brain was dulling. Perhaps she was searching the face,
the sight of which she had learned in years to hate and fear.

It was a handsome face still, for all the man was approaching fifty. It
was fleshy, and its dark beard did not improve it. But the eyes were
keen and fine for all there was coldness and cruelty in their hard
depths. The abundant moustache was without a tinge of grey in it, but it
lacked trimness, and hung over a cruel mouth like a tattered curtain.
The woman knew the value of these good looks, however. They served to
mask a mind and heart that knew no scruple. So it was that her reply
finally came in a quick apprehensive question.

"What d'you mean?" she gasped, in her spasmodic way. "What's she done?"

Nicol laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. He moved across to the bed
and sprawled himself upon its foot, while his eyes searched the
emaciated face as though some secret speculation was going on in his
mind while he talked of other things.

"She held me up with a gun," he said slowly. "That's all. She held me
up! Me! And she did it with a nerve I had to reckon was pretty fine.
There were twenty or more of the darn Shaunekuks around. Guess I was mad
at the time. But I had to laff after."

The unmoving eyes of the woman on the bed were reading him. No mood of
his could deceive her. She had learned her lesson bitterly in something
like seventeen years. The man was acting now. He was laughing over an
incident which filled him with a consuming rage.

"You came here to tell me about it." The voice was faint with bodily
weakness, but there was no weariness in the anxious watchfulness of her
eyes. "Guess you'd best tell it. It's not your way to waste time in this
room with anything pleasant to hand out. It's easier for me to listen,
and nothing you can say can do me much hurt."

The man laughed again. It was a laugh that was cut off abruptly.

"I don't need to look for sympathy where you are," he said. "Anyway I
don't guess I need any."

"No."

The antagonism of the monosyllable was unmistakable.

Nicol shrugged.

"That swine, Snake Foot," he said. "He refused to do as I told him. He
guessed Keeko needed him at the landing, and he hadn't time for me. So I
took him to the flogging post."

It was said coldly. Quite without emotion.

"And you flogged him with your--quirt?"

"Sure."

The man's teeth clipped together.

"Oh, yes," he went on, after a moment. "I'm not the sort to let a neche
get away with that sort of thing. You see, I reckon I'm master around
this layout."

"And Keeko?"

Again came the man's ominous laugh in reply.

"She was quick. I reckoned she was here with you. Making her fancy
farewell. But she was around before I'd hardly begun. Oh, yes. She acted
her show piece, and if you'd seen it I guess she'd have got your
applause good. It was against me. She jumped in front of that
red-skinned swine so my quirt nearly came down on her. But it didn't.
And I'm glad. Guess she's too soft, and pretty, and dandy to hurt--yet.
A feller doesn't feel that way with women later, when they show him the
hell they've always got waiting on any fool man. She's got grit. Sure
she has. It's good for a girl to have grit, and I'd say she's got
it--plenty. But she put up a gun at me. And I reckon she meant to use it
if need be. It's that that's the matter. That's been put into her darn
fool head. That's not Keeko."

The man's manner had changed abruptly. His heavy brows depressed, and,
to the listener, it was as though she could hear his teeth grit over
each word he spoke. But even so she could not restrain her passionate
joy at the defeat the man's words admitted.

"She beat you?" she said, a great light flooding her big eyes. "She beat
you," she repeated, "and made you quit. She took your measure for the
coward who could flog a wretched neche who couldn't defend himself. I'm
glad."

For a moment the sting of the woman's words looked like overwhelming the
man's restraint. But the black shadow of his brows suddenly lightened,
and again he shrugged his heavy shoulders with a transparent
indifference.

"Oh, yes," he admitted. "She beat me." Then he added slowly, and with
an appearance of deep reflection: "But then she's young. How old?
Nineteen?" He nodded. "Nineteen, and as pretty as a picture. Prettier by
a heap than her mother ever was." His lips parted with a noise that
expressed appreciation and appetite. "Say, did you ever see such a
figure? She kind of makes you think of a yearling deer, or the picture
of one of those swell girls Diana always has chasing around her. And she
don't know a thing but what this country's taught her--which I guess
isn't a lot. But she can learn. Oh, yes. She can learn." Then with
deliberate, cold emphasis: "And one of the things she'll learn is that
she can't hold me up with a gun without paying for it."

The mother's eyes widened with fear, with loathing.

"What do you mean?" she cried, with a force which must have alarmed
anyone who understood or cared for her bodily condition. "Pay? How can
you make her pay? Oh, you don't know Keeko. You don't know what you're
up against. Keeko would shoot you like a dog if you dared----"

The man raised a protesting hand and smiled into the eyes which betrayed
so much.

"Easy, easy," he said. "You're jumping too far. It's taken you years,
and I guess you haven't learnt yet. Guess I'll have to do better. You're
one of those fool women who never learn. If you'd horse sense you
wouldn't have said what you handed me just now. You're glad Keeko took
my measure for a coward. You're pleased, mighty pleased she beat me. Oh,
yes, I know, you've done your best she should act that way. That's
because you're scared, and you don't love me like you used to. You
reckon she'd shoot me like a dog. Anyway you hope so."

Nicol shook his head, and prolonged the smile with which he regarded the
mother's emaciated features.

"Oh, no," he went on. "She won't shoot me like a dog. But I'll tell you
what will happen. I don't mind telling you now. She won't get back till
the fall. And when she comes back you won't see her. So you won't be
able to hand her the things I'm saying. You're more than half dead now.
You'll be all the way before she comes back, and I guess you'll be able
to lie around somewhere out of sight in the woods watching the game I
play. I'm going to show Keeko what a fool she was to listen to your
talk. She's just going to see the dandy fellow I really am. She's going
to be queen of this camp, set up on a throne I've made for her. And if I
know women she's going to fall for it. There's no need for scruple.
She's not my daughter. I'm not even her step-father. I've a hand full of
trumps waiting for her, and when you're dead, and she gets back, I'm
going to play 'em all. Then--after--when I'm tired of the game, she's
going to pay for that gun play till she hates to remember the fool
mother whose talk she ever listened to. We're here a thousand miles from
anywhere, which is the sort of thing only a crazy woman like you could
ever for--Hello! What in hell d'you want?"

Nicol sat up. In a moment his entire manner changed. He scowled
threateningly as he eyed the dusky figure in the doorway. It was the
squaw Lu-cana whose moccasined feet had given out no sound as she
approached.

"White feller man come by river," she said, in the soft, hushed voice of
her race, while her eyes refused to face the scowl of the white man.

"White man? What the hell! Who the devil is he?"

Nicol had risen to his feet, his manner brutally threatening. The squaw
feared him, as did all the Indians. But in the presence of the sick
white woman she found a measure of courage.

"Him wait. Him say, 'Boss Nicol, yes?'" she replied, and stood waiting
with her dark eyes fixed upon the woman she served.

But the sick woman gave no sign. Her poor troubled brain was staggered
by the hideous threat which she had been forced to listen to. She lay
there like a corpse prepared for burial, utterly unconcerned for that
which was passing.

Just for a moment the man hesitated. He glanced back at the bed as
though regretful at being dragged from his torture of the defenceless
woman lying there. Then with a shrug, he moved across the room, and,
thrusting the squaw aside, hurried out to meet his unexpected visitor.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was an utterly different man who shook the visitor by the hand. Nicol
was smiling with a pleasant amiability. And no man could better express
cordiality than he.

"It's 'Tough' Alroy," he said, as though that individual were the only
person in the world he wanted to see. "Well, well," he went on heartily.
"My head's just bursting with pleasure and surprise. Say, I often
remember the days--and nights--in Seal Bay. Gee! This brings back times,
eh? Is it just a trip or?----"

"Business."

The man grinned. He was more than well named. His black eyes were full
of good-humoured deviltry. He was a type, in his picturesque buckskin,
familiar enough among the trail men of the Northland. Tough, as his
nickname suggested, hard, unscrupulous, ready for anything that the gods
of fortune passed down to him, nothing concerned, nothing mattered so
that he gathered enough for a red time at his journey's end.

"Business?"

"Yep. Lorson Harris. It's big. Guess I've a brief along with me that's
to be set right into your hands, an' when you've eaten the stuff wrote
ther', why, you need to light a pipe with it, an' see ther's none left
over. I've been takin' a hand up to now. But ther's reasons why I've cut
out. It's for you now. Can we parley?"

The trader's cordiality had become absorbed in a deeply serious regard.
He was guessing hard. Lorson Harris was the one man in the world whom he
seriously feared. He knew he was bound to him by chains which galled
every time he strained against them. The great trader's tentacles were
spread out over the length and breadth of the Northland. There was no
escape from them. He had said a few moments before that here, at Fort
Duggan, they were a thousand miles from anywhere. But then he was
thinking of something quite different. So long as he lived in the
Northland he knew he was within immediate reach of Lorson Harris. What
was this message from Lorson Harris? What did it portend?

He abruptly turned and indicated the broad sill of the door of the main
fort building.

"Sit right here, boy," he said, forcing himself to a return to his
original cordiality. "Guess there's room for us both. We can talk till
you're tired here. After we're through I don't seem to see any
difficulty in raking out a bucket of red-hot fire juice or any other old
thing you happen to fancy."

Tough Alroy grinned and accepted the invitation.

"That's the talk," he said. "Here's Lorson's letter. You read that right
away, and I'll make a big talk after."

The two men sat down, and while Nicol tore open the dirty envelope, and
read his taskmaster's orders, Tough lit a pipe, and watched him out of
the corners of his black, restless, wicked eyes.




CHAPTER VI

THE KING OF THE FOREST


A roar of fury echoes through the primeval forest. It plays amidst the
countless aisles of jack-pine. It loses itself in the dense growing
tamarack, or dies amidst the softer plumage of spruce. It is no mere
bellow of impotent rage. It is a note of defiance. It is a challenge to
the legions of the forest. It is the gage of battle flung without
reserve.

Wide-set eyes blaze their search amidst the deeper shadows. They are
eager as well as furious. They are seeking an adversary who shuns open
conflict and wounds from afar. The great head is proudly raised aloft,
and gaping nostrils on a great clubbed muzzle snuff violently at the
air. A treacherous blow has torn open the channels of life and saturated
the heaving flanks with their rich, red tide. The King Moose stands at
bay.

With the last echo, the challenge is flung again. It is ruthless,
insistent, and deep with the violence of outraged might.

The answer comes. It comes in man's own good time. It comes in the crack
of a rifle, and the moose jolts round with a spasmodic jerk. In a moment
a movement amongst the surrounding tree-trunks captures its gaze. There
is a pause, breathless, silent. Savage wrath leaps anew, and down sweeps
the great head till the spread of antlers is couched like a forest of
lance points. The huge body is hurled in a headlong charge.

It is an act of supreme courage as splendid as it is hopeless. The
elusive foe applies a wit, a skill undreamed of in the beast mind. He is
gone in a flash, and the wounded creature stands amazed, furious,
baulked, while vicious hoofs churn the soil, and a deep-throated roar
awakens again the echoes of the forest.

But there is desperation added to defiance in the challenge now. There
is uncertainty, too. The heaving flanks are dripping with a crimson
tide. The creature is sorely wounded. For all its pride and courage, its
sufferings admit of no denial. The foe has scored. He has scored
heavily.

The climax is approaching. The final challenge is taken up at last as
the king beast would have it.

The man reappears. In a moment he is standing out amidst the
tree-trunks, slim, erect, a puny figure in a world of giants. He is not
so cowardly after all. He stands there calmly, with eyes alert,
watchful, measuring, ready to gamble his wit and skill against whatever
odds may chance.

The moose only sees. It has no thought. Only its rage. No calculation
but its immense strength. Savagery, courage, alone inspire its warfare.
So it is that fierce satisfaction rings in its greeting of the vision.

It is a moment pregnant with possibility. The doomed creature summons
its last ounce of physical might. Down drops the head till the hot blast
of nostrils flings up the mouldering soil of the ages. The great split
hoofs stamp a furious tattoo. They claw at the loose earth. Then, like a
flash, an avalanche of rage is flung into the combat.

The time has come. The man has played his game to the desired end. The
creature's fury has no terror for him. With his rifle pressed to his
shoulder, and eye glancing over the sights, he waits calmly, and full of
simple confidence. Twenty yards! Fifteen! With the low, sweeping
antlers, and the rush of hoofs that could disembowel at a single blow,
it is a desperate test of nerve. Slowly, gently, a finger compresses
itself about the trigger.

But something happens. The moose flounders in its rush. It is the
ungainly roll of a rudderless ship. It stumbles. A second, and its mad
rush ends. With a curious gasping sigh it plunges to the earth.

And the man? With his undischarged weapon lowered from his shoulder, and
the sharp crack of some stranger's rifle ringing in his ears, he stares
about him in utter and complete bewilderment.

Marcel's bewilderment was swiftly passing. Hot, impulsive resentment was
quick to take its place. All his mind and heart had been set upon that
kill. He had been robbed. Someone had robbed him in the very moment of
his victory, a victory which had cost him nine days of an arduous trail.

There was no sign. No sign anywhere. The silence of the world about him
was complete, that silence which no earthly agency ever seems to have
power to break up seriously. Like the fallen moose his angry eyes
searched the shadowed aisles for the intruder upon whom to vent his
hasty wrath. But like that other there only remained disappointment to
add to the fire of his anger. He seemed alone in the primordial world.
And yet he knew that other eyes, human eyes, were observing his every
movement.

At last he abandoned his search, and turned again to the creature
stretched in the stillness of death upon the mouldering carpet of the
forest. The bitterness of regret had replaced his impulsive heat.
Perhaps, even the philosophy of the hunter had yielded him resignation.
At any rate he quickly became absorbed in the splendid qualities of the
fallen monarch. And that which he beheld stirred anew his youthful
enthusiasm.

It was an old bull, hoary with age, and scarred with the wounds of a
hundred battles. It was truly a king in a world where might alone
prevails. He moved up to the wide-spreading antlers supporting the regal
head, as if to refuse it the final degradation of complete contact with
the soil. An exclamation of appreciation broke from him. His gaze was
fixed upon a minute, blood-rimmed puncture just behind the right eye. It
was the wound where the intruder's bullet had crashed into the
infuriated creature's brain.

"Gee! That's a swell shot!" he muttered, speaking his thought aloud,
with the habit bred of the great silences.

"But I'm sorry--now."

No echo of the forest could have startled more. No spur could have
stirred Marcel to swifter movement. He was erect in a moment, and turned
about, towering in his generous height over the slim creature smiling up
into his bewildered eyes. A white girl, wide-eyed, beautiful, was
standing before him.

"Now?"

Marcel echoed the stranger's final word stupidly.

"Yes. I'm grieved all to death--now," the girl said, with a composure in
striking contrast to Marcel's obvious confusion. "I just am. I hadn't
right. But I was scared--scared to death. You don't understand that.
Why, sure you don't. How could you? You're a man. I'm only a girl. And I
had to stand around, just waiting, with another feller within a yard or
so of sheer death, while all the time I had means in my hand of fixing
things right for him. That's how it was when I saw that moose breaking
for you. And you--why, you just looked like two cents standing there
while that feller's hoofs and horns wanted to leave you feed for the
timber wolves. I couldn't stand it. My nerve broke. I drew on him. I had
to. I loosed off. Then, I s'pose, I woke up. When I saw him drop I knew
just what I'd done. I'd stolen your beast, and--I'm sorry to death."

A girl. A white girl. Oh, yes, there was no mistake, for all the
mannishness of her clothing. Marcel stared. He had listened to her words
of regret barely comprehending their drift. He was absorbed by that
which he beheld, wondering, amazed.

A white girl here, alone in the primordial world of--Unaga.

From the pretty, fair hair peeping from under her beaver cap to the
moccasined feet, so absurdly small, under the wide-cut buckskin chapps
or trousers that clad her nether limbs, he searched stupidly for the
answer to the thousand questions which flooded his brain. Who was she?
How came she there? That amazing shot?

He noted her eyes, so wide and deep-fringed, and of a blue such as he
had never yet beheld in the Northern skies. Their dazzling light left
him almost dizzy with intoxication. Her cheeks, perfect, with the bloom
of health acquired in a life of exposure to the elements. Then her sweet
lips parted in a smile that revealed a hint of even teeth of pearly
whiteness. But these things were not all. No. There was her tall, slim
figure under its buckskin clothing. The effect was superlative.

What a vision for passionate youthful eyes to gaze upon in the shadowed
world of the Northern forests, where life and death rub shoulders every
moment of time. The youth in Marcel was aflame. There flashed through
his mind a vague memory of the wooing of the painted women of Seal Bay.

The girl's explanation, her regrets, meant nothing to him.

"What--? Where? Who are you?" he blurted, all his amazed delight flung
into a startled demand.

"I'm Keeko."

The reply was without a shadow of hesitation. It came simply, for the
wide, amused eyes had seen the youth's confusion, and the woman's mind
behind them approved.

"I'm Keeko," the girl repeated, as Marcel still struggled for composure.
"And I came right along in a hurry to tell you I'm sorry----"

Marcel thrust up a hand and pushed back his cap. It was a movement full
of significance.

"Sorry?" he cried, with an awkward laugh. "Guess you don't need to be
sorry. I need to feel that way, acting foolish, gawking around here like
some fool kid. But--you see--you're a--girl."

Keeko's smile broadened into a delicious ripple of laughter.

"Sure," she nodded. "You didn't guess I was a-jack-rabbit?"

Marcel was recovering. He, too, laughed.

"I didn't guess anything," he said. Then with a gesture of helplessness
which further added to Keeko's amusement: "I couldn't. You see
I'm--well--I'm just darned! That's all--just darned!"

"I know," the girl cried delightedly. "You didn't guess to find a girl
around. You weren't looking to find anything diff'rent from those things
they sort of experimented with when they first reckoned making a camping
ground in space for life to move around on. But you haven't said about
that old moose. I robbed you----"

"Oh, hell!" Marcel cried, flinging his head back in a happy, buoyant
laugh. "We'll just cut that darn old moose right out of this thing.
You're welcome to shoot up any old thing I've got. You're Keeko----"

"Who are you?"

"I--oh, I'm Marcel, and I come from--" He broke off and shook his head.
"No, I can't hand you that."

Marcel gazed down into the girl's pretty eyes. He had only just
remembered in time. Somehow this girl seemed to have robbed him of his
wits as well as his moose.

"Say," he went on, a moment later, with a sobering of his happy eyes. "I
came near making a bad break that time. You see, I just can't tell you
where I come from. There's secrets in the darn old Northland some folks
would give a heap of dollars to get wise to. Where I come from is one of
'em. What I'm free to tell is I'm mostly a pelt hunter. I've a biggish
outfit of Eskimo, and the usual truck of the summer trail, back there on
the river that comes out of the east. We've got this territory cached
with food dumps and things, and we're out, scattered miles over the
country, beating it for pelts with trap and gun. Guess we figger to stop
right out till it starts in to freeze up. And just about the time the
old sun gets sick worrying to make Unaga a fit place for better than
skitters and things, and chases off for its winter sleep, why we're
hitting right back to--the place I come from. I've been making the
summer trail ever since I was a kid, which isn't a long way back, and I
allow this is the first time it's ever been my luck to find better than
the silences that's liable to set you plumb crazed if you don't happen
to have been born to 'em, the same as I was. Guess that's about all
there is to me I know of, except that secret I can't just hand you."

It was all said so frankly, so simply. It was not the story Marcel had
to tell that established confidence. It was the telling of it. And it
needed no words from the girl to admit her approval. It was shining in
her smiling eyes, while a wonderful feeling began to stir in a heart
that was only a shade less simple than the heart of the youth.

Keeko, woman-like, applied no reason where her feelings were concerned.
She liked the man, and she liked the name he called himself by. She
liked his great, height and breadth of shoulder, and she liked his
clear, handsome eyes with their ingenuous smile. That was sufficient.

She nodded with that intimate air of sympathy.

"I know," she said readily. "It's a land of secrets north of 60°. That's
why folks live in a country that can't ever get out of its eternal
sleep, and only the nightmare of storm disturbs it. The secret isn't
usually ours. The secret mostly belongs to those who brought us here,
and though maybe we don't understand it right, why, the thing just grows
up in our minds, and we find we couldn't talk of it to strangers any
more than if it was our own. That's the way of it. It's a country that
starts in to break your kid's heart, and ends by making you love it--if
it doesn't kill you."

"Oh, yes. I love this old north," she went on with gentle warmth. "Maybe
you do, too. It's half-baked and dead-tough anyway. But it teaches even
a girl the things it doesn't hurt anyone to know. It's good for us all
to get up against Nature in the cold raw. Guess if I was back in a city
the biggest thing in my life would likely be squeezing hands made to do
things with into gloves that weren't. Or maybe reckoning up which beau
could hand me the best time before I got too old to count. It isn't that
way here. The north teaches you to think and act right, and you don't
have to worry that the girl next door's wearing a later mode in shirt
waists than you. No. Man or woman, we've got to make good or go under.
We're all here for that, only some of us don't know it. I'm kind of glad
I've learned it, and I'm mighty grateful to those who've taught me.
That's why I'm out on the summer trail same as you. But I've only a
small outfit. Three neches and two canoes back there on the river that
comes up out of the south, and doesn't quit till it reaches the seas of
snow and ice that never thaw. We can't chase the territory wide like you
can. We can't carry food for caches, or make the big portages. So we
hunt the river, and a day's trail on either bank. There's beaver and fox
to be had that way, and it's most all I can hope for. I don't worry if
we get it plenty. You see, I need it big--this trip."

Something of the strangeness of the encounter was passing from Marcel's
mind. A curious feeling of intimacy was induced by the girl's brief
outline of the things that concerned herself. Then, above all, there was
that youthful desire, untainted by any baseness of passion, the natural
desire inspired by the appeal of a sweet face, and the smiling eyes of a
young girl, battling in a country where there is no margin for the
strongest of men.

Nor had Marcel forgotten all the early teachings of Uncle Steve. He knew
it was demanded of him that woman, in all her moods, was man's heritage
to help, to protect, to relieve, where possible, of those heavy burdens
with which nature so mercilessly weighs her down. The opening lay there
to his hand, and he seized upon it with an impulse that needed nothing
to support it.

"You're needing pelts?" he cried. "Why, that's great!"

Keeko laughed shortly. She failed to realize the thought prompting
Marcel's evident delight.

"It would be greater if I didn't," she returned, with a rueful shake of
the head.

"How's that?"

"Why it's days since our traps have shown us so much as a wolf track.
And it's nearly a week since we took our last beaver. There's three
months of the season left, and I'm needing a three-thousand-dollar trade
with Lorson Harris at Seal Bay. Maybe you don't know what that means?"

"Maybe I do," Marcel laughed.

"You do?" Keeko was forced to a responsive laugh. "Yes. It means a whole
lot," she went on. "And--I don't guess we've taken five hundred dollars
yet--at his price. Last year I took three silver foxes, and a brace of
jet black beauties that didn't set him squealing at fifty dollars each.
No. They were jo-dandies," she sighed appreciatively. "But it hasn't
been that way this season," she continued, with pathetic regret. "It
seems like there isn't a single fox this side of the big north hills."

Marcel shook his head.

"But there is," he said very definitely.

"Is there?" Keeko shook her head. "Then I must have been looking the
other way most all the time."

A reply hovered upon Marcel's lips. But he seemed to change his mind. He
could not stand the obscuring of the sun of the girl's pretty eyes. He
turned away, and laid his rifle aside. Then he sprawled his big body at
the foot of an adjacent tree, and sat with his wide shoulders propped
against it for support.

"Say, Keeko," he cried, gazing up into the troubled eyes watching him,
and addressing the girl by name for the first time, "let's sit. We've
got to make a big talk. Anyway, I have. I feel like one of those fool
neches sitting in a war council, and handing out wisdom that wouldn't
fool a half-hatched skitter. Still, I reckon I've got one hell of a
notion, and notions worry me to death if I can't hand 'em on to some
feller who can't defend himself. I'm not often worried that way. Will
you listen awhile?"

Marcel's effort was not without effect. The girl's eyes cleared of their
shadows, swept away by a smiling amusement. She found him quite
irresistible in the gloom of her twilight surroundings, and forthwith
permitted herself to subside upon the ground opposite him, with legs
crossed, and her rifle lying across her knees.

"It's easy listening," she said with a laugh.

"Good!"

Marcel laughed, too.

"Now, it's this," he began, with a profound solemnity that delighted the
girl. "If I hand you anything you don't fancy listening to, why, say so
right away, and I'll quit. You see, I don't get much practice handing it
out to a girl, and I'm liable to make breaks--bad breaks. You see, we're
mostly a thousand miles outside the world, and you're a lone girl in a
hell of a lone land. I'd be thankful for you to get hold of it that I
was raised to reckon a girl needs all the help a decent man can hand
her. That's his duty. Plumb. And he hasn't a right on earth to figger on
any return. Well, I haven't got over that notion yet. It goes with me
every time, and I pray the good God of this darnation wilderness it
always will. I allow this is just preliminary, to make you feel good
before I start in to talk. It isn't the sermon you may guess it is, so
that'll make it easier remembering what lies back of my head when you
start--guessing."

Marcel produced a pipe and stuffed it with the tobacco he flaked off a
sad-looking plug. The pipe was crudely carved in Eskimo fashion out of
the ivory of a walrus tusk. Keeko watched him silently with an interest
she made no attempt to disguise, while deep in her heart was stirring
that feeling she was wholly unconscious of. His "preliminary" was
unnecessary. In her woman's way she read him to her own satisfaction.

He lit his pipe carefully, and as carefully extinguished his match. They
were in a forest where the decaying vegetation was as dry as tinder.

"You need pelts," he said, after a considering pause. "You need three
thousand dollars trade in 'em. You want silver fox and black fox.
Well--you can have enough to set Lorson Harris squealing."

Keeko was startled.

"But--I don't get you!" she cried, with the helplessness of complete
amazement.

"It's easy."

Marcel smoked on in leisurely enjoyment of the surprise he had given
this nymph of the primordial.

Keeko shook her head.

"You mean--" she broke off. "No, you're a pelt hunter yourself. You said
so. We're rivals on the fur trail."

"Rivals?" Marcel sat up in his turn. "We can't be," he said earnestly.
"I'm some sort of a man. You're a--girl. You've forgotten."

They sat regarding each other. A great hope was in Marcel's heart. In
fancy he was picturing to himself months of this girl's companionship in
the deep silences and tremendous solitudes which had become so much a
part of his life. He had visions of this tall, beautiful creature always
by his side, ready, skilful, eager. With the sympathy of their craft
always between them, and, for himself, a purpose, an incentive such as
never in his life had he possessed. The contemplation of it all was too
wonderful for words. It was a dream, a happy, wonderful dream.

But for Keeko it was all different. She was not concerned with a dream
future. She was thinking of the generosity, the reckless generosity
that set this splendid youth desirous of yielding all to satisfy her
needs. He asked no question as to those needs. He knew nothing of her,
or of those shadows lurking in her background. He only understood that
she wanted, and it was his pleasure and purpose to supply that want at
his own expense.

"I haven't forgotten," she said, with something like a sigh. "But you
want to hand me furs that are your own trade. And I--I can't accept
them."

She shook her head definitely. Then with an effort she thrust the regret
she felt into the background, and her eyes lit with a smile of humour.

"You haven't heard the notion _I_ was raised to--yet," she said.

"No."

Marcel was satisfied with the return of her smile.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure."

The girl laughed.

"I guess it's not as simple as yours," she said. "A woman's reason isn't
generally simple. You see, she musses up feelings with argument which
generally confuse the issue. Guess a woman's life is mostly a thing of
confusion. You see, she started bad, though it wasn't her fault. When
the folks, who ought to know better, started in to make man before his
mother you can't wonder it's that way. Now I was raised to believe man
is woman's rightful protector. There's women who reckon she's got man
left standing when it comes to helping things along. But she's the sort
of woman who always cooks her own favourite dish when she reckons to
give her man a real treat. There's the other woman who's so sure man is
her rightful protector that she's not content to wait around for his
protection. She gets right out and grabs it, along with anything else
he's foolish enough to leave within her reach. Then there's the woman
who shouts around that she doesn't need protecting anyway. She mostly
ends up with grabbing all the man-protection that happens to be lying
around, without worrying whose 'claim' she's jumping. But to get back to
the notion I was raised to, it seems to me that man is surely a woman's
rightful protector, but there isn't a thing on earth can make me see
that she's the right to take any sort of protection he hasn't the right
to give. That sort of woman's a vampire. And vampires are things I'd
like to see drowned so deep they can't ever resurrect. If I took your
pelts I'd be a vampire for taking something you haven't the right to
give. They're your trade, and I guess out of your trade you've got to
pay your outfit of Eskimo. Do you see? To my way of thinking those furs
are not yours to give, just because you find a fool girl squealing for
three thousand dollars of trade. But say," she added, with a warmth of
real feeling in her smiling eyes, "I thank you for the thought. I thank
you right from the bottom of my heart."

Marcel remained quite undisturbed. He sat deliberately puffing at his
absurdly ornamented pipe, his honest eyes meditatively smiling. The
girl's rejection of his offer only made him the more determined. At last
he stirred, and sat up cross-legged, and, removing his pipe, pointed his
words with its stem, as though to drive them more fully home.

"That's all right," he said. "I'm making no kick on that. It just makes
me feel how sore you need those pelts, and how right I am to want to
hand 'em to you. I've told you what I fancy doing. Now we'll form a
committee and negotiate. Folks always form committees when they can't
agree, and then they can't agree worse. Committees always elect one of
their members chairman, and he has a casting vote. We're a committee of
two, so we'll elect a chairman, and that'll make three--chairman with
casting vote. I'll elect myself chairman. That way we'll have no sort of
difficulty. All in favour, etc." He thrust up both hands and his pipe
while he boyishly gazed up at them with a triumphant smile.

"Carried unanimously," he cried. "Now I've two says to your one----"

"I was reckoning it was more than that," Keeko interrupted, laughing.

"Were you? Maybe you're right," Marcel agreed. "Well, say, let's cut the
fooling. See here, Keeko," he went on earnestly. "I've got all the pelts
you need to my own share. I wouldn't be robbing even an Eskimo, who most
folks reckon to rob. As for me, I'm no sort of real trader. I just hunt
pelts because it suits me, and I like to hear Lorson Harris squeal when
I make him pay my prices. Still, you don't reckon to accept, that way.
That being so, how's this? I'm just free as air to hunt where I choose.
My outfit's scattered, and each hunts on his own. Well, I've all the
catch I need. You can guess that, seeing I've given nine days and nights
to trailing this old moose that isn't worth the cost of the powder that
shot him up. Cut me out as a trader. Just take me on as guide. I'll join
your outfit till it freezes up, and I'll find you the best foxes the
North Country ever produced. I'll promise you that three thousand
dollars and to spare. It isn't bluff. It's just God's truth. And if you
feel like you're sick to death of the sight of what folks who's friendly
call my face any old time, why you only need to say things, and I'll hit
a trail out of sight at a gait that would leave a caribou flapping its
ears with worry. I mean that, every darn word, and the chairman and half
this fool committee are voting for it. Well?"

The appeal was irresistible. Keeko would have been less than the woman
she was had she further resisted the happy enthusiasm and youthful
impulse of this great creature who had been a stranger to her less than
an hour ago. There was honesty and confidence in every word he uttered,
and there was that simple boyish admiration in his good-looking eyes
which made the final unconscious appeal. She yielded, yielded in that
spirit which promptly left Marcel her slave for all time.

Her eyes were brimming with a smile that possessed the moisture of tears
of thankfulness.

"Guess this committee is unanimous," she said. "There's no argument left
in them. But it wants to record the biggest vote of thanks to the
chairman that was ever passed--and doesn't know how to express it.
We----"

But Marcel was on his feet and holding out his great hands to help the
girl to hers. His eyes were wide and shining in a way that must have lit
a happy smile in the steady eyes of Uncle Steve, had he been there to
witness.

"Where's your camp?" he cried. "I need to start my job right away."

The man's demand was thrilling with the feelings of the moment. Keeko
ignored his help. She, too, was on her feet in a moment, and pointing
away amongst the shadows of the forest to the west.

"Back on the river," she cried, catching something of the infection of
the other's headlong impulse. Then with a glance down at the fallen
moose which had been the means of bringing them together, her tone
altered to one of almost tenderness. "But this?" she questioned.

Marcel laughed.

"Don't worry with that. I'll come along for the skull and the horns when
the wolves have done with it. I've quit big game. I'm out for fox,
silver and black. I'm out to break Lorson Harris's bank roll--for you.
Come on!"




CHAPTER VII

SUMMER DAYS


The youth in Marcel was abundant, it was even headlong. But even so,
there was a strong steadying strain of wisdom in him, the wisdom of the
Northland, bought at a price that few can afford to pay. It served to
hold the balance under the influence of this new adventure.

It was something more than adventure. There was a significance in the
extraordinary encounter with Keeko that dimmed to the commonplace every
thrill he had ever experienced in the past. It had lifted him at a bound
to that pinnacle of manhood, which until the moment when woman presents
herself upon youth's stage of life can never be reached.

Every pre-conceived object in life had suddenly been brushed aside by
the exhilaration of the moment. The subdued colours of his horizon had
been completely overwhelmed by the new radiance. Even Uncle Steve, that
precious guide and friend, who had always occupied the central place in
his focus, had almost been forgotten.

For Keeko, too, whose youth had been shadowed from the moment
understanding had broken through the golden mists of childhood's
dream-world, a new meaning to life had been born. She made no attempt to
look ahead, and the shadows of the past had no power whatever to rob her
of one moment of chaste delight. All she knew, or cared, was that,
almost on the instant, the personality of something over six feet of
manhood had taken possession of her will. And, with that splendid
abandon which generous nature mercifully ordains for youth, she yielded
herself to the ecstasy of it.

Keeko was resting upon a fallen tree-trunk. It had been torn up by the
roots and flung headlong by the merciless fury of a winter storm. Marcel
was standing beside her. The way had been long, but there was no real
weariness in either. They had simply paused at their journey's end to
survey the great gorge lying at their feet. In the heart of it lay the
highway that came up out of the south.

It was a scene of crude immensity which left all life infinitesimal. The
barren of it suggested the body of Nature gnawed to the bone, picked
clean of the fair flesh with which it is her wont to distract the eyes
and senses of man. There lay a frowning, rock-bound chasm at their feet,
and deep down in the heart of it a broad, sluggish stream. The two
youthful figures were gazing out across the gaping lips at the far-off,
distant hills rising up in defence of the secrets of the Northern seas
of snow and ice.

For some moments they sat in silence before the might and mystery of
that untrodden world. Awe lurked in the eyes of both. It was that awe of
the Northland which breeds terror in the weak, and only the strong may
survive.

Marcel broke the spell of it. He laughed with a quiet confidence that
found no echo in the girl's heart.

"It's pretty darn big," he said, with something almost like contempt in
his tone. "But it pays us--toll. I--a man. And you--why, you just
a--girl."

It was the pride of youth and strength that spoke. Uncle Steve would not
have talked that way--now. Years ago--perhaps. Years ago before his
terrible journey across Unaga, when he, too, had defied the very things
Marcel now spurned.

But the awe in Keeko's eyes only deepened.

"Maybe you're right," she said doubtfully. "But sometimes it scares me.
Scares me to death."

She drew a long breath as she made the admission.

Marcel's quick answer came with a laugh of amusement.

"Yet you come up this river with just three neches," he cried. "You make
rapids that would hold me guessing, for all the outfit of Eskimo I
carry. You'll beat it back south to your home against a two mile stream
with a deadly winter hard on your moccasined heels. I just want to laff.
You're scared! Why, get a look right out there, just as far as you can
see. I mean where the haze shuts down like a curtain on a forbidden
world. There, where there's the dim outline of one big hill propping up
the roof of things, standing above all the others. If you took the
notion there were pelts there that would worry Lorson Harris to pay for,
you'd think no more of making those hills than you worry with the trail
over this darn river. That scare notion isn't worth two cents."

The admiration, the obvious delight of Marcel as he derided the girl's
plea left a great warmth of pleasure flooding Keeko's eyes.

"You think that?" she cried. Then with a nod: "I'm kind of glad. But you
don't know Little One Man--yet. And Snake Foot. And Med'cine Charlie. It
isn't me. I've maybe the will. But--I haven't the skill, or the grit.
No. My boys were raised on the rapids of the Dubawnt River. If you heard
Little One Man I guess you'd know just what that means. As for me, I've
learned things from necessity. I had to learn, same as I've to collect
those furs Lorson Harris is going to pay for. Oh, I'm not full of a
courage like you think. It's will. Will bred of necessity. It's the sort
of will that can't reckon the balance of chances. Chances just don't
exist. That's all. It's as you say. That ghost of a hill yonder would
have to hand me what I need if I couldn't get it nearer home. But I'd be
scared--sure. Badly scared, same as I felt watching you waiting on that
moose."

Marcel withdrew his gaze from the tremendous view beyond the river. He
turned to the scene of the little encampment so far down below. He saw a
moving figure by the canoes, beached on the barren foreshore. He beheld
the curl of smoke rising from a camp-fire. He knew that a meal was in
preparation. It was all as he understood such things, and its interest
for him was that it was the home of the girl who had so suddenly taken
possession of his life.

"Necessity," he said reflectively. "Guess I'm not just wise to things
like older folk. But it seems to me 'necessity' is the thing of all
things in life. It sort of seems the key that unlocks the meaning of
everything. It sets you chasing pelts to sell for dollars, and it leaves
their finding just the one thing worth while. If you got plenty food you
don't care two cents if you eat it or not. If you haven't, why the
thought of food sets you dreaming beautiful dreams of things you never
tasted, and maybe you'd hate anyway if folks handed them to you. If you
got a swell bed that's all set ready for you, maybe your fancy sets you
sleeping on the hard ground with just a blanket to cover you. If you
hadn't, then the thought of that darn blanket would likely set you crazy
to grab the other feller's. I come along out every season chasing pelts.
Seeing I don't need 'em it leaves me trailing a bull moose that hands me
a chance of getting to grips with the business of life an' death. Say,
give me 'necessity' all the time. It's the thing that makes men of the
folks you can make anything of at all, and, anyway, makes life a thing
to grab right up into your arms and hug so as if you never meant to let
go. Necessity for you--a girl--is just the thing that beats me. Why, the
men folk around you must be all sorts of everyday folk that wouldn't
matter a circumstance if the whole darn lot got lost in the fog of their
own notions, and were left to hand in their checks hollering for the
help they never fancied handing you."

There was hot indignation in the final denunciation. Keeko revelled in
his sympathy. She pondered a moment. Then a fresh impulse urged her.

"I was just wondering," she said, her gaze avoiding the figure standing
so heedlessly at the brink of the canyon, "I kind of feel I ought to
tell you of that necessity. Yet it's hard. As I said, there's secrets,
and if you start in to talk free north of 60° you're liable to hand over
those secrets that belong to the folk who reckon they've the right to
impose them on all those belonging to them. I've no sort of secret of my
own. None at all. But I guess my step-father has. And that secret is the
reason that's brought him to face the storms and evil spirits of Unaga."
She laughed without any lightness. "Will you be content to hear the
things I may tell you--without asking me to show you how it is these
things are so?" she demanded.

"I don't ask a thing," the man replied promptly. "I don't need to know a
thing. You don't get the way I feel. You're a girl. You need furs for
trade. Guess that trade means the whole of everything to you, and is
liable to make you plenty happy. Well--why, it pleases me to death to
help you. That's all."

For a moment Keeko let her wide blue eyes dwell on the man's youthful
face.

"That only makes me want to say things more," she retorted, with a
slight flush dyeing her soft cheeks. "So I'm just going to say those
things right away, and I don't care what secret I hand out doing it.
When a man's generosity gets busy it's to limits mostly a long way
ahead. Well, when it's that way I don't reckon a woman feels like
slamming the door in his face. I've a step-father and a mother. My
mother's sick--sick to death. She's all I've got, and all I care for.
She's kind of a weak woman who's been up against most of the worry and
kicks a world can hand her. And now she's sick to death, and looks like
getting that peace that life never seemed to be able to hand her. My
step-father's a tough man, and I hate him. Say, you guess that my scare
isn't worth two cents. I'm scared of my step-father like nothing else in
the world. Oh, I'm not scared that he might raise a club at me. That
wouldn't worry me a thing. Guess I could deal with that--right. No. I'm
not scared that way. It's something different, and it's come through
nothing he's ever done or threatened against--me. No, it's my poor
mother. I tell you he's letting her die. He's been letting her die all
these years when I wasn't old enough to understand. He wants to be rid
of her. He's just a murderer at heart, because he's letting her die
through neglect he's figgered out. And my mother isn't only a sick woman
dying of the consumption the life he's exposed her to has brought on.
She's got a broken heart that he's handed her. But sick as she is, she's
wise, and she lies abed thinking not for herself but for me--all the
time. And lying there she's worked out a way so I'll be able to get free
of my step-father, and play a hand in life on my own when she's gone. It
was she taught me to handle a rifle when I'd got hands strong enough to
hold it. It was she who set me in the charge of Little One Man years
ago, and with Snake Foot and Charlie, to learn the business of pelt
hunting. Then when I'd learned all she reckoned I need she lay around
and figgered things out further. It was all done without fuss, it was
all done in a small way so my step-father shouldn't guess the meaning.
She just grew me into a pelt hunter who he thought some day would be
useful hunting for him, and he was kind of pleased. Oh, yes, I hunt for
him, but for every dollar I make for him there's five for myself. And
those five are hidden deep so he'll never find them. I've done this five
seasons, and my sick mother reckons this is to be my last. She guesses
she'll never see another spring, and she wants to see me with five
thousand dollars clear when I get back to home. Then, when she's gone,
she wants me to hit the trail quick. She wants me to take Little One Man
and Snake Foot and Charlie with me, and, with my five thousand dollars,
she wants me to look around beyond my step-father's reach, and make good
in the craft I've learned. With that thought in her mind she guesses to
lie easy in the grave she reckons I'll see is made right for her. That's
my 'necessity' and it's big--if you could only see into the notions of
two women."

Marcel listened without a word of comment. And as he listened his eyes
hardened, and the youthful curves about his lips drew tight into fine
lines. For all his inexperience of the lives of others the story set a
fierce anger raging in his hot, impulsive heart. The unthinkable to him
was a man who could so beset a woman.

He nodded.

"And you trade the pelts with Lorson Harris?" he said.

"Sure." Keeko smiled up into his face. It was the shrewd smile of one
who approves her own subtlety. "But I divide the catch before I make
home. Five-sixths are for me. And I set them aside, and Little One Man
helps me cache them. The rest is the catch I hand my step-father. He
makes careful tab of it, and then, after a rest, I set out with the dogs
over the winter trail for Seal Bay to make trade. Oh, it's easy. We pick
up the cache as we go, and trade the whole, and I just hand my
step-father the price of the furs he's tabbed."

The girl's smile was infectious.

"It's bright," Marcel cried. "And--and I'm glad." Then his eyes sobered
at the thought of his own purpose. "It's easy, too," he went on eagerly.
"But it's going to be easier. We'll fool this--cur. We'll fool him as he
doesn't dream. Say, you didn't need to tell me, Keeko. There wasn't any
need. Still, it shows the trust you feel. And it makes me glad. Now I'll
tell you the notion I've fixed. You're going to get a whole heap more
than that three-thousand-dollar trade. You surely are. And when you go
back you'll be free of--of him, just as far as dollars can make you. But
I'm hoping you'll go back feeling better than that. Maybe you'll be able
to feel that when your poor sick mother is gone you aren't just alone in
the world with Little One Man and Snake Foot and Charlie. There's
another feller just waiting around to hand you all the help you need any
old time. And this old tree-trunk you're sitting on will find me all the
time. We'll make a cache in it. And each end of the open season I'll get
around and open the cache. Come here yourself, or send word by Little
One Man, and, just as hard as I can lay paddle to the waters of this old
river, I'll beat it to your help for all that's in me. Maybe I'm only a
kid chasing pelts, but I'd be mighty thankful to Providence for the
chance of making good helping you." He laughed with the full sun of his
optimism shining again as he flung out a hand. "Say, shake on it, Keeko!
We're partners in an enterprise to beat a devil man. Do you know what
that means? You've likely got your notions. I've got the notion that
was handed me by the best man in the world and a dark-faced angel woman.
It means you can just claim me to the last breath. That's so. It surely
is."

Keeko took the hand that was thrust out at her. And in a moment her own
was crushed gently between the youth's warm, strong palms. And the
pressure of them thrilled the girl as nothing else had ever thrilled her
in her life.

Her only answer was to gaze up at him with wide, thankful eyes. She had
no words. She felt that any attempt to speak must choke her. So she sat
there on the ages-old trunk, with a wild feeling of unaccountable
emotion in utter and complete possession of her soul.

Marcel abruptly seated himself beside her on the tree-trunk.

"Say, Keeko," he cried, his seriousness gone, "guess this has been all
sorts of a talk, and I've blown a horn that would have worried the angel
Gabriel. Well, I've just got to make good--that's all. That being so,
there isn't a day to waste. I'll have to hit back to my outfit and
collect my 'truck,' which I need to tote along over here. It'll take me
all a piece of time, but not an hour longer than my craze to start'll
let it. I'll get back in a hell of a hurry. Meanwhile you need to put
Little One Man and Snake Foot and Charlie wise, and see and fix things
to start out right away. We're going to hit out north-west to a silver
fox country I know of, and when we're through with it Lorson Harris'll
start in to drop silver fox prices to the level of grey timber wolf. It
makes me feel good--the thought of it."

He sprang up with an energy that suggested the effort it required to
tear himself away. And promptly the woman in Keeko asserted itself.

"But you'll eat first?" she said invitingly.

Marcel laughed in frank delight.

"Why, surely," he cried. "I was guessing you might ask me."

Keeko joined in his laugh. They were children at heart, and little more
in years.




CHAPTER VIII

THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS


Marcel and Keeko were standing at the dawn of a new life. The man had
looked into a woman's wide, blue eyes. He had gazed upon softly rounded
cheeks, as perfect as physical well-being could make them. He had
contemplated rich, ripe lips that tempted him well-nigh to distraction.
Thus it was that the passionless life of the outworld had no longer
power before the stirring of a soul at last awakened from its pristine
slumbers.

The meaning of their encounter was no less for Keeko. She was less of
the wilderness, perhaps, than Marcel. She had not been so wholly bred to
it as he. Her child's eyes had looked upon some measure of civilization,
and her mind had gathered a brief training amongst the youth of her own
sex. But the result was no less. The grey shadows, which, as far back as
she could remember, had overhung her home life seemed suddenly to have
been lifted, and the rugged desolation of the Northland had been
transformed into a veritable Eden of hope and delight.

It was his new inspiration that lent wings to the feet of Marcel when he
hastened to collect his personal outfit. It was under the same
inspiration that he flung himself into the task of preparing for the
fulfilment of his pledge. And from the moment he joined the girl's
outfit on the banks of the river that came up out of the south he
became the acknowledged leader, whose will was absolute.

And Keeko's spirit was swift to respond. She displayed a readiness that
must have astonished the Indians who were accustomed to implicit
acknowledgment of her rule. Or, perhaps, in their savage hearts, they
understood something of the change that had been wrought. Here was a
great white man, a man whose power and abilities they were quick to
recognize and appreciate, whose body was great, and whose eye was clear
and commanding. Here was a white girl, fairer than any they had ever
known, and whose spirit had served them in a hundred ways. Well? What
then? They were all men of maturing years--these Indians. They had had
many squaws of their own. Perhaps? Who could tell? It seemed natural
that Keeko should choose her man from those of her own colour. And if
this man were to be the chosen one they were ready to yield him the same
fidelity they would yield to her.

So the night before the morning of departure came round. In three days
Marcel had completed every preparation, and all was in readiness for the
earliest possible start.

By the time supper was finished the summer daylight showed no sign of
giving way to the two-hour night. Marcel had that in his mind which he
was determined to do before their well-earned rest beside the camp-fire
was taken. And he pointed at the iron-bound cliff which frowned down
upon the waters of the river.

"Say, Keeko, I've a notion to set it up before we quit," he said, with a
laugh. "Do you feel like passing me a hand?"

Keeko turned from the sluggish waters, black with the reflection of the
barren walls of the gorge.

"What are you going to set up?" she questioned like one dragged back
from the contemplation of happy dreams.

"Oh, it's just a notion," Marcel laughed, in a boyish, half shamefaced
fashion as he lit his pipe with a firebrand. "Will you--come along?"

Keeko was on her feet in a moment. For all the days of labour there was
no weariness in her body. Besides----

"Guess you're handing me a mystery," she cried happily. "Seeing I'm a
woman I can't just miss it."

So they passed up the rugged foreshore to the foot of the path that cut
a perilous ascent to the fringe of the primordial forest above. It was
the man who led, and Keeko had no desire that it should be otherwise.

In a few minutes they were standing beside the fallen tree-trunk where
Marcel had first gazed down upon the scant encampment over which his
sovereignty was now absolute. He drew a deep breath as he gazed again
upon that first scene of the new life that had come to him.

"Gee!" he said, "I'm kind of glad."

"Glad?"

Keeko was regarding him amusedly. In those first three days of their
life together, in her woman's way, she had been studying him. And that
which she had learned filled her with a tender, almost motherly
amusement. He was transparent in his simplicity. His singleness of
purpose was almost amazing. But under it all she had become aware of a
strength and latent force that could only be guessed at. Their talks had
been less intimate during the time of their preparations, and she
understood that it was the result of the purpose that preoccupied him.
Now she speculated as to that which was in his mind. What was the boyish
whim that had brought them to the place he had selected as their tryst?
What was it that had made him express such gladness?

"I was thinking of that darn old moose," Marcel explained with eyes
alight and whimsical.

The girl waited and he went on.

"Say, I guess life's a pretty queer thing," he observed profoundly.
"It's a mighty small piece between content and discontent, isn't it?
It's so small you'd think anyone of sense could fix it so we couldn't be
discontented--ever. Yet we either can't or won't fix it. One leads to
good and the other leads to bad--and only time can say how bad. I was
getting mighty near discontent. Why? Because I'd got most everything I
wanted except the things--I wanted." He laughed. "I was crazy for
something, and I didn't quite know what. There was something in me
crying out, hollering help, and I couldn't hand that help. Well, I guess
there isn't a sound like that going on in me now. I'm just crazy with
content."

"Why?"

The girl's question was instant, but, in a moment, she regretted it.

The man's eyes regarded her steadily for a moment, and Keeko hastily
turned away. Promptly the echoes of the canyon were awakened by the
youth's laughter.

"I couldn't just tell you--easy," he cried. "But I'm about as content as
a basking seal. That's all. It's easier telling you how I feel glad
thinking of that old moose. Oh, yes, that's easy. I owe him a debt I
can't repay easy, seeing he's dead. Still, I feel like doing the best I
know to make him feel good about things."

Marcel's mood infected the girl.

"You're--you're not reckoning to start in and--bury him?" she cried.

Marcel shook his head.

"There's only his bones left. The rest of him is chasing around in the
bellies of a pack of timber wolves. No. It's his head and his antlers.
The wolves have cleaned his head sheer to the bone, as I reckoned they
would, and I've toted their leavings right here, and I guess we're going
to set it up a monument. Say, Keeko," he went on, with real seriousness,
"I couldn't quit this camp here without setting up a monument. Do you
know why?"

Keeko sat herself on the old tree-trunk. She made no reply. She simply
waited for whatever he had to say.

"It's to commemorate something," he went on quickly, gazing out over the
canyon. "I've found something I've been looking for--years. And I just
didn't know I was looking for it. Well, that old moose found it for me.
So I'm going to set his skull up, with his proud antlers a-top of it, in
the best and highest place I can set it, so his old dead eye sockets can
just look out over the territory he reigned over till Fate reckoned it
was time to set a human queen reigning in his stead. I don't guess he'll
worry about things. He'll just feel proud that it wasn't a feller of his
own sex ever beat him, and, if I know a thing, he'll feel sort of
content and pleased watching over things for us."

The whim of the man, intended to be so light, was full of real feeling.
Keeko was torn between tears and laughter. In the end she trusted
herself only to a simple question.

"Where are you going to fix him up?" she demanded.

The spell was broken. Marcel promptly became the man of action. He
pointed at the gnarled and broken head of a stunted tree growing at the
very edge of the canyon, with its battered crest reaching out at a
perilous angle over the abyss.

"At the head of that," he said, "so he can watch for your coming up out
of the south, and--tell me about it."

"But----!"

A sickening apprehension had seized upon Keeko as she contemplated the
overhang of the tree. It was almost at right angles to the face of the
cliff. It projected out nearly thirty feet, and below--Her woman's heart
could not repress a shudder at the thought of the three hundred feet
drop to the rocky shoals in the waters below.

"You don't mean that?" she demanded a little desperately.

Marcel nodded.

"It's plumb easy."

There was no showiness, no bravado. Marcel had no thought to dazzle the
girl. His purpose was a simple, boyish act.

He moved off into the forest while Keeko looked after him. From her
heart she could have begged him to abandon, or modify his plan. But she
refrained, and, somehow, sick at the thought of his purpose, she still
realized a thrill at the object of it all. She looked at the roots of
the overhanging tree and shuddered. They were partly torn out of the
ground.

Marcel returned with his trophy. It was a burden of no mean weight. And
Keeko's recognition of the fact only added to her fears.

"How--?" she began. But her question remained unasked.

"It's a cinch," Marcel cried. "Don't worry a thing. See those?" He
pointed at two thongs of plaited rawhide, each secured to one of the
horns. "Guess I'll tie them into a sling about the old trunk, and move
the poor feller's head up as I get out, leaving it hanging below. Then,
when I get to the end, I'll just haul it up, and fix it in its place.
I've got it all figured."

Keeko nodded.

"I can help you fix the slings," she said eagerly.

"Sure."

The approval had its effect. Keeko set her teeth, and beat down her
panic.

The minutes stretched out into the better part of half an hour before
the sling was successfully adjusted about the tree-trunk. But at last
Marcel stood up from his task and regarded the moose head swinging just
beyond the face of the cliff. Then he followed Keeko's gaze, which was
in the direction of the upstanding roots of the tree where they had been
partially torn from their hold in the ground. It was only for a moment,
however. He had no misgivings. Forthwith he divested himself of his
pea-jacket and stood ready for the final task.

"What--what can I do now?"

Keeko's voice refused that steadiness which was its wont, and Marcel
laughed.

"Do? Why just sit around and act audience while I do the balancing act.
Guess that old moose is yearning for his place out there. He didn't
figure on the honour, but--he's earned it."

And, despite her fears Keeko smiled at the boyishness of it all.

In a moment her breath was drawn sharply. Marcel was out on the log. He
had passed from the cliff edge and was sitting astride of the trunk with
his feet and calves gripping tight about it like a horseman on a bucking
broncho. His progress was rapid. He lifted the sling and set it out at
the full reach of his powerful arms, and then drew himself out after it.

Keeko watched. She watched with wide, apprehensive eyes. It was a fear
quite new to her. A vivid imagination possessed her. She saw the great
body of this man lying crushed and broken upon the rocks below, and the
terror of it left her with nerves and muscles straining. She did not
pause to consider the reason of her fears. She knew it, and acknowledged
it to herself. In the battle of life which she had been forced to fight
a champion had suddenly appeared. A champion such as she had sometimes
dreamed of. And with perfect trust and simple faith she had yielded her
soul to him.

Foot by foot Marcel moved out, always thrusting his trophy ahead of him.
There was a growing vibration in the leaning tree. It laboured under his
weight. He pressed on, his whole mind and purpose concentrated. Keeko
watched the roots for a sign of the strain. There was none. She glanced
out at the distance he yet had to go. And the length of it prompted a
warning cry she dared not utter. Farther and farther he passed on. Then
came a pause that suggested uncertainty.

Keeko's heart leapt. Was he dizzy? Had he suddenly become aware of the
perilous depth below him? Was his nerve----?

The moment passed. He was moving on again. The far off head of the tree
was coming nearer, but the vibration had increased with his movements.
Would the roots hold? Could they be expected to with the balance so
heavily against them? Keeko could look no longer, and, in the agony of
the moment, she seized hold of the upstanding roots and clung to them in
a ridiculously impotent frenzy of hope that the weight of her own light
body might help him.

The vibrations of the tree ceased and Keeko raised her terrified eyes
for the meaning.

A wave of partial relief swept over her. Marcel had reached his goal. He
had swung up the great moose head to set it in position. It was a
breathless moment. She understood that his greatest difficulties had
begun, and again she withdrew her gaze. But she clung to the roots of
the tree, desperately determined that if the tree fell it should drag
her to the disaster waiting upon him.

The suspense seemed endless. But at last there was renewed vibration in
the tree. Keeko raised her eyes again. Marcel was moving backwards, and
there, right at the broken head of the tree, the fleshless skull with
its magnificent antlers was set up in its place.

The girl was still clinging to the upstanding roots when Marcel leapt
from his seat on the trunk and stood confronting her. His quick, smiling
eyes took in the meaning of the situation at once. He reached out and
removed the hands from their task, and, in doing so, he retained them
longer than was necessary.

"You guessed you could hold that up if it--fell?" he asked.

And Keeko's reply was full of confusion.

"I didn't think," she stammered. "I didn't know what to do. It was
shaking, and I thought--I thought----"

"You didn't want me to get smashed on the rocks below. Well--say--!"
Marcel turned abruptly and pointed at the splendid antlers. "There he
is," he laughed. "Isn't he a dandy? You could see him miles. And he's
feeling good. He just told me that before I quit him. And he said he'd
stop right there and see no harm came along your way. So I patted his
darn old head, and told him I'd come along each year and see the rawhide
was sound, and, if necessary, I'd fix him up again. Well?"

Keeko's fears had passed like a summer storm and the sun of her smile
had returned again to her eyes.

"I'm just glad," she said. Then she became serious. "Say, do you believe
in omens?" She was gazing out at the great antlers. "I don't guess you
do. Only Indians worry with omens. Not folks of sense. Still, I kind of
fancy that feller set up that way is our omen. He's going to hand us
good luck in plenty. We'll get a great 'catch' where we're going, and
we'll get back-safe. Do you think that?"

"Sure. Guess I think a heap more than that, though." Marcel's smile was
good to see. "That's not the limit of our luck," he went on. "Not by a
lot. Say, I was raised by a feller who handed me a whole heap of wisdom.
Guess there's more wisdom in him than ever I could get a grip on. He
always guessed that luck was real in the folk who understood that way.
He said a feller made his luck by faith. The darn fool who squealed
because things went wrong queered his own luck, and just chased it out
of sight. Get a notion and hammer it through so long as you've a breath
in your body, and, if you act that way, luck'll pour itself all over you
till you're kind of floating around on a sea of desire fulfilled. That's
been his way, and I reckon it's good. I'm out to act as he said, so I
don't reckon that hollow-eyed feller out there is the whole meaning of
things. I've got all my notions and I'm going to push 'em plumb
through."

Keeko nodded.

"That's the grit a man needs," she said. "Maybe a woman does, too,
only--she's kind of different."

"Is she?" Marcel shook his head, and his eyes were full of a boyish
humour. "She isn't--when it comes to grit. Say, there's only one woman I
know except you, and those poor folks you see in Seal Bay, who--who
don't know better. But that other woman and you have taught me things
about grit most fellers don't ever learn. Most all the time a feller
who's built strong can fight to the limit of his muscles. A gal isn't
born with muscles worth speaking about, and she spends her life mostly
fighting beyond the limit. Say, she's born to troubles and worries all
the time. And she mostly gets through all the time. Why? Grit! She
doesn't just care a darn. She's going to get through--and she does. Say,
let's get along down and leave that wall-eyed old figurehead keeping
guard. Come on."




CHAPTER IX

THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON


For days the journey continued through the ever deepening gorge. The
stern grey walls remained unbroken, except for occasional sentry trees
which had survived the years of storm and flood. Carpets of Arctic
lichen sometimes clothed their nakedness, and even wide wastes of
noisome fungus. But these things had no power to depress Marcel and
Keeko; the Indians, too, passed them all unheeded. They were concerned
alone with the perils of the waters which were often almost
overwhelming.

The journey northward was one continuous struggle by day, and the daylit
night was passed in the profound slumbers of exhausted bodies, with the
canoes beached on some low foreshore dank with an atmosphere of hideous
decay.

For Keeko and the Indians it seemed as if the land was rising ever
higher and higher, and the endless waterway was cutting its course
deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. But there was no
question. Marcel was piloting them to a hunting ground of his own, and
this passage was the highway to it.

Only once did Keeko protest. It was a protest that was natural enough.
But Marcel swept it aside without scruple.

"I call this 'Hell's Gate,'" he said, with a ready laugh. "Sounds
rotten? But I always figger you need to pass through 'some' hell to make
Paradise. We're in a mighty big country, and a-top of us are hundreds,
and maybe thousands, of miles of forests that never heard tell of man.
Wait. There's a break soon, just beyond the big rapids. That's where
these darn old walls of rock fade right out, and make way for a lake
that's like a sea."

It was his undisturbed confidence that broke the constant threat of
imagination. This north country was Marcel's home. He knew no other. So
they drove on, and on, to the goal that he had set.

The great rapids came at them as he had promised. And, in turn, they
were passed on that narrow margin which is the line drawn between safety
and destruction. Then came the mouth of the gorge, and the stretch of
open river where it debouched upon the "lake that was like a sea."

For Keeko it was all like some wonderful dream with Marcel the magician
who inspired it.

Two days later they had landed in a country whose relation to that which
Keeko knew was only in the swarming flies and mosquitoes, and the keen
air, which, even in the height of the open season, warned her of the
terrors which must reign when the aurora lit the night of winter.

"Guess this is Paradise," Marcel explained, in answer to Keeko's
expressed delight at the wide openness of it all, and at the sight of
the sparse, lean Arctic grass which replaced the monotony of the
shadowed river. "Guess it's a matter of contrasts," he went on. "It's
kind of light, I guess, and it makes you think it's green. There's bush,
or scrub, and bluffs of timber. But there's other things. It's mostly a
sort of tundra and muskeg. There's more flies to the square inch than
you'd reckon there's room for. But it's the home of the silver fox
that's never been hunted."

His words were lost upon the girl. Her whole attention had become
absorbed with her first glance out across the lake. She was staring at a
range of tremendous hills far away to the north-east, and her wonder-lit
eyes were held by a strange phenomenon that filled the sky.

It was a blaze of ruddy light tinting a world of frothing cloud. To her
it looked like a stormy oasis in the steely blue of an almost cloudless
sky. It might have been the splendid light of an angry sunset, only that
the sun was shining directly behind her. She pointed at it.

"That!" she cried, in a startled, hushed voice. "What's that?"

Marcel regarded the scene for some silent moments. It was a spectacle
that stirred him. He was closer to Nature than he knew. The primitive
was deeply rooted in him for all the pains at which Uncle Steve had been
to widen his outlook through the learning which his dead father had left
behind. Here was a caldron of fire playing its reflection upon a tumult
of cloud. The cloud itself stood unaccounted in a perfect sky.

But the answer came readily. Marcel knew those streaks of red and gold,
those rosy tints in contrast against the threatening cloud. They were
the lights of Unaga. The lights from the Heart of Unaga, the dread Heart
that haunted the Indian mind, and the secret of which Uncle Steve had so
recently disclosed to him.

What could he say to this girl to whom he could not lie?

Doubt and hesitancy passed. These things could not long exist in a
nature such as his.

"Guess I haven't seen it ever like that before," he said. Then he
corrected himself. "Not in my recollection. But I know what it is.
That's the Heart of Unaga. It's a heart always afire. It's real red-hot
fire that no man's ever had the nerve to get near. The Eskimo know it.
And it scares them to death. They sort of reckon it's the world where
the devil reigns. The hell that some folks reckon is real, and
hot--and--hellish. But the feller that banks on learning and isn't
worried by superstition'll just hand you the plain truth. It's a
volcano, a real, live volcano which they reckon is the heart of Unaga."

The awe in Keeko's eyes only deepened.

"It's--it's just amazing," she cried. Then she added with a deep breath,
"It's--dreadful."

       *       *       *       *       *

From the moment of their landing on the shores of the lake Marcel and
Keeko became absorbed in the work that had brought them thither.

The wonder of the fiery Heart of Unaga swiftly passed, and only in the
brief moments over the camp-fire its fascination claimed them. At such
moments neither was quite free from the superstition they derided. For
Keeko it was a mystery of the unknown. For Marcel it was, perhaps, the
key to the whole life effort of the man who was his second father.

But the fur hunt was theirs, and with this no mystery of Unaga was
permitted to interfere. Marcel was determined on a result such as he had
never desired before. He dreamed of silver fox, he thought of silver
fox. Silver and black fox had become the sole purpose of his life.

So they beat this great, wide, half-created valley with trap and gun.
They beat it up with all the skill of a life of experience, and reward
came plentifully. It came rapidly, too. Sometimes it was almost
overwhelming.

It was a land teeming with game of every description known to the
regions north of 60°. The neighbourhood of the lake was alive with
feather. Geese swarmed in their thousands, and there were moments when
the sky was black with their legions. Duck, too, of every description
had winged up from the south to the virgin waters of the North as Nature
reluctantly released these hunting-grounds from the bonds of winter.
Beaver and musk-ox, caribou and black-tail, reindeer and all the legions
of lesser furs abounded. Thus, in consequence, it was the normal
hunting-ground of the pariah of the beast world. Fox swarmed to the
feast that was spread out. And it was the fox alone that needed to fear
the coming of the fur hunter.

The slaughter of fox was immense, but selection was discriminate. Only
the silver or black were troubled about, and these were collected with a
care and skill that ensured the perfection of the pelts. Marcel was
better than his word. He lived on the trail, and the Indians were given
no rest. Keeko, borne on the uplift of success, knew no weariness when
the effort promised treasure. They were working against time. Each of
them knew it. And Marcel had the whole season mapped out almost to the
hour.

So the days drew out into weeks, and the sun dropped lower and lower
towards the horizon. Steadily the nights grew longer, and the working
hours less. With each passing day the store of perfect pelts mounted.
They were pegged out and dried, and set ready for storing at the moment
the frost should bite through the air and hold them imperishable against
their journey down to Keeko's home.

Life was almost uneventful in the monotony of success. Rains came, and
gales blew down off the distant hills to the north-east. There were
times when the great lake justified Marcel's description of it. It raged
like a storm-swept sea, and white capped waves broke upon its bosom. But
with the passing of the storm and the flattening influence of the rain,
or under the breaking forth of the chilly Northern sunshine, peace was
restored, and the calm looked never to have been broken.

But for all the vagaries of climate, for all the unvarying nature of
their labours, there was no monotony in the hearts of Marcel and Keeko.
With every passing hour they came nearer and nearer to each other. The
youth in them was driving them to that splendid ultimate, which is the
horizon of all things between man and woman. There were no doubts. And
their only fear was the nearing of that dreaded day when parting must
come, and each would be forced to pursue the journey alone.

The parting was in the back of their minds almost from the moment of
their arrival at the valley of the lake. Each day that passed was marked
off in Keeko's mind. It was always one step nearer to the time when she
would be forced to bid farewell to the glad light of Marcel's happy
eyes, and the sound of his deep-toned, cheerful voice.

She knew. She had known it from those first happy days of their
preparations for this northward adventure. And she admitted it without
shame. She had learned to love the boy with a depth and strength she had
never thought to yield to any man.

Love? It had seemed so far removed from her life, and from those with
whom her life had been associated. She had thought a thousand times of
those men with whom she had been brought into contact. And the very idea
of love had only filled her with nausea. Her experience, from her
step-father down to the loafing "sharps" of Seal Bay, had firmly planted
in her mind the conviction that the men who haunted the shadows north
of 60° were only creatures whose quality of soul dared not display
itself in the sunlight of truth and honesty.

Yet here, here where the world's dark secrets were more deeply hidden
than anywhere else, even with Marcel's simple confession of a hidden
purpose, secret movements, she had found a man before whom her woman's
heart had at once prostrated itself. It was amazing even to her. She
found no explanation even in her moments of heart searching. More than
that she had no desire to explain or excuse. The wonderful dream of life
had come true. She had yielded unbidden, and nothing she could think of
in life could undo the work that had been accomplished almost in the
first moments of their meeting.

So it was she watched the store of pelts mount up, she watched the
growing laze of the sun as it rose less and less above the horizon, and
she noted with dread the steady lengthening of the brief summer night.
Soon, far too soon, must come that parting which would rob her life of
the light which had so suddenly broken through its shadows.

And Marcel was no less troubled. But his nature refused to admit the end
which Keeko saw ahead. His was a splendid optimism that refused defeat.
He had the tryst he had established in his mind. And far back behind his
ingenuous eyes the purpose lurked that should necessity arise he would
cut every tie that bound his life, no matter at what cost, and pursue to
its logical end the wonderful dream that had been vouchsafed to him.

With determination such as this Marcel delayed the start of the return
journey to the last possible moment. And Keeko set no obstacle in the
way. She asked no margin of time for accident by the way. She was
prepared to accept all chances. The last moments before the permanent
freeze up must see her back at her home. For the rest this wild, uncouth
land was a radiant garden of delight to her.

But time waits no more for lovers than it waits for those whose hope is
dying with the years. In the Northern wilderness time must be calculated
almost to the second, and so the limit of safety was reached in a
dalliance that had nothing to do with the necessities of their trade.
The moment had come when the return must begin, or the disaster of
winter would terminate for ever their youthful dream. The night frosts
had done their work upon the pelts. The day was no longer sufficiently
warm to seriously undo it. So the canoes floated laden at their moorings
as Keeko had dreamed they would, and the last night on the shores of the
lake was already closing down.

The camp-fire of driftwood and peat was glowing ruddily. The Indians
were already deep within their fur-lined bags, and slumbering with the
utter indifference engendered of complete weariness of body. Marcel and
Keeko were squatting beside each other over the cheering warmth which
kept the night chills at bay. Marcel was smoking. Keeko had no such
comfort.

"I'd say Lorson Harris'll need to hand you something a heap better than
five thousand dollars," Marcel observed with a laugh of genuine
satisfaction and without turning from his contemplation of the fire.
"Where'll you keep it so----?"

Keeko looked up with a start. Her thoughts had been far removed from the
profit of her trade.

"At the bank at Seal Bay," she said hastily, lest her abstraction should
be noticed.

"You keep it all--there?"

"No." Keeko shook her head. "But I'll have to--this. It's just too big.
I'd be scared to carry it with me."

Marcel laughed again.

"That 'scare' again," he said. Then he turned, and for a moment gazed at
the perfect profile which showed up against the growing dusk. "Say, you
make me laff. Scare? You don't know what it means."

Keeko's eyes lit responsively as she turned and looked into his strong,
fire-lit face.

"Not now," she said quietly. "When I'm down there alone
it's--different."

"Alone?" Marcel removed his pipe from between his strong teeth. Then he
nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "maybe it's different then."

Just for a moment the impulse was strong in him to fling all
responsibility to the winds. He wanted to crush her in his great arms
and tell her all those things which life ordains that woman shall yearn
to hear. But the impulse was resisted. He knew it had to be.

"But you don't ever need to be alone again," he said simply. "You're
forgetting. There's that darn old moose. That's a sign. You've only to
send word, or come right along up. You see, the folks who're alone are
the folks who've got no one to go to when things get awry. I guess you
can't ever feel just alone now--whatever happens."

Keeko's eyes were very soft, very tender as she looked up into Marcel's
face.

"It's good to hear that. It's good to feel that," she said gently. "And
I do feel it," she added with a deep sigh. "I've a whole heap to thank
God for, and, if it's not wrong to put it that way, still more to thank
you for. I just don't know how to say it all. But just as long as I live
I----"

"Cut it right out, Keeko. Cut it right out."

Marcel spoke hastily. He spoke almost roughly. He was in no frame of
mind to listen complacently to any words of thanks from this girl.
Thanks? If thanks were due it was from him. She had given him her trust
and confidence. She had given him moments in his life such as he had
never dreamed could fall to the lot of any man. In the firelight he
flushed deeply at the thought, and again impulse stirred and nearly
overwhelmed him.

"I just can't stand thanks from you, Keeko," he said impulsively.
"Thanks only need to come from folks whom you help feeling you don't
fancy doing it. You've handed me the sort of happiness that makes a
feller feel like getting onto his hands and knees and thanking God for.
Say, I can't talk to you same as I fancy to, and I guess it's not my
fault. You don't know who I am, or a thing about me. And you can't hand
me much more about yourself. Still, I sort of feel the time'll come when
we can open out things. What I want to say is, you've handed me a trust
that isn't hardly natural. You've chased this country with a feller who
might be any old thing from a 'hold-up' to a 'gun-artist,' and they're
around in plenty north of 60°. And it's the big white heart inside you
made you act that way, and I sort of feel that big white heart is still
my care, even after we've made good-bye at that old moose head. I wish
to death I could say the things I fancy right, but I just can't, and
it's no use in talking. But don't you ever dare to hand me thanks, or
I'll have to get right up and break things."

Keeko's reply was a low thrilling laugh, full of a gentle gladness which
she cared not if he read.

"Maybe you haven't said the things the way you fancy saying them," she
said, in her gentle fashion. "But you've said them the way I'd have you
say them. But you're right. There's folks in a person's life you can't
thank, you haven't a right to thank, and maybe that's how we're fixed.
You've jumped right into my life with your big body and generous heart,
and I--well, I guess you haven't found things easier because I've butted
into yours. Still, the thing's happened, and it makes me kind of glad.
Some day--But there--what's the use?"

The temptation was irresistible. Marcel flung out one great hand and
closed it over the hands the girl was holding out to the fire.

"That's it," he said hoarsely, while his body thrilled at the girl's
warm clasp in his. "What's the use? Neither you nor I can say the things
we feel. That's so. There's a great big God of this Northland looking on
and fixing things the way He sees. As you say 'Some day'! Meanwhile
there's the start back to-morrow morning. Just get right along and
sleep, and dream good, and be sure you're aren't alone in the
world--ever again."




CHAPTER X

THE FAREWELL


A burden of grey hung depressingly over the world. A bleak north wind
came down the river gorge. The sun's power had weakened before the
advance of the Arctic night. Beaten, dismayed, it lived only just above
the skyline.

The sightless sockets of the old moose stared wide-eyed down the river.
They were fulfilling the task that had been set them. The howling of the
gale, the polar cold, the blinding storm of snow; these things would
have no power to turn them from their vigil. The wide-antlered,
bleaching skull was the guardian of the tryst, and its sole concern was
its watch and ward.

The chill and cheerlessness of it all was reaching at the hearts of the
boy and girl who were at the moment of parting. Marcel was silently
whittling a stout twig of tamarack, whose toughness threatened to dull
the keen edge of his sheath-knife. Keeko was standing a few feet from
him, within a yard or so of the precipice which dropped sheer to the
waters below. Her eyes were following the direction of the gaze of the
old moose, and the picture her mind was dwelling upon was far removed
from what she beheld.

It was of the long, lonesome winter, with her mother dying by inches,
while she, herself, spent her days in the avoidance of her step-father
whom she had learned to fear as well as to hate. Marcel had no such
bitterness to look out upon. But he was none the less weighted down that
the farewell must be spoken.

The hot blood of youth was surging through his veins. Manhood's reckless
passion was beating in heart and brain. A desperate desire to yield to
the call of Nature was urging him mercilessly. Yet, through it all, he
knew that the farewell must be said now, for both their sakes, for the
sake of honour, of loyalty, for the sake of Love itself.

Oh, yes. He knew how easy it would be to sweep along on the tide of
passion. But he loved Keeko. Loved her with all his simple heart and
body, and his love was bound up with an honour which he had no power to
outrage.

Time and again in the madness of the moment he thought to urge Keeko to
abandon all and return with him to the home which he knew would hold
nothing but welcome for her. He thought of all that happiness which
might be hers in the kindly associations of Uncle Steve and An-ina. He
thought of all the wretchednesses of soul he would save her from, the
dread of that step-father, whom she had declared to be a murderer at
heart. Then he remembered the dying mother whose one care was the child
of her heart, and he realized that his own desire must not be. The
farewell must be taken now.

Once he thought to continue the journey with her to help her complete
her final task of trading her pelts. But he remembered in time, and
thrust temptation from him. There was An-ina demanding his protection in
Uncle Steve's absence during the winter. There was his pledge to that
man who never questioned his given word.

Looking up his ardent gaze rested on the figure poised so near the brink
of the gorge.

"Keeko!"

His voice was deep with feeling. Its tone was imperative, too.

"Yes--Marcel?"

Keeko's reply was low-voiced and almost humble. She felt his gaze even
before he spoke. Had she not intercepted it a hundred times in their
work together? Oh, yes. She knew it. And that which she had seen, and
read, had been the answer she most desired to all the yearnings of her
woman's heart. Now she knew that the moment she most dreaded had come at
last. And she wondered and feared as she had never feared in her life
before.

Marcel drove his knife deeply in a diagonal cut into the hard wood of
the tamarack.

"You've a month to the freeze up," he said. "It's the limit you need.
I've figgered it. I've talked it out with Little One Man."

"Yes. I can make home in a month."

Keeko drew a sharp breath. She could make home. Never in her life had
she felt as she felt now. Home!

Marcel ripped his knife in an opposite diagonal on the reverse of the
wood. The force he applied seemed almost vicious.

"Are--you glad?"

"I--s'pose so."

"You--s'pose so? Of course you are. There's your poor sick mother."

"Yes."

The girl's reply was almost inaudible. Marcel wrenched the wood in half
with his powerful hands. It snapped, and he examined the pronged ends
critically.

With an effort Keeko bestirred herself from her despondency.

"Yes," she cried desperately. "I must get home. I want to. I love my
mother, Marcel. She's suffered. Oh, how she suffers. Yet through it all
she thinks only of me. She schemes and hopes only for me. Maybe I can't
hope to save her life, but I can tell her the things that'll let her die
almost happy. It's the best I can do, and I--I'm glad to do it."

Marcel nodded over his two pieces of wood.

"That's how I feel about it," he said. "It seems to me we haven't any
sort of right to set up the things that 'ud please us against the
happiness of those who've been good to us. I'd thought of beating down
this river with you, to see things through for you. Then I remembered a
sort of mother woman who looks to me for the help of a son. Then I
thought of asking you to cut the home with a step-father, who's a
murderer at heart, and come along where you'd find only love and
friendship. Then I remembered your sick mother. I'm guessing the self of
things is mighty big, but there's something bigger. Still--Say, come and
sit right here!"

He was smiling. But his eyes were full of a deep tenderness.

Keeko obeyed. She had no desire to deny him. He seemed to have robbed
her of all will of her own. His will had become wholly her desire. She
took her seat on the tree-trunk, just removed from his side by a rift in
the great log which was hidden under a growth of lichen.

Marcel's eyes sought hers. But she had turned from him. She was gazing
out at the moose head set up over the gorge.

"How am I to hear if you're needing my help?" he demanded. "I can't make
here till the first break of spring. There's just one hell of a long
winter before that."

Marcel was endeavouring to smother his feeling. Keeko shook her head.
Had she not thought and thought over this very thing?

"I won't need help," she said. "Not now. You've helped me through my
only worry. If mother lives, things'll just go on the same. If--she
doesn't? She and I--we got it fixed. I hit right out for myself as we've
planned it--that's all."

But the hot blood had mounted to Marcel's head. "It's not!" he cried
with startling force. "D'you think you're going out of my life that way?
You?" Suddenly he broke into a laugh that echoed down the gorge. He
pointed out at the moose head. "Look at the old feller," he cried. "He's
winking his old eyes and flapping the comic ears he hasn't got. I swear
if you could only hear it he's busting his sides laffing at the joke of
you reckoning to cut yourself out of my life that way. No, sir! I'm
coming right along here at the first break of spring, and if I don't
find you around, or a sign from you, I'm beating up this river to look
for you, if I have to chase it sheer up to its source. Say, you can't
hide yourself in a corner of this darnation territory I won't find you
in. And I guess I'm just as obstinate as a she-wolf chasing a feed of
human meat. It can't be done, Keeko. Not now. I tell you it can't be
done."

The man's force was no less for all his smiling eyes. And Keeko made no
pretence.

"But why?" she cried, with a gesture of her hands that made him desire
to imprison them. "Why should you worry? You've helped me to the things
that'll leave me free of--everything. I haven't a right. I haven't any
sort of right to take you from your folks, and from those things it's
your work to do for them. Besides, who said I figgered to cut myself out
of your life?" She smiled up into his eyes with an almost child-like
confidence. "I don't want to. I--I hadn't a thought that way. Say, if I
thought I'd never see you again I'd feel like nothing in the world ever
could matter. The thing I'm guessing to make plain is when we quit here
you don't need to worry a thing. I'll get through, and next spring I'll
come right along up and tell you how I'm fixed."

Marcel sat up, and, reaching out, caught and imprisoned the hands he
desired.

"You'll do that?" he cried, while he drew her round so that she faced
him. "Sure? Sure you mean that? You'll come right along up here with the
break of winter, and we'll----"

"I certainly will."

Keeko's youth was no less than Marcel's. Her eyes were without any
shyness. She looked into his fearlessly, and read without shame all that
they expressed. She was glad. Her heart was full of a delight of which
even parting could not rob her. The memory of that which she beheld now
would be hers during the long, drear months of winter, a sheet anchor of
hope, of joy, something to tell her always that, whatever might chance,
life still held for her a priceless treasure of which it could never
wholly rob her.

Marcel released her hands lingeringly.

"Here," he cried holding up the pieces of tamarack he had cut. "These
darned bits of wood." Then he raised the lichen, which had been
carefully loosened, and revealed the gaping rift in the tree-trunk
beneath it. "Our cache," he added. "Say, maybe when spring breaks
there's things might make it so you can't get along up here. You see,
it's a chance. You can't just say. Maybe I'm scared. Anyway, I got a
notion you might need me in a hurry. I'm scared for you. That's it. I'm
scared for you. Well? You've got your boys. Either of 'em could make
this place in the winter. Here, grab this little old stick. I'll keep
the other. It's just a token. I've set your name on it. Well, send it
along up, and cache it in this cache, and when I come along and find it
here, instead of you, at the break of spring, I'll know you're held up
and need me, and you can gamble your big white soul I'll beat the trail
to your help like a cyclone in a hurry. Oh, I know. You'll guess nothing
can happen that way. But it's just my notion, and you're going to kind
of humour me. Git that? When I find that token set in this cache I'll
make up the river just as hard as hell'll let me."

In spite of her confidence Keeko accepted the stick the boy passed to
her and sat gazing at it. It was then that she discovered the lettering
that had been cut on it. There were just two words in letters crudely
formed: "LITTLE KEEKO."

For a while her eyes dwelt upon them absorbing all the tenderness they
conveyed. Then, in a moment, all the truth in her, the woman, roused
into active purpose. She handed it back to him.

"You've given me the wrong token," she said, with a laugh. "I need one
with your name on it."

She held out her hand and Marcel passed her the other half of the stick.
It was inscribed with the single word: "MARCEL." Instantly the girl rose
from her seat and moved away.

"We best get back to camp," she said.

It was her woman's defence. Another few moments and Keeko knew she would
have been powerless before her own passionate emotion.

She led the way to the head of the path which went down to the little
camp on the foreshore below.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marcel was standing beside the tree which had become the centre of all
things for him. The grey night sky had remained. It had only deepened
its threat with the dawn. But the reality of the moment was nothing to
the desolate winter that had settled upon his heart.

The farewell lay behind him. He was alone, desperately alone, in a world
where he had never realized loneliness before. And there, far out down
on the broad bosom of the river, were the canoes carrying with them his
every hope, his every desire.

The bitterness, the depression robbed him of all the buoyant manhood
that was his. Keeko had gone. Keeko. Keeko with her wonderful eyes, and
the grace and symmetry of a youthful goddess. Yes, she had gone, and
between them now lay that long winter night with all its manifold
chances of disaster. With the break of spring he might look for her
coming again. Yes, he might look for it. But would she come? He
wondered. And again and again he cursed himself that he had listened to
other than the promptings of his desire.

The canoes reached the bend of the river driven by paddles in hands that
were wonderfully skilled. They were about to pass out of view behind the
grey wall of stone which lined the waterway. The figure of the girl in
the prow of the hindmost boat was blurred and indistinct. Marcel had
eyes for nothing else. He raised his fur cap and waved it slowly to and
fro. And as he waved he thought he detected a similar movement in the
boat. He could not be sure at the distance. But he believed. He hoped it
was so. He wanted it to be.

He turned away. The boats had passed the grey barrier. There was nothing
left but to set out to rejoin his outfit, and return----

His wandering gaze had fallen on the tree-trunk which held such happy
memories for him. He was gazing upon the lichen covering their cache.
The lichen was sadly, recklessly disturbed. He knew he had not left it
in that condition. He was far too experienced, too old in the craft of
the trail to leave a cache in such a state. He stepped over to it
hurriedly, and raised the covering Nature had set. He peered down into
the deep pocket beneath it.

The next moment a sharp exclamation broke from him. He plunged a hand
into the pocket and drew out the token he had handed to Keeko
over-night.

He stared at it. It was her demand for his help. She had placed it
there--when? It must have been during the night. Why? What did she mean?
Did she desire him to follow--now?

He turned it about in his big fingers, and in a moment discovered fresh
characters cut roughly into the wood. It was a word prefixing the name
which he had set there: "MY MARCEL."

"My Marcel!"

He was not dreaming. No--no! The little added word was there cut in by a
hopelessly unskilled hand. But it was there, as plain as intent could
make it. "My Marcel." It told him all--all that a man desires to know
when a woman bares her heart to him. It was Keeko's farewell message
that he was not intended to discover till the break of winter. It was
her summons to him, not for mere help, but a summons to him telling him
that her love was his.

He ran to the edge of the cliff. He searched the grey headland where the
shadows had swallowed up the canoes. There remained nothing--nothing but
the dull, cold prospect of the coming of winter--the relentless Arctic
winter.

He stood there without sign or sound. He made no movement. But the heart
of the man was shining in his eyes.

A shot rang out in the woods behind him. It was distant, but it split up
the silence with a meaning that could not be denied.

Marcel turned. The light in his eyes had changed. They were shadowed as
not even the parting had shadowed them. Oh, yes, he knew. It was a
signal to him. His own men were searching for him. It warned him that
winter was fast approaching, that merciless winter of Unaga, and these
men, these Sleepers, were eager to return to the warm comfort of their
quarters and their winter's sleep.




CHAPTER XI

THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN


An-ina smoothed her brown hand over the superfine surface of the spread
of buckskin where it lay on the counter in the store. Her dark eyes were
critically contemplating it, while she held ready a large pair of
scissors.

A great contentment pervaded her life. It was in her wide, wise eyes now
as she considered the piece of material which was to provide a shirt for
Steve. The buckskin had been prepared by her own hands. It was soft, and
tawny with the perfect tint she desired. It could not be too soft, or
too good for Steve. That was her thought as she prepared to hew it into
shape for the sewing and beading which no other hands would be permitted
to work.

Her contemplation was broken by the abrupt flinging open of the door of
the store. She turned quickly, expectantly, and the smiling content in
her eyes, as they rested on the figure of Steve, left no doubt as to the
welcome nature of the interruption.

"You mak your plan?" she demanded.

The manner of her question was that of poignant interest. Her whole
thought was centred on the life and well-being of this white man. For
the moment the buckskin was forgotten.

Steve closed the door. He came over to the counter behind which were
piled the stores of his trade. He leant against it, and his steady eyes
regarded the handsome, dusky woman, who had come to him at the moment of
his life's disaster, and had been his strong comfort and support ever
since.

"Yes." He nodded, in the decided fashion that was always his. "We can't
wait."

"You go--before Marcel come?"

There was no surprise in the woman's reply.

"The outfit's ready. The dogs are hardened to the bone. Every day, I
guess, is a day lost. The snow's thick on the ground and the waters are
frozen up. Well? We can't guess the time it'll take us this trip. We
can't spare an hour. If we get through, it don't matter. If we fail we
need to make back here before the 'Sleepers' crawl out from under their
dope. If we wait for Marcel, and he don't get right along quick, it
means losing time we can't ever make good. You get all that?"

The woman turned up the oil lamp. The day was dark for all the lolling
sun in the horizon. She passed across to the stove, roaring comfortingly
under its open draft. She closed the damper and stood over it with hands
outstretched to the warmth. It was a favourite attitude of hers.

"An-ina know," she said. "An' Marcel? What it keep him so much long? All
time he come before snow. Now? No. Why is it?"

A shadow of anxiety descended upon her placid face. A pucker drew her
brows together. Her heart was troubled.

Steve shook his head. He showed no sign of sharing her concern.

"He'll be along," he said confidently. "I'm not worried a thing. I'd
trust Marcel to beat the game more than I would myself. You needn't to
be scared. No. It's not that."

"What it--then?"

An-ina's eyes were full of a concern she had no desire to conceal. She
had nothing to conceal from this man who was the god of her woman's
life.

"I just can't say," Steve said. "But--I'm not worried. The thing is we'd
fixed it that I didn't quit till Marcel got to home."

"Why?"

Steve shrugged, but his eyes were smiling.

"Oh, I guess we don't fancy leaving you without men folk around. It
isn't that things are likely to worry any. But you see--you're all we've
got. You're a sort of anchor that holds us fast to things. You see, I
guess Marcel reckons you his mother, and I, why--it don't need me to say
how I feel."

The look in the woman's dark eyes deepened. She knew the feelings
prompting Steve. Oh, yes. She knew. And she thanked the God she had
learned to believe in, and to worship, for the happiness which he had
permitted her in the midst of the terrors of this desolate Northern
country. Her answer came at once. It came full of her generosity.

"Ah," she cried quickly. "You think all this thing--you men! An' what
An-ina think? Oh, An-ina think much. So much. Listen. She tell. Marcel
him big feller. Him mak' summer trail. Far--far. An-ina not know. Him
wolf all come around. Him river with much water--rapids--rocks. Him
muskeg. Him everything bad, an' much danger. An-ina she not say, 'An-ina
come too, so no harm come by Marcel.' She say, 'no.' Marcel big man.
Marcel brave. Him fight big. So him God of white man kill Marcel all up,
then An-ina heart all break, but she say it all His will. So she not
say nothing. Steve him go by Unaga, where all him devil men. They get
him. They kill him. Then An-ina all mak' big weep--inside. She say
nothing. She not say 'An-ina come, too, so she frighten all devil men
away.' Oh, no. An-ina woman. She not scare any more as Steve an' Marcel.
She sit by fire. She mak' Steve him shirt. She have gun, plenty. No man
come. Oh, no. She not scare for nothing. An-ina brave woman, too. Steve,
Marcel mak' her coward. Oh, no. Outfit ready--Julyman--Oolak--all him
dogs. Yes. Steve him go--right away. Bimeby Marcel him come. So."

An-ina's voice was low and soft. But for all her halting use of the
white man's tongue, with which she found so much difficulty, there was
decision and earnest in every word she uttered. There was the force,
too, of a brave, clear-thinking mind in it. And it left Steve with
difficulty in answering her. Besides for all his desire to protest, he
knew he must go, or sacrifice that thing which had brought him to Unaga.

With characteristic decision he accepted her protest. He knew her
generosity and courage. But a sense of shame was not lacking at the
thought that the very position he had used to convince Marcel could not
be allowed to stand where his purpose was threatened.

"I've got to go," he said almost doggedly. "But I hate the thought of
leaving you, An-ina. If Marcel would only get around now, I'd feel easy.
But there's not a sign of him. He's late--late and--Psha! It's no sort
of use. I must pull out right away."

He stood up from the counter and came over to the stove. An-ina's dark
eyes watched him. Even in her untutored mind she understood the strength
of character which overrode his every scruple, his every sentiment. Her
regard for him was something of idolatry, and deep in her soul she knew
that the gleanings in his heart left by that white woman were hers.
Maybe they were only gleanings, but she asked no more. She was content.
She knew no distinction between mistress and wife. The natural laws were
sufficient. He was the joy of her savage heart, and she was the only
woman in his life. It was as she would have it.

He came up to her and stood gazing down at the long, thin hands
outspread to the warmth. Then with an unaccustomed display of feeling he
thrust one arm through hers, and his strong hand clasped itself over
both of hers.

"Say, An-ina, I'm going a hell of a long trail. It's so long we just
can't figure the end. It's a winter trail northward, and I don't need to
tell you a thing of what that means. I'd say anyone but you and Marcel
would guess I'm crazy. Well, I'm not. But it's a mighty desperate chance
we're taking. If we win through, and get what we're chasing, it means
the end of this country for all of us. Maybe you'll be glad. I don't
know. If we fail--well, I can't just figure on failure. I never have and
I don't reckon to start that way now. But I got to hand you 'good-bye'
this time. It's not that way with us usually. But this time I sort of
feel I want to. You're just a great woman, and you've been mostly the
whole meaning of things to me since--since--Anyway, I've done the best
I know to hand you all the happiness lying around in a territory there's
nothing much to in that way. But all that's nothing to what you've been
to me. Well, my dear, I don't guess it's our way talking these things,
but I got that inside me makes me want to say a whole heap about how I
feel and what I think. Guess I'm not going to try though. It wouldn't
amount to anything if I talked a day through. I wouldn't have said half
I needed to. You and Marcel are all I've got, and you two dear folk'll
be the last thought I have in life. You'll help him, my dear, won't
you? You're just Marcel's mother, and if I don't get back you'll need to
be his father, too. Good-bye."

An-ina made no reply. She had listened to him with a heart that was
overflowing. As he said "good-bye" she turned her head, and the
speechlessness of their farewell was deep with simple human passion.

A moment later they had moved apart. It was Steve's initiative.

"Now? You go--now?"

An-ina's voice was heroic in its steadiness. There was not a sign of
tears in her shining eyes. She followed him to the door as though his
going were an ordinary incident in their day's routine, and stood there,
while he passed out, the very embodiment of that stoicism for which her
race is so renowned.

       *       *       *       *       *

An-ina was alone. Only the skeleton of her life at the fort remained to
keep her company. The flesh was shorn from the bone. That flesh which
had made her life an existence of joy which the greatest terror of Unaga
was powerless to rob her of. It is true there were a few of the trail
dogs left behind, and some of the reindeer. But what were these half
wild creatures in exchange for a human companionship in which her whole
soul was bound up?

But An-ina was free of the vain imaginings which curse the lives of
those who boast the culture of civilization. She was content in her
woman's memory, in her looking forward, and the present was full of an
hundred and one occupations which held her mind to the exclusion of
everything but the contemplation of the coming joy of reunion.

She had claimed to herself a bravery equal to that of her men folk. She
might well have claimed more. She possessed, in addition to that active
courage which belongs to the adventurer, the passive, courageous
endurance of the woman. So, with an unruffled calm, she set about the
daily "chores" that were hers, and added to them all those labours which
were necessary that this outland home should lack nothing in its welcome
to her men.

For the moment the world about her was still and silent. It was as
though Nature remained suspended in doubt between the seasons. The open
season was passed, when the earth lay bare to the lukewarm sun of
summer. A white shroud covered the nakedness of the world, and already
ice was spread out over the waters. But winter had not yet made its
great onslaught.

It was coming. Oh, yes. It was near. The brief hours of daylight warned
that. So did the mock-suns which hovered in the sky, chained by the
radiant circle which held the dying sun prisoned. Then in the north the
heavy clouds were gathering. They gathered and dispersed. Then they
gathered again. And always they banked deeper and darker. The wind was
rising. That fitful, patchy wind which is so full of threat, and which
bears in its breath the cutting slash of a whip.

There were moments in her solitude when An-ina read these warnings with
some misgivings. They were not for herself. They were not even for
Steve. The winter trail was no new thing to her great man. Besides, he
was equipped against anything the Northern winter could display.
Accident alone could hurt him. That was her creed. Marcel was different.
He was only equipped for summer, and he should have returned before that
first snowfall. How could his canoes make the waters of the river when
they were already frozen?

Thus it was she speculated as each dawn she sought the sign of his
return, and at the close of each day, with the last of the vanishing
light.

For a week she went on with her endless labours in that cheerful spirit
of confidence which never seemed to fail her. Then there came a change.
She sought the gates of the fort more often, and stood gazing out
longer, and with eyes that were not quite easy. Her unease was growing.
She spurned it, she refused to admit her fears. And, in her defence, she
redoubled her labours.

Thus ten days from the moment of Steve's going passed. It was the
evening of the tenth day.

With a desperate resolve she had refused to allow herself her last
evening vigil. Snow was in the air and had already begun to fall. So she
sat over the great stove in the store, and plied her needle, threaded
with gut, upon the shirt that was some day to cover Steve's body. Not
once did she look up. It was almost as if she dared not. She was
fighting a little battle with herself in which hope and confidence were
hard pressed.

It was in the midst of this that the door was thrust open wide, and,
with the opening, a flurry of snow swept in upon the warm atmosphere.
But that which caused her to start to her feet, and drop the treasured
garment perilously near to the stove, was the figure that appeared in
the white cloud that blew about it. It was Marcel, with snow and ice
about his mouth and chin, and upon his eye-lashes, and with his thick
pea-jacket changed from its faded hue to the virgin whiteness of the
elements through which he had succeeded in battling his way.

"An-ina!"

It was the glad cry of greeting she had yearned for in the big voice of
a man whose delight is unmeasured.

"Marcel!" The woman's reply was full of joy. Then, with a sigh that was
a deep expression of relief: "An-ina glad--so glad!"

Marcel turned and closed the outer storm door. Then he shut the inner
door securely. A moment later he was freeing himself from icicles and
snow at the stove.

"Say, I had to beat it like hell," he declared with a great laugh, while
An-ina gathered up her sewing and laid it aside. Her mother mind was
running upon a hot supper for her boy. "I was just worried to death at
you folks sitting around guessing. Winter got me beat by just two weeks,
and now the snow's falling in lumps, and it's mighty near down to zero.
Where's Uncle Steve?"

"Gone." An-ina had forgotten the supper. "Him gone where you know. Him
gone days. Maybe ten. No wait. Oh, no. Him guess you come soon. So him
go."

"And Julyman? And Oolak?"

"All gone. All him gone by land of fire. Oh, yes."

An-ina sighed. It was her only means of expressing the feelings she
could not deny.

Marcel's eyes had sobered. He flung off his pea-jacket and possessed
himself of An-ina's chair. He sat there with his great hands spread out
to the warmth, enduring the sharp cold-aches it inspired. He was gazing
steadily at the glowing patch where the side of the stove was red hot.
His mind was busy with thoughts which robbed him of half the joy of his
return.

The thought of supper returned to the woman.

"So. I mak' him supper," she said. "Him boys. They come too?"

"Oh, yes," Marcel laughed shortly "Guess they're back in the woods
there, doping like hell so they shan't lose any sleep. They were kind of
mad with me getting back late. I had to rawhide two of them, or the
whole darn lot would have bolted. You see, I was held up."

An-ina would have questioned further but there was no encouragement in
Marcel's tone or manner. He had not turned to reply. His attitude was
one the squaw recognized. He wanted to think. So she moved silently away
and passed to the old kitchen to prepare his food.

Marcel sat on. He was thinking, thinking hard. But not in any direction
that An-ina would have guessed. For once there was confusion of thought
and feeling that was quite foreign to his nature. He was thinking of
Keeko, he was thinking of Uncle Steve, and he was thinking of An-ina. He
was angry with himself and as nearly angry with Uncle Steve as he could
be. He cursed himself that through his delay An-ina should have been
left alone for two weeks. He was troubled at the thought that Uncle
Steve saw fit to leave her, and refused to await his return. And towards
An-ina he felt that contrition which his deep regard for her made so
poignant. But through all, above all, floated the spirit of Keeko, and
he knew that whatever might have befallen nothing would have made him
act differently. He was troubled to realize that for the first time in
his life Uncle Steve and An-ina had only second place in his thought.

His reflections were broken by An-ina's quiet return.

"Supper--him all fixed. Marcel come?"

Marcel started up. And the shadows passed out of his handsome eyes. The
gentle humility with which An-ina addressed him was irresistible. He was
smiling again. His deep affection for this mother woman was shining in
his eyes.

"Will I come?" he cried. "Say, you just see."

       *       *       *       *       *

Marcel had eaten his fill. He had been well-nigh famishing when he
arrived, and the simple cooking and wholesome food that An-ina set
before him was like a banquet compared to the fare of the trail, on
which he had subsisted all the open season.

Now he was lounging back in the rawhide-seated chair with his pipe
aglow. He was ready to talk, more than ready. And An-ina's soft eyes
were observing him, and reading him in her own wise way.

"You tell me--now?" she said, in the fashion of one who knows the value
of food to her men folk's mood.

Marcel nodded with a ready smile.

"Any old thing you fancy," he cried. "What'll I tell you? About the darn
outfit, the pelts we got? The woods? The rivers? The skitters? The----"

An-ina shook her head. His mood was what she desired.

"No. Marcel say the thing that please him. An-ina listen."

Marcel laughed. He had come home with the treasure hugged tight to his
bosom. He had promised himself that this was his secret, to be imparted
to no one--not even to Uncle Steve. An-ina had demanded that he should
speak as he desired, and he knew that his one desire was to talk of
Keeko. Now, he asked himself, why--why, for all his resolve, should he
withhold the story of this greatest of all joys from the woman who was
his second mother?

His laugh was his yielding.

"Oh, yes," he cried impulsively. "I'll tell you the thing that pleases
me. I'll tell you the reason I was held up. And--it's the greatest
ever!"

An-ina rose quickly from her seat.

"You tell An-ina--sure. It long. Oh, yes. An-ina say this thing--'the
greatest ever.'"

She was gone and had returned again before Marcel had dragged himself
back from his contemplation of the things which he desired to talk of.
It was a gentle hint from An-ina that roused him.

"Oh, yes? An-ina listen."

Marcel started. He stirred his great bulk, and re-lit the pipe he had
failed to keep alight.

"I'd forgotten," he said, with another laugh that was not free from
self-consciousness. "Say," he went on, "I've hit the greatest trail ever
a feller struck in this queer darn country. Gee!" He breathed a profound
sigh. "It was queer. I was trailing an old bull moose. I followed it
days."

An-ina was watching him. She beheld the radiant light in his frank eyes.
She noted the almost feverish manner in which he was clouding the
tobacco smoke about him. She even thought she detected an unsteadiness
in the hand that held his pipe. She waited.

"Oh, yes," he went on. "I was in a territory I guess I've hunted plenty.
I kind of knew it all, as it's given to anyone to know this darn land. I
followed the trail right up to the end, but--I didn't make a kill. No."

His tone had dropped to a soft, deep note that thrilled with some
emotion An-ina had never before been aware of in him. A startled light
shone in her eyes, and her work lay unheeded in her lap.

"No. I didn't make a kill, but I came right up to the end of that trail,
and found----"

"A woman?"

Marcel sat up with a jolt. His wide, astonished eyes stared almost
foolishly into the dark native eyes smiling back into his.

"How d'you know--that?" he demanded sharply.

He planted his elbows on the table, resting his square chin upon his
hands.

An-ina laughed that almost silent laugh so peculiar to her.

"An-ina guess him. An-ina look and look. An-ina see Marcel all
smiling--inside. She hear him voice all soft, like--like--Ah, An-ina not
know what it like. So she think. She say, what mak' Marcel all like this?
Him find something. Him not scare. Oh, no. Marcel not scare nothing. No.
Him much please. Marcel boy? No. Him big man. What him mak' big man much
please. An-ina know. It woman. So she say."

Marcel wanted to laugh. He wanted to shout his delight. He wanted to
pour out the hot, passionate feelings of his heart to a woman who could
read and understand him like this. He did none of these things, however.

He simply smiled and nodded, while his whole face lit radiantly.

"That's a hell of a good guess," he cried. "Yes. I found a--woman. A
beautiful, blue-eyed white woman. And she called herself, 'Keeko.'"

An-ina swiftly rolled up the buckskin she was working. She laid it on
the supper table beside her. Then she drew up her chair, and she, too,
set her elbows on the table, and supported her handsome, smiling face in
her hands. Again it was the woman, the mother in her. It was her boy's
romance. The boy she had raised to manhood with so much love and
devotion. And she was thirsting, as only a mother can, for the story of
it.

"So. Marcel him say. An-ina listen."




CHAPTER XII

KEEKO RETURNS HOME


Keeko had beaten the winter where Marcel had failed. But then Keeko's
journey had been southward towards the sun, where the forest sheltered,
and the river pursued a deep-cut course to the westward of the great
hills supporting the wind-swept plateau of Unaga.

For all these easier conditions, however, the journey was a hard beat up
against the sluggish flow of the river. It permitted no relaxation, and
only a minimum of rest. Then the portages up the rapids had been
rendered doubly laborious by reason of cargoes such as the girl and her
Indians had never been called upon to deal with before.

It should have been a happy enough journey. Was it not in the nature of
a procession of great triumph? Had not Keeko's summer labours been
crowned far beyond her dreams? Surely this was so. The ardent little
feminine scheme, worked out on a sick bed, and executed with great
strength and courage had been brought to a complete and successful
issue. Oh, yes. The shadows which had threatened Keeko's future had been
completely confounded. She knew beyond a doubt that she was independent,
as her mother desired her to be. When the moment came she knew she was
in the privileged position of being free to cut the bonds which had
hitherto held her to the man whose brutality was surely enough driving
her suffering mother to the grave.

But depression weighed the girl down. Look forward as she might, hope
would not rise at her bidding. Marcel had been snatched out of her life
like a shadowy dream, and the future offered her little enough comfort.
Then there was her mother, and all that might have happened at the post
in her long absence.

It was in such a mood that she emerged into the horseshoe loop of the
river and beheld the dark walls of the old Fort Duggan. Her pretty face
and serious eyes reflected her feelings as she piloted her boat towards
the landing in the cold, crisp air of the brief daylight. Furthermore it
was with no easing of her mood that she beheld the figure of her
step-father on the landing awaiting her approach.

Just for a moment she wondered. Just for a moment she asked herself if
he had had warning from some stray Shaunekuk of her coming. She realized
a spasm of fear that perhaps prying eyes had witnessed her caching of
the great bulk of her furs, that part which represented her own personal
fortune. But the fear passed. It could not be so. Her plans had been
laid and executed far too carefully.

So she coldly awaited the man's greeting.

It came. And its tone was unusually modulated. It was almost gentle. The
man's eyes were a reflection of his tone as he gazed down at her. The
effect was startling, and a light of wonder crept into Keeko's eyes as
she looked up into the bloated face with its beard and general air of
brutishness.

"You've cut it fine, Keeko," he said, with a swift, calculating glance
at the sky. "I was getting well-nigh scared. We'll be snowed under right
away." Then he drew a deep breath as of relief. "I'm glad you got to
home."

Keeko had her part to play and she never hesitated.

"I was held up, but--I've had a good catch," she said, without
enthusiasm. She pointed at the bale of pelts in her canoe. "They're
silver fox. There's two more bales in the other boat. Guess Lorson
Harris'll hand you a thousand dollars."

"Silver fox?" The man's eyes lit with cupidity. For a moment his
seriousness passed out of them. "Why, that's great! You haven't got
beyond grey fox and beaver ever before. It was a new territory?"

Keeko nodded. She was yearning to ask one question. One question only.
But she knew the value of her success with this creature whom she could
not yet openly defy.

"Yes. It was that held me up. I made farther down the river. Right to
its mouth. It's a great fox country. Next year----"

But Nicol was unable to restrain his impatience. He turned to Little One
Man.

"Haul 'em ashore an' open 'em out. We need to see the quality."

Little One Man looked at Keeko.

The girl nodded at once. Nicol saw the look and understood, and, for a
moment, his eyes flashed with that ungovernable temper which was part of
him. But the danger passed as swiftly as it came. Little One Man had
flung the bundle ashore as Keeko stepped from the boat, and, in another
moment, Nicol's sheath knife was ripping the thongs of rawhide which
held it.

Keeko stood looking on watching the man's hands as he ran his fingers
through the silken mass. He caressed the steely blue fur with the
appreciation of a real pelt hunter, and presently stood up with a look
in his eyes such as Keeko had never before beheld.

"How many?" he demanded.

"Sixty."

Nicol blew a faint whistle of astonished delight.

"You said a thousand dollars," he exclaimed. "Lorson Harris'll need to
pay more than sixteen dollars for those pelts. We'll need twenty. Say,
gal, you've done well. You surely have."

Keeko desired none of his praise. One thought only was in her mind. Up
to that moment she had been playing the game she knew to be necessary.
Now she reckoned she could safely abandon tactics in favour of her own
desire.

"How's--mother?" she demanded.

Nicol stood up. His movement was a little precipitate. Nevertheless a
moment passed before he withdrew his gaze from the treasure he coveted.
When he finally did so it was not to look in the girl's direction. He
was gazing out at the forest backing the fort.

Keeko became impatient. She was alarmed, too.

"How is she?" she cried urgently.

Nicol shook his head. He turned to the waiting Indians.

"We'll have them up at the store, and fix 'em ready for transport," he
ordered. Then he sought to take the girl's arm while his hard eyes
assumed a regret that utterly ill-suited them. "Come along up to the
fort while I tell you."

But Keeko avoided him. Panic had seized her.

"No," she cried, in a tone she rarely permitted herself. "Tell me
here--right now. Is--is she dead?"

She would take no denial. There was something in her clear, fearless
eyes finely compelling. The man nodded.

"Dead?"

The girl spoke in a low, heart-broken whisper. She had forgotten the
man. Dead! Her mother was dead. That poor suffering creature who had
clung so long to life in her frantic desire to safeguard her child.
Dead! And she would never know the success of the plans she had laboured
so ardently to work out.

Stunning as was the blow Keeko promptly reacted.

"When did she die?" she demanded, in a tone that no longer needed
disguise.

"I'd say a month after you quit."

"And where--where's she buried?"

The man nodded in the direction of the woods at the back of the fort.

"Back there," he said. Then his manner became urgent. "Say, once we saw
the end was coming ther' wasn't a thing left undone to make her easy.
Lu-cana'll tell you that. We sat with her the whole time, and did all we
knew. And we buried her deep down wher' the wolves couldn't reach her,
and I set up a cross I fixed myself, and cut her name deep on it so
it'll take years to lose."

Keeko recognized a sort of defence in the man's words and in his manner.
It seemed to be his paramount purpose. She saw in him not a sign of real
sorrow, real regret. Contempt and bitterness rose and robbed her of all
discretion.

"When you saw the end coming!" she replied scornfully.

But Nicol ignored the tone.

"Yes," he said deliberately. "She didn't go short of a thing we could
do--Lu-cana and me. We did our best-I don't guess you could have done a
thing more. Will you come along up, an'--I'll show you."

"No!"

The reply was fierce. Keeko was at the extremity of restraint. She could
no longer endure the man's presence. She could no longer listen to him.

"There's the pelts," she cried, pointing. "See to them. That's your
work." Then she looked him squarely in the eyes. "The other is for
me--alone."

Nicol submitted. He had no alternative. And Keeko hurried away up to the
fort.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was unutterable grief in Keeko's attitude. At her feet lay the
low, long mound which marked her mother's grave. Beyond, at the head of
it, was a rough wooden cross, hewn from stout logs of spruce. And deeply
cut on the cross-bar was her mother's name prefixed by words of
endearment. Just behind the girl stood the heavily blanketed figure of
Lu-cana, whose eyes were shadowed by a grief which her lips lacked the
power to express.

All about them reigned the living silence of the forest with its threat
of hidden dangers. It was a silence where the breaking of a twig, the
rustle of the soft, rotting vegetation, inches deep upon the ground,
might indicate the prowling approach of famished wolf or scavenging
coyote, the stealing of wildcat or even of the deadly puma.

The minutes passed as the two women stood voicelessly at the grave side.
That which was passing in their minds was their own. Both, in their
different fashions, had loved the woman laid so deep in the ground at
their feet. And both knew, and perfectly understood, the life she had
endured at the hands of the man who had set up the monument to her
memory.

After a long time Keeko stirred. She drew a deep breath. It was the sign
of passing from thought to activity. She turned to the woman behind her.

"How did she die, Lu-cana?" she asked, in a low voice.

Lu-cana drew near. She spoke in a tone as if in fear of being
overheard. And as she spoke she looked this way and that.

"She weep--weep all time when you go," she said brokenly. "She big with
much fear. Oh, yes. She scare all to death. So. Days come--she live. She
not eat. Oh, no. Days come many. An' all time she weep inside. She not
speak. No. Her eye--it all time look around. Oh, much fear. Then one day
she not wake. She die all up."

"And he?"

"Oh, him come all time. Him sit and mak' talk to her. I not know. Only
him talk. Him go--she weep. Him go--she watch all scare. So it come she
die all up."

Keeko pointed at the cross at the head of the grave.

"He set that up? Yes?"

"Him mak' him totem."

Keeko stood staring at the cross for some moments. Then she moved over
to it and grasped it. It stirred in its setting. Then she left it, and
returned to Lu-cana.

"He dared to set that up," she cried bitterly. "'In loving memory.'" She
read the words before the name of her mother. "He dared to set
up--that?"

Her eyes shone with a fierce light as she turned and looked into the
squaw's face.

"Yes. Him set 'em up."

Lu-cana failed to understand that which lay at the back of Keeko's eyes.
She could not read the words on the totem. She did not know their
meaning when she heard them. All she knew was that the white man had
done this thing.

Keeko pointed at it.

"Guess I'll make a new--totem," she said, in a tone that was only cold
and hard. "And we'll set it up. You and me, Lu-cana. And that one--that
one," she repeated with bitter emphasis, "we'll break it, we'll smash
it, and we'll burn it in the cook stove till there's nothing left."

       *       *       *       *       *

Keeko remained for two months at the fort. And the length of her stay
was the result of careful calculation, and the necessity which her final
break from association with her step-father demanded. Then, too, there
was the season to consider. Before she set out on her journey to Seal
Bay the fierce winter of Unaga must have completely closed down. No
storm or cold had terror for her. All she required was the
case-hardening of the world, which would leave an iron surface upon
which the dog trains could travel.

During those two months the force of Keeko's character developed with
giant strides. She was alone, utterly alone. Her whole life depended
upon her own powers to carry out the plans which had seemed almost
simple while her mother was still alive. Now everything had suddenly
changed. Inevitably, had there been a shadow of weakness in the girl it
must have found her out, and tripped her into some pitfall, floundering.
But there was no such weakness.

From the first moment the enormous change wrought by her mother's death
left her keenly understanding. Until the final break, her step-father
must be humoured, conciliated. The thought was humiliating, but
necessity urged. And she accepted the inevitable with simple courage.

Well enough was she aware of the danger in which she stood, and further
the danger in which her required course placed her.

Had she known all that lay in the man's ruthless heart, had she been
present at her mother's bedside, and listened to those talks which
Lu-cana had told her of, had she had less youth and courage and a
deeper understanding of the realities of life, it is likely that panic
would have sent her fleeing headlong from a presence that filled her
with nothing but loathing. But she had been spared all this knowledge,
and Nicol saw to it that nothing should startle her, nothing should
excite her distrust until, in the fulness of time, his purposes had
fully ripened.

As it was he accepted the position which Keeko had created. He played
his part as she played hers. And right up to the very last moment before
the girl's departure for Seal Bay nothing was permitted to disturb the
harmony between them.

The man gave her farewell and received the girl's calm response. He
watched her Indians break out the two sleds on the bitterly frosted
trail. He heard her sharp tones echoing through the still air as she
gave the order to "mush." And all the while he stood smiling, while his
eyes followed every movement of the girl's graceful, fur-clad body with
the insensate lust of an animal.

Robbed of all suspicion Keeko went forth with a heart high with hope.
Away out lay her cache of priceless furs to be picked up within the next
few hours. All the great plan which she and her mother had so carefully
prepared looked to be reaching fulfilment. She had only to sell her furs
and return and pay over her step-father's due. It would be springtime
then.

All her mind and heart turned to Marcel. Yes. He would be there. Far
away up the river where the old grey skull of the moose was watching for
her coming. And then--and then--But imagination carried her no further.
She was left longing only for that moment to come.

Nicol remained only long enough to see the runners of the hindmost sled
vanish in a flurry of powdered snow round the limits of a woodland
bluff. Then he turned back to the dark old fort, and the mask under
which he had so carefully concealed himself fell away. Straightway he
returned to his store to flood his senses with the raw spirit which
alone made his degenerate life tolerable.

       *       *       *       *       *

Winter was howling about the old fort. Drifts were piled feet deep
against every obstruction that stood in the way of the driving snow. The
fort was closed up. Every habitation was made fast against the onslaught
of the elements Life was unstirring.

Far out in the woods bayed the fierce, famished timber wolf. The lighter
but more doleful howl of coyote seemed to reply from every point of the
compass. And amidst the rack of savage chorus came the harsh human voice
that had little the better of the animal world in the pleasing quality
of its note.

A train of three dogs hauling a light sled broke from the shadows of the
forest. A single human figure on snow-shoes laboured along beside it. It
was a figure entirely unrecognizable, except that it was human.

There was no pause, no uncertainty. The train came on and halted at a
word of command at the doorway of the fort. In a moment the human figure
was beating with its fur-mitted fists upon the door that had weathered
the ages of storm.

The door was flung wide from within, and the blear eyes of Nicol peered
out into the night-light. In a moment an exclamation of recognition
broke from him.

"Alroy!" he cried. "'Tough' Alroy!" Then something of gladness at the
prospect of companionship lit his eyes with a happier light. "Say, come
right in," he invited, almost boisterously. "I'll send along some neches
to see to your darn train."

Tough needed no second invitation. He smelt warmth, rest, and there was
the promise in his mind of a good "souse." For the time he had had
enough of Unaga. He had had enough of his employer, Lorson Harris. He
had had enough of snow and ice, and the merciless cold of the twilit
trail. God! but he was glad to leave it all behind him for the warmth of
Nicol's store, and the raw spirit he knew was to be found there in
generous quantities.

Half an hour later, divested of his furs, clad only in rough buckskin
and pea-jacket, with feet encased in thick reindeer moccasins, Tough sat
over the trader's stove with a pannikin of evil smelling rye whisky in
his hand.

"Guess I've driven through hell an' damnation to git your darn report,"
he said, his wicked eyes beaming across the stove at his host on the far
side of it.

"Lorson's blasted orders?"

"You mean blasted Lorson's orders!"

"Amen--or any other old chorus--to that," returned Nicol, with a gleam
of brooding hate in his dark eyes. "Say, that swine has got all us
fellers by the back o' the neck, and he twists us this way and that as
he darn pleases, till we're well-nigh crazy. I'd give half a life to cut
it--to make a break that would quit me of it all. But----"

"You're scared," Tough laughed, as he gulped at his spirit. "Guess we
all are." Then he added as an after-thought: "I wonder. I don't know I
would if--I dared. He's tough. He'd beat a dead man to pieces if he felt
that way. He's plumb to the neck in work that 'ud shame a black, but he
pays good for the doin' of it. And he reckons to pay you mighty well, if
you put this thing through right. Best hand me your news. He don't want
it wrote out."

Nicol leant back in his chair, and thrust his feet on the rail of the
stove.

"No, he don't fancy a thing wrote out," he said. "And anyway I'm writin'
out nothing for Lorson Harris. He's got one piece of my paper, and I
guess that's mostly why I'm here."

"And your summer trip?"

Tough recalled his host to the business in hand. He did it amiably,
almost pleasantly, but such things were entirely upon the surface. Tough
Alroy was Lorson's most trusted agent.

Nicol shook his head.

"Guess I didn't do all I figured to," he said. "You see, my fool woman
took on and died. It cut the season short. But I located ther's a fort
way out more than three hundred miles north-east of this lousy hole.
Yes, it's more than three hundred miles north-east. Might be even four
hundred. And there are folks running it. White folks. Three of my
Shaunekuk boys got it dead pat. They ran into an outfit of queer sort of
Eskimo pelt hunters. They were hunting the territory away north, up
along this darn river. And they came from that post to the north-east.
They said they were part of an outfit run by a feller named Brand. He
was one of the white men running that post. They said these folk traded
with Seal Bay. It was a big piece of luck. You see, the Shaunekuk never
go into Unaga proper. They're scared to death of it. They make the
forests along this river, that's all. Well, this outfit of queer Eskimo
haven't ever been seen along this territory before. So you see I might
have saved myself one hell of a rush trip that only took me to a place
where I got a sight of a mighty tough looking hill, all smoke and fire.
The three neches were out on their own and had their yarn waiting on me
when I got back. That's my yarn, and all there is to it. Guess it's what
Lorson Harris needs--until we make that fort, itself, for him."

Tough nodded. His wicked black eyes were serious, and, in their
seriousness, were never more wicked.

"It'll do," he said. "Sure, it'll do. Guess it's a rough map of the
trail we're chasing. But it's only the beginning. See, and listen close.
Lorson Harris don't care a curse for the trade you make here with these
fool neches. You ain't here for that, whatever you happen to think.
You're here to make that trail. You're here to make that fort. And when
you've made it, it's up to you to get possession of it. See? Lorson
Harris means to bring that post right into his grip. There's a reason. A
hell of a reason. It's so big he's ready to dope out a hundred thousand
dollars to the man who can blot out the fellers trading there, and grab
their trade. He reckons you're the man to do it. Well?"

Tough was leaning forward. His manner was deadly earnest and intended to
impress. His keen black eyes stared hard into the bloated features of
the man beyond the stove. He waited, watchful, alert.

"A hundred thousand dollars!"

Nicol's astonishment was without feigning. Suddenly he bestirred
himself. He felt there must be some trick in it all.

"Would I need to--remain buried alive there?" he demanded.

Tough shook his head.

"Get possession of that place, that trade. Out those folks running the
trade, and Lorson'll hand you one hundred thousand dollars in cash, and
you'll be quit of the North if it suits you that way. You'll be quit of
Lorson Harris, too. Well?"

"Gee!" Nicol passed a moist palm across his forehead.

"It's a swell proposition!"

"It's a hell of a proposition!"

"Well? You need to say right now. I don't need to remind you of Lorson
Harris."

"God curse Lorson Harris!"

"Just so."

Tough was unrelenting in his pressure upon his victim. Lorson Harris
chose his agents well.

Suddenly Nicol flung out his hands in a furious gesture.

"God's hell light on him! Yes," he cried, with eyes aflame, and his
ungovernable temper surging. "I'll put his filthy work through. But when
I've done it he'll need to hand me that hundred thousand dollars in cash
right here before he learns a darn thing of the place he's yearning to
grab. Get me? He reckons that he's got the drop on me. Well, maybe he
has. But he don't get my tongue wagging till I get the cash pappy. Savee
that, and savee it good!"

"But you'll do it?"

"That's what I've been shouting at you."

"Good. Now listen, and I'll pass you the rest of Lorson's message."

Tough emptied his pannikin to the dregs, and, leaning back in his chair,
beamed across at the man he knew to be at the mercy of Lorson Harris.
There was no feeling, no sympathy in him. He cared not one jot for
anyone in the world but himself, and his standing with the man who paid
for his services.




CHAPTER XIII

THE FAITH OF MEN


The men crouched for warmth and the shadow of comfort over a miserable
fire. The dogs were beyond, herded far within the shelter, their fierce
eyes agleam with a reflection of the feeble firelight as they gazed out
hungrily in its direction. It was a cavernous break in the rock-bound
confines of a nameless Northern river.

Steve passed a hand down his face. He brushed away the moisture of
melting ice. It was a significant gesture, accompanied as it was by a
deep breath of weariness. Two hundred miles and more of Arctic terror
lay behind him. As yet he had no reckoning of how much more lay ahead.

The world outside was lost in a chaos of warring elements. So it had
lain for a week. In the fury of the blizzard the Arctic night was
reduced to a pitchy blackness worse than the sightlessness of the blind.

How long? It was the question haunting Steve's mind, and the minds of
those others with him. But the shrieking elements refused to enlighten
him. It was their joy to mock, and taunt, and, if possible, to slay.

Steve rose from his seat over the fire. He turned and moved towards the
mouth of the shelter. Beyond the light of the fire he had to grope his
way. At the opening the snow was piled high, driven in by the storm.
There was left only the narrowest aperture leading to the black
darkness beyond.

He paused at the opening. He was half buried in the drift, and the lash
of the storm whipped his face mercilessly. For some moments he endured
the assault, then his voice came back to the figures of his companions
squatting moveless over the fire.

"Ho, you, Julyman!" he called sharply.

Moments later the Indian stood beside the white man, peering out into
the desolation beyond.

"She's not going to last a deal longer."

Steve was wiping his face with a _bare_ hand.

Julyman missed the movement in the darkness.

"She mak' him break bimeby--soon. Oh, yes."

There was something almost heroic in the attempt Julyman made to throw
confidence into his tone. But Steve needed no such support. He was
preoccupied with his own discoveries. His bare hand was still wiping
away the curiously moist snow that beat upon his face.

"Yes," he said conclusively. "She'll break soon." Then after a moment:
"She's breaking _now_."

An interruption came from the distant dogs. It was the snarling yap of a
quarrel. Then came the echo of Oolak's harsh voice and the thud of his
club as he silenced them in the only manner they understood.

Steve's announcement failed to startle his companion. Nothing stirred
Julyman but the fear of "devil-men," and his queer native superstitions.

"Him soften. Oh, yes," he said. "Wind him all go west. Him soft. Yes."

The wind had been carrying "forty below zero" on its relentless bosom.
Its ferocity still remained, but now it was tempered by a warmth wholly
unaccounted for by the change in its direction. A western wind in these
latitudes was little less terrible than when it blew from the north. It
had over three thousand miles of snow and ice to reduce its temperature.

Steve's voice again came in the howl of the wind.

"Guess we'll get back to the fire," he said decisively.

Julyman needed no second bidding; he turned and moved away.

Back at the fire Oolak watched his companions retake their places. He
had no questions to ask. He simply waited. That was his way. He seemed
to live at all times with a mind absorbed.

Steve pointed at the diminished pile of scrub wood.

"Best make up the fire," he said, addressing Julyman.

The Indian eyed him doubtfully. Their store of fuel was perilously low.

"Sure," Steve nodded. And the Indian obeyed without further demur.

Steve re-lit his pipe and sucked at it comfortably. Then he spoke with
an assurance he could not have displayed earlier.

"Say," he exclaimed, without looking up from the fire. "You get the
meaning of it? Maybe you don't get the meaning I do."

He laughed. It was a curious laugh. It had no mirth. But it was an
expression of feelings which required outlet.

"No. Maybe you don't," he went on. "You see, I got a--notion. The wind's
west--now. It should be a hell of a cold wind. It isn't. No. It should
be hellish cold," he reflected. "Why isn't it? The hills lie west. The
big hills. Maybe _the_ big hill. Well? I kind of wonder. Maybe it's
that. It's a guess. A hell of a guess. Does the west wind hereabouts
blow across the big fire hill? And are those fires so almighty hot they
set the snow melting where all the world's freezing at 60° below? Is it
a sort of chinook in the dead of winter?"

He raised his eyes to the faces of his companions. The dusky figures
were half hidden behind the smoke of the fire, which rose between them.
He nodded at the steady gazing black eyes.

"Yes," he said. "Guess that break's come. We'll be out on the trail
right away. And we'll beat up against a breeze that's warming. It'll
lead us to--the Heart of Unaga."

       *       *       *       *       *

The splendour of the Arctic night was shining over the world. There was
scarcely a breath of wind. The air currents were still from the west,
but the wind had died out. For the moment the amazing warmth which had
stirred the imagination of Steve and his companions had passed.

A silver sheen played upon the limitless fields of snow. It was like a
world of alabaster. The light came from every corner of the heavens. It
came from the glory of a full moon, hard-driven to retain supremacy over
its satellites. It came from the myriads of burnished stars, gleaming
with a clarity, a penetrating sparkle, unknown to their brethren of
lower latitudes. It came from the supreme magnificence of an aurora of
moving light, dancing and curtseying with ghostly grace, as though
stepping the measure of a heavenly minuet. Its radiance filled half the
dome of night. It was a glory of frigid colour to ravish the artist eye.

The men on the trail had lost all sense of degrees of cold. It was
simply cold. Always cold. A thermometer would have frozen solid. They
knew that. Cold? So long as a strong, warm life burned in their bodies,
and their stores of food remained, it was the best they could hope for.

And the dogs. They were bred to the Arctic cold. So is the bear of the
Pole. They needed no better than to follow their labours with a couch
burrowed beneath the snows, and hours for the dream feast which their
ravening appetites yearned and never tasted.

The outfit had broken trail as Steve had promised, and it was moving
through the ghostly world like insects a-crawl over the folds of an
ill-spread carpet.

The course had been deflected in response to the change of wind. Steve
had left the shelter of the river where it had definitely turned
northward. He had left it without regret. He had no regret for anything
which did not further his purpose. Adresol! The quest of the Adresol
pastures was the whole aim and object of his life. Somewhere out there
over the desolate wastes he believed the great secret of it all lay
awaiting his discovery. Nothing else, then, was of any significance.

For the moment Nature seemed bent on favouring him. For over two hundred
miles she had beaten him well-nigh breathless. She had hurled her storms
at him without mercy, and, at the end of her transcendent fury, she had
found him undismayed, undefeated. Perhaps his tenacity excited her
admiration. Perhaps she was nursing her wrath for a more terrible
onslaught. Whatever her mood he was ready to face it.

At the beginning of the third week since leaving the shelter on the
river Steve trod the first of the western hills under foot, and awaited
the coming of the train upon its summit. His dark, fur-clad figure stood
out in relief against the world about him. It looked squat, it was
utterly dwarfed in the twilit vastness. But there was something
tremendous in the meaning of that living presence in the voiceless
solitudes which the ages have failed to stir.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sleds were still. The dogs lay sprawled for rest awaiting the will
of their masters. Julyman stood abreast of Steve, tall, lean, but bulky
in his frosted furs. Oolak stood over his dogs, which were his first
care.

"You can feel it now," Steve said, thrusting a hand under his fur
helmet. A moment later he withdrew fingers that were moist with sweat.
"If the wind came down at us out of the hills now we'd need to quit our
furs. Do you get that? Quit our furs here in the dead of winter. It's
getting warmer every mile."

"It warm. Much warm. Oh, yes."

Julyman's resources of imagination were being sorely taxed.

Steve nodded.

"Yes," he said. "It isn't wind now. There's no wind. It's the air. It's
warm. It's getting warmer. Later it'll get hot as hell."

He drew a profound breath. He felt that victory was very near. It only
needed----

"We got to beat on all we know," he said, examining the brilliant
heavens. "We need to grab every moment of this weather. We don't know.
We can't guess the things waiting on us. Yes. We'll 'mush' on."

His tones were deep. The restraint of years which the Northland had bred
into him was giving way before the surge of a hope that was almost
certainty. And his order was obeyed by men who knew no law but his will.

But for all the urgency of his mandate, for all his efforts, progress
slackened from the moment the first hill was passed. From the seemingly
limitless plains of snow, rolling maddeningly in a succession of low
hills and shallow hollows, now it seemed that Nature spurned the milk
and water fashioning of her handiwork, and had hurled the rest of the
world into a wreckage of broken, barren hills.

Into the midst of this chaos Steve plunged.

For awhile the confusion robbed him of all certainty. It not
infrequently left decision floundering. The mountains leapt at him with
a rush from every side, confusing direction and reducing even instinct
to something like impotence. With familiarity, however, his trained mind
adapted itself. Then the rush went on with the old irresistible
confidence.

But human endurance was sorely tested. The tasks often became well-nigh
insuperable. There were moments when dogs and Indians lay beaten in the
midst of their labours, without will, without energy to stir another
yard. It was at such times that despair knocked at the strong heart of
the man who had never learned to yield, and who had never quite known
defeat.

But even in the worst moments the steadily warming air never failed to
lure. It breathed its soft message of promise into Steve's ready ears,
supporting a heart powerless to resist the appeal.

The change to warmth, however, had another and less pleasing aspect. The
snow lost its icy case-hardening. A rot set in. On the hill-tops the ice
was not always reliable. In the valleys men sank up to their knees in
slushy depths. Even the broad tread of snow-shoes failed to save them.
Then, too, the dogs floundered belly-deep, and the broad bottoms of the
sleds alone saved the outfit from complete disaster. The increasing
hardships left Steve without respite. It was only on the hill-tops, when
the veer of the wind carried it to the northward, and, for a brief
spell, Arctic conditions returned, that any measure of ease was
ironically vouchsafed.

The effort was tremendous. It went on for days whose number it was
difficult to estimate in the grope of the unchanging twilight. A day's
work might be a single hill conquered. It might be a moist, clammy
valley crossed. Perhaps two miles, three, or even five. Distance
remained unconsidered. For always was the next effort no less than the
last, till mind, and heart, and body were worn well-nigh threadbare.
There was no pause, no hesitation. It must be on, on to the end,
or--disaster.

Steve knew. Only the barest necessity of rest could be permitted both
for himself, his men, his dogs. The faith of his men still burned
strongly in hearts which he had never known to fail, but he dared not
risk the chance of a prolonged inactivity with its opportunity for
contemplation of the hell through which they were all passing. He knew.
Oh yes. He knew from his understanding of his own feelings and emotions.

He lived in the daily hope of discovering something with which to dazzle
imagination already dulling. His faith was pinned to the summit of a
great, grey headland towering amongst its fellows ahead. He had
discovered its presence long since, and, from the moment of discovery,
he had sought its elusive slopes. Instinct, that had no great reason to
support it, warned him that the view from its summit would tell them the
things they desired to know. And they were the things they all must
learn quickly if failure were not to rob them of the fruits of their
great adventure.

Yes. He desired that dull grey summit just now as he desired nothing
else in the world.

Every emotion was stirring when, at length, Steve found himself climbing
the last of the upward slopes of the "Hill of Promise," as he had named
it. He had laughed as he coined the name. But there had been no laughter
in his heart. If the promise were not fulfilled----?

But it would be fulfilled. It must be fulfilled. These were the things
Steve told himself in that fever of straining which only mental
extremity knows.

He topped the last rugged lift to the summit. His men were somewhere
below, floundering in his wake. He had no heed for them just now. Hope,
a fever of hope alone sustained his weary limbs over the inhospitable
ice.

A great shout echoed down the slope. It came with all the power of a
strong man's lungs.

"Ho, you! Quick!"

Steve had reached the rugged crest. A second shout came back to the
floundering Indians.

"God! It's a--wonder!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The moment was profound. Eyes that were prepared for well-nigh anything
monstrous gazed out spellbound. Tongues had no words, and hearts were
stirred to their depths. The whole world ahead was afire. It was a
conflagration of incalculable immensity.

The horizon was one blaze of transcendent light. It was rendered a
hundred-fold more amazing by its contrast against the grey of the Arctic
night. At a given point, in the centre of all, a well of fire was
belching skywards. It was churning the overhanging clouds of smoke, and
lighting them with the myriad hues that belong to the tumbled glory of a
stormy summer sunset. Then, too, rumblings and dull thunders came up to
the watching men like the groanings of a world in travail.

For miles the hill-tops seemed to have been swept clear of ice and snow.
They were shorn of their winter shroud. They stood up like black,
unsightly, broken teeth, against a cavernous background of fire burning
in the maw of some Moloch colossus. They stood out bared to the bone of
the world's foundations.

Julyman shaded his eyes with hands that sought to shut out a vision his
savage superstition could no longer support. Oolak had no such emotion.
He turned from it to something which, to his mind, was of greater
interest. Steve alone remained absorbed in that radiant beyond.

The Arctic night no longer reigned supreme. It seemed to have been
devoured at a gulp. The heavenly lights had lost all power in face of
this earthly glory. A mist of smoke had switched off the gleam of
starlight, and the moon and mock-moons wore the tarnished hue of silver
that has lost its burnish. The ghosts of the aurora no longer trod their
measure of stately minuet. They had passed into the world of shadow to
which they rightly belonged.

The heart of Unaga was bared for all to see, that fierce heart which
drives the bravest Indian tongue to the hush of dread.

"We not mak' him--that! Oh, no!"

Julyman's tone was hushed and fearful. He moved close to the white man
in urgent appeal.

"Boss Steve not mak' him. No. Julyman all come dead. Julyman not mush
on. Oh, no."

"Julyman'll do just as 'Boss' Steve says."

Steve had dragged his gaze from the wonder that held it. He was coldly
regarding the haunted eyes of a man he knew to be fearless enough as men
understand fearlessness.

This was no time for sympathy or weakness. It was his purpose to
penetrate to that blazing heart, as nearly as the object of his journey
demanded. He was in no mood to listen patiently to words inspired by
benighted superstition.

"Him--Unaga!" Julyman protested, his outstretched arm shaking. "No--mak'
him? Yes?"

"We mak' this!"

It was Oolak who answered him. He spoke with a preliminary, contemptuous
grunt. He, too, was pointing. But he was pointing at that which lay near
at hand. He stood leaning his crippled body on his gee-pole, and gazing
down at that which lay immediately in front of them, groaning and
grumbling like some suffering living creature.

Steve followed the direction of the outstretched arm. He had been
absorbed in the distance. All else had been forgotten. He found himself
gazing down upon what appeared to be a cascading sea of phosphorescent
light. He recognized it instantly, and the fiery heart of Unaga was
forgotten.

A mighty glacier barred the way, and the peak on which they stood was
its highest point. It stretched out far ahead. It reached beyond such
range of vision as the Arctic night permitted. It sloped away down,
down, so gradually, yet so deeply, so widely that it warned him of the
opening of the jaws of a mighty valley, through the heart of which there
probably flowed the broad bosom of a very great river. The play of the
phosphorescent light was the reflection of Unaga's lights caught by the
myriad facets of broken ice upon its tumbled surface.

Steve nodded.

"Yes. We make this," he cried, in a fashion to forbid all discussion.
Then after a pause that gave his decision due effect: "There's a valley
away out there. And I guess it'll likely hand us the things we got to
know. We've beaten those darn hills. We've beaten the snow and ice--and
the cold. The things we're going to find down there need beating, too."

He turned from the barrier which left him undismayed. A great light was
shining in his eyes as he passed Julyman by. They rested eagerly,
questioningly, upon the unemotional face of Oolak whose keen
understanding he knew to be profound.

"Well?" he demanded in the fashion of a man aware that his question is
not in vain.

Oolak turned. He raised his face, and his sensitive nostrils distended
with a deep intake of breath. A moment later he made a swift gesture
with the gee-pole on which he had been supporting himself.

"I mak' him smell. So!"

He spoke with unusual animation.

Steve had been seeking and waiting for just such words.

"You smell--what?" he demanded.

"Oolak smell him all sweet--lak'--lak'----"

Steve interrupted with a nod.

"I know," he cried. "Like--like----"

But that which he would have said remained unspoken. There was no need
for words. The rest was in his eyes, in his voice. Oolak's corroboration
of the evidence of his own senses meant the final triumph he was
seeking.




CHAPTER XIV

THE VALLEY OF DREAMS


Steve's dream of triumph was brief. Born at the moment of his first
sight of the burning heart of Unaga it lived to provide a stimulant for
jaded mind and body at a time of need. Then he awoke to realities such
as he had never contemplated.

For once experience and imagination failed him. He was entering a land
of wonder in the belief that he was prepared for everything monstrous in
Nature. He believed that with the stupendous vision of Unaga he had
witnessed Nature's most sublime effort. So, out of his confidence he was
trapped as easily as a man of no experience at all.

At his bidding dogs and men moved to the assault of the glacial barrier.
The thing that they contemplated was by no means new. A hundred times
had the broken surface of glacier formed some part of their long winter
trail. It was never without danger, but it was never a sufficient
barrier to give them pause.

The surface of the glacier appeared to be that which they all knew. The
only feature for disquiet were the thunderous detonations, the deep
rumbling groans that rose up out of its far-off heart, and found a
hundred echoes amongst the surrounding hills. For the rest, it was a
broken surface, bearing every feature of a summer thaw frozen down again
by the icy breath of winter, and adorned with a patchwork of drift
snow.

Half a mile from the grey headland which was their starting point,
confidence received its first check. It was Oolak who made discovery.
The watchful, silent creature was unerring in his instincts, unerring in
his scent of a treachery he always anticipated. He had halted his dogs,
and stood in the half light, peering out this way and that at the
legions of ice spectres surrounding them. Then, quite suddenly, he
hailed the white man to his side, and indicated the ice on which they
were standing.

"It all him move," he said, with his peculiarly significant brevity.

Steve stood for a moment without reply. He was less sensitive to
indications than the Indian. In fact he failed to realize the thing the
other had discovered. He shook his head.

"Guess you're----"

But his denial remained uncompleted. It was interrupted by a sharp cry
from Julyman some distance away with the rear sled. The two men turned
in his direction. They beheld his lean figure busy amongst his dogs,
plying his club impartially, as though in an effort to quell some canine
dispute.

But that was not all. As they gazed they saw the iron-shod tail of the
sled rise up. It seemed to be flung up with great force. For a moment it
remained poised. Then it crashed over on its side to the accompaniment
of a cracking, splitting roar, like the bombardment of massed artillery.

Steve waited for nothing. Even with the roar of sub-glacial thunders
hammering on his ear drums, he rushed to the man's assistance. Oolak
turned to his own dogs.

The din subsided almost in a moment. Steve reached the sled where
Julyman had beaten the dogs to the required condition. In a moment they
were at work setting things to rights. After that the dogs were strung
out afresh, and Julyman "mushed" them on, and brought them abreast of
the train of the waiting Oolak.

The dogs crouched down on the rough surface of the inhospitable ice.
Their great limbs were shaking under heavy coats of fur, and they
whimpered plaintively, stirred by some unspeakable apprehension. The men
were standing by, gazing back over the ghostly field of ice, with wonder
and disquiet in their eyes.

Again it was Oolak who spoke. He pointed at the headland from which they
had started. It was dim, shadowy, half lost in the grey twilight.

"Him all go back," he said, as though he were making the most ordinary
announcement.

Then he pointed at something nearer. It was just beyond where the sled
had been overturned.

"Him all break up. So."

His tone had changed. There was that in his harsh voice which was
utterly new to it.

It was the moment of Steve's awakening from the dream of triumph he had
dreamed. It was the moment of the shattering of the confidence of years.
A wide fissure, of the proportions of a chasm, had opened up just beyond
where the mishap had occurred. It was as Oolak said. The grey headland
looked to be moving backwards, vanishing in the shadows of the Arctic
night.

The approach to the heart of Unaga was yielding a reality that had been
entirely uncalculated.

The widening chasm, stretching far as the eye could see on either hand,
had completely cut off all retreat. Steve and his men were standing on a
belt of ice that was moving. It was slipping away from the parent body,
gliding ponderously almost without tangible motion, down the great
glacial slope. They were trapped on the bosom of a glacial field in the
titanic throes of its death agony; a melting, groaning mass riding
monstrously to its own destruction in those far-off, mist-laden depths
of the valley below.

It must have been unbelievable but for the definite evidence of it all.
Here, in the depths of an Arctic winter, with the whole earth shadowed
under a grey of frigid night, a glacial field, which a thousand years
could not have built up, was melting under a heat no less than the
summer of lower latitudes.

It was a moment for panic. But Steve resisted with all his might.

The position was supremely critical. There were no means of retreat in
face of that amazing fissure. There could be no standing still. They
must go on with the dread tide of grinding ice, on and on to the end.
And for the end their trust must be in the gods of fortune for such
mercies as they chose to vouchsafe.

Steve's order rang out amidst the booming of the ice. It was urgent. It
was fierce in the need of the moment. The Indians knew. He had no need
to explain. Before them lay the hideous downward slope with possible
hell at the bottom. And the demon of avalanche was hard upon their
heels.

In a frenzy the dogs leapt at their work. There was no need for club or
urging. They were only too eager to quit the quaking ice and lose their
consciousness of the thunders of the under-world in a rush of vital
movement.

Steve warned himself there remained a fighting chance. It was the man's
courage which inspired the thought. The dogs took the only chance they
knew. They at least understood the soullessness of Nature's might when
arrayed for destruction.

Steve drove for the fringe of it all, where the ice lapped against the
rising walls of the valley to which they were dropping. It was his only
course. He felt it to be his only chance. He had no real hope. It was
instinctive decision unsupported by reason. He knew that ahead lay the
great valley obscured under a fog of mist, and he could only guess at
the perils that lay hidden there.

No, he did not know. He had no desire to question. Instinct alone could
serve him now, and instinct urged him to flee from the middle course of
the glacier as he would flee from the breath of pestilence.

From the first moments of blind rush for safety all sense of time became
utterly lost. So, too, with fatigue. So, too, with the matter of
distance. Labour became well-nigh superhuman amidst the moving ice
hummocks. And the speed, and the jolting, and pitching of the sleds
transformed the chaotic world about them into still more utter
confusion.

The sweaty mist came up from below seeking to enshroud them in long,
gauzy tentacles.

How long the struggle endured it would have been impossible to tell.
There was thought only for the fissures that opened with a roar at their
feet, for the ice driving down upon their heels, for the melting streams
coursing amongst the hummocks. And--the threat of the enveloping mists.

The dogs ran with the recklessness of a stampede, and the precious
burden of the sleds was a treasure upon the salving of which mind and
body were concentrated to the exclusion of all else. Even the security
of life and limb was a matter of far less concern.

The mist closed down. The terror of sightlessness was added to the rest.

Utter helplessness supervened. It was the final disaster. The closing
down of the fog meant the last of intelligent effort. The whole outfit
was left groping, blind, and conscious only of the terror of the
downward rush they could no longer check. Ghostly ice hummocks rose up
at them out of the darkness and buffeted like frigid legions advancing
to the attack. Fissures yawned agape. The booming ice roared on,
deafening, maddening. It was the struggle of brave men doomed. It was
sublimely pitiful. It was a moment for the tears of angels.

       *       *       *       *       *

Out of the west the breeze had freshened. It came in little hasty gusts,
like the breath of invisible giants. The inky night seemed to lighten,
and, here and there, the flash of a star shone out, while a faint,
silvery sheen struggled for mastery in the stirring fog which fought so
desperately to deny the eyes of the Arctic night.

A distant booming came up out of the fog. It was the softened sound of
far-off thunder. There was another sound, too. It was less awesome, but
no less significant. It was the steady droning of cascading waters
falling in a mighty tide. It suggested the plunge into the darkness of
an abyss, or even the lesser immensity of surging rapids in the course
of a mountain river.

Steadily the western breeze increased. It lost its patchiness and
settled to a pleasant, warming drift. Slowly the inky darkness rolled
away. The peeping stars remained, or only lost their radiance in the
gossamer lightness of passing mist. The silver of the aurora shone down
triumphantly upon the _snowless earth_, and the glory of the moon lit
the remoteness with its frigid smile.

On the dark monotony of an earth robbed of its winter clothing a cluster
of moving figures stood out in faint relief, and presently a light
flashed out like the infinitesimal blaze of a firefly in the night. It
passed, and then it came again. Again it passed. And again it came.
This time it lived and grew. A fire had lit, and the group of figures
were crouching over it as though to protect it against the dark
immensity of the world surrounding them.

       *       *       *       *       *

The distant thunders had died away. No longer was there the ominous
droning of falling waters. The utter stillness of the Arctic night was
supreme.

The steady play of the western breeze came down the highway of the
valley whose far-off slopes rose to unmeasured heights. To the westward
the dull reflections of earthly fire lit the sky with deep, sanguinary
hues, and the starlight seemed to have lost its power behind a haze of
cloud. For the rest the night was lit by the aurora.

Steve and his Indians were standing on the moist banks of a broad,
flowing river, the surface of whose waters served as a mirror to the
splendid lights above. Away behind them, where the ground rose up
towards the higher slopes, was the glimmer of the fire which marked
their camp. They were all three gazing out at the western reflection of
earthly fires.

For the moment there was silence. For the moment each was absorbed in
his own thought. None gave a sign of the nature of that thought, but it
was an easy thing to guess since their faces were turned towards the
reflection of Unaga's fires.

It was Steve who first withdrew his gaze. He seemed reluctant. He turned
and surveyed the snowless territory about them.

It was an extraordinary display of Nature's mood. They were treading
underfoot a growth of lank grass, and the slopes of the valley were clad
with bluffs of bare-poled woodlands. The air was warm. It was warmer
than the breath of a temperate winter, and the low-growing scrub marking
the course of the river was breaking into new growth of a whitish hue.

The amazement of the discovery of these things had long since passed.
Steve and his Indians had returned again to the reality of things.

Steve drew a deep breath.

"We can't make another yard with the dogs," he said. "The snow's gone.
It's gone for keeps."

It was a simple statement of the facts. And Oolak and Julyman were
equally alive to them.

"Then him all mak' back?"

There was eagerness in Julyman's question. The terror of that through
which they had passed was still in his mind. So, too, with the fiery
heart of Unaga that lay ahead. Oolak had nothing to add, so he kept to
his customary silence.

Steve shook his head.

"There's no quitting," he said simply. "Guess we've come nigh three
hundred miles. We've got through a territory to break the heart of a
stone image. God's mercy helped us back on that darn glacier when we
were beat like dead men. It's a sort of dream I just can't remember, and
don't want to anyway. Say, do you guess a miracle was sent down to us,
which kept us clear of going over that darn precipice with the ice? Was
it a miracle that carried us where there wasn't worse than a flow
banking on the slope of this valley? Was the mercy of it all sent to
have us quit now, with the end of things coming right to our hand? I
just guess not. It's there ahead. Somewhere down this valley. We can
smell it so plain we'll need the poison masks in a day's journey.
There's going to be no quitting. The sleds'll have to stop right here.
And the dogs. You boys, too. Guess I'm going on afoot. When I've located
the stuff," he went on, his eyes lighting, and his words coming
sharply, "when I locate the stuff in full growth, the harvest we're
yearning to cut, why, then I'll get right back here, and we'll go afoot,
all three of us, and we'll cut it, and bale it, and portage it right
here to the sleds. And when we've got all we can haul we'll cast for
that trail the Sleepers make in summer, and just cut out all that hell
of ice we came over. That's how I see it. And we're going to put it
right through if it breaks us, and beats us to death."

Steve spoke with his eyes fixed upon the far-off lights of Unaga. His
words were the words of a man obsessed. But there was nothing in his
manner to suggest a mind weakening under its burden. It was simple, sane
determination that looked out of his eyes.

Julyman answered him, and a world of relief was in his tone.

"Him dog. Him sled. All him Indian man him stop by camp. Oh, yes."

Steve nodded. Then he pointed out down the river.

"It's a crazy territory anyway," he said. "Those darn fires have turned
it summer when winter's freezing up the marrow of things. When summer
gets around I guess it's likely the next thing to hell. But the thing
we're yearning for is lying there, somewhere ahead. And I'm after it if
I never make the fort again, and the folks we've left behind. Come on.
We'll get right back to camp. I need to fix things for the big chance
I'm going to take, and you boys'll wait around till I get back. If
things go wrong, and this thing beats me, why, just hang on till you
figger the food trucks liable to leave you short, then hit a trail over
the southern hills and work around back to the fort with word to Marcel
and An-ina. Guess there won't be any message."




CHAPTER XV

THE HEART OF UNAGA


Alone in the great silence. Without even the cry of desolation wrung
from starving wolf, or the howl of depression which ever seems to haunt
the heart of the coyote world. Alone with groping thought, with burning
hope, and the undermining of doubt which the strongest cannot always
shake off. Steve had taken the plunge which robbed him of human
companionship.

It was the prompting of that spirit which borders so closely the line
where earthly sanity passes. It was the spirit which finds its
inspiration in the Great Purpose which drives on for the achievement of
the human task on earth. The dreamer of dreams is born to translate his
visions into reality, or to lie broken before the task. Steve was no
visionary. He was something more, something greater. His was the stern
heart of purpose selected for the translation of the dream of the
dreamer who had fallen by the way.

Steve permitted himself no reflection upon the spiritual appeal of his
purpose. These things might concern those of a wider, deeper
intelligence. Or, perhaps, those whose weakness unfitted them for the
battle of the strong. It was for him to claim issue in the battle he
sought. And come life and victory, or death and defeat, he was prepared
to accept the verdict without complaint.

The twinkling eyes of the heavens searched down upon the infinitesimal
moving figure. Their cold smile was steely, perhaps with the irony the
sight inspired. Their world was so coldly indifferent to human survival.

The snowless breasts of the valley rose up miles away to the north and
south. And between their swelling contours lay a country of lesser hills
and valleys, equally snowless, and whose heart was the flood of a great
river.

Sterility had passed. Here were no barren hill-crests with a hundred
weatherworn facets. Here were no fields of snow, driven by the fierce
gales of the polar seas. Here were no glacial fields bound in an iron
grip throughout the ages. The fires in the heart of Unaga were burning.
Their warming was in the breath of the breeze. It was in the very earth,
yielding its fruit with the freedom of the temperate world.

A wood-clad country of almost luxurious vegetation, there was in it a
suggestion of the sub-tropical. But under the twilight of Arctic winter
it had lost the happy hues of a sunlit season. True, the conifers
retained their dull, dark foliage, but, for the rest, the bare branches
were alive with a new-born cloak that possessed the whiteness of
fresh-fallen snow. Even the lank grass under foot was similarly
awakening.

The wonder of it all must have been amazing had Steve not been prepared
for some such phenomenon. Was not this crazy valley the reality of that
vision he had set before Marcel? It was the melting spring of temperate
latitudes transposed to the confines of the Arctic Circle. It was a land
of still, wonderful, voiceless life, whose air was sweet, and heavy
laden with a subtle perfume.

He wondered, as he paced on under the burden of the pack his broad
shoulders were supporting. His mind was a riot with questioning. What of
the rest? Would the whole dream become reality? Why not? What of the
day when the sun rose again from its long winter sleep?

For answer he gazed out ahead where a pillar of fire looked to be
supporting the clouded heavens. The logic of it all was plain. There was
no real question in his mind. With the returning light of the sun, and
the steadily rising temperature, the ghostly foliage would promptly
assume Nature's happy green and the world would ripen with the rapidity
of a forcing house. Then----

Steve's eyes were suddenly raised to the dark vault of the skies. The
lights of the night had been largely obscured. Only the heart of Unaga
still remained shining with unabated splendour. It was _raining_!

Rain had ceased. The dripping figure of Steve was at rest on the low,
white-clad summit of a hill. He had no care for his condition as he
steamed under the dank heat of the valley. His eyes were steadily
regarding the wonder world of the west.

For a long time he stood almost without movement. He was seeking,
seeking in every direction. But the rosy twilight baffled him. Unaga
buried her secrets deeply, and only was there the perfume in the air
which she could not conceal. This was the key with which Steve meant to
open the door of her treasure house.

He raised his face and drew a deep breath through sensitive nostrils.
Then he exhaled slowly, deliberately, and his lips moved. Now there was
taste in the air as well as perfume. The change had come with the
rainfall.

He stooped and deposited his pack on the moist ground. Then he
unfastened it. A few moments later he was standing erect again, and his
face was half hidden under a curiously constructed mask. Again he turned
to the west. Again he inhaled deeply. And as he did so satisfaction lit
his steady eyes. The scent of the air, its sickly sweetness, had
entirely passed as he breathed under the mask.

He returned to his pack and fastened it up. Then he reslung it upon his
shoulders. When he passed from the summit of the hill the mask that was
to serve him when the danger line was reached had been removed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve laboured on sweatily. He had halved the weight of his pack. He had
even removed his buckskin shirt. The heat was amazing. It nearly stifled
him.

With each mile gained the spectacle of Unaga's fires grew in intensity
and sublime fury. The whole of the western world looked to be engulfed
in a caldron of fire; while the belching source of it all flamed at the
summit of its earthly column, amidst a churning, rose-tinted froth of
cloud banks.

Changes came in swift succession. Perhaps the most significant of all
was the complete change in the aspect of the heavens, and in the
sulphurous grit with which the air was laden. The stars had vanished.
The flood of northern light had lost its clearness; now only a ghostly
shadow of its glory remained. There was only one moon. Its manifold
reflections were lost in the mist, and the shining silver of its own
light was painfully tarnished.

For all this, however, the light in the valley was no less. Its
character had changed. That was all. The rosy twilight was growing to an
angry gleaming.

Steve knew his journey's end was near. How near he could not tell. He
reminded himself that there must be a barrier, a dividing line, beyond
which no life could endure. But he also knew that the field of Adresol
must lie on the hither side of it. If that were not so, what of the
Indians to whom it yielded supplies for the pleasant calm of their
winter's sleep?

Steve knew he was by no means witnessing a simple volcanic eruption. It
was something far greater. The suggestion of it all was so colossal that
he could find no concrete form in which to express his belief. In his
mind there had formed an idea that here was a whole wide territory
forming one great vent to the subterranean fires demanding outlet. It
seemed to him that those fires had been lit just where they now burned.
Maybe they had been lit on the day that dry land was first born upon the
earth, and throughout the ages had never been permitted to die out.

Fascination held him enthralled as he laboured over the weary miles of
the valley. Every swamp became a potential objective for examination.
Every broken hill might conceal some secret valley where subterranean
heat produced a growth foreign to the more open regions. He could afford
to miss no canyon however small, lest the secret he sought lay hidden
there. And all the time with the hot breath of the westerly breeze in
his nostrils, the lure of the sickly perfume beckoned him on.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was sheer mental and bodily weariness that brought Steve to a
prolonged halt. The heat was overpowering him at last. This strange land
with its ruddy twilight had become a labour beyond endurance. It was as
if the waters of the river were being evaporated into a steam which left
the air unbreathable.

Halfway to the summit of a great wood-clad hill, that jettied across
from the southern slopes of the valley to the northern limits beyond, he
had flung himself to rest in a wide clearing surrounded by the cold
delicacy of white-hued foliage. In his moment of helplessness there
seemed to be no end to his journey. He felt that the great summit he
was reaching towards meant only a descent beyond, and then again
another, and still another steep ascent.

Only for a few moments had he sprawled, seeking rest. He was thinking
and gazing back over his long solitary trail, peering into the reverse
of that upon which he had looked so long. It was intensely restful thus
to turn his gaze from the belching fires. Once his heavy eyelids closed.
But he bestirred himself. Later he would sleep, but not now. His day's
work was--Again his eyes closed heavily, and his hand fell from the
support of his head.

It was that which wakened him. And in a moment a thrill of panic flashed
through his nerves. With all his will flung into the effort, he forced
himself to complete wakefulness. He sat up. He groped in his loosened
pack. He pulled out of it the mask he had tested once before, and, with
desperate haste, adjusted it over mouth and nostrils.

It had been near, so near. He knew now how nearly disaster had clutched
at him. Furthermore he knew that even now the danger was by no means
passed. The heavy fumes of Adresol were creeping through the woods about
him. They were stealing their ghostly, paralyzing way low down upon the
ground, drifting heavily along until the open below brought them to the
stronger air currents which would disperse them on their eastward
journey, robbing them of their deadly toxin, and reducing them to a
simple sickly perfume.

He had leapt to his feet. He stood swaying like a drunken man, while a
strange bemusing attacked his brain and left a singing in his ears.
Staggering under the influence of the deadly drug, he fled from the
clearing up towards the hill-top.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was victory! Complete, overwhelming.

Steve was gazing out upon a wide, seemingly limitless table-land. In
every direction it spread itself out, far as the eye could see. To the
west it looked to launch itself into the very heart of the land of fire
which was shedding its ruddy light from miles and miles away. To the
north it went on till it lost itself against the slopes of the lofty,
containing hills of the valley. Southward, its spread was swallowed up
under a rolling fog of smoke, which settled upon the world like a pall.
It was a great, white, limitless field of dead white lily bloom,
unbroken, unsullied, like the perfect damask of napery, purer in tone
than virgin snow.

The great cup-like blooms stood up nearly to the height of his
shoulders. They were superb in their gracious form, and suggested
nothing so much as a mask of innocence and purity concealing a heart of
unimaginable evil.

Steve gazed at those nearest him with mixed feelings of repulsion and
delight. Nor could he wholly rid himself of the fear his knowledge
inspired. His mask was closely adjusted over mouth and nostrils, and he
knew that it was only that product of the dead chemist's genius that
stood between him and a dreamless sleep from which there would be no
awakening.

And as he gazed he became aware of a strange phenomenon. Each lily was
slightly inclining its gaping mouth towards the distant heart of Unaga,
which inspired its life. To him it suggested an attitude of the
devoutest worship. It seemed to his mind that these strange plants,
containing all that was most beneficent, and all that was most deadly in
their composition, were yielding a silent expression of thankful worship
to the tremendous power which saved them from the frigid death to which
the dead of Arctic winter would otherwise have condemned them.

His feelings yielded to the profound wonder of it all. For all his fear
his soul was stirred to its depths. And his thankfulness was no less
than his wonder.

Yes, it was victory at last, after years of ceaseless effort. It was a
victory surpassing even his wildest hopes. Here was the wonderful field
of growing Adresol in all the glory of full bloom. Here was an
inexhaustible supply of the drug the world of healing science was crying
out for. It was here, in its deadliest form, awaiting the reapers. A
harvest such as would accomplish everything he had ever hoped to
achieve.

And as the moments passed, and his confidence in the protecting mask
grew, so a wonderful spirit buoyed him. It was a condition he had parted
from many years ago. A happy, joyous smile lit his eyes. It grew, and
broke into a laugh. He reached out and daringly plucked a great stem
supporting a perfect bloom. He stood gazing into the deep, cup-like
heart for prolonged moments. He was thinking of Ian Ross and the days so
far back in his mind. Fifteen years? Yes. More. And now----

He contemplated with joy the labours ahead. The return to Oolak and
Julyman. The work of the harvest. The portaging of it. The packing of
the sleds. Then the long, last homeward trail with a success achieved
beyond his dreams. It was something indeed to have lived for and
laboured for. Marcel!




CHAPTER XVI

KEEKO AND NICOL


It was all so drab, so cheerless. Outside the snow was still piled to
the depth of many feet, the ice still held the river in its chill
embrace. But the temperature was rising. The open season was advancing.

Keeko was aware of it. There were weeks of melting to pass yet. But
soon----

Inside, the vault-like store was warm enough. But it was dark, and
squalid, and it reeked with the taint which only the centuries can
impart. These things impressed themselves never so much upon Keeko as
now, while she sat over the warming stove.

She had just returned from Seal Bay. She had passed most of the winter
on the trail with her Indians. She preferred their company in desperate
circumstances to the associations of Fort Duggan. During those long
months she had planned the future for herself, a future which had
nothing to do with Nicol, but which took him into her calculations. She
possessed a wonderful faculty for clear thinking. And her decision had
been irrevocably taken.

Nicol was leaning on the heavy oaken bench that served him for a
counter, and about him, and behind him, were the piled stocks of his
trade. He was preoccupied. Keeko was glad enough. She had returned only
in the execution of her plans, and to prepare for the moment when she
intended to steal her freedom, and shut this man's companionship for
ever out of her life.

Just now her thoughts were far away as she basked in the warmth of the
stove. They were upon the coming spring, the opening river, upon the old
moose head set up to watch for her coming, and--upon Marcel.

Once she turned her head, and into her pretty eyes there crept a look
which was almost of disquiet. The man's dark head and bearded face were
bent over the sheet of paper upon which he was scratching with a stub of
pencil. There was a small heap of paper money beside him. There was also
a largish glass of raw rye whisky, from which he frequently drank. It
was the sight of this latter that caused the girl's look of disquiet. It
was the second drink in less than half an hour. She turned away with an
added feeling of repugnance, and she reckoned again the number of weeks
that must pass before her freedom came.

It was at the moment of her turning back to the stove that the
scratching of the pencil ceased. The man looked up, and his bold smiling
eyes were turned upon the girl. He drained his glass noisily while his
eyes remained upon the pretty buckskin-clad figure that so lewdly
attracted him. There was nothing pleasant in the smile. And the glazing
of his eyes was that of excessive alcoholism, and primitive, animal
passion. He was unobserved, and he knew there was no need to disguise
his feelings.

After a while he crushed the pile of paper money into a hip pocket, and
helped himself liberally to more of the spirit.

"It's pretty darn good," he said abruptly, with an appreciative smack of
the lips under his curtain of whiskers.

"You mean--?" Keeko did not look round.

"Why, the price." Nicol laughed harshly.

Keeko heard him drink. She heard him gasp with the scorch of the liquor
passing down his throat. She waited.

The man moved round and came across to the stove. His gait was unsteady
and Keeko was aware of it. She hated, and well-nigh feared the proximity
of a man who drugged himself with alcohol on every pretext and at every
opportunity.

"Say, you've done well, kid," Nicol exclaimed, with coarse familiarity,
and with the intention of conciliation. "Sixteen hundred dollars for
those pelts? Gee! You surely must have set Lorson hating you bad."

Keeko was torn by emotions she was powerless to check as she desired.
She knew this man for all he was. She knew that he was little better
than a savage animal, and, at moments, when alcohol had completed its
work, was something even more to be feared.

Of the sober savage in him she had no fear. She had the means to deal
with that always to her hand. But influenced by drink it was a different
matter. That was his condition now. It was a condition to disturb any
young, lonely woman.

She knew she had a difficult part to play. But her mind was made up. She
would play it so long as it would serve. After that----

She shook her head.

"No," she said coldly, without looking up. "Guess he didn't know his
dollars were going to Fort Duggan. If he had, maybe it would have been
different. He doesn't figger to pay big money to the folks he--owns. I'm
just a free trader to him. He doesn't even know my name. Maybe he hates
free traders. But he's ready to pay if the pelts are fine quality. He
didn't worry a thing."

The man's amiability beamed.

"You're a smart kid," he said, with his bold eyes on the pretty figure
which the girl's mannish buckskin had no power to conceal.

Again she shook her head.

"The North teaches a mighty tough lesson. If you don't learn it good
you're beat right away." Keeko suddenly looked up, and her eyes were
gazing directly into the man's. "I've learned a heap. I'm not yearning
to learn more. Still--Say, there's times I feel I'd like to get back to
the sheltered days when the school-ma'm sat around over a girl till she
hated herself. If I'm smart I'm no smarter than I need to be."

"No."

Nicol's eyes were almost devouring as Keeko turned back to the stove.

"We've all got to be smart if we're going to lay hold of the things held
out to us," he said. He laughed cynically. "That's how I always figger.
Guess I haven't a notion to miss a thing now. The days of foolishness
are over."

Keeko was well enough aware of the thoughts which lay at the back of her
own words. Now she strove to penetrate his.

"Yes," she said with a quiet confidence which she by no means felt.

Ease, confidence could never be hers in this man's presence, for all she
had been brought up to look on him as a step-father. The thoughts of the
weeks lying ahead were in her mind. They were always there now. Time.
She was playing for time. So she adopted the tone and attitude best
suited to help her.

After a moment's silence the man suddenly flung out his hands. It was a
movement expressive of his volcanic temper. That which had for its
inspiration cynical disregard for anything and everything which
interfered with the fulfilment of his own selfish desire.

"Hell!" he cried. "What's the use talking? We got to fix things right
here and now. It's for you, as it's for me. We've got to play the game
together. There's no other way. Say, I got to make a trip when the ice
breaks. It's a hell of a trip. It's going to hand us one of the things
held out to us." He laughed harshly. "I've got to grab it for both of
us. I need you to stop around while I'm away. You can run this layout
just as you fancy to. It don't matter a curse to me, so you stop
around."

"What's the trip?" There was a sharpness in the girl's question which
had not been in her tone before. "What's the thing held out that's
for--both of us?"

"Money. Big money."

"Big money?"

In a moment the girl's every faculty became alert.

Nicol realized the change. His temper resented it. But his cunning
robbed him of the retort that leapt to his lips. And all the while the
girl's cold, pretty eyes provoked those passions in him which the dead
mother had dreaded. Keeko could have no understanding of the unbridled
licence rampant in his besotted body.

He nodded.

"It's so big I just can't get all it means--yet. You and me--we're going
to be partners in it."

"Partners?"

"Sure."

"What's needed from me?"

Keeko's suspicions were stirring When Nicol talked of "big money" and
snatching that held out to him, it was not easy to believe in the
honesty of it all.

"Just stop around till I get back."

The girl withdrew her gaze and sat with hands spread out to the warmth
of the stove.

"You best tell me," she said quietly but firmly.

She looked for an explosion and she was not disappointed. The hot blood
rushed to the man's bloated cheeks. His eyes lit furiously. He had
looked for prompt acquiescence. It had been his habit to browbeat the
woman who had followed him throughout a long career of crime, and it
drove him half crazy to find opposition in her daughter. There could be
no doubt of Keeko's determination. She was tacitly demanding her place
in the proposed partnership.

"I'm telling nothing--not a darn thing. It's up to me, and no concern of
anyone else. Get that. We're either partners or crosswise. And I guess
it's not healthy getting crosswise with me. You'll share in the result.
Ain't that good enough? All I need from you is to sit around till I get
back."

Keeko choked back the angry retort she longed to hurl at him. Those
nightmare weeks that lay ahead were uppermost in her mind. They must be
bridged at any cost. So she smiled in a fashion that stirred the man's
pulses and melted his swift wrath instantly.

"Say, you're asking me to partner in this thing whatever it is," Keeko
said in a disarming fashion. "You're asking me to act the grown woman,
and treating me like a foolish kid. You guessed just now I was smart.
Well? Let's be reasonable folk. Here, listen. You're talking of big
money. I guess I know all about big money in this country. The only
feller north of 60° who can handle and pay big money is Lorson Harris.
And he only reckons to pay big money for something he's looking for bad.
The thing he needs bad generally has a deal of dirt in it. Well, how
much dirt is there to this trip while I sit around? Guess I'm either a
woman or a kid. If I'm a kid I can't run the layout with you away. If
I'm a woman I'll be treated that way. There's nothing in the North to
scare me, not even your bluff, any more than Lorson Harris. But tell it
all. We'll stand even then. Anyway it's not good betting blind, and I
don't feel like acting that way."

The girl's smile robbed her determination of its offence. And Nicol fell
for it. The bully in him was struggling with those purposes, that
passion which was his greatest weakness. The struggle was brief enough
as such a struggle is bound to be. In a moment he capitulated.

"Say," he cried, "you'd break up the patience of Satan. Here, the
thing's worth a hundred thousand dollars."

"A hundred thousand dollars?"

The startled tone, the amazement in Keeko's eyes, were genuine enough,
and the man grinned his enjoyment.

"Sure," Nicol laughed in the delight of his success. "Do you know what
it means? How'd you fancy living like a swell woman on the world's best,
and with folks around you to act the way you say? How'd you feel with
pockets stuffed with dollars, and wearing swell gowns instead of the
darn buckskin that hides up half the woman in you? How'd you like living
where you've as much chance of snow as eating ice cream in hell, and
supping your tea without needing to blow aside the dead flies floating
on top to make a place for your dandy lips? It means that--all that--and
more, and it's for you and me."

The girl had recovered from her surprise. Her worst suspicions were
confirmed. Her wits were alert, sharpened by the hideous necessity of
placating this amazing creature she dared not openly flout.

She smiled again. She threw into her smile all the blandness her sex
alone can command.

"I guess you're right. It's Lorson all right. It's too good to let slip.
Well?"

"Too good? Well, I'd smile. Too good? Gee!" Nicol was wholly deceived as
Keeko intended him to be. He turned abruptly away to the counter where
the bottle of rye whisky stood and helped himself to a full measure of
it. He drank it down at a gulp. He had won the day. He had swept aside
the antagonism he had felt threatened his ultimate purposes. He was on
the high road to achieving all he had promised the dead mother in her
tortured moments. He felt that Keeko was dazzled. He was buying her as
he believed he could buy any woman. The rest would be easy. It only
needed a little patience, a little care. So he drank without fear of the
potent spirit he loved.

He staggered back to the stove and stood swaying beside the girl. And he
rested one powerful hand on her buckskin-clad shoulder while his lewd
fingers moved, gently caressing the soft flesh underneath. A wild,
panicky desire set Keeko half mad to fling his filthy hand from its
contact. But she resisted the impulse. She knew she dared not risk it in
his present mood and condition. Filled with unutterable loathing she
submitted to it.

"Well?" she demanded, while she forced the smile to her eyes again.

The man leered down at her out of his inflamed eyes. He shook his head
with maudlin indulgence.

"You don't need to know any more," he said thickly. "What's the use?
You're a gal with clean notions. Guess my hands are used to the dirty
sort of work Lorson needs."

"Then it is Lorson?"

"Lorson? Sure it's Lorson. Is there any other dirty swine in the North
ready to buy the lives of men?"

"Life?"

"Oh, hell! Yes," the man cried, with a gesture of tolerant impatience.
"Of course it's life. Lorson! A hundred thousand dollars! It couldn't be
for a thing less than life. It don't rattle me any."

Suddenly he flung caution to the winds. His passions were aflame, and
his bemused brain was incapable of reckoning cost.

"It's some folks up north," he went on. "They've a secret trade. Lorson
needs that trade. He's had 'em trailed, but they're wise, and they've
fooled him all the time. He's crazy about it, and----"

Keeko had risen abruptly from her seat. The movement had rid her of
those hideously searching fingers. She could stand them no longer. She
stood up with one foot resting on the bench she had vacated, tilting it,
and holding it balanced. Her smile had gone, but she was searching the
bleared eyes of the man.

"He wants them--murdered!" she said.

But her tone, her look conveyed nothing to the man who had been her
step-father. He went on ignoring the interruption completely.

"He means to get them. He set it up to me to locate 'em last summer
while you were on the river. It was a tough trip, but I beat all I
needed out of the hides of an outfit of the Shaunekuk, and I got the
location of their post all right. Gee!" He laughed drunkenly. "Oh, yes,
I got all the word I need, an' I guess there ain't a soul but me knows
it. Well, I'm going along up north this opening, and I'm going to finish
the job, and when it's done, and Lorson's handed the cash-pappy over,
and it's set deep in my dip, why, then I'll pass him all he needs. He
can get all I know--then. It's a cinch that hundred thou----"

"Who are the folks Lorson means to murder? Do I know them? Have I----?"

The man shook his head. The change in the girl's tone was lost upon him.

"Guess not. I'd say no one knows 'em except Tough Alroy and Lorson.
They're an outfit carrying on a trade under the name of Brand--Marcel
Brand----"

The bench under the girl's moccasined foot crashed to the ground.
Instantly she was stooping over it.

When Keeko finally looked up the bench was under her foot again,
balanced as before, and she was smiling. She was pale under the weather
tanning of her face. That was all. Her mouth was set, and sharp lines
were drawn about it. But she smiled. Oh, how she smiled.

Her lips parted. Her parching tongue moved in a vain effort to moisten
them. She cleared her throat which was dry--dry as a lime kiln. When she
spoke it was with effort, and her voice had lost its usual quality.

"Marcel--Marcel Brand," she said. "It--it sounds foreign. Maybe it's
French-Canadian."

The man shrugged. The nationality of the name did not concern him. He
was not even thinking of the murder for which he was to receive a price.
It was of the girl he was thinking with all the animal there was in him.
The alcohol he had consumed was driving him to let go all control.

"Don't know. Can't say," he said indifferently. "It don't matter two
cents to me. It's the dollars when I've done and what they'll buy me.
Say, kid--" he drew a long breath like a man preparing for a
plunge--"what's the matter with us two making out together? I'll be able
to buy you----"

"You're my step-father!" Keeko's eyes lit curiously.

"Step-father?" The man laughed as if he had just listened to something
profoundly humorous. "Step-father?" He shook his head. He moved a step
nearer, his swaying body ill-balanced as he approached. "I'm no
step-father to you, kid. There ain't a sign of relationship. You're your
mother's kid by her man, the man she married, and she and I never saw
the inside of a church together. She couldn't have married me if I'd
felt that way. Her man's alive I guess. Leastways, we ain't heard of his
death. I'm no step-father of yours. That's the stuff she handed you so
you wouldn't think bad of her. I couldn't marry her and didn't want to,
but I can marry you. See? And this hundred thousand dollars makes it so
I can hand you----"

He lurched forward, his arms out-held. And as he came Keeko sprang back.

"Quit it!" she threatened. "Quit! A step nearer and----"

But the man's passions were aflame. He laughed roughly.

"Quit nothing," he cried. "You can't fool me. I'm out to make good for
you, and you're standing in. You're going to----"

"You fool man!"

Keeko's tone was cold and her words full of contempt. The white ring of
her gun barrel covered him squarely. It was directed at the pit of his
stomach, while her eyes, alight with cold purpose, stared unflinchingly
into his drunk and passion-distorted face.

The man's movement ceased. The animal shining in his eyes changed to a
sudden, livid fury. The standing veins at his temples visibly pulsed,
and Keeko knew he was only gathering afresh the forces which her action
had momentarily paralyzed. With lightning impulse she seized the chance
afforded her.

"You cur! You filthy brute!" she cried fiercely. "Do you think you can
play me as you play the miserable women of the Shaunekuks? Get sense as
quick as you know how. Get sense. Do you hear? Get out and do the work
you reckon to do, but don't dare to make an inch towards me, or you'll
never live to do the murder you're reckoning on."

It was the promptness, the strength and nerve of it all that achieved
the girl's purpose. There was no pretence now. Her eyes were alight with
a sober, frigid hate and determination.

The man understood. His fury was that of a man whose lusts are thwarted,
but his helplessness before the threatening gun was sufficiently
obvious.

He sobered abruptly, as once before Keeko had sobered him.

"You can put up your gun," he cried savagely.

He waited. As the girl ignored his invitation he turned abruptly to the
counter.

But he was not permitted to reach it. Keeko's voice rang stridently
amongst the rafters of the place.

"Stop!"

Nicol stopped and turned.

"You can stop right there," the girl said coldly. "I'm going right out.
I'm quitting. You best understand that. I'm quitting, and I'm taking my
outfit with me. I don't pass another night under this roof. You best
remember I've all I need to fight you. If you get out after me you'll
get shot like the dog you are. So you best think--hard."

Keeko moved towards the door. Not for one moment did she turn her back,
or lower her gun. And the man's furious eyes followed her till the slam
of the door shut her out from his view.

For awhile Nicol remained staring at the dark timbers of the closed
door. For awhile it seemed as if his bemused brain failed to grasp the
meaning of that which had happened. Then he turned swiftly. He reached
the counter and drained the bottle of the last dregs of the spirit it
contained. Then, reaching under the counter, he possessed himself of the
gun that was always lying there, and made for the door and flung it
open.

He stood in the doorway seeking a sight of the girl he had marked down
for his own. But there was none. She was nowhere to be seen. Only he
looked out upon, the snow, and the woods, and the ice-bound river. So,
after awhile, he seemed to change his mind. He closed the door and
returned to the stove and seated himself on the bench beside it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Keeko was with her Indians at work. Snake Foot, and Med'cine Charlie,
and Little One Man were working as they always worked for the white
woman they loved.

The outfit with which they had returned from Seal Bay was changed. The
dogs were fresh, and the long sled was laden with a canoe that was
securely lashed to it. The blankets and stores were loaded in the frail
body of the light vessel.

Keeko's plan was clear in her mind, and urgency was speeding her efforts
and the efforts of her helpers. She had only one thought now. It
was--Marcel. She knew. Oh, yes. There could be no doubt. For her there
was only one Marcel. There could be no other. It was Nicol's purpose to
murder him and his people. It was for her to defeat that purpose.

Daylight was at its last extremity when the work was completed. And,
while Keeko enveloped herself in her heavy Arctic furs, and secured the
lashings of her snow-shoes, Little One Man put the only question he had
asked as to the journey about to begin.

"We mak' him--yes?" he said, his parchment-like eyelids blinking his
enquiry.

"North." Keeko's answer came promptly. "Guess we follow the river till
the ice breaks up. Then we camp, and I make the rest by the water."

"Oh, yes. Him moose head. Yes? And him big hunter--Marcel?"

Keeko smiled into the dusky face of her faithful ally.

"That's so--if God wills it."




CHAPTER XVII

THE DEVOTION OF A GREAT WOMAN


The daylight was lengthening. Very slowly the lolling sun was returning
to life and power. A sense of revivifying was in the air. As yet the
grip of winter still held. The snow was still spread to the depth of
many feet upon the broad expanse of the valley of the Sleepers. But its
perfect hue was smirched with the lateness of the season. It had assumed
that pearly grey which denotes the coming of the great thaw.

Marcel was standing on the drifted bank of the little river, winding its
way towards the Northern hills. He was there for the purpose of
ascertaining the conditions prevailing. But his purpose had been
forgotten.

Erect, motionless, superb in his physical greatness, he was gazing out
at the wall of western hills, heedless of that which he looked upon. He
was absorbed in thought that was reaching out far, far beyond the hills
which barred his vision. It was somewhere out there where the eyeless
sockets of an old moose looked down upon the great river coming up out
of the south, cutting its way between the granite walls of the earth's
foundations.

Keeko! He was thinking, dreaming of the girl who had come to him in the
heart of the far-off woods, with all her woman's appeal to his youthful
manhood. He was thinking of her wonderful blue eyes, her radiant smile,
her amazing courage. They were the same thoughts which had lightened
even the darkest moments of the howling storms of winter and transformed
the deadly monotony of it all into something more than an endurance to
which the life of the Northern world condemned him.

But there was more than all this stirring him now. He was moved to
impatience, the impatience of headstrong youth. It was not new. He had
had to battle against it from the moment of his return to the fort. More
than all else in the world he desired to fling every caution, every
responsibility to the winds, and set out for the meeting-place over
which the old moose stood guard.

He knew it could not be. He knew it would be an act of the basest
ingratitude and selfishness. Uncle Steve had not yet returned. He could
not return for weeks yet. If he, Marcel, yielded to his desires An-ina
must be left alone. His impatience was useless. He knew that. The
Sleepers would awaken soon, and demand their trade. He could not fling
the burden of it all on the willing shoulders of An-ina. He must wait.
He could do no less.

He turned away. It was an act of renunciation. The signs on the river
had told him nothing, because he had asked no question. He knew it all
without asking. He had known before he had sought his excuse. So he
floundered through the snow back to the fort.

The silence was profound. The world at the moment was a desert, a frigid
desert. There was no life anywhere. There were not even the voices of
warring dogs to greet him, and yield him excuse to vent the impatience
of his mood.

He passed the gateway of the stockade where he had so often stood
searching the distance in the long years. And so he approached the
doorway of his home. A weight of depression clouded his handsome eyes.
He was weighted with a trouble which seemed to him the greatest in the
world.

The door of the store opened before he reached it. Keen, watching,
understanding eyes had been observing his approach. They were eyes that
read him with an ease such as was denied them on the contemplation of
the pages of an open book. An-ina had made up her mind, and she stood
framed in the doorway to carry out her purpose.

The man's eyes lighted at sight of her. His trouble was lifted as though
by some strong hand. This mother woman never failed in her comfort even
in the simple fact of her presence. With his thought still filled with
the white beauty of Keeko, the soft copper of An-ina's skin, the smiling
gentleness of her dark eyes were things at all times to soften the
roughness of Marcel's mood.

"Marcel come back? The ice all hold? Oh, yes. Bimeby the trail open and
Marcel mak' him. An-ina know. But--not yet."

Marcel made no attempt to conceal his feelings from this woman. He had
told her all. He had spread out before her all his hopes and fears, all
the impatience of his youthful heart. She had endured the burden of it
throughout the long winter not unwillingly, and her sympathy had been
yielded abundantly.

Marcel laughed. It was not out of any feeling of joy. It was the
self-consciousness of youth before the eyes of maturity.

He shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "Uncle Steve isn't back anyway."

"No." An-ina sighed. For a moment her smile died out, and her wistful
gaze was unconsciously turned towards the North. It only encountered the
crude interior of the storage sheds where the canoes and trail gear
were usually kept. One of the sheds was standing empty.

Presently her eyes came back to the man's face, and they were smiling
confidently again.

"He come--bimeby. Yes."

Even in the midst of his own troubles Marcel could never be forgetful of
this devoted creature.

"He certainly will," he said, in no doubtful fashion. "He'll be along
before the Sleepers wake. Say, An-ina, I'm not wise to many things. But
there's one I know, like--like nothing else. The North can't beat Uncle
Steve."

The dark eyes lit with a feeling which even Marcel realized.

"Marcel good. But An-ina, too, know he come--sure."

The woman paused with her gaze again turned upon the sheds, and after a
moment she looked deeply, earnestly into the eyes of the man who held
her mother love.

"That why An-ina say to Marcel now," she went on. "She think much. Oh,
yes. An-ina think much--this white girl who mak' Marcel all much happy.
She far away. Long, long by the trail. Maybe she come where Marcel say
when the river all break up. It all long piece 'way. Marcel wait while
river him break, then long-piece 'way river break too. So. This Keeko
girl she come by river. No? She mak' trail. She think Marcel not come.
He no more care find Keeko. So. Marcel go all heap sick. No Keeko--no
nothing."

The woman's halting words lost nothing of their purpose in their
limitations. Marcel's brows drew sharply together in alarm at the
prospect she painted for him. Then, after a moment, he passed a hand
across his forehead as though to brush his fears aside.

"But Uncle Steve's not back yet," he said, as though the fact clinched
all argument finally.

An-ina, however, had no intention of accepting any such finality. She
shook her head.

"That all so. Oh, yes," she said. "Uncle Steve not come back long
whiles. But he come back. When him come An-ina say: 'Good. Much good.'
Then An-ina say: 'Marcel lose all up white girl, Keeko. Bad. Much bad.
No good--nothing.'" She shook her head. "Marcel go now. Take plenty dog.
Sled. Canoe. Oh, yes. Take all thing. Reindeer. Everything plenty. So.
When river all break Marcel find white girl, Keeko. He bring Keeko to
An-ina. An-ina much happy. Uncle Steve happy--too."

The woman drove straight to the purpose at which she aimed. All the
problems concerning the lives of the men she loved held for her a
perfectly simple solution. Steve would come back to her in his own good
time. There was nothing to be considered on that score. Marcel loved the
white girl, Keeko. He must meet her again when the winter broke, or he
would know no happiness. Then he must go--go now--so that he should be
there to greet her when her canoes came up out of the south.

Self never entered into An-ina's calculations. So long as the path of
life was made as smooth and pleasant for her men folk as the Northland
would permit there was nothing else with which she need concern herself.
She would be alone, unprotected. When the Sleepers roused from their
torpor their trade must be seen to. Well, that was all right. She could
see to it all. She saw nothing in these things which must be allowed to
interfere with the happiness of any one belonging to her. Then, too,
there was the white girl Keeko. Her simple woman's mind was stirred to
wonder and curiosity as to the woman who had taken possession of the
heart of the man who was to her as a son.

The unselfishness of it all appealed to the simple heart of the youth.
But the passion that had taken possession of him overrode his finer
scruples. The selflessness of the woman was the mother in An-ina. The
emotions of the man were the emotions belonging to those primal laws of
nature wherein self stands out supreme over every other instinct. An-ina
was urging him to go--to go now--to leave her unprotected. It was the
very thing for which he had blamed Uncle Steve. And he knew from the
moment her words had been spoken that he intended to take her at her
word. He shook his head, but his eyes were shining.

"I just can't do it, An-ina," he said a little desperately. "I can't
leave you here alone. Suppose----"

An-ina interrupted him with her low, almost voiceless laugh.

"An-ina know," she said with a curious gentle derision which was
calculated out of her years of study of the youth. "An-ina no good. She
not nothing, anyway. Indian man come beat her head. She fall dead quick.
Oh, yes. She not know gun from the 'gee-pole.' She got not two hands.
She not learn shoot caribou, same like Marcel. She big fool-woman.
An-ina know. Marcel think that. Steve not think that way. Oh, no. Boss
Steve plenty wise. So Marcel come wise--later." Again came her low
laugh. "This Keeko. This white girl so like the sun, the moon, all him
star. Marcel love her? Oh, yes? An-ina say 'no.' Marcel not love her.
Marcel love her, he say: 'An-ina no 'count Indian woman. She go plumb to
hell--anyway. She nothing. Only Keeko. Marcel love her all to death. He
go find her. He not care. Only so he find her.'"

Marcel stood dumb with amazement. His eyes were alight with a laugh he
strove to restrain, but they were alight with something else, too.
An-ina watched him. And her laugh came again as she flung her final
taunt.

"Indian man say him love An-ina?" she cried. "Indian man not come fetch
her--quick? Indian man say him not leave mother for An-ina? Then An-ina
spit at him."

It was the savage breaking through the years of simple culture. The
appeal of it all was beyond Marcel's power to resist. Suddenly he flung
out his two great arms, and the hands that were immense with his
muscular strength came down on the woman's soft, ample shoulders, and he
held her in a great affectionate embrace.

"That's fixed it, you dear mother thing!" he cried, his face flushing
with the joy of it all, the shame of it. "I'm going right away. I'm just
going to leave you right here to the darn Sleepers, to the wolves, and
the dogs, and any old thing that fancies to get around. There's no woman
going to spit at--your Marcel."

       *       *       *       *       *

Marcel had gone. An-ina had seen to that. She had given him no chance to
change his mind, or to permit his duty to override his desire.

There had been little enough likelihood of any such thing happening. The
man was too human, too young, too madly in love. But An-ina was taking
no risk. So, with her own hands, she helped him prepare his outfit, and
she saw to and considered those details for his comfort which, in his
superlative impulse, he would probably have ignored. He went alone. He
refused to rouse one single Sleeper to lend him aid. His journey was in
that treacherous time between the seasons, when the snow and ice would
be rotting, and the latter part of his journey would find his winter
equipment an added burden.

Then he had set out. An-ina watched his great figure move away with joy
and pride thrilling her heart. He was out to battle with the elements,
with everything which the life of the Northland could oppose to him, for
the possession of the woman he loved. In her simple, half savage mind it
was the sign of the crown of manhood to which she had helped him. She
was glad--so glad.

The joy of her thought was her great support in the long days of
solitude that followed, and it filled her mind with a peace that left
her undisturbed. She filled each moment of her waking hours with the
labours which had become her habit. The Sleepers would soon awaken, and
all must be made ready for that moment when the work of the open season
began. It was her simple pride that with the return of her man he should
be able to find no fault.

Ah, she was longing for that moment. The return of her man. Perhaps a
triumphant return. She did not know. She could not guess. His success
would give her joy only that she would witness the light of triumph
shining in his eyes. Happiness for her would lie in his return.

He would come. She knew he would come. Her faith was expressed in the
sublime trust and confidence which her woman's adoration had built up
about the idol of her life. No god of the human mind was ever endowed
with greater, more infallible powers. So the hours of labour were brief
and swiftly passing, for she felt that each detail of her daily life was
carried out under the approving eyes that, in her imagination, were
always looking on. She was happy--utterly, completely happy. She could
have sung throughout the hours of waking, had song been her habit. She
could have laughed aloud, if the Indian in her permitted it. Heart,
mind, and body were absorbed in her faith.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the dead of night. An-ina stirred restlessly under the
blankets which were those that once had covered the white mother of
Marcel. In a moment she was wide awake, sitting up in the darkness,
listening. The savage barking of the three old dogs, the only dogs now
left in the compound behind the fort, had roused her from sleep. It was
a furious chorus that warned her of the unusual. It suggested to her
mind the approach of marauding wolves, or some other creature that
haunted the Northern wastes.

She sprang from her bed without a moment's hesitation. Fear was unknown
to her. She knew the old dogs, long past the work of the trail, were not
easily disturbed in their slumbers. It was for her to ascertain, if
necessary----

The chorus was still raging as she flung open the door of the store, and
stood peering out into the brilliant night. Steve's repeating rifle was
ready in her hand. She had lit the lamp before she removed the bars of
the door, and stood silhouetted against its yellow light. Only a woman
or the utterly reckless could have committed such a folly.

With every sense alert, those senses that were so keenly instinct with
the perception of the animal world, she searched the shadows within the
stockade, and the distance beyond its open gateway. There was no sign of
the marauder she looked for. But nevertheless the chorus of the canine
displeasure and protest went on. At last she pulled the door to behind
her and passed out into the night.

Once in the open her search was swift and keen. The great enclosure
yielded nothing to disturb, so she passed on to the gateway, where the
barking of the aged dogs had no power to confuse her observation.

The coldly gleaming sky shone radiantly upon the white-clad earth. The
calm of the world was unbroken. Even the wind was dead flat, and not a
sigh came from the woods which hid up the dreaming Sleepers. There was
nothing. Nothing at all. And she determined to return and to silence the
foolish old trail dogs with the weight of a rawhide. Just a few moments
longer she waited searching with eyes and ears, then she turned back.

But her purpose remained unfulfilled. She stood seemingly rooted to the
spot while her ears listened to the faint distant shout of a human
voice. It was prolonged. It had nothing in it of a cry of distress. It
was the call of a voice suggesting a simple signal of approach.

For an instant her heart seemed to leap into her throat. Then, in a wild
surge, it started to hammer as though seeking to free itself from the
bonds that held it. That call. She knew it. There could be no mistake.
Nor could she mistake the voice that uttered it. It was the voice of
Steve. It was the great return of which her faith had assured her. And
high and shrill she flung back her answer, with all the power of her
lungs and a grateful heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

The greeting had been all An-ina had ever dreamed it. It had been even
more, for she had gazed into steady grey eyes shining with the light of
triumph.

They were standing in the store where the stove, banked for the long,
cold night, was radiating its comforting warmth. Steve, sturdy,
unemotional, was replying to the question which had come with the
passing of the woman's greeting.

"We're loaded right down, and the dogs are well-nigh beat," he said, in
his quiet way. "Guess that's not the reason they're way back camped
while I got on to home though. It's the green weed in full bloom, and
we daren't open the bales with folks around without masks. We daren't
risk a thing that way. I kind of guessed I'd best get on and warn you
and Marcel, and make ready to pass it right into the store-house quick."
He thrust up a hand and pushed his fur cap back from his brow. And, for
a brief moment, he permitted play to his feelings. "Say, it's great,
An-ina! And--and I'm just glad. I guess we've been as near hell as this
land can show us, but we've made good. The boys are with me back there.
They're feeling good and fit, and we've--Where's Marcel?"

An-ina's eyes were shining with the joy of a triumph no less than the
man's. It was the greatest moment of her life. Had not her idol proved
himself even beyond her dreams? Her gladness only deepened at his sharp
question. She had her great story to tell. The story which no woman's
heart can resist.

"Him go," she said, with a little gesture of the hands. "An-ina send
him. Oh, yes."

"Gone? Where?"

Steve was startled. For a moment a sickening doubt flashed through his
mind, and robbed his eyes of the shining joy of his return.

"It Keeko. She call--call. All the time she call to Marcel, who is great
man like to Boss Steve. Yes. Oh, yes. She call--this white girl, Keeko.
And An-ina say, 'Go! Marcel go! Bring this white girl.' But Marcel say,
'No. Uncle Steve not come back. An-ina alone. Oh, no. Marcel go bimeby.'
Then An-ina say, 'Go.' She know. Him all sick for Keeko. So. Marcel go."

An-ina's low, gentle laugh came straight from the woman in her. Just as
her account of Marcel's reluctance to leave her was a touch of the
mother defending her offspring.

But Steve missed these things. He was amazed. He was
wondering--searching.

"White girl? Keeko?" he exclaimed sharply. "What crazy story--Tell me!"
he commanded. "Tell me quick!"

He flung aside his cap, and the furs which encased his sturdy body. Then
he caught up a bench, and set it beside the stove. He sat down, and held
out his strong hands to the warmth with that habit which belongs to the
North.

An-ina remained standing. It was her way to stand before him. She would
tell her story thus. Was she not in the presence of the man whose smile
was her greatest joy on earth?




CHAPTER XVIII

THE VIGIL


Marcel flung the fuel upon the fire, and gravely watched the flames lick
about the fresh-hewn timber, and the pillar of smoke rolling heavily
upwards on the breath of an almost imperceptible breeze.

It was cold--beyond the reach of the great fire--bitterly cold. For all
April was near its close the signs of thaw had again given way to an
Arctic temperature. It was only another example of the freakishness of
the Northland seasons. His journey had been accomplished at a speed that
was an expression of his desire. He had taken risks, he had dared
chances amidst the rotting, melting snows, only to find at the river,
where the old moose head stood guard, that Nature's opening channels had
sealed again under a breath that carried with it a return to the depth
of winter.

He had not been unprepared. He knew the Northland moods all too well.
Besides, his practised eyes had sought in vain the real signs of the
passing of winter. The migratory creatures of the feathered world had
given no sign. The geese and ducks were still waiting in the shelter of
warmer climates. Those wonderful flights, moving like clouds across the
sky, had put in no appearance, while the furry world still hugged the
shelter and sparse feeding grounds of the aged woods.

His disappointment was none the less at the sight of the solid,
ice-bound river, lying in the depths of the earth's foundations. It was
impossible as yet for the girl with the smiling blue eyes, who had given
him that message of her love at the moment of her going, to approach the
tryst, and he was left with the negative consolation that when she
arrived she would find him awaiting her.

His purpose, however, was simple. He was at the appointed spot, and he
intended to remain there until Keeko came to him. It was a matter of no
significance at all if he had to wait till the summer came and passed,
or if he must set out to search the ends of the earth for her. His
persistent, dogged mood was an expression of the passionate youth in
him. He loved as only early youth knows how to love, and nothing else
mattered. He was there alone with Nature in her wildest mood, a fit
setting for the primal passions sweeping through his soul.

So, in the time of waiting, he had lit a great fire. It was a beacon
fire. And in his simple fancy it was sending out a message which the
voiceless old moose was powerless to convey. It was a message carrying
with it the story of the love burning deep in his heart. And he hoped
that distant, searching eyes might see and interpret his signs. The
thought of it all pleased him mightily.

For ten days he had carried on his giant's work of feeding the
insatiable thing he had created. He laboured throughout the daylight
hours. At night he sat about, where his dogs were secured, gazing deep
into its ruddy heart, dreaming his dreams till bodily weariness overcame
him, and he sank into slumbers that yielded him still more precious
visions.

It was all so simple. It was all so real and human. The cares of life
left Marcel untouched. The bitter conditions of the outlands passed him
by without one thought to mar his enjoyment of being. Life was a perfect
thing that held no shadows, and for him it was lit by the sunshine of
eyes the thought of which sent the hot blood surging through his veins
till the madness of his longing found him yearning to embrace the whole
wide world in his powerful arms.

It was with all these undimmed feelings stirring that he took up his
customary position before his great signal fire at the close of a
laborious day. He had eaten. He had fed his vicious trail dogs and left
them for the night. His blankets and his sleeping-bag lay spread out
ready to receive him. And the old, sightless moose gazed out in its
silent, never-ceasing vigil.

Night shut down with a stillness that must have been maddening to a less
preoccupied mind. The perfect night sky shone coldly with the burnish of
its million stars. The blazing northern lights plodded their ghostly
measure with the sedateness of the ages through which they had endured,
while the youth sat on unstirring, smoking his pipe of perfect peace.
They were moments such as Marcel would never know again. For all the
waiting his happiness was well-nigh perfect.

His pipe went out. It was re-lit in the contemplative fashion of habit.
A whimper from the slumbering dogs left him indifferent. Only when the
flames of his fire grew less did he bestir himself. A great
replenishment and his final task was completed.

Again he returned to his seat. But it was not for long. Tired nature was
making herself felt. She was claiming him in the drooping eyelids, in
the nodding head. And her final demand came in the fall of his pipe from
the grip of his powerful jaws. He passed across to his blankets.

       *       *       *       *       *

A thunderous crash from the depths below and Marcel was wide awake
again. He was sitting up in the shelter of his fur bag with eyes alight
with question. He was alert, with the ready wakefulness which is the
habit of the trail. That crash! It was----

But he quickly returned to his rest. It was the splitting of the solid
bed of ice into which the river that came up out of the south had been
transformed.

But somehow he did not readily sleep again. He was weary enough. His
mind was at rest. But sleep--sleep was reluctant, and the old thread of
his waking dreams came again as he gazed across at the beacon fire.

Hours passed. He had no idea of time. He had no care. He lay there
watching the dancing firelight, building for the hundredth time those
priceless castles of the night which the daylight loves to shatter.
Never were they more resplendent. Never was their lure more
irresistible.

But a drowsy fancy began to distort them. He had no knowledge of it. He
never realized the change. He passed to the realms of sleep like a tired
child, striving to follow the course of the flying sparks from the fire
till his final memory was of a hundred pairs of blazing eyes peering at
him out of the darkness.

He awoke with the grey of dawn. And as his eyes opened he heard a voice,
a gentle, low voice in which rang a world of gladness and tender
feeling.

"Why I just knew no one but Marcel could have lit that fire."

"Keeko!"

Every joyous emotion was thrilling in the man's exclamation. He leapt
from his blankets, and stood staring, in utter and complete amazement,
at the vision of the girl's smiling beauty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Neither knew how it came about. It simply happened. Neither questioned,
or had thought to question. The long months of parting had completed
that which the summer had brought about. It was the spontaneous
confession of all that which had lain deep in the heart of each.

It was the girl who sought release from those caressing moments. Her
arms reaching up, clasped about the boy's muscular shoulders, parted,
and her warm woman's body stirred under the crushing embrace holding
her. Her lips were withdrawn from his, and, gazing up into the
passionate eyes above her, she spoke the desperate fears of her woman's
heart which had been submerged in the passion of the moment.

"But there's no time to lose!" she cried urgently. "Oh, Marcel, I came
because I just didn't dare to wait. It's you--you and those you love.
They mean to murder you. You--and those others. And so I came to bring
you warning."

The ardent light in the man's eyes changed. But the change seemed slow,
as though with difficulty only he was able to return to the things which
lay outside their love. But with the change came a look of incredulous
amazement that was almost derision.

"Murder?"

He echoed the word blankly. Then he laughed. It was the laugh of
reckless confidence engendered of the wild happiness of holding the girl
of his dreams in his arms, and feeling the soft, warm pressure of her
lips upon his.

For all Keeko's urgency Marcel refused to be robbed of his joy at their
reunion. His embrace relaxed in response to her movement, but he took
possession of her hands. Deliberately he moved towards the fallen
tree-trunk where the lichen-covered cache of their token lay. He sat
himself down, and drew her down beside him.

"Tell me," he said smilingly. "Tell it me all. You came to hand me
warning. They guess they're going to murder me, and Uncle Steve, and
An-ina. Tell me how you came, and all that happened. And the things that
happened to you, I reckon, interest me a heap more than this talk of
murder."

The easy assurance of Marcel's manner sobered the girl's alarm. She
yielded herself at his bidding, and sat beside him with her clasped hand
resting in one of his.

Just for a moment she turned wistful eyes upon the ice of the river
below them, and her gaze wandered on southwards.

"Oh, it's a bad story," she cried. "I guess it's as bad as I ever
feared--worse. Maybe I best tell it you all. But, oh, Marcel, just don't
figger it's nothing. I know you. There's nothing I can say to scare you.
We've just got to get right away to your home, and hand the warning, and
pass them our help."

The girl's appeal had a different effect from that she hoped. The man's
eyes lit afresh. He drew a sharp breath. His arm tightened about her
body, and the hand clasping hers crushed them with unconscious force.

"You'll come right back with me to our home?" he cried in a thrilling
tone. "You?" Then in a moment the great joy of it all broke forth. "Say,
I could just thank God for these--murderers."

But the woman in Keeko left her unsharing in his mood. She turned. And
her eyes were startled.

"You could--! Say," she cried with a sudden vehemence in sharp contrast
to her appealing manner. "Do you think I made trail from Fort Duggan for
a fancy, after months of winter to Seal Bay and back, on the day I'd
just made home? Do you think I wouldn't have waited for the river? Do
you think I'd have done this if it wasn't all--real? Oh, man, man," she
cried in protest, "I'm no fool girl to see things that just aren't. I
guess David Nicol has located your post, and he's right on his way there
now--for murder. There's----"

"On his way there now?" Marcel broke in sharply, fiercely. "How? How
d'you mean? He's located--Who's--this David Nicol? God! An-ina alone!
Tell me! Tell me quick. An-ina, my second mother, she's alone at the
post. A woman! God in heaven! Tell me quick."

The change was supreme. No tone the girl had used could compare with the
force of Marcel's demand. There was no laugh on his lips now, no smile
in his eyes. A deadly fear, such as Keeko had never beheld in them
before, had taken possession of them. He was stirred to the depths of
his very soul.

Keeko's reply came at once.

"Yes. Nicol's the man I believed my step-father. He's a murderer. He's
the man who sent my mother to her grave before I made home last summer.
He's the man who Lorson Harris is going to hand a hundred thousand
dollars for the murder of your outfit, and to steal your trade. He's the
man who asked me to share with him the price of his crime, and would
have held me prisoner to obey his will if I hadn't just had the means
right there to help myself. Oh, my dear, my dear. I'm scared. I'm scared
to death now for the folks you love. That's why I struck out on a chance
for this old moose head, with my boys and dogs. I hoped, I prayed--oh,
God, how I prayed!--that I could get around and find you, and hand you
warning."

Marcel was no longer seated. He was standing, his great height towering
over the girl who was gazing up at him with tears of emotion shining in
her pretty eyes. He did not realize them. He was no longer thinking of
her. He was no longer thinking of his love, and the happiness that was
so newly born. His thought was far back over the trail of ice and snow
over which he had so recently passed. He was contemplating a dusky face
with eyes of velvet softness, carrying out her patient labours for the
men she loved. He was contemplating the stealing approach of the
would-be murderer. He saw in fancy the dawn of horror in the mother
woman's eyes as she awoke to realization----

Suddenly he flung out his clenched fists in a gesture of superlative
determination and threat.

"Say!" he cried, his eyes hot with a fire such as Keeko had never
thought to see in them. "It's two hundred miles of hell's own territory
with the thaw coming. I'm going right back--now. I'm going just as quick
as I can load my outfit. She's alone--do you get it? An-ina! She raised
me--she's my Indian mother woman. God help the swine that harms her
body!"

He turned and moved abruptly away. Keeko had come to him with her love.
She had faced everything the north country could show her to bring him
the warning. He had forgotten her. He had forgotten everything, but the
gentle creature whose dark-eyed terror haunted him.

Keeko understood. She had no feeling other than a great, unvoiced joy in
the splendid manhood of it all. She stood up. She moved after the man as
he made towards his camp. She overtook him.

"They're all down there, Marcel dear. They're down there on the river,"
she said, as she came to his side and her two hands clasped themselves
about his swinging arm. "There's Little One Man, Snake Foot, and
Med'cine Charlie. They're good boys, and the dogs are fresh, and ready.
I saw to that. We can start right away, and I guess you can't just set
the gait too hot."




CHAPTER XIX

THE STORE-HOUSE


Steve pushed back from the table in An-ina's kitchen. The woman was
standing ready to minister to his lightest demands. She had waited on
him throughout the meal, and remained standing the whole time. It was a
habit, which, throughout their years of life together, Steve had been
powerless to break her of. It was her pride thus to wait upon him.

Her soft, watchful eyes were observing him closely as he filled and lit
his pipe. There was something approaching anxiety in their depths. It
may have been the dull yellow lamplight that robbed the man's face of
its usual look of robust health. But if the shadows wrought upon it and
the curious pasty yellow tint of the skin were due to the lamplight,
certainly the hollows about the eyes, the cheeks, which had become
almost alarmingly drawn, and the sunken lines about the firm mouth could
not have been attributed to a similar cause.

An-ina understood this. She understood more. She had realized, during
the weeks that had elapsed since Steve's return from the heart of Unaga,
a curious growing bodily lassitude in the man. It was something
approaching inertia, and she knew its cause. Fear had grown up in her
simple Indian mind and heart. She wanted to speak. She wanted to offer
her warning. But somehow Steve's will was her law, and she knew that
will was driving him now in a fashion that would only leave her words
wasted. So, while her lips remained silent, her feelings were clearly
enough expressed in her eyes.

"Just a draw or two at the old pipe, An-ina," Steve said, with his
flicker of a smile that was full of gentleness. "Guess you can't know
the relief of being rid of the mask for awhile. The taste of every
breath I draw through it makes me well-nigh sick. Still, it's got to be.
It's that or quick death. And I'm not yearning to 'cash in' yet. There's
more than two weeks of it still. We brought a hell of a cargo of the
stuff. More than I guessed. I'd like to get through with it before
Marcel gets back with--this Keeko."

An-ina nodded. Something of her anxiety became absorbed by her tender
smile at the reference to Marcel and Keeko.

"The thaw him no come," she said. "Maybe him not find Keeko. Maybe it
long--heap long time. Oh, yes?"

Steve stood up and turned his back to the cook-stove. His sunken eyes
were reflective.

"No. The thaw's quit, and a sharp spell's closed down again," he said.
"He guessed the girl was coming up the river." He shook his head.
"There'll be no river open for weeks yet."

He passed across to the door and flung it open. Outside the night was
coldly bright, and the still air had a bitter snap in it. He remained
only a moment, then he closed the door again.

"We'll get no change till the next moon," he said as he returned.
"Anyway, I'll need to get things through before he comes. I don't want
the boy to take a hand in the packing. It's a big risk."

"Yes. Boss Steve take all risk. An-ina know." The woman sighed. "An-ina
mak' pack. Oh, no! Much big risk. She not mak' pack. So Boss Steve him
say. Boss Steve die all up bimeby. Leave An-ina. Leave him Marcel--an'
this Keeko. All mak' big weep. Oh, yes."

Steve's eyes smiled gently. He came over to the woman's side. One hand,
that seemed to have lost much of its muscular shape, rested gently on
her shoulder.

"Don't you just worry a thing, An-ina," he said. "Guess I know. When
Marcel gets back I'll be around all right. I reckon to get through
quick. That's why I work late into the night. After I get through, and
get quit of the masks, I'll eat good, and be as I was. I just get sick
with the dope on the mask, that's all. I'll get right on now."

He laid aside his pipe and passed out of the kitchen. And, as he went,
the woman's eyes gazed yearningly after him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve had lit his lamp. It burned up. It flooded the great store-room
with its rank light. He watched it till it settled into full flame, half
his strong face hidden up under the mask saturated with its nauseating
"dope." Habit forced him to a swift upward glance at the three
ventilators in the roof. They were all set wide open. Then he glanced
round him surveying the work that occupied his working-day, and half the
night he would gladly have devoted to much-needed rest.

It was a curious scene. It was full of fascination in that it
represented the complete triumph which for so many years had been
withheld from him.

The great store-house, built with so much care and close study of its
purposes, and which had stood for so long empty, a pathetic expression
of man's hope deferred, was filled to its capacity. A greater part of
its shelving was groaning under bales of closely pressed Adresol in
hermetically-sealed wrappings, while the floor was piled with vast
quantities of the deadly plant awaiting the process that would render it
comparatively harmless to those who had yet to handle it.

In its raw, limp state the plant was unwholesome enough to look at. Its
pale foliage had something of the rubbery look of seaweed. But the
crushed blooms, oozing thick sap from their wounds, were something
almost evil for eyes that had knowledge behind them. Even in his most
triumphant mood Steve was not without a feeling of repulsion at the
sight. His mask held him impervious to the deadly fumes of the oozing
sap, but well enough he knew that, in such a presence, it was only that
ingenious contrivance that stood between him and swift death.

He turned to the window to see that it was secure. The door, too, he
tried to assure himself that it was shut tight. He was fearful lest the
heavy escaping fumes should reach those beyond. The ventilators were
built high, chimneys that carried the fumes well up into the night air,
where their diffusion was assured, leaving them robbed of their deadly
poison. But the window and door were dangerous outlets that needed close
watch.

Finally he passed to the far end of the room where his lamp stood on the
bench beside the baling machine, and the rolls of curious-looking cloth,
almost like oilskin, or some rubber-proofed material, and the large
vessel of sealing solution with its brush for application sticking up in
it. And forthwith he set to work at the scales upon which he measured
his quantities. The organization of it all was perfect. It was Steve
through and through, and his calm method seemed to rob the whole process
of any sense of danger.

But Steve was sick. He knew it. He knew it was a race between his
condition and the completion of the work. He was living in an atmosphere
of contending poisons, breathing one to nullify the effects of the
other. There were moments when he wondered how long his body could
endure the struggle which he knew must go on to the end, whatever that
end might be.

His determination remained unweakening. He knew that An-ina had become
aware of his condition, and it only made him the more urgent that his
task should be completed before Marcel's return. Whatever happened
Marcel must not be permitted to participate in the danger. So, for all
his appearance of calm, he worked with a feverish energy in the deadly
atmosphere.

Whatever Steve's bodily condition mentally he was fully alert. It even
seemed as if his bodily weakness stimulated the clear activity of his
mental powers. Working through the long hours of voiceless solitude he
held under almost microscopic review every aspect of the situation his
final triumph had created. Everything must fall out--provided his sick
body endured--just as he had calculated. There was only one thing that
disturbed the perfect smoothness of the road that lay open before him.
It was the story he had listened to from the lips of An-ina. It was
Marcel, and this girl with the Indian name of--"Keeko."

The thought was in his mind now. He was uneasy. The whole possibility of
Marcel's encountering such a woman in Unaga had seemed so absurdly
remote. A white girl! And yet An-ina had assured him it was true, and
the manner of her assurance left it impossible for him to doubt.

Who was this Keeko? How came she in those far remotenesses which he knew
Marcel hunted? He could not think, unless--His searching mind offered
him only one solution. It seemed remote enough. It even seemed
extravagant. Lorson Harris was the evil genius he had to fear. And he
sought to connect him with the mystery of it all. Was this Keeko some
Delilah seeking to betray the secret he had fought to retain so long?
Had she discovered Marcel for the sole purpose of serving Lorson Harris?
Was she one of those beautiful lost souls haunting the vice-ridden
shores of Seal Bay? It was just possible. There were such women, clever
enough, hardy enough to accomplish such a task. It looked like the only
solution of the mystery. And he smiled to himself as he thought of the
tender soul who had told him the story of it all with such appreciation
of its romance.

He realized only too well the fascination such a woman must exercise
over a boy of Marcel's years. He would be clay in her hands. Chivalrous,
honourable, unsuspicious, what an easy prey he must prove! It was too
pitifully easy once the woman discovered him. But even with this
realization he was by no means dismayed. He remembered poignantly that
An-ina had assured him that Marcel would bring the woman to the fort.
Well, if that happened Lorson Harris was by no means likely to have
things all his own way. He, Steve, had learned his lesson of women, and
was not likely to----

Steve was in the act of bearing down upon the lever of the baling
machine. He paused, with the lever pressed only half way home. He stood
listening, his bent figure unmoving. There was a sound beyond the door.
It might have been the sound of a snowfall from the roof above him. It
might have found its source in many things. Yet it was unusual enough to
hold the man listening acutely.

Presently, as there was no repetition of it, he dismissed the matter. He
was always fearful of possible approach. A moment's thoughtlessness on
the part of An-ina, on the part of his Indians, and the mischief would
be done. Even there was always the risk of Marcel's return, and the
attraction of the light of the lamp through the window. He dared not for
his own sake bar the door. There was always the risk of his mask failing
him.

He completed his operation. The oozing weed was compressed, and the
binding cords made fast. Then the lever was raised, and the sticky mass
was passed on to the outspread sheet for its final packing.

For all the cloth was spread, however, and the bundle was set in place
Steve hesitated before enfolding it. The disturbing sound still haunted
him curiously. He could never resist the dread of the deadly atmosphere
of the room. It needed only one breath--moments one might count upon the
fingers of a hand. The thought occurred to him to risk all and bar the
door. But it remained only a thought. He forced himself to continue his
work like a man who recognizes the weakness prompting him.

He folded the cloth about the bale and reached for the solution brush.
But the brush remained where it was. Distinct on the still night air
came the sound of a footstep. It was too heavy for An-ina. It had
nothing of Indian moccasins in it. It was the heavy footstep of a man, a
white man. Marcel!

Steve swung about in an agony of apprehension. But for once in his life
his forethought had failed him. He was too late. There was the swift
opening and shutting of the door and a man stood inside the room with
his back against it. But it was not Marcel. A heavy gun was thrusting
forward, and the muzzle of it was covering Steve's body. Helpless,
impotent, the man who had taken and survived every chance the Northern
world could offer him, stood like any weakling awaiting the shot that
must rob him of life in the hour of his triumph.

Steve stared wide-eyed. The man was no taller than himself. He was
white, and above his fur clothing was a dark, brutish face with eyes of
almost Indian blackness. For a moment they shone fiercely in the
lamplight. They were alive with demoniac purpose. A purpose he had come
so many weary miles to fulfil. Then, in a moment, the whole picture
changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.

The ferocious purpose in the black eyes faded to a ghastly terror. The
lids widened, and the eyeballs rolled upwards. A voiceless gasp escaped
through wide open lips, where a moment before they had been firm set
with murderous intent. The out-held gun-arm dropped, and the weapon
clattered heavily to the ground. The man reeled. He tottered forward.
Then, with a sigh, a deep drawn sigh, his knees gave under him and he
plunged face downwards amongst the litter of the Adresol whose secret he
had come to steal. The deadly drug had done its work.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve passed down the room. He came to a stand beside the body of the
man, fallen with its face buried amidst the bruised and oozing Adresol.
His features were lost in the very heart of a limply spread white bloom.
It was as though he were seeking to intake the very dregs of the poison
with which the air was laden.

Steve stooped. Seizing the heavy body in his strong arms he dragged it
clear of the weed, and laid it upon its back. Then he stood up and gazed
down from behind his mask upon the lifeless face that gazed sightlessly
up at him.

In those long, silent, contemplative moments memory leapt back, bridging
the weary years. There was neither passion nor pity in his heart. It
was almost as if all feeling had passed from him, absorbed in a deep
curiosity at the signs which the years had set upon a once handsome
face. Even in death they remained. And only a dreadful pallor robbed it
of the deeper signs which debauchery had impressed.

Yes. Death had been merciful in that it had restored the features to
something of their early good looks. Those good looks, which, backed by
the subtle tongue of the seducer, had been sufficient to attract the
weak vessel of a foolish woman's heart from the path of virtue that had
been marked out for it.

Oh, yes. Steve recognized that ghastly, lifeless face. And just for one
moment he hoped that as Death secured its stranglehold the dead creature
had recognized his. He wondered.

"Garstaing! Hervey Garstaing!"

The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voice
hushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. There
was neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow of
pity.

He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards the
door. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floor
barring his way. He thrust out a foot and pushed it aside. Then he
passed on.

Without one backward glance he turned out the light, and, passing out,
made fast the door and removed his dreadful mask.

But, for a while at least, he did not return to the woman who was
awaiting him. He moved on to the great gateway of the stockade. Then he
leant against one of the gate-posts and stood breathing the pure, cold
night air, while his thoughts drifted back over a hundred scenes,
which, until that moment, had remained deep buried in the back cells of
memory. He was thinking hard, wondering and searching, striving to probe
the full meaning of the man's attack.




CHAPTER XX

THE HOME-COMING


Steve gave no sign. He saw no reason to admit anyone to the secret of
that which had transpired in the store-house. He waited for the approach
of an accompanying outfit, he searched to discover the supporters of
Hervey Garstaing in his attempt on his life, and, failing all further
development, he saw no use in sounding a note of alarm to disturb those
who looked to him for leadership and protection. Besides, he was more
than reluctant to lay bare anything that could stir afresh those
memories from which only the passing of the years had brought him peace.

So he went on with his work, that work whose completion had become
well-nigh an obsession. The dead body of Garstaing lay huddled aside,
ruthlessly flung where it could least obtrude itself and interfere with
the labours upon which he was engaged. Its presence was no matter of
concern. It lay there held safe from decay by the power of the drug
which had robbed it of life. Later, with leisure, and when the desire
prompted, Steve would dispose of it as he might dispose of any other
refuse that displeased or disgusted him.

To a man of lesser hardihood, of less singleness of purpose such an
attitude must have been impossible. But Steve had learned his lessons of
life in a ruthless school. He had no thought for any leniency towards an
enemy, alive or dead. He had no reverence for the empty shell, which,
in life, had contained nothing but vileness.

To the last he fought out the battle of physical endurance, and he won
out. It was a bitter, deadly struggle in which will alone turned the
scale. When the last bale of Adresol was packed, and the door of the
store-house was made secure, its treasure in the keeping of its dead
guardian, Steve knew that he was about to pay the price. The final
removal of his mask found him an extremely sick man. And for two weeks
he was forced to fight against the effect of the deadly toxins he had
been inhaling for so long. He had saved others from the risk of handling
the Adresol. Now he was called upon to pay for his self-sacrifice.

In her silent, unquestioning fashion An-ina understood, and, for nearly
two weeks, she watched and ministered to the man of her love with
smiling-eyed devotion. Steve never admitted his condition, and An-ina
never reminded him of it. That was their way. But never in all their
years of life together had the woman been more surely her man's devoted
slave. Her every service was an expression of the happiness which the
privilege yielded her. Every thought behind her dark eyes was a prayer
for the well-being of her man.

For all the inroad the poisons had made upon him, Steve's robust,
healthy body was no easy prey, and, slowly but surely, it won its way
and drove back a defeated enemy. The spirit of the man was invincible,
and then, too, his knowledge of the drugs, both Adresol and those
antitoxins which he had been forced to oppose to it, was well-nigh
complete. The dead father of Marcel had left him in no uncertainty. He
had equipped him perfectly through his writings.

So, with the complete break-up of winter Steve was once more in his
place at the helm of his little vessel. He was there calm, strong,
resourceful, ready to deal with every matter that came along as the rush
of the open season's business descended upon the fort.

It, was as well. The rush was considerable as the Sleepers roused from
their hibernation. An-ina, Julyman, Oolak, were all his able
lieutenants, but Steve's was the guiding mind and hand. The others were
people of the same colour as these half Eskimos.

The hubbub and chaffer of it all went on the day long. The store was
alive with the squat, black-eyed, dusky creatures, swathed in their
Arctic furs. They brought all their trade, surplus stocks of the dried
Adresol weed, pelts, beaver and grey fox, wolf and seal. And for these
they demanded equipment and supplies for the open season's hunt. They
were mainly a good-natured and unsuspicious crowd whose guttural tongue
was harsh and very voluble. They needed handling. Essentially they
needed handling by the white man.

Steve had been relieved for his midday meal. He was relieved by An-ina,
assisted by Julyman. Oolak stood by with his club, ready for any display
of the predatory instincts that yielded to temptation.

Steve had not yet returned from the kitchen. He had finished his hearty
meal and lit his pipe. He was standing before the window, from which all
covering had been removed at the advance of the open season.

The air was chill. For the moment he was staring out reflectively at the
clear, bright sunlight, while the buzz of voices in the store hummed
upon his ears. It was well-nigh a perfect Northern spring day. The sky
was a-froth with white, sunlit clouds. But the sunlight had little
relation to the sunlight of more temperate climates at such a season. It
was fiercely bright against the melting snows, with a steely chill that
entirely lacked the gracious promise of budding trees and tender
shooting grass. At best it spoke of the final passing of the wastes of
snow and ice.

These things, however, were not concerning Steve. It was one of those
moments of solitude in which he could give run to the thoughts that most
nearly concerned him. His eyes had parted from the shadowy smile which
they usually wore before the eyes of others. Just now they were scarcely
happy, and the drawn brows suggested a lurking trouble that disturbed
him. He was thinking of Marcel. Ever since the visitation of Hervey
Garstaing, Marcel had rarely been out of his thoughts.

He removed his pipe and passed a hand across his broad brow. It was a
gesture of weariness. There were no eyes to witness the action, so he
attempted no disguise. It mattered little enough to him that the whole
world about him was awakening. It mattered nothing to him that the white
world was passing, and the rivers were starting to flood. The feathered
world might wing to greet the new-born season. It might darken the sky
with its legions. Such things had no power to stir his pulses, any more
than had the thought of the great triumph he had achieved over the
desperate Arctic elements, if all was not well with--Marcel.

This was his haunting fear. He was thinking of Marcel--and this white
girl, Keeko. Even when he had listened to the delighted tones of An-ina,
as she told him the story which she had obtained from the boy's own
lips, his fears had been stirred. The woman's delight had been the
simple delight of a woman in such romance. That side of it had left him
cold. He knew the Northern world, his world, too well. He knew the type
of woman that haunted the habitations of man in such regions as Unaga.
And so he had feared for Marcel.

Since that time had happened those things which warned him of a
wide-flung conspiracy of which his secret trade in Adresol was the
centre. Oh, yes, it had needed but one flash of inspiration to warn him
of this thing, and his concern was that this beautiful white woman,
Keeko, was a link in the chain of the conspiracy with which he was
surrounded.

He saw the hand of Lorson Harris in it, guiding, prompting, from that
office he knew so well in Seal Bay.

Hervey Garstaing was his tool. There could be no doubt as to that to
which the man had sunk. It was the simple logic of such a career as his.
A man reduced to haunting Mallard's in his endeavour to escape the law
must inevitably sink lower and lower. Garstaing was a Northern man.
Sooner or later the Northern wilderness would claim him. The next step
would be the embrace of Lorson Harris. No man "on the crook" north of
60° could escape that. Then--? But there was no need to look further in
that direction.

But this girl, or woman, this Keeko--her very name suggested to him the
vampire creatures haunting the muddy shores of Seal Bay--had discovered
Marcel last summer. Marcel, a boy. A boy in years--a child in mind. She
would be beautiful. Oh, yes, Lorson Harris would see to that. She would
be possessed of every art and wile of the women of her trade. It would
be too pitifully easy. She must have returned to her headquarters with
the secret he had held so long hidden. And then the coming of the
murderer to complete the task Lorson Harris had set.

Now Marcel had gone again to meet this Delilah. He had returned to her
in all his splendid youth to be dragged down, down to those backwaters
of vice in which her life was spent. Or, having achieved her purpose,
would she meet him again? Would she not rather have gone to receive the
reward of her betrayal? Anyway it mattered so little. Her mischief was
complete. Body and soul, this youth was doubtless hers. What manner of
man would he return?

This it was that haunted Steve throughout the long hours of each passing
day. Mind and heart had been set on one great purpose of selfishness. He
had gambled his life against overwhelming odds for the sake of this
youth. He had won out at terrific cost to himself. And now the joy of
his thought was submerged in the prospect of that moral destruction
which the evil scheming of Lorson Harris had brought about.

The hopelessness of it all was in simple proportion to the strength and
depth of the love and parental affection of the man's heart. But he knew
that until the naked truth, however hideous, was revealed he must
continue the labours that were his. If the merciless hand of Lorson
Harris had destroyed the simple soul of Marcel, then Lorson should pay
as he little dr----

Steve started. His depressed brows lightened. His eyes, so full of
brooding, widened as he listened. The sound of a voice, big, strong,
reached him over the guttural buzz of the trading Sleepers' tones.

"Uncle Steve? He's back. He's--safe?"

The tone was urgent. It was Marcel. And there was that note of force and
anxiety in his voice which Steve never remembered to have heard before.

Impulse urged him. It was quite beyond his power to restrain it. He
waited not a moment for An-ina's reply. Snatching his pipe from his
mouth he shouted swift response as he made for the store.

"Why, surely, boy," he cried. "It don't seem to me there's a thing north
of 60° to do me hurt."

       *       *       *       *       *

The two men were standing in the doorway of the store, just where they
had met. Outside were two dog trains newly drawn up, and four figures,
stranger figures, were moving about them.

Inside the store the clamour of traffic went on undisturbed by the new
arrival. Oolak, with his club, continued to shepherd the queer, squat
creatures he despised. Julyman was at the rough counter at the command
of An-ina, whose outward calm was a perfect mask for the feelings
stirred at the unexpected return of Marcel. It was all so characteristic
of these people, for all there were momentous words and happenings
passing, for all Marcel was conveying news of the threat to their lives
which had brought him at such speed back to his home.

The older man, broad of shoulder, sturdy under his rough buckskin, was
no match for the youngster who towered over him. And that which he
lacked in stature was made up for in the undisturbed expression of his
face. Marcel was urgent in his youthful grasp of the threat
overshadowing. Steve, while apparently listening to him, seemed to be
absorbed in the movements of the strangers beyond the door.

Marcel's story was a brief outline, almost disjointed. It was the story,
roughly, as Keeko had brought it to him. He told of the purpose of the
man Nicol, bribed by Lorson Harris to steal the secret of their trade.
He told of Nicol's confession to Keeko that he had located the
whereabouts of the fort, and his purpose forthwith to raid it, and wipe
out its occupants, and so earn the price of his crime. He told of
Keeko's ultimate terror of this creature's proposals to herself and of
the desperate nature of her flight from Fort Duggan to warn Marcel, and
seek his protection.

It was all told without a thought for anything beyond the urgency of the
threat, and his own youthful absorption in the girl who had taught him
the meaning of love. In that supreme moment he had no thought for the
thing that had driven Steve out into the winter wilderness, fighting
the battle of his great purpose. He had no thought for the success or
failure that had attended him. Steve was there in the flesh, the same
"Uncle" Steve he had always known. It was sufficient. An-ina, too, was
there, safe and well, and the sight of her had banished his worst
anxieties. The lover's selfishness was his. Keeko was outside. She had
come with him to his home. She had promised him the fulfilment of his
man's great desire. Where then was the blame? Steve had no thought of
blame in his mind. And An-ina? An-ina's complete happiness lay in the
fact of her boy's return.

"Say, Uncle," Marcel cried in conclusion, with impulsive vehemence.
"It's been one hell of a trip. It certainly has. And I'd say a feller
don't know one haf the deviltry of this forsaken country till he's hit
it haf thawed."

"No." Steve smiled at the four figures he was watching as there flashed
through his mind the recollection of the journey of a white man, and a
woman, and two Indians, and a child at such a time of year a good many
seasons ago.

"You're right, Uncle," Marcel went on, without observing the smile. "But
it just needed a woman to show the way, I guess," he cried, in a wave of
burning enthusiasm. "Keeko had us well-nigh hollering help from the
start. She set the gait. She showed us the way. She guessed that warning
needed to get through quick, with An-ina here alone. And she meant to
save her if the work of it killed her. She's just the greatest ever.
She's the bravest, the best----"

Steve nodded.

"Yes. I guess she's all you say."

The older man's eyes had come back to the handsome face lit with
passionate enthusiasm. There was a twinkle of dry humour in them.

"I know, boy," he said gently. "I get all that. That's why I want to get
right out now and hand her thanks and welcome to your home. Guess it's
not my way to have folks who've made near five hundred miles to do me
good service, standing around waiting while I'm asked to pass 'em
welcome. Guess I want to shake this white girl, with the queer Indian
name, by the hand. I want to make her just as welcome as I know how. Do
you feel like helping me that way?"

In a moment a great laugh broke, through the shadow of disappointment
that had fallen upon Marcel's eyes at the other's first words.

"You can just kick me, Uncle Steve," he cried. "You surely can. Guess
I'm every sort of crazy fool, trying to tell you the thing that's
Keeko's to tell. But I didn't think," he added, passing a hand across
his forehead. "I don't seem to be able to just now. You see--Say come
right along."

       *       *       *       *       *

"So you're--Keeko."

Marcel was standing by, looking on with a smiling happiness lighting his
face. But he was not observing. Observation at such a moment was
impossible to him. He was feasting his happy eyes on the girl's pretty
face under the brown fur cap which had been tilted from her forehead. He
was looking for her approval of Uncle Steve, and her smiling blue eyes
seemed to him all sufficient.

Had he been less concerned with Keeko he must have discovered that which
was looking out of Steve's eyes. It was a curious, searching look that
had something startled in it. He must have become aware that, for all
the older man's self-restraint, something was stirring within him,
something that robbed him of a composure that the dangers and trials of
the life that was his had on power to rob him of. Uncle Steve was
smiling responsively, a gentle, kindly smile, but it was utterly
powerless to deny the other expression.

Keeko withdrew her hands which had been held for a moment in both of
Steve's.

"Yes," she said, something shyly. "I'm Keeko."

"Keeko." Steve's echo of the name was reflective. "It's a queer name."

The startled look had passed out of his eyes. But his intent regard
remained almost embarrassing. Then, quite suddenly, as the girl turned a
little helplessly, and her gaze settled itself upon the great figure of
Marcel, he seemed to become aware this was so. He, too, promptly glanced
away, taking in the three Indians standing beside the dogs.

"Here, say," he cried authoritatively. "Unhitch those dogs and fix the
sleds. You boys best get the sleds unloaded."

Then he turned again to Keeko.

"I want to hand you a big show piece talk, Keeko," he said with quiet
ease. "I want to say how glad I am you came along with this boy of ours,
and to thank you for the things you figgered to do for us. I guess we
aren't going to let the thought of this feller--Nicol--worry us grey.
And Lorson Harris, big as he may be in Seal Bay, don't cut much ice up
here in the heart of Unaga. We've the measure of most things taken
that's likely to hand us worry. There's a home right here for you, for
just as long as you two fancy. I take it you've fixed things up between
you. Guess it scared me when I first heard tell of you, and I don't need
to tell you why I was scared. Now I've seen you it isn't that way. No,"
he added, in contemplative fashion. "I kind of thank Providence. He
sent you where you found our boy, and later made things so you came
along--to home. My dear, I'm just glad." Then he added in response to
the wonderful light which his words brought into the girl's pretty eyes:
"Say, just come right in. An-ina's inside. She'll get you rested and
fed. And she'll hand you a mother's welcome, same as I do a--father's."

The girl made no movement to obey. The tenderness, the simple kindliness
that rang in Steve's tones, was so utterly different from anything she
had ever listened to in the hard years of nomadic life she had been
forced to live. In contrast, the memory of her days at Fort Duggan left
her shuddering. The memory of the pitiful subterfuges to which she and
her dead mother had been forced to resort in the hope of saving her from
the merciless hands of the beast of prey who had ruined so utterly their
lives, was something that seemed to belong to some hideous nightmare.
For perhaps the first time since the iron of life had entered into her
woman's soul she wanted to fall to a-weeping. In her speechlessness
tears actually rose to her eyes. She was weary, weary of limb with the
hardship of her journey. But now, in the reaction of Steve's welcome,
she realized, too, an utter weariness of mind. But her tears were saved
from overflowing. She looked to the smiling Marcel, and, with a little
helpless gesture, held out her hands.

It was all so unlike the woman who had faced every hardship on the
trail. It was all so unlike the strong courage which Marcel knew. He
caught her hands in his, and drew her to his side. Then, together, they
passed on to the store, while Steve's eyes followed them, and the
Indians remained at the work they had been set.

Once Keeko and Marcel had vanished within the store there was no longer
need for disguise. Steve's smile passed out of his eyes. A great light
of startled wonder took its place. Unconsciously he turned in the
direction of the store-house, concealing its great burden of
Adresol--and that other.

For a while he stood there. Then a sound broke from him. It was a
single, low-muttered word.

"Keeko!"

He moved away. He passed on to the open gateway of the stockade and
gazed far out towards the south-west. The sunlight upon the melting snow
was well-nigh blinding. But it troubled him not at all. His eyes were no
longer seeing. They were absorbed in a deep contemplation, visualizing
scenes that rose up at him out of the dim, distant past. He was thinking
of that moment of parting, when he had gazed down into the great blue
eyes of his baby girl as she was held up to him by her erring mother.

"Keeko!" he muttered again. "Coqueline!" Then, after a long, almost
interminable pause: "Nita!"




CHAPTER XXI

THE GREAT REWARD


Years ago Steve had drunk to the dregs a despair that left life shorn of
everything but a desolate existence. The effect of that time had
remained in him. It would remain so long as he lived. But it was a
reverse of the picture which despairing human nature usually presents.
It had deepened the reserve of a nature at all times undemonstrative. It
had hardened a will that was already of an iron quality. It had deepened
and broadened a fine understanding of human nature, and finally it had
succeeded in mellowing a tolerance that had always been his. For him
those bitter moments had proved to be the cleansing fires which had
produced nothing but pure gold.

Now the memory of those dread moments was stirring afresh. But despair
had no place in the emotions it provoked. It was all the other extreme.
A world of glad hope had taken possession of him. A gladness
unspeakable, almost overpowering. A great impulse drove him now. It was
a sort of wild desire to yield to the amazing madness of it all, and cry
from the house-tops of his little world all that was clamouring for
unrestrained expression.

But the man had no more power to yield to this wild surge of feeling
than he had had power to yield to the despair of former years. So, for a
while, his voice remained silent, and only his lighting eyes gave index
of the thought and feeling behind them.

With the departure of Marcel and Keeko for the mother welcome of An-ina,
Steve also returned to the store. He came to release the willing
creature, yearning for that moment when she could revel in the joy of
the contemplation of her boy's happiness.

Steve took his place in the traffic that was going on, and nodded
soberly to the eager, dusky woman.

"Get right along, An-ina," he said kindly. "Guess they're needing you."

"Oh, yes? Marcel--Keeko." An-ina's eyes lit.

"Sure--and Keeko."

And the man's smile as he turned to the waiting customers was something
An-ina, at least, was never likely to forget.

Steve contemplated many things for that night. He contemplated unlocking
the doors of those hidden secrets of his life to which no one had been
admitted. But disappointment awaited him.

When the last of the Sleepers took their departure and the store was
closed for the night he passed into the kitchen for his supper. He
looked to find Keeko. He looked to find Marcel. He looked to revel in
those moments of happiness which still seemed utterly unreal, even
impossible. There were so many things he still had to learn before----

But An-ina had all the wisdom of a great mother. And, in response to his
question, he received the final verdict from which there was no appeal.

"Keeko all beat to death," she said, with quiet assurance. "She sleep
plenty. Oh, yes. Marcel he much angry with An-ina."

She glanced swiftly across at the great figure of Marcel, lounging over
the cook-stove, smoking with the happy content of a luxurious dreamer.
The smile that responded to An-ina's sly glance was one of boyish
shyness and held no threat of displeasure.

"Guess An-ina packed her to bed, Uncle Steve," he explained. "Keeko
hadn't a notion that way, but it didn't signify with An-ina. She
reckoned Keeko ought to be plumb beat and needing her bed. So she just
handed her supper, and gave her her own bed to sleep in."

Steve glanced from one to the other. Then, in his ready way he nodded.

"Guess An-ina got these things better than you and me, boy," he said.
"Anyway where other folks are concerned. There's only herself she don't
know about. Guess we can feed ourselves for once, while she finds the
blankets she's mostly ready to pass on to other folks."

A flicker of disappointment passed over the dusky face of the woman. But
there was no demur. She understood. Steve wanted Marcel to himself for
this, his first evening. So she bowed to the man's will.

With her going the two men sat in at the supper table. And of the two it
was only Marcel who did real justice to the plain fare An-ina's hands
had set out for them. The lover in Marcel left him still a giant that
needed bodily support. But with Steve there was a burden of thought and
emotion that left food the last thing to be desired.

For some moments there was a silence between them while the steaming tea
was poured from the iron pot on the corner of the stove. Each man helped
himself from the great dish of dry hash set for them. Steve helped
himself from sheer habit. Marcel ate hungrily.

It was Marcel who broke the silence. He was in no mood for silence.
There were many things seeking outlet in his mind. But paramount was the
all-dominating subject of Keeko.

"Say, Uncle," he cried suddenly, "isn't she just great? Isn't she----?"

Steve nodded.

"She's greater," he said, with twinkling eyes.

Marcel's eyes widened as he stared across at the man whose sympathy he
most desired.

"You're laffing at me," he said quickly.

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said. "I just mean that."

"You do?"

"Yes. There isn't a thing you could say, boy, to make that girl greater
in my eyes." Steve laid down the fork on his enamelled plate, and drank
some tea. "Say, the story of it all's so queer I can't get the full grip
of it. Maybe I will in time. When I've thought. Yes, it's queer. And the
queerest of it is you bringing her along to us the way you have."

For a moment his reflective eyes gazed away into the distance. Then
alert and full of simple sincerity, they came back to the face of the
youth beyond the lamp which stood between them.

"But I want to say right here that I'd sooner see you married to this
girl, Keeko, than any other woman in the whole darn world. The day that
sees her your wife'll give me a happiness you can't just dream about.
Does that make you feel right? I hope so, boy, I hope it bad."

There was no need for the older man's question. The answer was looking
back at him out of Marcel's eyes, which were shining with a boyish
delight.

"Thanks, Uncle," he returned for lack of better expression. Then, in a
moment, it seemed as if he could contain himself no longer. And words
literally tumbled from his lips. They were hot, frank impulsive words,
all unconsidered, all straight from an honest heart. "Say, you've just
been everything to me. You and An-ina. And I've never had a chance to
make return or do a thing. Oh, I know. But for you An-ina and I would
have been left to chase the country with no better lot than the darn
Sleepers. I've thought and thought. And I know. You've helped me grow a
man. You've taught me life. You've taught me just everything one man can
teach another. Oh, I guess I'm grateful. I feel so I can't ever repay
you. I've wanted to. I want that way now. And, say, you can't ever stop
me again. You're glad I'm going to marry Keeko. Why, it just means all
the world to me. Now I'm a man. I'm no fool kid any longer. The summer
trail's over for me, and I'm going to take my place in the great fight
you've been making all these years. You can't deny me--now. I--I won't
stand for it----"

Steve's smiling shake of the head brought the boy to a blank-eyed stop.

"The fight's won," he said. "There's no more fight for us."

"You mean----?"

Steve jerked his dark head in the direction of the store-house.

"It's full," he said. "Full, plumb up, of green weed. There's thousands
of the deadly lily blooms in there, packed and ready for Seal Bay.
Lorson Harris has lost the dirty game he's playing, and now--now he'll
just have to pay us all we choose to ask."

Marcel's food was forgotten. He stared across the table, blank amazement
looking out of his eyes.

"You've found it? The growing weed? You've brought it home? Uncle!"

"Yes." Never were Steve's eyes more sober. Never were they less
emotional. "You were full up to Keeko when you came along so I didn't
tell you. Two sled loads. As heavy as we could bank 'em up. I figure,
according to your father's reckoning of the stuff, there's well-nigh a
fortune lying back in that place." He paused and drew a deep breath.
"Yes. I got the trail. We can help ourselves. It's right in the heart of
Unaga, where the world's afire, like hell opened up from below. Say,
boy, I've seen wonders, the like I never dreamed about, and we beat all
this country could set up to keep safe its secrets. We passed through
one hell only to reach a worse. But we got it. We found it. And--the
fight's won."

Marcel forgot everything in that concise narrative of Steve's success.
All his lover's selfishness faded before the tremendous significance of
that final great adventure. He even forgot his own disappointment that
he had not been permitted to share in it. This great thing had happened,
the fulfilment of the dream that had been theirs. Then in a moment he
remembered. A thought, an apprehension flashed swiftly through his mind.
Lorson Harris! The man--Nicol!

"Is it finished?" he cried, with a swift change of manner. "Or is it
only just beginning? Say, Uncle--you've forgot. Harris! This feller we
brought you word of. Say----"

Steve shook his head.

"It's finished," he said, with a ring in his voice that carried absolute
conviction. "Oh, yes, it was like you to spare no effort to make home
with warning. I'm not blinded. Keeko made the journey to you with word,
but it was you who forced that journey through the haf thaw to save
An-ina and me. I can see you driving through as man never drove before,
and I guess I get the feeling that made you pass the credit on to Keeko.
But I allow she'll have a different yarn of that journey. Anyway,
there's no worry to this thing. I care nothing for Lorson Harris, or
this scum--Nicol. We've the growing weed. And the battle's won."

For moments Marcel had no answer in face of Steve's denial, so sternly
confident and assured. Young and impulsive as he was the force of the
older man was still irresistible. He drew out his pipe and filled it
thoughtfully, and finally disappointment took possession of him.

"Then there's nothing--nothing more? It's done?"

Just a shadow of eagerness crept into Marcel's final question. He felt
he was being robbed of the last chance of making return and proving his
manhood to the man who had given up his life to him.

Steve was swift to read the prompting of the other's words. He laughed
silently, gently, and his eyes were alight with deep affection.

"No. There's things to do yet," he said. "Oh, yes. There's a whole heap.
Your father didn't reckon to quit on the first load. He reckoned to help
the world with all his knowledge and body. And that's what I figger to
do--with your help."

"Ah!"

"Guess I see it this way. This summer sees you and Keeko in Seal Bay. Me
too. We've to trade our weed. And I guess, if it suits your fancy, we'll
find the passon feller, that can't kick religion into that township,
ready to fix you and Keeko up. After that there's the winter trail for
us both, for just as many seasons as you fancy. We've a mighty big work
still, before we strip the heart of Unaga of the treasure the world
needs."

In the reaction from his disappointment Marcel's generous nature
asserted itself. He saw himself at last admitted to that which he
considered the work of manhood. And he sought to embrace it all.

"But you, Uncle," he cried earnestly. "Is there need? Why should you
have to go on? Think of all you've done. Why, say--pass the work to me,
and take an easy."

Steve's eyes promptly denied him.

"Easy?" He shook his head. "Why should I? Guess the north country's mine
for keeps, boy. And when my time gets around I hope it finds me beating
up the dogs at 40° below, with a hell fire blizzard sweeping down off
the Arctic ice."

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve was abroad early next morning. He had talked long and late with
Marcel over-night, and their talk had been mostly of Keeko and her life,
as the lover knew it. Never, to the moment they parted for the night,
did Steve display weariness of the subject of their talk. To Marcel it
seemed natural enough that this should be so. But then he was little
more than twenty, and in love. Steve's urgency for detail must have been
pathetic to any onlooker. To Marcel it was only another exhibition of
his goodness and sympathy for himself.

Steve had little enough sleep after he left the boy. For once in a hardy
lifetime he lay under his blankets with a mind feverishly alert. He was
yearning for the passing of night. He was well-nigh crazy for the sun of
the morrow. Yet withal a wonderful happiness robbed him of all
irritation at his wakefulness.

So it came in the chill dawn of a perfect spring morning, in which only
the melting snow had reason to weep, he was moving abroad in heavy boots
wading through the slush which would soon be past. He watched the sun
rise from its nightly slumber, and its brilliant light amidst the
passing clouds of night was a sign to him. It was the dawn of his great
day. It was the passing of his years-long night.

As the clouds dropped away and vanished below the horizon, leaving the
sun safely enthroned, an amazing jewel set in the world's azure canopy,
he passed again into the store. Even on this great day habit remained.
He replenished the stoves, and set the boilers of water in place for
An-ina. After that he passed out again, and made his way to the
store-house that held his secret.

He adjusted a mask upon his mouth and nostrils and tasted again the
sickening drug he had learned to hate. He unfastened the door and passed
within. For a long time he remained with the door closed behind him.
Later he reappeared, and, removing his mask, passed out into the pure
air of the morning. He secured the door behind him.

Absorbed in thought, his eyes unsmiling, he was making his way back to
the main building. It was not until he had almost reached the door that
he became aware of An-ina's presence. It was her voice that caused him
to look up.

"Look," she cried in her soft tones, and pointed.

Steve followed the direction of her lean brown finger. Marcel and Keeko
were standing in the great gateway of the stockade.

Steve's smile was good to see and An-ina responded in sympathy.

"They love. Sure. Oh, yes," she said.

Steve nodded. He was gazing at the tall, graceful figure of Keeko. He
seemed to have no eyes for the boy at all. Keeko, in her mannish clothes
of buckskin, her beaded, fur-trimmed tunic which revealed the
shapeliness of her youthful body. The vision of it all carried his mind
back so many years.

"Keeko for Marcel. Marcel for Keeko. Yes?"

Steve drew a deep breath.

"Yes. Thank God."

He moved away. There was no ceremony between these two. Steve's love for
An-ina was built upon the unshakable foundations of perfect
understanding. He strode out towards the gates, and the lovers heard the
splash of his boots as he waded the melting snow. They turned. And it
was Marcel who made half-shamefaced explanation.

"I was telling Keeko of the weed," he said. "I was telling her of the
fire country which I guess she got a peek at last summer--from a
distance. She was asking to know the trade Lorson Harris was yearning to
steal, and the feller Nicol was ready to murder for. She guesses it's
most like a fairy yarn."

Steve's eyes were steadily regarding the girl's smiling face. He noted
the beautiful, frank, wide eyes, the perfect lips that so reminded him--

The fresh, clear, transparent cheeks forming so perfect an oval. Then
there was her fair hair escaping from beneath the soft edges of her fur
cap. She was prettier even than he had first thought.

"I allow it maybe sounds that way," he said. Then he shook his head.
"But there's nothing unreal to it. No. There's no more unreal to Adresol
than there is to the hell fires raging away out there in the heart of
Unaga, where the whole place is white like a lake of pure milk with the
bloom of the plant that breathes certain death, but which holds in its
heart the greatest benefit the world's ever known. It's all queer, I
allow. But--say--" He turned and pointed at the store-house. "It's all
there. It's baled ready for Lorson Harris to buy. You can get a peek at
it, at the stuff these folks reckoned to steal. Will you----?"

The invitation stirred Marcel to prompt anxiety. He laid a hand on
Keeko's soft shoulder as she prepared to move away.

"Is it safe, Uncle Steve?" he demanded hastily. "You see, Keeko's not
like----"

"Safe? Sure." Steve produced two masks. "I've worked in there for weeks,
boy, with these things set on my face. I've worked all day and haf the
night--baling. Sure it's safe. You go, too. There's a mask for each, and
I guess they aren't just things of beauty. We'll go along over, and I'll
fix 'em for you. I kind of fancy Keeko should see what's hid up in that
store-house."

Steve led the way, and, hand in hand, like two children, the others
followed him. At the door of the store-house he paused and turned. He
stepped up to Marcel and adjusted his mask. And while he adjusted it his
eyes remained unsmiling. He was careful, infinitely careful, in the
adjustment, and in reply to the youth's protest at the nauseating taste
of the drug he was forced to inhale his retort was briefly to the point.

"Sure it's no bouquet," he said. "But it's that or a--halo, and wings
and things."

Keeko offered no protest at all. She was impressed far more than she
knew. It seemed to her that the simple trust which prompted the man's
action in revealing his secret to her, the secret Lorson Harris was
willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for, was something too simply
wonderful for words.

With the adjustment of the masks Steve removed the fastenings that
barred the door. He held it closed a moment and turned to Marcel.

"You'll go first, boy. You'll go right in. I guess you've got the masks
so I can't come with you. I want you to take Keeko, and show it all.
Maybe you'll find things there you don't understand. That don't matter.
Maybe you can figger them out between you."

Then he turned to Keeko and his steady eyes regarded her seriously under
the disfiguring mask.

"Get a look at it all, my dear. All. But say, as you value your
life--and Marcel's and my peace of mind--don't shift that mask a hair's
breadth, no matter how you feel--looking around. When you come out you
can tell me about things."

He set the door ajar, and leading the girl by the hand Marcel passed
into the house of death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steve stood guard. He listened with straining ears. There came the faint
sound of muffled voices from within, and the sound of movement. The
moments dragged slowly. Once he thought he heard a series of sharp
exclamations. But he could not be sure. He expected them. That was all.

After awhile the voices ceased, and there only remained the shuffling of
feet whose sound drew nearer. The visit was short, as he expected it
would be. He understood. A moment later he felt pressure against the
door.

He opened it, and Keeko and Marcel returned to the open air. Without a
word Steve re-fastened the door. Marcel dragged the mask from his
troubled face and Keeko followed his example.

Steve turned from the door and stood confronting them. His eyes were
hard. They were almost fierce as he looked into the startled faces
before him.

"Well?" he demanded. Then his gaze rested on the girl. "You saw--it?"

Keeko inclined her head. She hesitated. A curious parching of throat and
tongue left her striving to moisten her trembling lips.

"Yes," she said, at last.

"And it was--Nicol?"

"Yes."

Quite suddenly Steve laughed. It was a mere expression of relief, but it
succeeded in robbing his eyes of a light which so rarely found place in
them. He pointed at the closed door.

"He came here in the night," he said. "I don't know how he came. I never
saw a sign of his outfit. Maybe they left him, as he didn't get back."

He shrugged indifference.

"It don't matter anyway. I was at work. Same as I'd been at work nights.
I'd a lamp burning. Maybe he saw me through the window. I guess that was
so. The door was shut, but unfastened. I didn't dare keep it fast,
working in there. Well, I heard a sound. The door was pushed wide and he
jumped in on me with a loaded gun at my vitals. He'd got me plumb set.
Sure. But the dope. It didn't give him a chance. It got a strangle-holt
right away, and he dropped dead at my feet. He's--he's your step-father?
The man you came to warn me of?"

"Yes."

Steve nodded.

"Here, let's quit this place. Guess it's not wholesome standing around.
Pass me the masks. We'll get right over to the sheds. There, where it's
dry, and we can sit. There's things I need to tell you right away. Both
of you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Marcel and Keeko were sitting side by side on one of the sleds which had
not yet been completely unloaded. Steve was squatting on an up-turned
box that had been used to contain food stores for the trail. He was
facing them, and his back was towards the building of the store. It was
rather the picture of two children listening to some wonderful fairy
story, told in the staid tones of a well-loved parent. Never for a
moment was attention diverted. Never was interruption permitted. Even
the approach of An-ina passed unremarked.

And as Steve talked a beam of sunlight fell athwart his sturdy figure,
lightening its rough clothing, and surrounding him with a penetrating
light that revealed the sprinkling of grey beginning to mar the dark hue
of his ample hair. The lines, too, in his strong face, fine-drawn and
scarcely noticeable ordinarily, the searching sun of spring had no mercy
upon.

"Oh, it's a heap long way back," he said, "and I guess it all belongs to
me. Anyway it did till Keeko got around. Say, you need to think of a
crazy sort of feller who guessed that most all there was in life was to
make good for the woman he loved, and the poor girl kiddie she'd borne
him. You need to figger on a feller who didn't know a thing else, and
thought he was acting square and right by his wife the whole darn time.
He was a fool, a crazy fool. But he did all he knew, and the way he knew
it. His duty was the law and order of a wide enough territory around
Athabasca, which is just one hell of a piece of country from here. When
you've thought of that you want to think of a real good woman, all
pretty, and bright, with blue eyes and fair hair, and her baby girl the
same. You want to reckon she was just about your ages, and was plumb
full of life, and ready for all the play going. When you've got that you
want to think of her man being away from their home months and months,
winter and summer. It was his work. And all the time there's a feller, a
mean, low, skunk of a feller with a good-looker face, and the manners
and talk of a swell white man, hanging around on that home doorstep. So
it goes on. How long I don't know. Then comes a time when this p'lice
officer gets out on a mission to Unaga. And it's the other feller that
has to hand him his orders. Do you see? That trip's a two years' trip,
and the pore gal is just left around home with her baby the whole time.
Oh, she's got her food, and home, and money. That's so. Well, at the end
of that trip the feller gets back. He's found up there a white kiddie,
and an Indian nurse woman, and the hell of a tragedy of the boy's
parents. So he brings the kiddie back, a little brother to his baby
girl."

Steve drew a deep breath and stirred. When he went on his eyes were
gazing out at the sunlight beyond the shed.

"When he made home with the life well-nigh beat out of him, his outfit a
wreck, and the nurse woman and the kiddie no better, his wife and his
baby girl were gone. They'd been gone a great while. So had the man.
They had gone together, and the man was wanted for stealing the Treaty
Money of the Indians he was the government agent for. Do you get that?"

Keeko nodded. She was listening with breathless interest for she felt
the story was addressed to her. Marcel, too, was absorbed. But the
ultimate drift of the story was scarcely as clear to him yet.

"Well, it don't need telling you the things that happened after that,"
Steve went on with a half-smile that was something desperately grim.
"Maybe that feller went nigh mad. I don't know. Anyway, when he got
better of things he hit out after that skunk of an agent in the hope of
coming up with him, and killing him."

"But he was saved that. Maybe it was meant he should be. We can't reckon
these things. Anyway he never saw his wife again. He never saw his baby
girl. And--he never saw Hervey Garstaing till weeks ago he came under
the label of Nicol--right along here to set the story of murder into his
book of life. He's there in that store-house and he's been dead weeks.
Only the rottenness in him hasn't broke out because of the weed. Anyway
he's dead. He was a scum that had no place in this world, and I guess
Providence handed it to him in its own fashion and time. He robbed me of
Nita. He robbed me of----"

"Nita--my mother's name." Keeko's voice was choked. A world of emotion
seemed to be striving to overwhelm her. Marcel in bewilderment was
regarding only the strong face of the man seated in the sunlight.

Steve inclined his head.

"Yes. Nita was your mother."

An uncontrollable impulse urged the girl. She had no power to resist it.
Why should she? This man--this man to whom Marcel had brought her, with
his steady eyes and strong face. He--he----

She sprang from her seat beside her lover, the great creature staring so
amazedly at the man, who, for a moment, had permitted a glance into
those close-hidden secrets of his heart. In a moment she was on her
knees at Steve's side, and the man's hands were grasping hers in their
strong embrace.

"And you--you are my--father!" she cried.

Steve crushed the hands in his with a power that told of the feeling
stirring.

"Yes," he said simply. Then he added very gently, very tenderly. "And
you--you are my little baby girl Coqueline."

And in the silence that followed there reached them from close behind
the sound of the low, soft voice of the mother woman.

"So. An-ina glad. Oh, yes."


THE END