Starting at daybreak, they reached a hillside overlooking the Stony village on the third afternoon. Surrounded by willows and ragged spruces the conical tepees rose in the plain beneath, but Blake, who was leading, stopped abruptly as he caught sight of them. They were white to the apex, where the escaping heat of the fire within generally melted the snow, and no curl of smoke floated across the clearing. The village was ominously silent and had a deserted look.
"I'm very much afraid Clarke's friends are not at home," he said with forced calm. "We'll know more about it in half an hour; that is, if you think it worth while to go down."
The others were silent a moment, struggling with their disappointment. They had made a toilsome journey to reach the village, their food was nearly exhausted, and it would cost them two days to return to the valley which was their best road to the south.
Then Harding said, "Now we're here, we may as well spend another hour over the job. It's possible they haven't packed all their stores along."
His companions suspected that they were wasting time, but they followed him down hill, until Benson, who was a short distance to one side of them, called out. When they joined him he indicated a row of footsteps leading up the slope.
"That fellow hasn't been gone very long; there was snow yesterday," he said. "By the line he took, he must have passed near us. I wonder why he stayed on after the others."
Blake examined the footsteps carefully, and compared them with the impress of his own snowshoes.
"It's obvious that they can't be older than yesterday afternoon," he said. "From their depth and sharpness, I should judge that the fellow was carrying a good load, which probably means that he meant to be some time gone. The stride suggests a white man."
"Clarke," said Harding. "He seems to be up here pretty often, though I can't see how he'd do much prospecting in the winter."
"It's possible," Blake rejoined. "Anyhow, the point doesn't seem to matter, and I'm anxious to find out whether there's anything to eat in the tepees."
They hurried on, and discovered only a few skins in the first tent. Then, separating, they eagerly searched the rest without result, and when they met again were forced to the conclusion that there was no food in the place. It was about three o'clock and a threatening afternoon. The light was dim and a savage wind blew the snow about. They stood with gloomy faces in the shelter of the largest tepee, feeling that luck was hard against them.
"These northern Indians have often to put up with short commons while the snow lies," Benson remarked. "No doubt, they set off for some place where game's more plentiful when they found their grub running out, and as they've all gone the chances are that they won't come back soon. We've had our trouble for nothing, but we may as well camp here. With a big fire going, one could make this tepee warm."
The others felt strongly tempted to agree. The cold had been extreme the last few nights and weary and scantily fed as they were, they craved for shelter. Still they had misgivings and Blake said, "We have wasted too much time already, and there's only a few days' rations in the bag. We have got to get back to the valley and ought to make another three hours' march before we stop."
"Yes," Harding regretfully assented, "I guess that would be wiser."
Setting off at once, they wearily struggled up the hill, and it had been dark some time when they made camp in a hollow at the foot of a great rock. It kept off the wind and the spruces which grew close about it further sheltered them, but Blake told his companions to throw up a snow bank while he cut wood.
"I'm afraid we're going to have an unusually bad night, and we may as well take precautions," he said.
His forecast proved correct, for soon after they had finished supper a cloud of snow swept past the hollow and the spruces roared among the rocks above. Then there was a crash and the top of a shattered tree plunged down between the men and fell on the edge of the fire, scattering a shower of sparks.
"Another foot would have made a difference to two of us," said Harding coolly. "However, it's fallen where it was wanted; help me heave the thing on."
It crackled fiercely as the flame licked about it, and sitting between the snowbank and the fire, the men kept fairly warm, but a white haze drove past their shelter and eddying in now and then covered them with snow. In an hour the drifts were level with the top of the bank, but this was a protection, and they were thankful they had found such a camping place, since death would have been the consequence of being caught in the open. The blizzard gathered strength, but though they heard the crash of broken trees through the roar of the wind no more logs fell, and by and by they went to sleep, secure in the shelter of the rock.
When day broke it was long past the usual hour, and the cloud of driving flakes obscured even the spruces a few yards away. The hollow at the foot of the crag was shadowy, and the snow had piled up several feet above the bank, and lapped over at one end. Still, with wood enough, they could keep warm, and had their supplies been larger they would have been content to rest. As things were, however, they were confronted with perhaps the gravest peril that threatens the traveller in the North—they might be detained by bad weather until their food ran out. None of them spoke of this, but by tacit agreement they made a very sparing breakfast and ate nothing at noon. When night came and the storm still raged, their hearts were very heavy.
It lasted three days, and on the fourth morning it seemed scarcely possible to face the somewhat lighter wind and break a trail through the fresh snow. They, however, dare risk no further delay, and strapping on their packs struggled up the range. At nightfall they were high among the rocks, and it was piercingly cold, but they got a few hours' sleep in a clump of junipers and struck the valley late next day. Finding shelter, they made camp and after dividing a small bannock between them sat talking gloomily. Their fire had been lighted to lee of a cluster of willows and burned sulkily because the wood was green. Pungent smoke curled about them, and they shivered in the draughts.
"How far do you make it to the logging camp?" Benson asked. "I'm taking it for granted that the lumber gang's still there."
"A hundred and sixty miles," said Blake.
"And we have food enough for two days; say forty miles."
"About that; it depends upon the snow."
Benson made no answer, and Harding was silent a while, sitting very still with knitted brows. Then he said, "I can't see any way out. Can you?"
"Well," said Blake quietly, "we'll go on as long as we are able. Though I haven't had a rosy time, I've faith in my luck."
Conversation languished after this, but they had a small cake of tobacco left, and sat smoking and hiding their fears while the wind moaned among the willows and thin snow blew past. The camp was exposed and hungry and dejected, as they were, they felt the stinging cold. After an hour of moody silence, Harding suddenly leaned forward, with a lifted hand.
"What's that?" he said sharply. "Didn't you hear it?"
For a few moments the others only heard the rustle of the willows and the swishing sound of driven snow; then a faint patter caught their ears, and a crack followed like the snapping of a whip.
"A dog team!" cried Benson, and springing to his feet set up a loud shout.
It was answered in English and while they stood, shaken by excitement and intense relief, several low shadowy shapes emerged from the gloom; then a tall figure appeared, and after it two more. Somebody shouted harsh orders in uncouth French; the dogs sped towards the fire and stopped. Then their driver, hurrying after them, began to loose the traces, while another man walked up to Blake.
"We saw your fire and thought we'd make for it," he said. "I see your cooking outfit's still lying round."
"It's at your service," Blake told him. "I'm sorry we can't offer you much supper, though there's a bit of a bannock and some flour."
"We'll soon fix that," said the other. "Guess you're up against it, but our grub's holding out." He turned to the driver. "Come and tend to the cooking when you're through, Emile."
Though the order was given good-humouredly, there was a hint of authority in his voice, and the man he spoke to quickened his movements. Then another came up, and while the dogs snapped at each other, and rolled in the snow, the half-breed driver unloaded a heavy provision bag and filled Harding's frying pan.
"Don't spare it," said the first comer. "I guess these folks are hungry; fix up your best menoo."
Sitting down by the fire, shapeless in his whitened coat, with his bronzed face half hidden by his big fur cap, he had nevertheless a soldierly look.
"You'll be wondering who we are?" he said.
"No," Blake answered, smiling. "I can make a guess; there's a stamp on you I recognize. You're from Regina."
"You've hit it first time. I'm Sergeant Lane, R.N.W.M.P. This"—he indicated his companion—"is Private Walthew. We've been up on a special patrol to Copper Lake and left two of the boys there to make some inquiries about the Indians. Now we're on the back trail."
He looked as if he expected the others to return his confidence and Blake had no hesitation about doing so. He knew the high reputation of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, which is a force of well-mounted and carefully chosen frontier cavalry. Its business is to keep order on a vast stretch of plain, to watch over adventurous settlers who push out ahead of the advancing farming community, and to keep a keen eye on the reserve Indians. Men from widely different walks of life serve in its ranks, and the private history of each squadron is rich in romance, but one and all are called upon to scour the windy plains in the saddle in the fierce summer heat and make adventurous sledge journeys across the winter snow. Their patrols search the lonely North from Hudson's Bay to the Mackenzie, living in the open in Arctic weather, and the peaceful progress of Western Canada is largely due to their unrelaxing vigilance. Blake accordingly gave a short account of his journey and explained his present straits.
"Well," said the Sergeant, "I figure we have stores enough to see us down to the settlements all right, and we'll be glad of your company. The stronger the party, the smoother the trail, and after what you've told me, I guess you can march."
"Where did you find the breed?" Benson asked. "Your chiefs at Regina don't allow you hired packers."
"They surely don't. He's a Hudson's Bay man, working his passage. Going back to his friends somewhere about Lake Winnipeg, and allowed he'd come south with us and take the cars to Selkirk. I was glad to get him; I'm not smart at driving dogs."
"We found it hard to understand the few Indians we met," said Harding. "The farther north you go, the worse it must be. How will the fellows you left up yonder get on?"
The Sergeant laughed. "When we want a thing done, we can find a man in the force fit for the job. One of the boys I took up can talk to them in Cree or Assiniboine, and it wouldn't beat us if they spoke Hebrew or Greek. There's a trooper in my detachment who knows both."
Benson, who did not doubt this, turned to Private Walthew, whose face, upon which the firelight fell, suggested intelligence and refinement.
"What do you specialize in?"
"Farriery," answered the young man, who might have added that extravagance had cut short his career as veterinary surgeon in the old country.
"Knows a horse all over, outside and in," Sergeant Lane interposed. "I allow that's why they sent him when I asked for a good dog driver, though in a general way our bosses aren't given to joking. Walthew will tell you there's a difference between physicking a horse and harnessing a sledge team."
"It's marked," Walthew agreed with a chuckle. "When I first tried to put the traces on I thought they'd eat me. Even now I have some trouble, and I'll venture to remind my superior that he'd be short of some of his fingers if they didn't serve us out good thick mittens."
"That's right," said Lane good-humouredly. "I'm sure no good at dogs. If you're going to drive them, you want to speak Karalit or French. Plain English cussin's no blame use."
By and by Emile said that supper was ready, and the police watched their new acquaintances devour it with sympathetic understanding, for they had more than once covered long distances on very short commons in the Arctic frost. Afterwards they lighted their pipes, and Emile, being tactfully encouraged, told them in broken English stories of the barrens. These were so strange and gruesome that it was only because they had learned something of the wilds that Harding and his friends believed him. Had they been less experienced, they would have denied that flesh and blood could bear the things the half-breed calmly talked about. While he spoke there broke out behind the camp a sudden radiance which leaped from the horizon far up the sky. It had in it the scintillation of the diamond, for the flickering brilliance changed to evanescent blue and rose from pure white light. Spreading in a vast, irregular arc, it hung like a curtain, wavering to and fro and casting off luminous spears that stabbed the dark. For a time it blazed in transcendental splendour, then faded and receded, dying out with Unearthly glimmering far back in the lonely North.
"Now," said Lane with mild approval, "I allow that's pretty fine."
Blake smiled, but made no answer. He and his comrades were getting drowsy, and although a stinging wind swept the camp and the green wood burned badly, they were filled with a serene content. The keen bodily craving was satisfied, they had eaten and could sleep, while it looked as if their troubles were over. The dogs were obviously fit for travel, because they were still engaged in a vigorous quarrel over some caribou bones, the toil of the journey would be lightened by carrying their loads on the sledge, and the party was strong enough to assist any member of it whose strength might give way. There was no reason to apprehend any difficulty in reaching the settlements, and in their relief at the unexpected rescue their thoughts went no further. After the hunger and nervous strain they had borne, they were blissfully satisfied with their present ease. There would be time enough by and by to consider the future.
At length Sergeant Lane got up and shook the snow from his blanket.
"I've seen a better fire, boys, but I've camped with none at all on as cold a night," he said. "So far as I can figure, we have grub enough, but now there are three more of us we don't want to lose time. You'll be ready to pull out by seven in the morning."
They lay down in the most comfortable places they could find, though the choice was limited, and spent the night in comfort, though Harding was once awakened by a dog that crept up to him for warmth.
It was getting light next morning when the reinforced party entered a belt of thicker timber where they first clearly realized the fury of the storm. The trees were small and sprang from a frozen muskeg so that they could not be uprooted, but the gale had snapped the trunks and laid them low in swaths. Even in the spots where some had withstood its force the ground was strewn with split and broken branches, to lee of which the snow had gathered in billowy drifts. The scene of ruin impressed the men, who were forced to make long rounds in search of a passage for the sledge.
"About as fierce a blizzard as I remember," Sergeant Lane remarked. "We were held up three days and thought ourselves lucky in making a ravine with a steep bank, but the wind couldn't have been quite so strong back north a piece. There'd have been two names less on the roster if we'd been caught down here."
Harding thought this was probable. He had had a protecting rock at his back, but there was no shelter in the valley from the storm that had levelled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the wilds could hardly have escaped, and as he stumbled among the wreckage he thought about the man whose footsteps they had seen near the Indian village. Unless he had found some secure retreat he must have had to face the fury of the gale, and Harding felt convinced that the man was Clarke. It was curious that he should have been living alone among the empty tepees, but Harding imagined that he was in some way accountable for the Indians' departure and wondered where he was going when he crossed the range. There was a mystery about the matter, and if an explanation could be arrived at it would be of interest to him and his friends. Even before Clarke had sent them into the muskeg when he knew it was practically impassable, Harding had entertained a deep distrust of him. He was, however, called upon to help in dragging the sledge over an obstacle, and the difficulties of the way afterwards occupied his attention.
By and by they found clearer ground and made good progress until late in the afternoon when, seeing a rocky spur running out from the hillside, they headed for it to look for a sheltered camping place. There was still some daylight, but a cold wind had sprung up, blowing the loose snow into their faces, and when, as they neared the spur, the dogs swerved as if attracted by something, the half-breed struck the nearest beast and drove them on.
"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led them off and he's not given to playing tricks."
"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the Sergeant suggested. "I didn't notice anything, but they've a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into camp."
They found a nook among the rocks and Emile loosed the dogs and threw them some frozen fish while the rest made supper. It was a heavy, lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading, they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a sweep of chill, lifeless grey. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane looked round the camp.
"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."
"I leaf zem la bas," said Emile, waving his hand towards a neighbouring hollow. Then moving a few paces forward he exclaimed: "Ah! les coquins!"
"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew remarked. "I think I know where to find them."
He left the camp with Emile and presently the others heard the half-breed threatening the dogs; then Walthew's voice reached them and there was a hoarse and urgent tone in it. Springing up, they ran back along the trail and found Emile keeping off the dogs while Walthew bent over a dark object that lay half revealed in the clawed up snow. At first Harding saw only a patch or two of ragged fur that looked as if it belonged to an animal; then with a shock he caught the outline of a man's shoulder and arm. The rest of the party gathered round, breathless after their haste, and when Lane spoke there was grave authority in his voice.
"Give me a hand, boys. We have to get him out."
They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was sensible of a curious strained expectation, and soon the body lay clear of the snow. The dim light fell on the frozen face and Blake started.
"It's Clarke!" he cried.
"Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised."
"Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp.
"Yes," Benson interposed, "I knew him pretty well. He lived at Sweetwater, where we're going. I can give you any particulars you want."
"I'll ask you later." The Sergeant knelt down and carefully studied the dead man's pose before he added: "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and died of exposure; but that's a thing I've got to ascertain. I'll want somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."
None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order Blake and Harding joined them and the latter afterwards held the fur coat. Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what seemed needless care, though he first turned his back upon the others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body and the others stood watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the Sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale glimmer of the snow and the white patch of the face was faintly distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew trails of it about.
"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.
"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.
"Well," said the Sergeant drily, "it's my duty to make investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been a knife cut or a bullet hole. Now one of you had better bring up the sledge. We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose rocks along the foot of the spur."
The sledge was brought and Clarke gently placed on it, wrapped in his fur coat, after which they took the traces and started for the ridge, where they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of relief.
"Well," he said, "that's done and he'll lie safely there. Rough on him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in it. I guess we'll get back to camp."
They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sledge and for a time after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire where the light fell upon the book in which he wrote with a pencil held awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the man. Gifted with high ability he had, through no fault of his own, been driven out of a profession he was keenly interested in and made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but it had ended in a tragic manner and, what made this more impressive, Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped his fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air, and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and dusky trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that daunted him.
Harding's reflections also centred on the dead man, and he had food for thought. There was a mystery to be explained, and he imagined that he had a clue to it in his pocket, though he could not follow it up for the present. He waited with some anxiety until Lane closed his book.
"Now," said the Sergeant, "there are one or two points I want explained, and as you know the man, it's possible you can help me. How did he come to be here with only about three days' rations?"
"I can answer that," said Harding. "He was in the habit of staying at the Indian village we told you of. We saw tracks coming from it when we were there the day before the blizzard began."
"A white man's tracks? Why did you go to the village?"
"I believe they were," Blake replied. "We went to look for provisions and didn't get them, because the place was empty."
"Then how do you account for the fellow's being there alone?"
"I can't account for it," Blake said quietly.
Lane turned to Harding, who had a theory but was not prepared to communicate it to the police.
"It's certainly curious," he remarked.
"We'll start for the village to-morrow."
"As the Indians are away, there won't be much to be learned," Benson suggested.
"They may have come back. Anyway, it's my business to find out all I can."
Soon afterwards they went to sleep and rising an hour or two before daylight broke camp and turned back across the hills. The march was rough and toilsome, and when they camped at night fatigue and drowsiness checked conversation, but Blake's party were sensible of a difference in Lane's manner. It had become reserved and he had a thoughtful look. Reaching the village one evening, they were surprised to find that some of the Indians had returned and after supper Lane summoned them into the tepee he occupied. Emile interpreted, but he had some difficulty in making himself understood, for which Harding was inclined to be thankful.
The Sergeant began by explaining the authority and business of the North-West Police, of whom it appeared one or two of the Indians had heard, after which he made Emile ask them if they knew Clarke. One of them said they did and added that he stayed with them now and then. Lane next asked why they took him in and the Indian hesitated.
"He was a big medicine man and cured us when we were ill," he replied.
"Do you know these white men?" Lane asked, indicating Blake's party.
An Indian declared that they had never seen them, though he added that it was known they were in the neighbourhood. Being questioned about this, he explained that about the time of Clarke's arrival one of the tribe had come in from the North, where he had met a half-breed who told him that he had travelled some distance with three white men who were going to the settlements. Knowing the country, they had calculated that the white men could not be very far off. As he heard this Harding felt anxious. He saw where Lane's questions led, and that the Sergeant meant to sift the matter thoroughly. There was not much cause to fear that he and his friends would be held responsible for Clarke's death, but he suspected things he did not wish the police to guess, and the Indians might mention having seen a white man's footprints on the occasion when he had forcibly taken Clarke away. Owing perhaps to their difficulty in making themselves understood, nothing was, however, said of this, and by and by Lane asked—
"How was it you left the white man in your village by himself?"
The Indians began to talk to one another, and it was with some trouble Emile at length elicited an answer.
"It is a thing that puzzles us," said one. "The white man came alone and told us he had seen tracks of caribou three days' journey back. As we had no meat and our fish was nearly done, six of us went to look for the deer."
"Six of you?" said Lane. "Where are the rest? These tepees would hold a good many people."
"They are hunting farther North," answered the man. "When we got to the place the white man told us of we could see no caribou tracks. As he was a good hunter, we thought this strange, but we went on, because there was another muskeg like the one he spoke of and we might not have understood him. Then the snow came and we camped until it was over and afterwards came back, finding no deer. When we reached the tepees, he had gone and we do not know what has become of him. We could not follow because the snow had covered his trail."
"He is dead," Lane told them. "I found him frozen some days ago."
Their surprise was obviously genuine and Lane was quick to notice signs of regret. He imagined that Clarke had been a person of some importance among them.
"Tell them I don't want them any more," he said to Emile, and when the Indians went out turned to Benson. "You had better give me all the information you are able about the man."
Benson told him as much as he thought judicious, after which Lane sat silent for a time. Then he said, "There is no reason to doubt that he came to his death by misadventure. I don't quite understand what led him to visit these fellows, but after all that doesn't count."
"It isn't very plain," Benson agreed. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"
"No," said Lane, looking at him steadily. "You can take it that this inquiry is closed; we'll pull out first thing to-morrow." He beckoned Walthew. "Now we're here, we may as well find out what we can about these fellows and how they live. It will fill up our report, and they like that kind of information at Regina."
When the police had left the tepee Harding turned to his companions with a smile. "Sergeant Lane is a painstaking officer, but his shrewdness has its limits, and there are points he seems to have missed. It would have been wiser not to have let Clarke's coat out of his hands until he had searched it."
"Ah!" said Blake sharply. "You emptied the pockets?"
"I did; I allow my action was hardly justifiable, but I thought it better that the police shouldn't get on the track of matters that haven't much bearing on Clarke's death. I found two things and they're both of interest to us. We'll take this one first."
He drew out a metal flask and when he unstoppered it a pungent smell pervaded the tepee. "Crude petroleum," he explained. "I should imagine the flashpoint is low. I can't say how Clarke got the stuff when the ground's hard frozen, but here it is."
"Isn't a low flash-point a disadvantage?" Benson asked. "It must make the oil explosive."
"It does, but all petroleum's refined and the by-products they take off, which include gasoline, fetch a remarkably good price. Shake a few drops on the end of a hot log and we'll see how it lights."
A fire burned in a ring of stones in the middle of the tepee and Benson carefully did as he was told. Hardly had the oil fallen on the wood than it burst into flame.
"As I thought!" said Harding. "I suspect the presence of one or two distillates that should be worth as much as the kerosene. We'll get the stuff analysed later, but you had better stopper the flask, because we don't want the smell to rouse Lane's curiosity. The important point is that as I've reasons for believing the oil is fresh from the ground, Clarke must have found it shortly before the blizzard overtook him. That fixes the locality and we shouldn't have much trouble in striking the spot when we come back again." His eyes sparkled as he concluded: "It's going to be well worth while; this is a big thing."
Blake did not feel much elation. His was not a mercenary nature, and he had all along thought his comrade too sanguine, though he meant to back him.
"In a way, it was very hard luck for Clarke," he said. "If you're right in your conclusions, he's been searching for the oil for several years, and now he was cut off just when it looks as if he'd found it."
"You don't owe him much pity. What would have happened if we hadn't met the police?"
"It's unpleasant to think of. No doubt we'd have starved to death."
"A sure thing!" said Harding. "It hasn't struck you that this was what he meant us to do?"
Blake started. "Are you making a bold guess, or have you any ground for what you're saying?"
"I see you'll have to be convinced. Very well; in the first place, the man would have stuck at nothing, and I've already tried to show you that he'd something to gain by Benson's death." He turned to the latter. "I suspected when we took you away from him that you were running a risk."
"I was running a bigger one before that, if you can call a thing a risk when the result's inevitable," Benson rejoined. "The pace I was going would have killed me in another year or two, and even now I'm half afraid——" He paused for a few moments with sombre face and knitted brows; and then resumed thoughtfully: "I believe you're right, Harding, but you haven't told us how he proposed to get rid of me."
"I'm coming to that. There was, however, another member of this party who was in his way, and he made his plans to remove you both."
"You mean me?" Blake broke in. "It's possible, but I don't altogether see how he'd profit."
"First, let's look at what he did. As soon as he reached the village he heard that we had started from the Hudson's Bay post. It wouldn't be difficult to calculate how long the stores we could carry would last, and he'd see that the chances were in favour of our calling at the village for provisions. Presuming on that, he sent his friends away to look for caribou which they couldn't find. Recollect that they owned to being puzzled because he was a good hunter. Then he cleared out by himself, but I believe that if there was any food left in the place he carefully hid it."
The others felt that their comrade was taking something for granted, but they believed his suspicions were correct. They, however, made no comment, and Harding went on, looking at Blake—
"Now I'll show you how he would have profited. I found this in his pocket."
He took out a letter which he gave to Blake, and the latter started as he recognized the writing. It was from Colonel Challoner to Clarke.
"You had better read the thing; it's justifiable," Benson remarked.
Blake read it aloud, holding the paper near the fire with the light upon his face, which looked very grim.
"'In reply to your letter, I have nothing new to say and believe I have already made my intentions plain. It would be useless for you to trouble me with any further proposals.'"
Then Blake folded the letter and put it into his pocket.
"Now," he said, "I think I see. The man had been trying to bleed the Colonel and got his answer."
"Is that all?" Harding asked.
"Well," said Blake, "I believe it proves your conclusions right. I won't go into particulars, but where my uncle and cousin are threatened I'm, so to speak, the leading witness for the defence and it wouldn't have suited Clarke to let me speak. No doubt, that's why he took rather drastic measures to put me out of the way."
"Then you never mean to question the story of the Indian affair?"
"What do you know about it?" Blake asked curtly.
Harding laughed. "I believe I know the true one. Haven't I marched and starved and shared my plans with you? If there had been any meanness in you wouldn't I have found it out? What's more, Benson knows what really happened and so does Colonel Challoner. How else could Clarke have put the screw on him?"
"He doesn't seem to have made much impression; you have heard the Colonel's answer." Blake frowned. "We'll drop this subject. If Challoner attached any importance to what you think Clarke told him, his first step would have been to send for me."
"I expect you'll find a letter waiting for you at Sweetwater," Harding rejoined.
Blake did not answer, and soon afterwards Sergeant Lane came in with Walthew.
Sergeant Lane sat by the camp fire in a straggling bluff, a notebook in his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of which they had been carefully estimating. The scattered trees were small and let the cold wind in, for the party had now reached the edge of the plain where the poplars began to grow. The Sergeant's brows were knitted, for the calculations he had made were not reassuring.
"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do a few more miles a day."
"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest another plan. You have brought us a long way and Sweetwater's a bit off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half rations and let us push on."
"No, sir," said Lane decidedly; "we see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."
Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sledge. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, because they preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigours of the wilds alone.
"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.
They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It was a clear night and very cold, but with a crescent moon in the sky and no wind stirring. The fragile twigs of the birches which shot up among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide stretch of snow. By and by Emile looked up with his face towards the south.
"Ah!" he said; "you hear somet'ing?"
They did not, though they listened hard, but the half-breed had been born in the wilderness and they could not think him mistaken. For a minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.
"White man come from the sout'. Mais oui! He come, sure t'ing."
Lane nodded. "I guess he's right, but I can't figure on the kind of outfit."
Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick patter of a dog-team or the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise was dull and heavy, and as he knew the snow would deaden it, whoever was coming could not be far away.
"Bob-sled!" Emile exclaimed with scorn. "V'la la belle chose! Arrive the great horse of the plough."
"The fellow's sure a farmer since he's coming up with a Clydesdale team," Lane said, laughing. "One wouldn't have much trouble in following his trail."
A few minutes later three men appeared, carefully leading two big horses through the trees.
"Saw your fire a piece back," said one, when they had hauled up a clumsy sled. Then he caught sight of Blake. "I'm mighty glad to find you; we were wondering how far we might have to go."
"Then you came up after me, Tom?" said Blake, who knew the man. "You wouldn't have got much further with that team; but who sent you?"
"I don't quite know. It seems Gardner got orders from somebody that you were to be found, and he hired me and the boys. We'd trouble in getting here, but we allowed we could bring up more grub and blankets on the sled and we'd send Jake back with the team when we struck the thick bush. Then we were going to make a depot and pack along the stuff we didn't cache. But I've a letter which may tell you something."
Blake opened it and Harding noticed that his face grew intent, but he put the letter into his pocket and turned to the man.
"It's from a friend in England," he said. "You were lucky in finding me and we'll go back together in the morning."
After attending to their horses, the new arrivals joined the others at the fire and explained that at the hotelkeeper's suggestion they had meant to head for the Indian village and make inquiries on their way up at the logging camp. Though Blake talked to them, he had a preoccupied look, and Harding knew he was thinking of the letter. He had, however, no opportunity of questioning him and waited until next day, when Emile, whom they were helping, chose a shorter way across a ravine than that taken by the police and the men with the bob-sled. When they reached the bottom of the hollow, Blake told the half-breed to stop, and took his comrades aside.
"There's something I must tell you," he said. "It was Colonel Challoner who sent the boys up from the settlement with food for us and he begs me to come home at once. That's a point on which I'd like your opinion, but you shall hear what he has to say." Then, sitting down upon a log, he began to read from his letter:—
"'A man called Clarke, whom you have evidently met, lately called on me and suggested an explanation of the Indian affair. As the price of his keeping silence on the subject, he demanded that I should take a number of shares in a syndicate he is forming for the exploitation of some petroleum wells.'"
"I think it was a good offer," Harding interposed. "Clarke must have had reason for believing he was about to make a big strike; he'd have kept quiet until he was sure of the thing."
"'The fellow's story was plausible,' Blake continued reading. 'It seems possible that you have been badly wronged, and I have been troubled——' He omitted the next few lines and went on: 'As it happens, another account of the frontier action had been given me some time earlier by a lady who has been in India. It differed from Clarke's in one or two details, but agreed in exonerating you; and she also asked a price which I declined to pay. After giving the matter careful thought, I feel that these people may have hit upon the truth. It would, of course, afford me the keenest satisfaction to see you cleared, but the thing must be thoroughly sifted because——'"
Blake stopped and added quietly: "He insists upon my going home."
"His difficulty is obvious," Benson remarked. "If you are blameless, his son must be guilty. I arrived at the former conclusion some time ago."
Blake, who did not answer, sat musing with a disturbed expression. There was now no sign of the others, who had left the ravine, and no sound reached the men from the plain above. Emile stood patiently waiting some distance off, and though they were sheltered from the wind it was bitterly cold.
"In some ways, it might be better if I went home at once," he said at last. "I could come back and join you as soon as I saw how things were going. The Colonel would be safe from any further persecution if I were with him, but, all the same, I'm inclined to stay away."
"Why?" Harding asked.
"For one thing, if I were there, he might insist on taking some quite unnecessary course that would only cause trouble."
"Now," said Harding curtly, "I'm going to give you my opinion. I take it that your uncle is a man who tries to do the square thing?"
Blake's face relaxed and his eyes twinkled. "He's what you call white and as obstinate as they're made. Convince him that a thing's right and he'll see it done, no matter how many people it makes uncomfortable. That's why I don't see my way to encourage him."
"Here's a man who's up against a point of honour; he has, I understand, a long, clean record and now he's prepared to take a course that may cost him dear. Are you going to play a low-down game on him; to twist the truth so's to give him a chance of deceiving himself?"
"Aren't you and Benson taking what you mean by the truth too much for granted?"
Harding gave him a searching look. "I haven't heard you deny it squarely; you're a poor liar. It's your clear duty to go back to England right away and see your uncle through with the thing he means to do."
"After all, I'll go to England," Blake answered with significant reserve. "However, we had better get on or we won't catch the others until they've finished dinner."
Emile started the dogs, and when they had toiled up the ascent they saw the rest of the party far ahead on the great white plain.
"We mayn't have another chance of a private talk until we reach the settlement," said Blake. "What are you going to do about the petroleum?"
"I'll come back and prospect the muskeg as soon as the frost goes."
"It will cost a good deal to do that thoroughly. We must hire transport for a full supply of all the tools and stores we are likely to need; one experience of the kind we've had this trip is enough. How are you going to get the money?"
"I'm not going to the city men for it until our position's secure. The thing must be kept quiet until we're ready to put it on the market."
"You were doubtful about taking me for a partner once," Benson interposed. "I don't know that I could blame you, but now I mean to do all I can to make the scheme successful, and I don't think you'll have as much reason for being afraid that I might fail you."
"Call it a deal," said Harding. "You're the man we want."
"Well," said Blake, "I ought to be out again before you start, and if I can raise any money in England, I'll send it over. You're satisfied that this is a project I can recommend to my friends?"
"I believe it's such a chance as few people ever get," Harding answered in a tone of firm conviction.
"Then we'll see what can be done. It won't be your fault if the venture fails."
Harding smiled. "There's hard work and perhaps some trouble ahead, but you won't regret you faced it. You'll be a rich man in another year or two."
Then Emile urged the dogs, and they set off after the others as fast as they could go. Sweetwater was safely reached, but on the morning after his arrival there Blake pushed on south for the railroad with the police and a week later caught a steamer in Montreal. On landing, he took the first train to Shropshire, but before going on to Sandymere called at Hazlehurst, where he had learned that Mrs. Keith was staying.
As it happened, Mrs. Keith was out with Mrs. Foster, and Millicent was the first to welcome him. She started when he was shown into the hall, and, dropping the book she was reading, rose with a tingle of heightened colour, while he felt his heart beat fast. It was a clear winter afternoon and the sunshine that entered a window fell upon the girl. Blake thought she looked very beautiful, and, thrown off her guard as she had been, he caught the gladness in her eyes before she could hide it.
"I expect you are surprised at my turning up," he remarked.
"Yes," she said with a shyness she could not overcome. "Indeed I was startled when you came in, but of course it's pleasant to see you safely back. I knew Colonel Challoner had given orders for you to be traced if possible, and that you had been found, but that was all Mrs. Keith told me. I suppose she didn't know—didn't think, I mean—that I was interested."
"I'd like to believe that was foolish of her," Blake answered with a twinkle.
Millicent laughed; though she felt that his rejoinder did not adequately express his feelings, his humorous manner set her at ease.
"It really was foolish," she said, smiling. "But you must have some tea and wait until she comes. I don't think she will be long."
The tea was brought, and she studied him unobtrusively as he sat opposite her at the small table. He had grown thin, his bronzed face was worn, and he looked graver than he had done. Though she could not imagine his ever becoming very solemn, it was obvious that something had happened in Canada which had had its effect on him. Looking up suddenly from his plate, he surprised her attentive glance.
"You have changed," she said.
"That's not astonishing," Blake replied. "We didn't get much to eat in the wilds, and I was thinking how pleasant it is to be back again." He examined his prettily decorated cup. "It's remarkable how many things one can do without. In the bush, we drank our tea, when we had any, out of a blackened can and the rest of our table equipment was to match. But we'll take it that the change in me is an improvement?"
It was an excuse for looking at her, as if demanding a reply, but she answered readily: "In a sense, it is."
"Then I feel encouraged to continue starving myself."
"There's a limit; extremes are to be avoided," Millicent rejoined. "But did you starve yourselves in Canada?"
"I must confess that the thing wasn't altogether voluntary. I'm afraid we were rather gluttonous when we got the chance."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No," said Blake, who saw that she was interested. "I think it was a serious disappointment for Harding, and I was very sorry for him at first."
"So am I," said Millicent. "It must have been very hard, after leaving his wife alone and badly provided for and risking everything on his success. But why did you say youweresorry for him? Aren't you sorry now?"
"Though we didn't find what we were looking for, we found something else which Harding seems firmly convinced is quite as valuable. Of course, he's a bit of an optimist, but it looks as if he were right this time. Anyway, I'm plunging on his scheme."
"You mean you will stake all you have on it?"
"That's it," Blake agreed with a humorous twinkle. "It's true that what I have doesn't amount to much, but I'm throwing in what I would like to get, and that's a great deal."
There was something of a hint in his manner and she noticed his expression suddenly grow serious. It seemed advisable to choose another topic and she said: "You must have had adventures. Tell me about them."
"Oh!" he protested, "they're really not interesting."
"Let me judge. Is it nothing to have gone where other men seldom venture?"
He began rather awkwardly, but she prompted him with tactful questions, and he saw that she wished to hear his story. By degrees he lost himself in his subject and, being gifted with keen imagination, she followed his journey into the wilds. It was not his wish to represent himself as a hero, and now and then he spoke with deprecatory humour, but he betrayed something of his character in doing justice to his theme. Millicent's eyes sparkled as she listened, for she found the story moving; he was the man she had thought him, capable of grim endurance, determined action, and steadfast loyalty.
"So you carried your crippled comrade when you were exhausted and starving," she said when he came to their search for the factory. "One likes to hear of such things as that! But what would you have done if you hadn't found the post?"
"I can't answer," he said soberly. "We durst not think of it; a starving man's will gets weak." Then his expression grew whimsical. "Besides, if one must be accurate, we dragged him."
"Still," said Millicent softly, "I can't think you would have left him."
He looked at her with some embarrassment and then smiled. "I'm flattered, Miss Graham, but you really haven't very strong grounds for your confidence in me."
Supposing he was thinking of his disgrace, she made a gesture of half scornful impatience.
"Well," she said, "please go on with the tale."
The rest of it had its interest, though he made no reference to Clarke's treachery, and Millicent listened with close attention. It was growing dark, but they had forgotten to ring for lights; neither of them heard the door open when he was near the conclusion, and Mrs. Keith, entering quietly with Mrs. Foster, stopped a moment in surprise. The room was shadowy, but she could see the man leaning forward with an arm upon the table and the girl's intent face. There was something that pleased her in the scene. Then as she moved forward Millicent looked up quickly and Blake rose.
"So you have come back," said Mrs. Keith, giving him her hand. "How was it you didn't go straight to Sandymere, where your uncle is eagerly waiting you?"
"I sent him a telegram as soon as the steamer was boarded, but on landing found there was an earlier train. As he won't expect me for another two hours, I thought I'd like to pay my respects to you."
"It sounds plausible," Mrs. Keith rejoined with rather dry amusement. "Well, I'm flattered, and as it happens I've something to say to you."
Then Mrs. Foster joined them, and it was some time later when Mrs. Keith took Blake into the empty drawing-room.
"I'm glad you have come home," she said. "I think you are needed."
"That," said Blake, "is how it seemed to me."
His quietness was reassuring. Mrs. Keith knew he was to be trusted, but she felt some misgivings about supporting him in a line of action that would cost him much. Still, she could not be deterred by compassionate scruples when there was an opportunity of saving her old friend from suffering. Troubled by a certain sense of guilt but determined, she tried to test his feelings.
"You didn't find waiting for us tedious," she remarked. "I suppose you were telling Millicent about your adventures when we came in; playing Othello, and she seemed to be listening as Desdemona did."
"I expect she was exercising a good deal of patience," Blake rejoined with a laugh. "Anyway, since you compare me to the Moor, you must own that I've never pretended to be less black that I'm painted."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Keith with marked gentleness, "you needn't pretend to me. I have my own opinion about you, and if it doesn't agree with other people's, so much the worse for theirs. I knew you would come home as soon as you could be found."
"Then you must know what has been going on in my absence."
"I have a strong suspicion. Your uncle has been hard pressed by unscrupulous people with an end to gain. How much impression they have made on him I cannot tell, but he's fond of you, Dick, and in trouble. It's a cruel position for an honourable man with traditions like those of the Challoners' behind him."
"That's true; I hate to think of it. You know what I owe to him and Bertram."
"He's old," continued Mrs. Keith. "It would be a great thing if he could be allowed to spend his last years in quietness, but I fear that's impossible, although, perhaps, to some extent, it lies in your hands." Then she looked steadily at Blake. "Now you have come back, what do you mean to do?"
"Whatever is needful; I'm for the defence. The Colonel's position can't be stormed while I'm on guard; and this time there'll be no retreat."
"Don't add that, Dick; it hurts me. I'm not so hard as I sometimes pretend. I never doubted your staunchness, but I wonder whether you quite realize what the defence may cost you. Have you thought about your future?"
"You ought to know that the Blakes never think of the future. We're a happy-go-lucky, irresponsible lot."
"But suppose you wished to marry?"
He smiled at her. "It's a difficulty that has already been pointed out. If I ever marry, the girl I choose will believe in me in spite of appearances. In fact, she'll have to; I've no medals and decorations to bring her."
"You have much that's worth more!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, moved by his steadfastness. "Still, it's a severe test for any girl." Then she laid her hand gently on his arm. "In the end, you won't regret the course you mean to take. I have lived a long while and have lost many pleasant illusions, but I believe that loyalty like yours has its reward. I loved you for your mother's sake when you were a boy; afterwards when things looked blackest I kept my faith in you, and now I'm proud I did so."
Blake looked confused. "Confidence like yours is an embarrassing gift. It makes one feel one must live up to it, and that isn't easy."
Mrs. Keith regarded him affectionately. "It's yours, Dick; given without reserve. But I think there's nothing more to be said, and no doubt you're anxious to get away. Besides, the Colonel will be expecting you."
"He used to be seriously annoyed if he had to wait for dinner, and I've been here some time," Blake answered, laughing, and went out to take leave of Mrs. Foster.