Itwas high noon, just two weeks from the day Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe pulled out of Ten Bow, and the two halted their dogs on the summit of Bonnet Plume Pass and gazed out over the jumbled mass of peaks and valleys and ridges that lay to the eastward. The first leg of the long snow trail, from Ten Bow to Dawson, had been covered over a well-travelled trail with road houses at convenient intervals. Over this trail with Connie's team of seven big malamutes, headed by the great ruffed wolf-dog, they had averaged forty miles a day.
At Dawson they outfitted for the trip to Fort Norman, a distance of about five hundred miles. Connie was fortunate in being able to purchase from a prospector eight Mackenzie River dogs which he presented to 'Merican Joe, much to the Indian's surprise and delight. The Alaska sledwas replaced by two toboggans, and 'Merican Joe nodded approval at Connie's selection of supplies. For from now on there would be no road houses and, for the most of the way, no trail. And their course would thread the roughest country on the whole continent. Therefore, the question of outfitting was a problem to be taken seriously. Too little grub in the sub-arctic in winter means death—horrible, black-tongued, sunken-eyed death by starvation and freezing. And too much outfit means overstrain on the dogs, slower travel, and unless some of it is discarded orcached, it means all kinds of trouble for the trail mushers.
The surest test of a sourdough is his outfit. Connie figured the trip should take thirty-five days, which should put them into Fort Norman on the fifth of November. But Connie had been long enough in the North to take that word "should" none too literally. He knew that under very favourable conditions the trip might be made in twenty days, and he knew also that it might take fifty days. Therefore although the month was November, a very favourable month for hunting, and the country to be traversed was good game country, he did not figure his rifle for asingle pound of meat. If meat were killed on the journey, well and good. But if no meat were killed, and if they lost their way, or encountered blizzard after howling blizzard, and their journey lengthened to fifteen or twenty days beyond the estimated time, Connie was determined that it should also be well and good.
He remembered men who had been found in the spring and buried—chechakos, most of them who had disregarded advice, and whose outfits had been cut down to a minimum that allowed no margin of safety for delay. But some of them had been sourdoughs who had taken a chance and depended on their rifles for food—it had been the same in the end. In the spring the men who buried them read the whole story of the wilderness tragedy in visiting their last few camps. Each day the distance between them shortened, here a dog was killed and eaten, here another, and another, until at the very last camp, half buried in the sodden ashes of the last fire, would be found the kettle with its scraps of moccasins and bits of dog harness shrivelled and dried—moccasin soup, the very last hopeless expedient of the doomed trail musher. And generallythe grave was dug beside this fire—never far beyond it.
And so Connie added a safety margin to the regular sub-arctic standard of grub for the trail, and when the outfit pulled out of Dawson the toboggans carried three and one half pounds of grub apiece for each of the thirty-five days, which was a full half pound more than was needed, and this, together with their outfit of sleeping bags, clothing, utensils, and nine hundred pounds of dog food, totalled thirteen hundred and fifty pounds—ninety pounds to the dog, which with good dogs is a comfortable load.
The summit of the Bonnet Plume pass is a bleak place. And dreary and bleak and indescribably rugged is the country surrounding it. Connie and 'Merican Joe, seated in the lee of their toboggans, boiled a pot of tea over the little primus stove.
"We've made good time so far," said the boy. "About three hundred miles more and we'll hit Fort Norman."
'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, but we got de luck. On dis side we ain' gon' hav' so mooch luck. Too mooch plenty snow—plenty win'. An'tonight, mor' comin'." He indicated the sky to the northward, where, beyond the glittering white peaks, the blue faded to a sullen grey.
"You're right," answered Connie, dropping a chunk of ice into his cup of scalding tea. "And I'd sure like to make a patch of timber. These high, bare canyons are rotten places to camp in a blizzard. If you camp in the middle of 'em you've got to tie yourself down or the wind might hang you on a rock somewhere, and if you camp out of the wind against a wall, a snow cornice might bust loose and bury you forty feet deep."
'Merican Joe grinned. "You sourdough—you know. I know you sourdough w'en I seen you han'le de dogs—an' I know w'en you buy de grub. But mos' I know w'en you pack de toboggan—you ain' put all de grub on wan toboggan an' all de odder stuff on de odder toboggan——"
Connie laughed. "Lots of men have made that mistake. And then if they get separated one dies of starvation, and the other freezes to death, or if they lose one toboggan they're in the same fix."
'Merican Joe returned the dishes and stove to the pack and glanced at the sky. "I ain' t'ink we mak' de timber tonight. She git darkqueek now—seven, eight mile mor' we got to camp."
"Yes," assented Connie. "And the days are getting so short that from now on we'll quit camping at noon. We'll pull once and make a day of it—anyway till we get a moon."
In the whirling blizzard"In the whirling blizzard, without protection of timber, one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian busied himself with the dogs, Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the snow."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover
To this plan the Indian readily agreed and a moment later struck out ahead as "forerunner" to break trail for the dogs. Despite the fact that there was more snow on the eastern slope, the two soon found it insufficient to check the toboggans upon the series of steep pitches and long slopes they now encountered. At the end of a mile a halt was made, Connie's dogs were turned loose to follow, both toboggans were hitched behind the Mackenzie River dogs, and while 'Merican Joe plodded ahead, Connie had all he could do at the tail rope. An hour later the wind suddenly changed and came roaring out of the north. The whole sky became overcast and stinging particles of flinty snow were driven against their faces. The storm increased in fury. The stinging particles changed to dry, powdery snow dust that whirled and eddied about them so thickly that Connie could not see the dogs from the rear of the toboggans. Covering their noses and mouths, the two bored on through the white smother—a slow moving, ghostly procession, with the snow powder matted thick into the hairy coats of the dogs and the clothing of the mushers. Not until darkness added to the impenetrability of the storm did 'Merican Joe halt. In the whirling blizzard, without protection of timber, one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian busied himself with the dogs Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the snow. This trench was as long as the toboggans, and wide enough to accommodate the two sleeping bags placed side by side. Three feet down the boy struck ice. The sleeping bags, primus stove, and part of the food were dumped into the trench. The loaded toboggans were tipped on edge, one along either side, and the heavy canvas shelter tarp was stretched over these and weighted down by doubling its edges under the toboggans. The open ends were blocked with snow, the dogs fed and left to make their own beds, and the two crawled into their snug quarters where by the light of a candle they prepared a good hot meal on the little stove and devoured it in warmth and comfortwhile the storm roared harmlessly over their heads.
For two days they were storm bound, venturing out only to feed the dogs and from time to time to relieve the tarp roof of its burden of snow. The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found the outfit on the move. They were following a creek bed, and the depth of the snow, together with the easing of the slope, permitted the use of both teams. No halt was made at noon and when they camped at dark they estimated they had made fifteen miles. Five days of fair cold weather followed and each night found them from fifteen to eighteen miles from the camp of the night before. No game had been sighted, but on two of the nights Leloo had left camp, and once, from some ridge far to the northward, they had heard his long-drawn howl of the kill.
On the sixth day another storm broke. They were following the snow-covered bed of a fair-sized river which Connie hoped would prove to be the head-waters of the Gravel, which empties into the Mackenzie some forty-five miles above Fort Norman. They had left the highest mountainsbehind, and patches of timber appeared at frequent intervals along the banks of the stream. As the storm thickened they camped, setting up their tent in the shelter of a thicket, and in the morning they pushed on despite the storm. It was nearly noon when Connie called to 'Merican Joe, and when the Indian made his way back, the boy pointed to Leloo. The great wolf-dog had halted in the traces and stood with nose up sniffing the air, while the huge ruff seemed to swell to twice its size, and the hair along its spine bristled menacingly.
They had stopped opposite a patch of timber taller than any they had passed, the tops of the trees being visible between the gusts of whirling snow. "Moose or a bear in there," ventured Connie. "Let's go get him."
'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ketch de man scent. He ain' ac' lak dat for moose an' bear."
"Man scent! What would any men be doing up here?"
The Indian shrugged. "Hunt, trap, mebbe-so prospeck. Com' on, le's go. It ain' no good we go in dere." He paused and pointed to the dog."Bad mans in dere—Leloo, he know. Bad mans smells one way—good mans smells anudder way. Leloo ain' git mad for good mans."
"We can't go away and leave them," Connie answered. "They may be out of luck—may need help."
Again 'Merican Joe shrugged, but offered no further objection, and releasing Leloo from his harness the two followed him into the timber. A short distance back from the edge they came upon a rude log cabin, glaringly the work of inexperienced builders. No tracks were seen about the door, and no smoke rose from the stovepipe that served as a chimney. 'Merican Joe pushed open the door.
"It's 'bout time you was comin'—an' me crippled," came a petulant voice from the bed. "But what do you care—" The voice ceased suddenly, and 'Merican Joe sprang back from the doorway so swiftly that he knocked Connie into the snow. As the boy picked up himself he again heard the voice. "Git out of here, you thievin' Injun or I'll blow yer head off!"
Ignoring the protest of 'Merican Joe, Connie thrust his head in at the doorway. "What's thematter with you?" he asked, sharply. "Are you crazy?"
The man in the bed stared a moment and with seeming reluctance lowered his rifle. "Who're you?" he asked, sullenly. "If you want grub y're out of luck. We ain't got none to spare—an' I got a rifle here that says you don't git none of it." Involuntarily, Connie's glance swept the supplies piled along the walls and upon the shelves, and estimated a four-man outfit.
"How many of you are there?" he asked. "And why haven't you got a fire?"
"They's two of us, an' I ain't got no fire 'cause my partner ain't showed up to build none. I'm crippled—sunk an ax in my foot a couple days back."
"Where is your partner?"
"I dunno. He went to look at the traps yesterday an' he ain't got back yet." He noticed the snow clinging to Connie's garments. "Is it snowin'?" he asked, in sudden alarm.
"Snowing!" exclaimed the boy. "Of course it's snowing—it's been snowing since yesterday noon."
The man's voice dropped into a whine. "Thewinders is frosted so you can't see out. I bet he's lost. Go find him, can't you? What're you standin' there fer?"
Righteous indignation succeeded the flash of disgust engendered by the man's first words. And Connie stepped closer. "Look here, who do you think you're talking to? I don't know who you are, and I don't want to. What I can't figure is how you ever got this far. If nobody else had bothered to knock some common sense and decency into you it's a wonder your partner hasn't. But I guess he don't know the difference between you and a man or he wouldn't be your partner." Connie turned on his heel and started for the door.
"Hey, where you goin'?" wailed the man on the bunk.
"I'm going out and tend to my dogs," answered the boy.
"Build a fire first, an' cook me some grub! I ain't had nothin' since yesterday."
"After the dogs," said Connie as he banged the door behind him.
"Le's mush," said 'Merican Joe, when they returned to the dogs.
Connie grinned. "No, we can't do that. I've seen some pretty rawchechakos, but never one like him. If we pulled out they'd probably both die."
'Merican Joe gave an expressive shrug. "S'posewe ain't got no grub. He ain' carewedie."
"No, but we're men, and he——"
"He ain' so good lak Injun dog," interrupted 'Merican Joe.
"Just about—but we can't go off and leave him, at that."
Twenty minutes later Connie and the Indian entered the cabin.
"You took yer time about it," complained the man. "Hustle around now an' cook me up a meal of vittles."
"Where's your firewood?" asked the boy, smothering his wrath.
"Go out an' cut it, same as we do."
"Don't you keep any ahead, nor any kindlings?"
"Naw, it's bad enough to cut a little at a time."
Connie's glance sought the room. "Where's the ax?"
"Out in the brush, I guess. My partner cut the wood last. I don't know where he left it."
"Well, it's under about two feet of snow now," answered the boy dryly, as 'Merican Joe departed to get their own ax and cut some wood.
By the time the cabin was warmed and the man fed, the storm had ceased. "Let me have a look at your foot," said Connie. "I expect it had better be tended to." The man assented, and the boy turned back the covers and, despite much groaning and whining complaint, removed the bandage and replaced it with a clean one.
"Pretty bad gash," opined Connie. "How did it happen?"
"Cuttin' firewood—holdin' the stick with my foot an' the ax struck a knot."
"You've got to learn a lot, haven't you?"
"What d'you mean—learn? How you goin' to cut firewood without you hold it with yer foot?"
"Nex' tam dat better you hol' de chunk wit' you neck," advised 'Merican Joe.
"Is that so! Well, believe me, I ain't takin' no advise offen no Siwash, nor no kid, neither!"
Connie pulled his cap down over his ears and drew on his mackinaw and mittens. "We're wasting time here, the days are short and if we're going to find your partner we've got to get at it.How long is your trap line, and where does it run?"
"We got about twenty-five martin traps out. They're acrost the river up the first crick—strung along about three or four mile."
"Twenty-fi' trap! Three or four mile!" exclaimed 'Merican Joe. "How long you be'n here?"
"Just a month. What's the matter with that? We've got eight martin an' a wolverine an' a link!"
The Indian gave a snort of contempt. "Me—if I ain' set mor' trap as dat every day I ain' t'ink I done nuttin'." He followed Connie to the door.
"You might's well move yer junk in here if you got your own grub. You kin keep the fire goin' nights in case Tom don't show up, an' besides I ain't had no one to talk to fer goin' on two months except Tom, an' we don't git on none too good."
"Thanks," said Connie. "But we'll put up the tent when we come back—we're a little particular, ourselves."
"They ain't no use of both of you goin' out to hunt him. One of you stay here and tend the fire, an' cook supper in case the other one don't git back in time."
Connie glared at the man for a moment, and burst out laughing. "If you had a little more nerve and a whole lot lessbrass, there might be some hope for you yet," he opined. "Did your partner have any dogs with him?"
"Naw, we had six when we come in, but they was worked down skin pore when we got here, an' some of 'em died, an' the rest run off. They wasn't no good, nohow."
Connie banged the door in disgust and, taking Leloo with them, the two struck across the river. They found the creek without difficulty and had proceeded scarcely a mile when Leloo halted in his tracks and began sniffing the air. This time the hair of his neck and spine did not bristle, and the two watched him as he stood, facing a spruce-covered hill, his head moving slightly from side to side, as his delicate pointed nostrils quivered as if to pick up some elusive scent. "Go on, Leloo. Go git um!" urged 'Merican Joe, and the wolf-dog trotted into the spruce, followed by Connie and the Indian. Halfway up the slope the dog quickened his pace, and coming suddenly upon a mound in the new-fallen snow circled it several times and squatted upon his haunches. It tookConnie and the Indian but a few moments to scrape away the snow and disclose the skinned carcass of a moose.
'Merican Joe pointed to the carcass. "It be'n snowin' quite a w'ile w'en he skin de moose. He ain' goin' carry dat hide far. She heavy. He ain' know nuttin' 'bout skinnin', an' lef' lot of meat stick to de hide. He start hom' an' git los'."
"Lost!" exclaimed Connie. "Surely he wouldn't get lost within a mile of his cabin!"
'Merican Joe nodded. "Himchechako—git los' anywheres. Git los' somtam w'en she snowin' bad, hondre steps from cabin. Me—I know. One git los' an' froze dead, wan tam, he go for water not so far you kin t'row de stone."
"Well, he's probably home by this time. If he was lost he'd camp, and he's had plenty of time since it stopped snowing."
The Indian was not so hopeful. "No, I'm t'ink he ain' got sense 'nough to camp. He walk an' git scare, an' den he mebbe-so run till he fall down."
"He won't do much running with that hide," grinned Connie. "Let's separate and hunt for him. Come, Leloo—go find him!"
The two continued to the top of the timberedslope. "I don't see how anyone could possibly get lost here. Surely he would know enough to go down hill to the creek, and follow it to the river, wouldn't he?"
"No, w'en dey git scairt dey don't know up an' down an' crossways."
As the two were about to separate both suddenly paused to listen. Faintly upon the air, seemingly from miles away, came the call of a human voice. Leloo heard it too, and with ears stiffly erect stood looking far out over the ridges. Raising his rifle, Connie fired into the air, and almost immediately the sound of the shot was answered by the faint call for help.
"That's funny," cried the boy. "Sound don't travel very fast. How could he possibly have answered as soon as that?"
Placing his hands to his mouth, 'Merican Joe launched a yell that seemed fairly to tear through the spaces, echoing and re-echoing across, the valley.
Again came the answering call, faintly, as from a great distance. Locating the direction of the sound which seemed to come from somewhere near the head of a parallel valley, they plungedstraight down the opposite slope. At the bottom they paused again, and again the Indian sent his peculiar penetrating yell hurtling through the air. Again it was answered, but this time it came from up the slope. Faintly it reached their ears, seemingly farther away than before. The sound was repeated as the two stood looking at each other in bewilderment.
'Merican Joe's eyes seemed bulging from his head. "Tamahnawus," he whispered. "W'at you call, de ghos'. He git froze, an' hees ghos' run 'roun' de hills an' yell 'bout dat! Me—I'm gon'!" Abruptly the Indian turned and started as fast as his webs would let him in the direction of the river.
"Come back here!" cried Connie. "Don't be a fool! There ain't anytamahnawuses—and if there are, I've got the medicine that will lick 'em! I brought one in once that had run a whole tribe of Injuns off their hunting ground."
'Merican Joe, who had halted at the boy's command, looked dubious. "I ain' huntin' notamahnawus—I ain' los' none!"
"You come with me," laughed the boy, "and I'll show you yourtamahnawus. I've got a hunchthat fellow has dropped into a cave or something and can't get out. And he can't be so very far off either."
With Connie in the lead they ascended the slope in the direction of the sound which came now from a point upstream from where they had descended. Once more Leloo paused and sniffed, the hair of his back bristling. Whatever the object of his attention, it seemed to lie beneath the outspreading branches of a large spruce. Connie peered beneath the branches where an oblong of snow appeared to have been disturbed from under the surface. Even as he looked the sound of a voice, plain enough now to distinguish the words, reached his ears.
"Git me out of here! Ain't you never comin'? Or be you goin' to leave me here 'cause I burnt them pancakes?"
"Come on out," called Connie. "What's the matter with you?"
"Come on out! How kin I? Who be you?"
Connie reached the man's side and proceeded to scrape away the snow, while 'Merican Joe stood at a respectful distance, his rifle at full cock. "Comeon Joe!" the boy called, at length. "Here's yourtamahnawus—and it's going to take two of us to get him out."
When the snow had been removed both Connie and the Indian stared in surprise. There lay the man closely wrapped in his moose skin, fur side in, and the heavy hide frozen to the hardness of iron!
"I'm all cramped up," wailed the man. "I can't move."
The man was wrapped, head and all, in the frozen hide. Fortunately, he had left an air space but this had nearly sealed shut by the continued freezing of his breath about its edges.
Rolling him over the two grasped the edge of the heavy hide and endeavoured to unroll it, but they might as well have tried to unroll the iron sheathing of a boiler.
"We've got to build a fire and thaw him out," said Connie.
"Tak' um to de cabin," suggested the Indian. "Kin drag um all same toboggan."
The plan looked reasonable but they had no rope for a trace line. Connie overcame the difficulty by making a hole with his hand ax in a flap of the hide near the man's feet, and cutting a lightspruce sapling which he hooked by means of a limb stub into the hole.
By using the sapling in the manner of a wagon tongue, they started for the cabin, keeping to the top of the ridge where the snow was shallow and wind-packed.
All went well until they reached the end of the ridge. A mile back, where they had ascended the slope, the pitch had not been great, but as they neared the river the sides grew steeper, until they were confronted by a three hundred foot slope with an extremely steep pitch. This slope was sparsely timbered, and great rocks protruded from the snow. Connie was for retracing the ridge to a point where the ascent was not so steep, but 'Merican Joe demurred.
The third day"The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found the outfit on the move."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover
"It git dark queek, now. We git um down all right. Turn um roun' an' mak de pole lak de tail rope on de toboggan—we hol' um back easy." The early darkness was blurring distant outlines and the descent at that point meant the saving of an hour, so Connie agreed and for the first twenty yards all went well. Then suddenly the human toboggan struck the ice of a hillside spring and shot forward. The pole slipped from the snowy mittens of the two and, enveloped in a cloud of flying snow, the man in the frozen moose hide went shooting down the slope! Connie and 'Merican Joe barely saved themselves from following him, and, squatting low on their webs they watched in a fascination of horror as the flying body struck a tree trunk, shot sidewise, ploughed through the snow, struck a rock, bounded high into the air, struck another rock and, gaining momentum with every foot, shot diagonally downward—rolling, whirling, sliding—straight for the brink of a rock ledge with a sheer drop of twenty-five or thirty feet. Over the edge it shot and landed with a loud thud among the broken rock fragments of the valley floor.
"We ought to have gone back!" shuddered the boy. "He's dead by this time."
'Merican Joe shrugged. "Anyhow, dat com' queek. Dat better as if he lay back onder de tree an' froze an' starve, an' git choke to deat' w'en his air hole git froze shut. He got good strong coffin anyhow."
Relieved of their burden it was but the work of a few moments to gain the floor of the valley and hasten to the form wedged tightly between two upstanding boulders, where they were greeted bythe voice of the man raised in whining complaint.
"Are you hurt?" eagerly asked Connie, kneeling at the man's side and looking at him closely.
"Naw, I ain't hurt but can't you pick out no smoother trail? I'm all jiggled up!" In his relief at finding the man unharmed, Connie laughingly promised a smoother trail, and as he and the Indian pried him from between the rocks with a young tree, the boy noted that the frozen moose hide had scarcely been dented by its contact with the trees and rocks.
In the cabin the stove was crammed with wood and the man laid upon the floor close beside it, but it was nearly daylight the following morning before the hide had thawed sufficiently for the combined efforts of Connie and the Indian to unroll it. All night the two tended the fire and listened to the petty bickering and quarrelling of the two helpless partners, the man in the bunk taunting the other with being a fool for wrapping up in a green moose hide, and being in turn called a fool for chopping his own foot. It was disgusting in the extreme to Connie but at last the humour of the situation got the better of his disgust, and he roared withlaughter, all of which served to bring down the combined reviling of both men upon his head.
When at last the man was extricated from his prison and found to be little the worse for his adventure, he uttered no word of thanks to his rescuers. Indeed, his first words were in the nature of an indirect accusation of theft.
"Whur's my marten?" he asked, eying them with suspicion.
"What marten? We didn't see any marten," answered the boy.
"Well, I hed one. Tuk it out of a trap just before I seen the moose. It's funny you didn't see it." Connie answered nothing, and as the man devoured a huge breakfast without asking his rescuers to join him, he continued to mutter and growl about his lost marten. Daylight was breaking and Connie, bottling his wrath behind tight-pressed lips, rose abruptly, and prepared to depart.
"Whur you goin'?" asked the man, his cheeks distended with food. "You lay around here soakin' up heat all night; looks like you could anyways cut a little wood an' help worsh these dishes! An', say, don't you want to buy some moose meat?I'll sell you all you want fer two-bits a pound, an' cut it yerself."
For a moment Connie saw red. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard but once more his sense of humour asserted itself, and looking the man squarely in the eye he burst into a roar of laughter, while 'Merican Joe, who possessed neither Connie's self-restraint nor his sense of humour, launched into an unflattering tirade of jumbled Indian, English, and jargon, that, could a single word of it have been understood, would have goaded even the cravenchechakosto warfare.
Two hours later, as they sat in their cozy tent, pitched five miles down the river, and devoured their breakfast, Connie grinned at his companion.
"Big difference in men—even inchechakos, ain't there, Joe?"
"Humph," grunted the Indian.
"No one else within two hundred miles of here—his partner crippled so he never could have found him if he tried, and he never would have tried—a few more hours and he would have been dead—we come along and find him—and he not only don't offer us a meal, but accuses us of stealing his marten—and offers tosellus moose meat—attwo-bits a pound! I wish some of the men I know could have the handling of those birds for about a month!"
"Humph! If mos' w'ite men I know got to han'le um dey ain' goin' live no mont'—you bet!"
"Anyway," laughed the boy, "we've sure learned the difference betweennerveandbrass!"
Itwas nearly noon of the day following the departure of Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe from the camp of the twochechakos.
The mountains had been left behind, and even the foothills had flattened to low, rolling ridges which protruded irregularly into snow-covered marshes among which the bed of the frozen river looped interminably. No breath of air stirred the scrub willows along the bank, upon whose naked branches a few dried and shrivelled leaves still clung.
'Merican Joe was travelling ahead breaking trail for his dogs and the boy saw him raise a mittened hand and brush at his cheek. A few minutes later the Indian thrashed his arms several times across his chest as though to restore circulation of the blood against extreme cold. But it was not cold. A moment later the boy brushed at his own cheekwhich stung disagreeably as though nipped by the frost. He glanced at the tiny thermometer that he kept lashed to the front of his toboggan. It registered zero, a temperature that should have rendered trailing even without the heavy parkas uncomfortably warm. Connie glanced backward toward the distant mountains that should have stood out clean-cut and distinct in the clear atmosphere, but they had disappeared from view although the sun shone dazzlingly bright from a cloudless sky. A dog whimpered uneasily, and Connie cracked his whip above the animal's head and noted that instead of the sharp snap that should have accompanied the motion, the sound reached his ears in a dull pop—noted, too, that the dogs paid no slightest heed to the sound, but plodded on methodically—slowly, as though they were tired. Connie was conscious of a growing lassitude—a strange heaviness that hardly amounted to weariness but which necessitated a distinct effort of brain to complete each muscle move.
Suddenly 'Merican Joe halted and, removing his mitten, drew his bare hand across his eyes. Connie noticed that the air seemed heavy and dead, and that he could hear his own breathing and thebreathing of the dogs which had crouched with their bellies in the snow whimpering uneasily. Wild-eyed, the Indian pointed aloft and Connie glanced upward. There was no hint of blue in the cloudless sky. The whole dome of the heavens glared with a garish, brassy sheen from which the sun blazed out with an unwholesome, metallic light that gleamed in glints of gold from millions of floating frost spicules. Even as the two stood gazing upward new suns formed in the burnished sky—false suns that blazed and danced and leaped together and re-formed.
With a cry of abject terror 'Merican Joe buried his face in his arms and stood trembling and moaning, "Hyas skookum kultus tamahnawus—mesahchee tamahnawus!" (a very strong bad spirit—we are bewitched). The words puled haltingly from lips stiff with fright. The next moment the boy was beside him, thumping him on the back and choking him roughly:
"Tamahnawusnothing!" he cried. "Buck up! Don't be a fool! I've seen it before. Three years ago—in the Lillimuit, it was. It's the white death. Waseche and I hid in an ice cave. Tonight will come the strong cold."
The boy's voice sounded strangely toneless and flat, and when he finished speaking he coughed. 'Merican Joe's hands had dropped to his side and he stood dumbly watching as Connie loosened the heavy woollen muffler from his waist and wound it about the lower half of his face. "Cover your mouth and don't talk," the boy commanded. "Breathe through your muffler. We can still travel, but it will be hard. We will be very tired but we must find shelter—a cave—a cabin—a patch of timber—or tonight we will freeze—Look! Look!" he cried suddenly, pointing to the northward, "a mirage!"
Both stared awe-struck as the picture formed rapidly before their eyes and hung inverted in the brassy sky just above the horizon foreshortened by the sweep of a low, snow-buried ridge. Both had seen mirages before—mirages that, like a faulty glass, distorted shapes and outlines, and mirages that brought real and recognizable places into view like the one they were staring at in spell-bound fascination. So perfect in detail, and so close it hung in the heavy, dead air that it seemed as though they could reach out and touch it—a perfect inverted picture of what appeared to be atwo or three mile sweep of valley, one side sparsely wooded, and the other sloping gently upward into the same low-rolling ridge that formed their own northern horizon. Each stunted tree showed distinctly, and in the edge of the timber stood a cabin, with the smoke rising sluggishly from the chimney. They could see the pile of split firewood at its corner and even the waterhole chopped in the ice of the creek, with its path leading to the door. But it was not the waterhole, or the firewood, or the cabin itself that held them fascinated. It was the little square of scarlet cloth that hung limp and motionless and dejected from a stick thrust beneath the eave of the tiny cabin. It was a horrible thing to look upon for those two who knew its significance—that flag glowing like a splotch of blood there in the brazen sky with the false suns dancing above it.
"The plague flag!" cried Connie.
And almost in the same breath 'Merican Joe muttered:
"De red death!"
It was a terrible thing"It was a terrible thing to look upon to those two who knew its significance—that flag glowing like a splotch of blood there in the brazen sky."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover
Even as they spoke the cabin door opened and a man stepped out. His features were indistinguishable, but both could see that he was a large man, for his bulk had filled the doorway. He swung a heavy pack to a toboggan which stood waiting before the door with the dogs in harness. The next moment the form of a woman appeared in the doorway. She evidently called to the man, for he halted abruptly and faced about, shook his fist at her and, turning, resumed his course, while with an appealing gesture the woman stretched out her arms toward him.
Then rapidly as it had formed, the picture faded and the two awe-struck watchers stood gazing at the frost spicules that glittered brassily in the unwholesome light of the false suns.
Once more the Indian buried his face in his arms and muffled, moaning words fell from his lips: "De red death—de white death! It ismesahchee tamahnawus! We die! We die!"
Again Connie shook him roughly, and meeting with no response, beat his arms from his face with the loaded butt of his dog whip.
"You're a crazy fool!" cried the boy, with his lips close to the Indian's ear. "We'renotgoing to die—anyway, not till we've had a run for our money! We're going to mush! Do you hear?Mush!And we're going to keep on mushing tillwe find that cabin! And if you hang back or quit, I'm going to wind this walrus hide whip around you till I cut you in strips—do you get it?" And, without another word, the boy turned, whipped the dogs to their feet, and leaving the river abruptly, led off straight into the north across the low, snow-covered ridge.
Of the two brothers Bossuet, Victor, the elder, was loved in the North; and René was hated. And the reason for this lay in the men themselves. Both were rivermen—good rivermen—and both laboured each year during the long days of the summer months, together with many other rivermen, in working the Hudson's Bay brigade of scows down the three great connecting rivers to the frozen sea. For between Athabasca Landing and Fort McPherson lie two thousand miles of wilderness—a wilderness whose needs are primitive but imperative, having to do with life and death. And the supplies for this vast wilderness must go in without fail each year by the three rivers, the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie. These are not gentle rivers flowing smoothly between their banks, but are great torrents of turbulentwaters that rush wildly into the North in miles upon miles of foaming white water, in sheer cascades, and in boiling, rock-ribbed rapids. So that the work of the rivermen is man's work requiring skill and iron nerve, and requiring also mighty muscles for the gruelling portages where cargoes must be carried piece by piece over rough foot trails, and in places even the heavy scows themselves must be man-hauled around cascades.
Seeing the two brothers together, the undiscriminating would unhesitatingly have picked René, with his picturesque, gaudy attire, his loud, ever-ready laughter, his boisterous, bull-throatedchansons, and his self-confident air, as the typical man of the North. For beside him Victor, with faded overalls, his sockless feet thrust into worn shoes, his torn shirt, and his old black felt hat, cut a sorry figure.
But those who know recall the time that old Angus Forgan, the drunken trader of Big Stone, fell out of a scow at the head of the Rapids of the Drowned. They will tell you that of the twenty rivermen who witnessed the accident only two dared to attempt a rescue, and those two were René and Victor Bossuet. And that René, beingthe stronger, reached the struggling man first and, twisting his fingers into his collar, struck out for a flat shelf of rock that edged the first suck of the rapids. They will tell you how he reached the rock and, throwing an arm upon its flat surface, endeavoured to pull himself up; but the grip of the current upon the two bodies was strong and after two or three attempts René released his grip on the drowning man's collar and clambered to safety. Then they will tell you how Victor, who had managed to gain shore when he saw René reach the rock, plunged in again, straight into the roaring chute, of how he reached Forgan in the nick of time, of how the two bodies disappeared completely from view in the foaming white water, and of how a quarter of a mile below, by means of Herculean effort and a bit of luck, Victor managed to gain the eddy of a side channel where he and his unconscious burden whirled round and round until the rivermen running along the bank managed to throw a rope and haul them both to safety.
Also, they will tell you of Gaspard Petrie, a great hulking bully of a man, who called himself "The Grizzly of the Athabasca," whose delight it was to pick fights and to beat his opponents intounconsciousness with his fists. And of how the mighty Petrie whose ill fame had spread the length of the three rivers, joined the brigade once at Fort McMurry and of how the boisterous René became the bright and shining mark of his attentions, and of the fight that sent René to the brush before he was "licked," after which René stood the taunts and insults of "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" for many days like the craven he was, before the eyes of all men, until one day Petrie used words that brought insult upon the mother of René—who was also the mother of Victor. René paid them no heed but Victor rose from his place beside the fire and slowly removed his mackinaw and his torn felt hat and, walking over to Petrie, demanded that he retract the words. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" eyed him in astonishment, for Victor had been a figure in the brigade so insignificant as to have entirely escaped his attention. The ramping one threw out his huge chest and roared with laughter. "See!" he taunted, "the weasel defies the bear!" And with that he reached out and with his thumb and forefinger grasped Victor by the nose and jerked him roughly toward him.
The next instant the air rushed from his throat in a grunt of agonized surprise for the violent jerk on his nose seemed to release steel springs in Victor's body and before Petrie could release his grip both of Victor's fists and the heel of one shoe had been driven with all the force of mighty muscles directly into the bully's stomach. The unexpected onslaught staggered the huge bully, and then began the fight that ridded the rivers of Gaspard Petrie. In and out flashed the lighter man, landing a blow here and a kick there—round and round, and in and out. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" roared with rage, and struck mighty blows that, had they landed, would have annihilated his opponent on the spot but they did not land. Victor seemed tireless and his blows rained faster and faster as his opponent's defence became slower and slower. At last, from sheer exhaustion, the heavy arms could no longer guard the writhing face and instantly Victor began to rain blow after blow upon eyes and nose and mouth until a few minutes later "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" collapsed entirely, and whimpering and puling, he retracted his words, and then amid the frenzied jeers of the rivermen, he made up hispack and slunk away into the bush—and the fame of Victor Bossuet travelled the length of the three rivers. Thus it was that Victor became known as the better man of the two. But it was in the winning of Hélène Lacompte that he gained his final triumph. René had boasted upon the rivers that he would marry her,—boastings that reached the ears of the girl in her father's little cabin on Salt River and caused her to smile. But as she smiled her thoughts were not of René and his gaudy clothing, his famous bluecapote, his crimson scarf, and his long tasselled cap of white wool—but of Victor—who spoke seldom, but saved his money each year and refrained from joining in the roistering drinking bouts of the rivermen.
Then one day at Fort Norman in the hearing of all the rivermen René boldly told her that he was coming to take her when the scows returned, and she laughingly replied that when she changed her name from Lacompte, she would take the name of Bossuet. Whereat René drank deeper, bragged the more boisterously, and to the envy of all men flaunted his good fortune before the eyes of the North. But Victor said nothing. He quit the brigade upon a pretext and when the scows returnedHélène bore the name of Bossuet. For she and Victor had been married by the priest at the little mission and had gone to build their cabin upon a little unnamed river well back from the Mackenzie. For during the long winter months Victor worked hard at his trap lines, while René drank and gambled and squandered his summer wages among the towns of the provinces.
When René heard of the marriage he swore vengeance, for this thing had been a sore blow to his pride. All along the three rivers men talked of it, nor did they hesitate to taunt and make sport of René to his face. He sought to make up in swashbuckling and boasting what he lacked in courage. So men came to hate him and it became harder and harder for him to obtain work. At last, in great anger, he quit the brigade altogether and for two summers he had been seen upon the rivers in a York boat of his own. The first winter after he left the brigade he spent money in the towns as usual, so the following summer the source of his income became a matter of interest to the Mounted Police. Certain of their findings made it inadvisable for René to appear again in the towns, and that autumn he spent in the outlands, avoidingthe posts, stopping a day here—a week there, in the cabins of obscure trappers and camping the nights between, for he dared not show his face at any post. Then it was he bethought himself of his brother's cabin as a refuge and, for the time being laying aside thoughts of vengeance, he journeyed there.
He was welcomed by Victor and Hélène and by the very small Victor who was now nearly a year old. Victor and Hélène had heard of the threats of vengeance, but knowing René, they had smiled. Was not René a great boaster? And the very young Victor, who knew nothing of the threats, thought his big uncle a very brave figure in his bluecapote, his red muffler, and his white stocking cap of wool.
René worked willingly enough side by side with Victor upon the trap line, and with the passing of the days the envy of his brother's lot grew, and in his heart smouldered a sullen rage. Here was Victor, a man at whom nobody would look twice in passing, happy and contented with his little family, untroubled by any haunting fear of the hand of the law, enjoying the respect of all men, and a veritable hero the length of the three rivers.And beside him, of his own flesh and blood, was himself, a bold figure of a man, a roisterer and a poser, who had sought to gain the admiration and respect of the men of the rivers without earning it, and who had failed—and failed most miserably. The sullen rage grew in his heart, and he plotted vengeance by the hour—but his hand was stayed by fear—fear of Victor and fear of the law.
And so a month passed, and one day as the two brothers finished their lunch and lighted their pipes upon a log beside a tiny fire, Victor spoke that which for several days had been passing in his mind: "It has been good to have you with us, my brother," he began, being a man of indirect speech.
"The joy has been all mine, I assure you," replied René, wondering what would come next.
"But three people eat more than two, and I laid in supplies for two to last until the holiday trading."
"I have no money, but I will leave the pay for my keep at Fort Norman next summer."
A swift flush of anger reddened the cheek of Victor. "Pay! Who talks of pay? Think you I would accept pay from my own brother?"
"What then?"
"Only this, you must make the trip to Fort Norman for food. I will give you a note to McTavish, and the stuff will be charged to me. It is three days travelling light, and four on the return. You can take my dogs. They know the trail."
There was a long pause before the younger man spoke. "I cannot go to Fort Norman. I cannot be seen on the river."
Victor glanced up in surprise. "Why?"
René shifted uneasily. "The police," he answered. "They think I have broken their law."
"Have you?" The older man's eyes were upon him, and René groped in his mind for words. "What if I have?" he blurted. "What was I to do? I cannot work with the brigade. They will not have me. Because I am a better man than the rest of them, they are jealous and refuse to work beside me." René rose from the log and began to strut up and down in the snow, swinging his arms wide and pausing before his brother to tap himself upon the chest, thrown out so the bluecapoteswelled like the breast of a pouter pigeon. "Behold before you one whose excellence in allthings has wrought his ruin. Julius Cæsar was such a man, and the great Napoleon, and I, René Bossuet, am the third. All men fear me, and because of my great skill and prodigious strength, all men hate me. They refuse to work beside me lest their puny efforts will appear as the work of children. I am the undisputed king of the rivers. Beside me none——"
Victor interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Beside you none will work because of your bragging!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "You are a good enough riverman when you mind your business, but there are plenty as good—and some better. What law have you broken?"
"I have tradedhoochupon the rivers."
"And when you found that the men of the Mounted were upon your trail you came here," continued the older man. "You thought you would be safe here because the police, knowing of your loud-bawled threats against me, would think we were mortal enemies."
"You knew of that—of my threats?" gasped René in surprise, "and you allowed me to stay!"
Victor laughed shortly. "Of course I knew. But what are threats between brothers? I knewthey were but the idle boastings of a braggart. You would not dare harm me, or mine. You are a great coward, René, and it is to laugh and not to fear. You strut about like a cock partridge in the springtime, you clothe yourself with the feathers of the bluejay, and speak with the tongue of the great grey wolf but your heart is the heart of the rabbit. But talk gets us nowhere. We will go to the cabin, now. In the morning I will start for Fort Norman, and you will remain to look after Hélène and the little Victor." The older man rose and faced his brother. "And if harm comes to either of them while I am gonemay the wolves gnaw your bones upon the crust of the snow. That little cabin holds all that I love in the world. I never boast, and I never threaten—nor do I ever repent the work of my hands." He paused and looked squarely into his brother's eyes, and when he spoke again the words fell slowly from his lips—one by one, with a tiny silence between—"You have heard it, maybe—scarcely disturbing the silence of the night—that sound of the crunching of bones on the snow." A hand of ice seemed to reach beneath René's bluecapoteand fasten upon his heart, there came a strange prickling at the roots of his hair,and little chills shot along his spine. Somewhere back in the forest a tree exploded with the frost, and René jumped, nervously. Then, side by side, the brothers made their way to the cabin in silence.
Theridge up which Connie Morgan laboured at the head of his dogs was a sparsely timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away. To the boy that smoothly rolling sky line looked ten miles ahead of him. No breath of wind stirred the stinging dead air. His snowshoes became great weights upon his feet which sought to drag him down, down into immeasurable depths of soft warm snow. The slope which in reality was a very easy grade assumed the steepness of a mountain side. He wanted above all things to sleep. He glanced backward. 'Merican Joe's team had stopped, and the Indian was fumbling listlessly with his pack. Halting his own dogs, the boy hastened back. The effort taxed his strength to the limit. His heavy whiplash swished through the air, and 'Merican Joe straightened up with a howl of pain.
"Come on!" cried Connie, as he prepared to strike again. "That cabin's only just over the ridge, and if you stop here you'll freeze!"
"No use," mumbled the Indian. "De red death—de white death. We goin' die annyhow. Me—I'm lak I'm sleep."
"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Get up there and take my dogs and I'll take yours. No more laying down on the job or I'll lay on this whip in earnest. If we mush we'll be there in an hour—SkookumInjun! Where's your nerve?"
'Merican Joe smiled. "Skookum tillicum," he muttered gravely, pointing his mittened hand toward the boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you till I die. We mak' her, now. We speet on dekultus tamahnawusin hees face!"
"You bet we will!" cried the boy. "Get up there now, and keep those dogs moving. I'll follow along with yours."
A half hour later the two stood side by side upon the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Both were breathing heavily. Each had fallen time out of number, but each time had scrambled to his feet and urged on his dogs. As they stood now with the false suns dancing abovethem, the cold seemed to press upon them like a thing of weight. Connie glanced at his thermometer. It had dropped forty degrees! Across a half mile of snow they could see the little cabin in the edge of the timber. Only, now the smoke did not rise from the chimney but poured from its mouth and fell heavily to the roof where it rolled slowly to the ground. Motioning with his arm, 'Merican Joe led off down the slope and Connie followed, holding weakly to the tail rope of his toboggan. The going was easier than the ascent had been, but the "strong cold" seemed to strike to the very bone. After what seemed hours, the boy found himself before the door of the cabin. Beside him 'Merican Joe was bending over unharnessing the dogs. Connie stooped to look at the thermometer. "Seventy-two below!" he muttered, "and she only goes to seventy-six!"
Frantically the boy worked helping 'Merican Joe to unharness the dogs and when the last one was freed he opened the door and, closely followed by the Indian, stumbled into the cabin.
The next thing Connie knew he was lying on a bunk and a woman was seated beside him holding a spoon to his lips while she supported his head onher arm. The boy swallowed and a spoonful of hot liquid trickled down his throat. He felt warm, and comfortable, and drowsy—so drowsy that it was with an effort that he managed to swallow other spoonfuls of the hot liquid. Slowly he opened his eyes and then struggled to a sitting posture. 'Merican Joe sat upon the floor with his back against the log wall. He became conscious of a stinging sensation in his face and he prodded his cheek with an inquisitive finger.
The woman noticed the action. "It is not bad," she explained. "Your nose and your cheeks they were frozen but I thawed them out with the snow." Suddenly her expression changed and a look of fear haunted her eyes. She pointed toward the door. "But—what is it—out there? The sky is all wrong. There are no clouds, yet it is not blue, and there are many suns that move and jump about. It is a time of great evil. Did you not see the plague flag? And my man is away. Maybe it is the end of all things. I am afraid. Why are there many suns?"
"It is the white death," answered the boy. "You needn't fear. Only stay in the house and don't breathe the outside air. I have seen it oncebefore. Tonight will come the northern lights and they will hiss and pop and snap. And they will be so bright it will look like the whole world is on fire. Then the wind will come, and tomorrow it will be gone, and everything will be the same as before."
"I have heard of the white death," said the woman. "My father and some of the old men have seen it—beyond Bear Lake. My father and some of the others crawled under their blankets and lay for more than a day but some of the old men died."
The thin wail of an infant sounded from a pole crib at the other end of the room, and the woman rose quickly and crossed to its side. Connie saw her stoop over the crib and mutter soft, crooning words, as she patted the tiny bed clothing with her hand. The wailing ceased, and the woman tiptoed back to his side. "It is the little Victor," she explained, and Connie noticed that her eyes were wet with tears. Suddenly she broke down and covered her face with her hands while her body swayed to and fro. "Oh, my little man! My little soft baby! He must die—or be terribly scarred by the hand of the red death! So beautiful—solittle, and so good, and so beautiful! And I have nothing to feed him, for René has taken the milk. René is a devil! I would have killed him but he took the gun." The woman stopped speaking, and the silence of the little cabin was punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobs.
Connie felt a strange lump rising in his throat. He swallowed and attempted to speak, but the result was a funny noise way back in his throat. He swallowed several times and when he finally spoke his voice sounded hard and gruff. "Quit crying, mam, and help me get this straight. I don't believe your little kid's got the smallpox." He paused and glanced about the room. "This ain't the kind of a place he'd get it—it's too clean. Who told you it was the red death?"
"Oh, no one told me! Who is there to tell? René is a liar, and my man has gone to Fort Norman. But," she leaped to her feet and regarded Connie with a tense, eager look, "can it be that you are a doctor?" The next instant she turned away. "No—you are but a boy!"
"No," repeated Connie, "I am not a doctor. But I used to be in the Mounted and I learned all there was in the manual about smallpox and I'veseen a good deal of it. What makes you think it's smallpox?"
"I have seen, on his little chest—the red blotches. What else could it be?"
"How long has he been sick?"
"Since day before yesterday."
"Did he have any fits? Did he vomit? Did he run up a high fever?"
"No—none of these things. But he has not wanted much to eat—and on his chest are the blotches."
"Let's look at 'em."
The woman led the way to the crib and lifting the baby from it, bared his chest. Connie examined the red marks minutely. He felt of them with his fingers, and carefully examined the forehead along the roots of the hair. Then he turned to the woman with a smile. "Put him back," he said quietly. "He's a buster of a kid, all right—and he ain't got smallpox. He'll be well as ever in three or four days. He's got chicken pox—"
The woman clutched at his arm and her breath came fast. "Are you sure?" she cried, a great hope dawning in her eyes. "How can you tell?"
"It's all in the manual. Smallpox pimples feelhard, like shot, and they come first on the face and forehead, and there is always high fever and vomiting, and the pimples are always round. This is chicken pox, and it ain't dangerous, and I told you I used to be with the Mounted, and the Mounted is always sure. Now, what about this Rainy person that stole the little kid's milk?" But the woman was paying no attention. She was pacing up and down the floor with the baby hugged to her breast—laughing, crying, talking to the little one all in the same breath, holding him out at arm's length and then cuddling him close and smothering him with kisses. Then, suddenly, she laid the baby in his crib and turned to Connie who, in view of what he had seen, backed away in alarm until he stood against the door.
"Ah, you are the grand boy!" the woman exclaimed. "You have saved the life of my little Victor! You are my friend. In four days comes my man—the little one's papa, and he will tell you better than I of our thanks. He is your friend for life. He is Victor Bossuet, and on the rivers is none like him. I will tell him all—how the little one is dying with the red death, and you come out of the strong cold with the frost in the nose andthe cheeks, and you look on the little Victor who is dying, and say 'non,' and pouf! the red death is gone, and the little baby has got only what you call chickiepok! See! Even now he is laughing!"
"He's all right," smiled Connie. "But you're way off about my curing him. He'd have been well as ever in a few days anyhow and you'd have had your scare for nothing."
The woman's voluble protest was interrupted by a wail from the infant, and again her mood changed and she began to pace the floor wringing her hands. "See, now he is hungry and there is nothing to feed him! René is a devil! He has taken the milk."
"Hold on!" interrupted Connie. "Was it canned milk? 'Cause if it was you don't need to worry. I've got about a dozen cans out there on the toboggan. Wait and I'll get it." He turned to the Indian who had been a silent onlooker. "Come on, Joe, crawl into your outfit. While I get the grub and blankets off the toboggans, you rustle the wood and water—and go kind of heavy on the wood, 'cause, believe me, there ain't any thermometer going to tell us how cold it will get tonight."
A quarter of an hour later Connie dragged in a heavy canvas sack and two rolls of blankets just as 'Merican Joe stacked his last armful of wood high against the wall. "I fed the dogs," said the boy as he rummaged in the bag and handed the cans of milk one by one to the woman, "and I could tell your husband is an old-timer by the looks of his dog shelter—warm and comfortable, and plenty of room for two teams. I can find out all I want to know about a man by the way he uses his dogs."
"He is the best man on the rivers," repeated the woman, her eyes shining, as she opened a can of milk, carefully measured an amount, added water, and stirred it as it heated on the stove. Connie watched with interest as she fed it to the baby from a spoon. "Again you have saved his life," she said, as the last spoonful disappeared between the little lips.
"Aw, forget that!" exclaimed the boy, fidgeting uncomfortably. "What I want is the dope on this Rainy—how did he come to swipe the kid's milk? And where is he heading for? I'm in something of a hurry to get to Fort Norman, but I've got a hunch I'm due for a little side trip. Heain't going to be far ahead of me tomorrow. If he holes up today and tonight I'll catch up with him along about noon—and if he don't hole up—the white death will save me quite a bit of trouble."
"Ah, that René!" exclaimed the woman, her face darkling with passion, "he is Victor's brother, and he is no good. He drinks and gambles and makes the big noise with his mouth. Bou, wou, wou! I am the big man! I can do this! I can do that! I am the best man in the world! Always he has lived in the towns in the winter and spent his money but this winter he came and lived with us because his money was gone. That is all right he is the brother of my husband. He is welcome. But one does not have to like him. But when my husband tells him to go to Fort Norman for food because we did not know there would be three, he made excuse, and my husband went and René stayed. Then the next day the little Victor was sick, and I saw the hand of the red death upon him and I told René that he should run fast after Victor and tell him. But he would not! He swore and cursed at his own ill luck and he ran from the house into the woods. I madethe plague flag and hung it out so that no traveller should come in and be in danger of the red death.
"By and by René came in from the woods in a terrible rage. He began to pack his outfit for the trail and I stayed close by the side of my little one for fear René would do him harm in his anger. At last he was ready and I was glad to see him go. I looked then and saw that he had taken all the food! Even the baby's milk he had taken! I rushed upon him then, but I am a woman and no match for a big man like René, and he laughed and pushed me away. I begged him to leave me some food, and he laughed the more—and on my knees I implored him to leave the baby's milk. But he would not. He said he had sworn vengeance upon Victor, and now he would take vengeance. He said, 'The brat will not need the milk for he will die anyway, and you will die, and Victor will follow me, and I will lead him to a place I know, and then he will die also.' It was then I rushed for the gun, but René had placed it in his pack. And I told him he must not go from a plague house, for he would spread the terrible red death in all the North. But he laughed and said he would show the North that he, René Bossuet, was a god whocould spread death along the rivers. He would cause it to sweep like a flame among the rivermen who hated him, and among the men of the Mounted."
The woman paused and Connie saw that a look of wonderful contentment had come into her eyes.
"The good God did not listen to the curses of René," she said, simply, "for as I lay on the floor I prayed to Him and He sent you to me, straight out of the frozen places where in the winter no men are. Tell me, did not the good God tell you to come to me—to save the little baby's life?" There was a look of awed wonder in the woman's eyes, and suddenly Connie remembered the mirage with the blazing plague flag in the sky.
"Yes," he answered, reverently, "I guess maybe He did."
That night the wind came, the aurora flashed and hissed in the heavens, and early in the morning when Connie opened the door the air was alive with the keen tang of the North. Hastily he made up his pack for the trail. Most of the grub he left behind, and when the woman protested he laughed, and lied nobly, in that he told her that they had far too much grub for their needs.While 'Merican Joe looked solemnly on and said nothing.
With the blessing of the woman ringing in their ears they started on the trail of René Bossuet. When they were out of sight of the cabin, the Indian halted and looked straight into the boy's eyes.
"We have one day's grub, for a three-day's trail if we hit straight for Fort Norman," he announced. "Why then do we follow this man's trail? He has done nothing to us! Why do you always take upon yourself the troubles of others?"
"Where wouldyouhave been if I didn't?" flashed the boy angrily. "And where would the trapper have been and that woman and little baby? When I first struck Alaska I was just a little kid with torn clothes and only eight dollars and I thought I didn't have a friend in the world. And then, at Anvik, I found that every one of the big men of the North was my friend! And ever since that time I have been trying to pay back the debt I owe the men of the North—and I'll keep on trying till I die!"