Joe Pete wanted to camp, but Brent would have none of it. The storm thickened. The wind increased in fury, buffeting them about, and causing the dogs to whine and cringe in the harness until it became necessary to fasten a leash to the leader to prevent their bolting. Hopelessly lost though they were, Brent insisted upon pushing on. "The land lies this way," he kept saying, "and we'll strike it somewhere along the coast." Then he would appeal to the Indian who would venture no opinion whatever, frankly admitting he was lost, and always counseling the making of a camp. Finally, when darkness came they did camp, merely digging into the snow; and tossing blanket and robes and a little food into the pit, crawled in and drew the tarpaulin over them.
Brent slept little that first night. Over and over again he tried to reason out the course, and between times he lay hugging tightly his bottle of hooch. "I wouldn't lose you for a million," he muttered, aseach tortured nerve of his body cried out for stimulant, and the little brain devils added their urge, and with sophistry and cunning excuse sought to undermine his resolve. "Just one drink." "You need it." "Taper off gradually." "It's medicine." But to the insidious suggestions of the brain devils he turned a deaf ear, and with clenched teeth, gripped his bottle. "I'll never want you—never need you any more than I do this night," he whispered into the dark. "Right now I'd give half my life for one big swig—but my life isn't mine to give now. It's hers—hers, do you hear! It's her fight that I'm fighting, now—and, by God, she's going to win!"
In the morning, despite the protest of Joe Pete, Brent pushed on. The storm had increased in fury, and it was with difficulty they kept their feet. Toward noon, both knew that they had gained land of some kind, for the terrain became rolling, and in places even hilly.
"We ain' goin' right fer de mountaine," shouted the Indian, with his lips close to Brent's ear. "Dey an' no leetle hill dere till we com' to de ridge."
"I don't care," yelled Brent, "We're heading south, and that's the main thing. We can hit for the river when the storm stops."
The third day was a repetition of the second, except that the hills became higher and more numerous, but entirely unlike the ridge formation of the Copper Mountains. That night the storm wore itself out,and the morning of the fourth day dawned bright and clear, with a wind blowing strongly.
"Well, where are we?" asked Brent, as he and Joe Pete ascended a nearby hillock to take observation of their surroundings.
For a long time the Indian studied the horizon, nor did he speak until every degree of the arc had been subjected to minute scrutiny.
"I'm t'ink, we com' too mooch far wes'," he observed, "I'm t'ink, we better strike eas', 'bout wan day, tomor'."
"Tomorrow!" cried Brent. "Why not today—now?"
The Indian pointed to the dogs. "Too mooch tired out. Too mooch no good. We got to res' today. Mebbe-so, travel tomor'!"
A glance at the dogs convinced Brent, anxious as he was to push on, that it would be useless to try it, for the dogs were in a pitiable condition from the three day fight with the storm. He wanted to make up a pack and push on alone, but the Indian dissuaded him.
"S'pose com' nudder beeg snow? W'at you do den, eh? You git los'. You trail git cover up. I kin no fin'. Dat better you wait." And wait they did, though Brent fretted and chafed the whole day through.
The following morning they started toward the southeast, shaping their course by a far-distant patch of timber that showed as a dark spot on thedazzling snow. The ground was broken and hard to travel, and their progress was consequently slow. At noon they cut a dog loose, and later another, the released animals limping along behind as best they could.
At noon of their seventh day of travel, the eighth after the storm, Brent, who was in the lead, halted suddenly and pointed to a small lake that lay a mile or more to the southward.
"I know that lake!" he cried, "It's the one where Snowdrift killed a caribou! The river is six or seven miles east of here, and we'll strike it just below our cabin."
"You sure 'bout dat'?." asked the Indian. "De dogs, w'at you call, all in. I ain' lak' we mak mor' travel we kin help."
"Yes—sure," exclaimed Brent, "I couldn't be mistaken. There is the point where we ate lunch—that broken spruce leaning against those two others."
"Dat good lan' mark," the Indian agreed, "I ain' t'ink you wrong now."
Joyously, Brent led off to the eastward. The pace was woefully slow, for of the seven dogs, only three remained, and the men were forced to work at pulling the sled. "We ought to make the cabin a little after dark," he figured, "And then—I'll grab a bite to eat and hit out for Snowdrift. Wonder if she's looking for me yet? Wonder if she's been thinking about me? It's—let's see—this is the nineteenth day—nineteen days since I've seen her—and it seems like nineteen years! I hate to tell her I didn't make a strike. And worst of all I hate to tell her about—what happened on theBelva Lou. But, I'll come clean. I will tell her—and I'll show her the bottle—and thank God I didn't pull the cork! And I never will pull it, now. I learned something out there in the snow—learned what a man can do." He grinned as he thought of Claw and the Captain of theBelva Lou, searching the Copper Mountains for his camp, so they could kill him and steal his dust. Then the grin hardened into a straight-lipped frown as he planned the vengeance that was to be his when they came after the girl.
"They won't be in any hurry about starting up river," he argued, "They'll hunt for me for a week. Then, when they do come—I'll kill 'em as I would kill so many mad dogs. I hate to shoot a man from ambush—but there's two of 'em, and I don't dare to take a chance. If they should get me—" he shuddered at the thought, and pressed on.
As he swung onto the river, a sharp cry escaped him and he stooped in the darkness to stare at a trail in the snow.
The cry brought Joe Pete to his side. "Those tracks!" rasped Brent, "When were they made? And who made 'em?"
The Indian stooped close and examined the trail. "Two—t'ree mans, an' a team," he muttered, "An' wan man dat Godam Johnnie Claw!"
"How do you know?" cried Brent, "How old are they?" And leaping to the sled, he cut the pack thongs with one sweep of his knife and grabbed up his rifle.
"I know dem track—seen um on Mackenzie. B'en gon' 'bout two t'ree hour!"
"Bring on the outfit!" Brent called over his shoulder, and the Indian stared in surprise as he watched the man strike out on the trail in great leaping strides.
The distance to the cabin was a scant mile, and Brent covered it without slackening his pace. At the foot of the bank, he noted with relief that the trail swung upward to his own cabin. If they had stopped, there was yet time. His first glance had detected no light in the window, but as he looked again, he saw that a peculiar dull radiance filtered through the oiled parchment that served as a glass. Cautiously he maneuvered up the bank, and made his way to the cabin, mentally debating with himself whether to burst in upon the occupants and chance a surprise, or to lie in wait till they came out. He stood in the shelter of the meatcacheweighing his chances, when suddenly from beyond the log walls came the sound of a woman's scream—loud—shrill—terrible, it sounded, cutting the black silence of the night. What woman? There could be only one—with a low cry that sounded in his own ears like the snarl of a beast, he dropped the rifle and sprang against the door. It flew inwardand for a second Brent could see nothing in the murky interior of the room. There was a sound from the bunk and, through the smoke haze he made out the face of the Captain of theBelva Lou. As the man sprang erect, their bodies met with an impact that carried them to the floor. Brent found himself on top, and the next instant his fingers were twisting, biting into a hairy throat with a grip that crushed and tore. In his blind fury he was only half-conscious that heavy fists were battering at his face. Beneath him the body of the Captain lashed and struggled. The man's tongue lolled from his open mouth, and from beneath the curled lips came hoarse wheezing gasps, and great gulping strangling gurgles. A wave of exultation seized Brent as he realized that the thing that writhed and twisted in his grasp was the naked throat of a man. Vaguely he became conscious that above him hovered a white shape, and that the shape was calling his name, in strange quavering tones. He tightened his grip. There was a wild spasmodic heaving of the form beneath him—and the form became suddenly still. But Brent did not release his grasp. Instead he twisted and ground his fingers deeper and deeper into the flesh that yielded now, and did not writhe. With his face held close, he glared like a beast into the face of the man beneath him—a horrible face with its wide-sprung jaws exposing the slobbered tongue, the yellow snag-like teeth, the eyes, back-rolled until only the whites showed between thewide-staring lids, and the skin fast purpling between the upper beard and the mottled thatch of hair.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and glancing up he saw Snowdrift and realized that she was urging him to rise. As in a dream he caught the gleam of white shoulders, and saw that one bare arm clasped a fragment of torn shirt to her breast. He staggered to his feet, gave one glance into the girl's eyes, and with a wild, glad cry caught her to him and pressed her tight against his pounding heart.
A moment later she struggled from his embrace. She flushed deeply as his eyes raised from her shoulders to meet her own. He was speaking, and at the words her heart leaped wildly.
"It's a lie!" he cried, "You are not a breed! I knew it! I knew it! My darling—you are white—as white as I am! Old Wananebish is not your mother! Do you hear?You are white!"
THE PASSING OF WANANEBISH
Stepping across to a duffle bag, Brent produced a shirt and an undershirt which he tossed to the girl who, in the weakness of sudden reaction had thrown herself sobbing upon the bunk.
"There, there, darling," he soothed, as with his back toward her, his eyes roved about the room seeking to picture, in the wild disorder, the terrific struggle that had taken place. "Put on those things, and then you can tell me all about it. You're all right now, dear. I will never leave you again."
"But—oh, if you had not come!" sobbed the girl.
"But, I did come, sweetheart—and everything is all right. Forget the whole horrid business. Come, we will go straight to Wananebish. Not another hour, nor a minute will we wait. And we will make her tell the truth. I have never believed you were her daughter—and now I know!"
"But," faltered the girl, as she slipped into the warm garments, "If I am not her daughter, who am I? Oh, it is horrible—not to know who you are! If this is true—she must tell—she has got totell me! I have the right to know! And, my mother and my father—where are they? Who are they?"
"We will know soon, darling," assured Brent, drawing her to him and looking down into her up-lifted eyes, "But, first let me tell you this—I don't care who you are. You are mine, now, dearest—the one woman for me in all the world. And no matter who, or what your parents were, you are mine, mine, mine!" His lips met hers, her arms stole about his neck, and as she clung to him she whispered:
"Oh, everything seems all strange, and unreal, and up-side-down, and horrible, and in all the world, darling, you are the one being who is good, and sane and strong—oh, I love you so—don't ever leave me again——"
"Never again," assured Brent, smiling down into the dark eyes raised so pleadingly to his. "And, now, do you feel able to strike out for the camp?"
"I feel able to go to the end of the earth, with you," she answered quickly, and he noticed that her voice had assumed its natural buoyancy, and that her movements were lithe and sure as she stooped to lace her snowshoes, and he marveled at the perfect resiliency of nerves that could so quickly regain their poise after the terrible ordeal to which they had been subjected.
"Where is Claw?" he asked, abruptly, as hestooped and recovered his gold sack from the floor where the Captain had dropped it.
"Come we must hurry!" cried the girl, who in the excitement had forgotten his very existence, "He started for the camp, to trade hooch to the Indians—and—oh, hurry!" she cried, as she plunged out into the night. "He hates Wananebish, and he threatened to get even with her! If he should kill her now—before—before she could tell us—" She was already descending the bank to the river when Brent recovering his rifle, hastened after her, and although he exerted himself to the utmost, the flying figure gradually drew away from him. When it had all but disappeared in the darkness, he called, and the girl waited, whereupon Brent despite her protest, took the lead, and with his rifle ready for instant use, hastened on up the river.
A half mile from the encampment, Brent struck into the scattered timber, "He may watch the back-trail," he flung back over his shoulder, "and we don't want to walk into a trap."
Rapidly they made their way through the scrub, and upon the edge of the clearing, they paused. In the wide space before one of the cabins, brush fires were blazing. And by the light of the leaping flames the Indians could be seen crowding and fighting to get to the door of the cabin. Brent drew Snowdrift into the shelter of a bush, from which point of vantage they watched Claw, who stood in the doorway, glass in one hand, six-gun in the other,dispensing hooch. Standing by his side, Yondo received the skins from the crowding Indians, and tossed them into the cabin. The process was beautifully simple—a drink for a skin. As Yondo took a skin Claw passed out a drink to its erstwhile owner.
"Damn him!" muttered Brent, raising his rifle. But Snowdrift pushed it aside.
"It is too dark," she whispered, "You can't see the sights, and you might hit one of the Indians." Breaking off sharply, she pointed toward her own cabin. The door had been thrown open and, rifle in hand old Wananebish stepped out on the snow. She raised the rifle, and with loud cries the Indians surged back from about the hooch runner. Before the rifle could speak Claw fired, and dropping her gun, old Wananebish staggered a few steps forward and pitched headlong into the snow.
With a yell of rage, Brent broke cover and dashed straight across the clearing. As the cry reached him, Claw looked up, fired one hasty shot at the approaching figure, and leaping straight through the throng of Indians, disappeared in the scrub beyond the cabin, with Yondo close at his heels.
Brent was aware that Snowdrift was at his side. "Go to her," panted the girl, "I will try to handle the Indians." For an instant he hesitated, then, realizing that the girl could deal with her own band better without his presence, he hastened to the squaw who had raised herself to an elbow and was vainlytrying to rise. Picking her up bodily, Brent carried her into the cabin and placed her upon the bunk.
"Where—is—she?" the woman gasped, as he tore open her shirt and endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from a wound low down upon the sunken chest.
"She's all right," assured the man, "Claw has gone, and she is trying to quiet the Indians."
The old crone shook her head: "No use," she whispered the words with difficulty, "Take her away—while—there—is—time. They—are—crazy—for—hooch—and—they—will—sell—her—to—him." She sank back gasping, and Brent held a cup of water to her lips as he motioned her to be quiet.
"I am going to take her," he answered, "But, tell me—who is Snowdrift?"
The beady eyes fixed his with a long, searching stare. She was about to speak when the door opened and Snowdrift herself burst into the room and sank down beside the bunk.
With a laboring effort the old woman laid a clawlike hand upon the girl's arm: "Forgive me," she whispered, and summoning all her fast ebbing strength she gasped: "It is all a lie. You are not my child. You are white. I loved you, and I was afraid you would go to your people." A paroxysm of coughing seized her, and a gush of red blood welled from her lips. "Look—in—the—moss—bag," she croaked, the words gurgling through herblood-flooded throat. She fell heavily back upon the blanket and the red torrent gushed afresh from between the stilled lips.
With a dry sob, Snowdrift turned to Brent: "We must go!" she faltered, hurriedly, "I can do nothing with the Indians. I tried to reach the hooch to destroy it, but they crowded me away. He has lied to them—won them completely over by the promise of more hooch. He told them he has plenty of hoochcachedin the scrub. Already they have sent runners to bring him back, and when he comes," the girl paused and shuddered "They will do anything he tells them to—for hooch, and you know what that will be—come, we must go while we have time!"
"Can't we stay and fight him?" cried Brent, "Surely some of the Indians will be with us."
"No—only a few of the squaws—and they would be no good. No, we must go before they bring him back! My sled is beside the door. Hurry and load it with supplies while I harness the dogs." As she talked, the girl's hands searched beneath the blankets upon which lay the body of the squaw and with a low cry she drew forth the moss-bag which she handed to Brent. "Take it," she said, "and do not trust it to the sled. We have no time to look into it now—but that little bag contains the secret of my life——"
"And I will guard it with my own!" cried Brent, as he took the bag from her hand. "Hurry, nowand harness the dogs. I'll throw in some grub and blankets and we will finish the outfit at my cabin where we'll pick up Joe Pete."
While Brent worked at the lashings of the sled pack, Snowdrift slipped silently into the cabin and, crossing to the bunk, bent low over the still form of the squaw: "Good-by, Wananebish," she sobbed, as she pressed her lips to the wrinkled forehead, "I don't know what you have done—nor why you did it—but, I forgive you." She turned to see Brent examining the two heavy crotches that were fixed, one on either side of the doorway on the inside. "That is our lock," explained the girl. "See, there is the bar that goes across the door, like the bar at the post at Fort Norman. Wananebish made it. And every night when we were inside she placed the bar in the crotches and no one could have got in without smashing the door to pieces. Ever since I returned from the mission, Wananebish has feared someone, and now I know it was Claw."
"If we could only drop the bar from the outside," mused Brent, "Maybe we could gain a lot of time. I know Claw, and when he finds that he has all the Indians with him, and that we are only two, he is not going to give you up without a struggle. By George!" he exclaimed, suddenly, "I believe I can do it!" He motioned the girl outside, and slipped the bar into the crotch at the hinge side of the door, then driving a knife upon the inside, he rested the bar upon it, and stepping outside, banged the doorshut. The knife held, and opening the door, he loosened the blade a little and tried again. This time the banging of the door jarred the knife loose. It fell to the floor, and the heavy bar dropped into place and the man smiled with satisfaction as he threw his weight against the door. "That will keep them busy for a while," he said, "They'll think we're in there and they know we're armed, so they won't be any too anxious to mix things up at close quarters."
Swiftly the dogs flew up the well packed trail toward Brent's cabin. The night was dark, and the Indians were fighting over the rum cask that Claw had abandoned. As they hurried down the river, the two cast more than one glance over their shoulders toward the cabin where the Indians milled about in the firelight.
At the first bend of the river, they paused and looked back. Shots were being fired in scattering volleys, and suddenly Snowdrift grasped Brent's arm: "Look!" she cried, "At our cabin!"
At first Brent could see nothing but the distant glow of the brush fires, then from the direction of the cabin they had just left a tongue of flame shot upward through the darkness. There were more shots, and the flames widened and leaped higher.
"They're piling brush against the cabin," cried Brent. "They think they'll burn us out. Come on, we haven't a minute to lose, for when Claw learns that we are not in the cabin, he'll be on our trail."
At his own shack Brent tore the lashings from the sled, and began to rearrange the pack, adding supplies from his stores. Joe Pete stared in astonishment. "Come on here!" cried Brent, "Get to work! We're off for Dawson! And we've got to take grub enough to last till we hit Fort Norman."
"All day long you have been on the trail," cried the girl, "You are tired! Can't we stand them off here until you are rested?"
Brent shook his head: "You saw what happened at the other cabin," he answered. "And here it would be even worse. With the window and the door on the same side, they could burn us out in no time."
"But they will trail us—and we must travel heavy," she pointed to the loaded sled.
"We will take our chances in the open," said Brent grimly. "And if luck favors us we will get a long lead. The Indians may get too drunk to follow, or they may stop to loot my cabin, and even if they should overtake us, we can give a good account of ourselves. We have three rifles, and the Indians can't shoot, and Claw will not risk his own hide. Strike out straight for Fort Norman, Joe Pete. We will take turns breaking trail."
At daylight they camped upon the apex of a high ridge that commanded a six or seven mile sweep of the back-trail, and all three noted with relief that the stiff wind had filled their trail with the shifting snow. All through the night they had avoided thetimbered swamps and the patches of scrub both for the purpose of allowing the wind full sweep at their trail, and also to force their pursuers to expose themselves to the open. It was decided that until danger of pursuit was past they would travel only at night and thus eliminate in so far as possible, the danger of a surprise attack.
Because the men had been on the trail almost constantly for twenty-four hours, Snowdrift insisted upon standing first watch, and as Brent unrolled his blankets, he removed the moss-bag from his shoulders and handed it to the girl. Both he and Joe Pete were asleep the instant they hit the blankets, and for a long time Snowdrift sat with the moss-bag hugged close, and her eyes fixed upon the long sweep of back-trail. At length she thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew the packet, secure in its waterproof wrapping. Over and over she turned it in her hand as she speculated, woman like, upon its contents. Time and again she essayed to untie the thong that bound it but each time her fingers were stilled before the knot was undone.
"Oh, I am afraid—afraid," she murmured, when her burning curiosity urged her fingers to do their task. "Suppose he—my father was a man like—like those two—suppose he was Claw, himself!" She shuddered at the thought. "No, no!" she whispered, "Wananebish said that he was good. My mother, then, who was she? Is some terrible stigma attached to her name? Better never to know whoI am, than to knowthat!" For a moment she held the packet above the little flames of her fire as though she would drop it in, but even as she held it she knew she would not destroy it, for she decided that even to know the worst would be better than the gnawing of life-long uncertainty. "He, too, has the right to know," she murmured, "And we will open it together." And with a sigh, she replaced the packet in the bag, and returned to her scrutiny of the back-trail.
Despite the agreement to divide equally the time of watching, the girl resolved to let the men sleep until mid-day before calling Brent who was to take the second watch.
At noon, Brent awoke of his own accord, and the girl was startled by the sound of his voice in her ear: "Anything doing?"
"No," she answered, "Not even a wolf, or a caribou has crossed the open."
"Have you explored that?" He indicated the moss-bag with a nod, and the girl was quick to note the carefully suppressed eagerness of the words.
"No. I—waited. I wanted you—and—Oh, I was afraid!"
"Nonsense, darling!" laughed the man, "I am not afraid! Give me the bag. Again I swear to you, I do not care who you are. You are mine—and nothing else matters!" Snowdrift slipped her hand into the bag and withdrew the packet, and she handed it to Brent, he placed his arm about hershoulders and drew her close against his side, and with her head resting upon his shoulders, her eyes followed his every movement as his fingers fumbled at the knot.
Carefully he unwrapped the waterproof covering and disclosed a small leather note book, and a thick packet wound round with parchment deer skin. On the fly leaf of the note book, in a round, clear hand was written the name MURDO MACFARLANE, and below, Lashing Water.
"Murdo MacFarlane," cried Brent, "Why, that's the name in the book that told of Hearne's lost mines—the book that brought me over here!"
"And the name on the knife—see, I have it here!" exclaimed the girl. "But, go on! Who was MacFarlane, and what has he to do with me?"
Eagerly Brent read aloud the closely written pages, that told of the life of Murdo MacFarlane; of his boyhood in Scotland, of his journey to Canada, his service with the Hudson's Bay Company, his courtship of Margot Molaire, and their marriage to the accompaniment of the booming of the bells of Ste. Anne's, of the birth of their baby—the little Margot, of his restless longing for gold, that his wife and baby need not live out their lives in the outlands, of the visit of Wananebish and her little band of Dog Ribs, of his venture into the barrens, accompanied by his wife and little baby, of the cabin beside the nameless lake and the year of fruitless search for gold in the barrens.
"Oh, that is it! That is it! The memory!" cried the girl.
"What do you mean? What memory?"
"Always I have had it—the memory. Time and time again it comes back to me—but I can never seem to grasp it. A cabin, a beautiful woman who leaned over me, and talked to me, and a big man who took me up in his arms, a lake beside the cabin, and—that is all. Dim and elusive, always, I have tried for hours at a time to bring it sharply into mind, but it was no use—the memory would fade, and in its place would be the tepee, or my little room at the mission. But, go on! What became of Murdo MacFarlane, and Margot—of my father and my mother. And why have I always lived with Wananebish?"
Brent read the closing lines with many a pause, and with many a catch in his voice—the lines which told of the death of Margot, and of his determination to take the baby and leave her with Wananebish until he should return to her, of his leaving with the squaw all of his money—five hundred pounds in good bank notes, with instructions to use it for her keep and education in case he did not return. And so he came to the concluding paragraph which read:
"In the morning I shall carry my wee Margot to the Indian woman. It is the only thing I can do. And then I shall strike North for gold. But first I must return to this cabin and bury my dead. God! Why did she have to die? She should be buriedbeside her mother in the little graveyard at Ste. Anne's. But it cannot be. Upon a high point that juts out onto the lake, I will dig her grave—upon a point where we used often to go and watch the sunset, she and I and the little one. And there she will lie, while far below her the booming and the thunder of the wind-lashed waters of the lake will rise about her like the sound of bells—her requiem—like the tolling of the bells of Ste. Anne's."
"Oh, where is he now—my father?" sobbed the girl, as he concluded.
Brent's arm tightened about her shoulders, "He is dead," he whispered, "He has been dead these many years, or he would have found you." He swept his arm toward the barrens, "Somewhere in this great white land your father met his death—and it was a man's death—the kind of death he would have welcomed—for he was a man! The whole North is his grave. And out of it, his spirit kept calling—calling. And the call was heard—by a drunkard in a little cabin on the Yukon. I am that drunkard, and into my keeping the spirit of Murdo MacFarlane has entrusted the life of his baby—his wee Margot." Brent paused, and his voice suddenly cut hard as steel, "And may God Almighty strike me dead if I ever violate that trust!"
Slender brown fingers were upon his lips. "Don't talk like that, dear, it scares me. See, I am not afraid. And you arenota drunkard."
"I got drunk on theBelva Lou."
"Didn't I say we couldn't expect to win all the battles?"
"And, I carry my bottle with me." He reached into his blankets and drew out the bottle of rum.
"And the cork has not been pulled," flashed the girl, "And you have carried it ever since you left the whaler."
"Yes, darling," answered the man softly, "And I always shall keep it, and I never will pull the cork. I can give you that promise, now. I can promise you—on the word of a Brent that——"
"Not yet, sweetheart—please!" interrupted the girl, "Let us hold back the promise, till we need it. That promise is our heavy artillery. This is only the beginning of the war. And no good general would show the enemy all he has got right in the beginning."
"You wonder woman!" laughed Brent, as he smothered the upraised eyes with kisses, "But see, we have not opened the packet." Carefully he unwound the parchment wrapping, and disclosed a closely packed pile of bank notes. So long had they remained undisturbed that their edges had stuck together so that it was with difficulty he succeeded in counting them. "One hundred," he announced, at length, "One hundred five-pound notes of the Bank of England."
"Why, Wananebish never used any of the money!" cried the girl.
Brent shook his head: "Not a penny has beentouched. I doubt that she ever even opened the packet."
"Poor old Wananebish," murmured the girl, "And she needed it so. But she saved it all for me."
When darkness gathered, they again hit the trail. A last look from the ridge disclosed no sign of pursuit, and that night they made twenty-five miles. For three more nights they traveled, and then upon the shore of Great Bear Lake, they gave up the night travel and continued their journey by daylight.
Upon the evening of the eighteenth day they pulled in to Fort Norman, where they outfitted for the long trail to the Yukon. Before she left, Snowdrift paid the debt of a thousand skins that McTavish had extended to the Indians, and the following morning the outfit pulled out and headed for the mountains which were just visible far to the westward.
CLAW HITS FOR DAWSON
When Claw returned to the flame-lighted clearing, a scant half-hour after he had fled from the avenging figure of Brent, it was to find his keg of rum more than half consumed, and most of the Indians howling drunk. Close about him they crowded, pressing skins upon him and demanding more liquor. The man was quick to see that despite the appearance of Brent and the girl, he held the upper hand. The Indians would remain his as long as the rum held out.
"Ask 'em where the white man went—him an' the girl," he ordered Yondo.
The Indian pointed to the cabin of Wananebish, and a devilish gleam leaped into Claw's eyes: "Tell 'em I'll give a hull keg of rum, er a hundred dollars, cash money to the man that kills him!" he shouted, "an' another keg to the one that brings me the girl!"
The drunken savages heard the offer with a whoop, and yelling like fiends, they rushed to the cabin. The barred door held against their attack,and with sinister singleness of purpose they rushed back to the fires, and securing blazing fagots, began to pile brush against the wall of the building.
With an evil grin on his face, Claw took up his position behind a stump that gave unobstructed view of the door through which the two must rush from the burning cabin, and waited, revolver in hand.
Louder roared the fire, and higher and higher shot the flames, but the door remained closed. Claw waited, knowing that it would take some time for the logs to burn through. But, when, at length, the whole cabin was a mass of flames, and the roof caved in, his rage burst forth in a tirade of abuse:
"They lied!" he shrilled, "They wasn't in there. Ace-In-The-Hole wouldn't never stayed in there an' burnt up! The Injuns lied! An' he's layin' to git me. Mebbe he's got a bead on me right now!" and in a sudden excess of terror, the man started to burrow into the snow.
Yondo stopped, and in the bright light of the flames examined the trail to the river. Then he pointed down the stream in the direction of Brent's cabin, and Claw, too, examined the trail. "They've pulled out!" he cried, "Pulled out for his shack! Tell 'em to come on! We'll burn 'em out up there! I ain't a-goin' to let her git away from me now—an' to hell with Cap Jinkins! I'll take her to Dawson, an' make real money offen her. An' I'll git Ace-In-The-Hole too. I found that girl first! She's mine—an' by God, I'll have her!" He startedfor the river. At the top of the bank, he paused: "What's ailin 'em?" he roared, "Why don't they come! Standin' there gogglin' like fools!"
"They say," explained Yondo, in jargon, "That they want to see the rum first."
"Tell 'em I left it up to his shack!" roared the man, "Tell 'em anything, jest so they come. Git my dogs an' come on. We'll lead out, an' they'll foller if they think they's hooch in it."
Yondo headed the dogs down the trail, and Claw threw himself upon the sled and watched the drunken Indians string out behind, yelling, whooping, staggering and falling in their eagerness for more hooch.
When they came in sight of the cabin, Claw saw that it was dark. "You slip up and see what you kin find out," he ordered Yondo, "An' I'll stay here with the dogs an' handle the Injuns when they come along."
Five minutes later the Indian returned and reported that there was no one in the cabin, and that the door was open. With a curse, Claw headed the dogs up the bank, and pushed through the open door. Match in hand, he stumbled and fell sprawling over the body of the Captain of theBelva Lou, uttering a shriek of terror as his bare hand came in contact with the hairy face. Scrambling to his feet, he fumbled for another match, and with trembling fingers, managed to light the little bracket lamp. "Choked him to death bare handed!" he cried inhorror, "And he'd of done me that way, too! But where be they? Look, they be'n here!" The man pointed to the disordered supplies, that had been thrown about in the haste of departure. "They've pulled out!" he cried. "Git out there an' find their trail!"
Yondo returned, and pointed to the westward, holding up three fingers, and making the sign of a heavily loaded sled.
"That'll be him, an' her, an' the Injun," said Claw, "an' they're hittin' fer Fort Norman." Reaching down, he picked up a sack of flour and carrying it out to the sled, ordered Yondo to help with the other supplies. Suddenly, he sprang erect and gazed toward the west. "I wonder if he would?" he cried aloud, "I'll bet he'll take her clean to Dawson!" He laughed harshly, "An' if he does, she's mine—mine, an' no trouble nor risk takin' her there! Onct back among the saloons, Ace-In-The-Hole will start in on the hooch—an' then I'll git her."
From far up the river came the whoop-whoroo of the drunken Indians. "Quick," cried Claw, "Git that pack throw'd together. When they git here an' find out they ain't no more hooch, they'll butcher me an' you!" And almost before the Indian had secured the lashings, Claw started the dogs, and leaving the Indian to handle the gee-pole, struck out on the trail of Brent.
It was no part of Claw's plan to overtake the trio. Indeed, it was the last thing in the world hewanted to do. At midnight they camped with a good ten miles between themselves and the drunken Dog Ribs. In the morning they pushed on, keeping a sharp lookout ahead. Soon Brent's trail began to drift full of snow, and by noon it was obliterated altogether. Thereupon Claw ordered the Indian to shape his own course for Fort Norman, and because of Yondo's thorough knowledge of the country, arrived in sight of the post on the evening of the sixteenth day.
When he learned from an Indian wood chopper, that no other outfit had arrived, Claw pulled a mile up the river and waited.
Two days later, from the summit of a nearby hill, he saw the outfit pull in, and with glittering eyes he watched it depart, knowing that Brent would hit for the Yukon by way of the Bonnet Plume Pass.
Claw paid off Yondo and struck straight westward alone, crossing the divide by means of a steep and narrow pass known only to a few. Thus, shortening the trail by some four or five days, he showed up in Cuter Malone's Klondike Palace at the height of an evening's hilarity.
Cuter greeted him from behind the bar: "Hello, Claw! Thought you was over with the whalers!"
"Was," answered Claw, "Jest got back," he drained the glass Malone had set before him, and with a sidewise quirk of the head, sauntered into a little back room.
A few minutes later, Cuter followed, carefully closing and locking the door after him: "What's on yer mind?" he asked, as he seated himself beside the little table.
"They's aplenty on it. But mostly it's a girl."
"What's the matter? One git away from you?"
"She ain't yet, but she's damn near it. She'll be here in a few days, an' she's the purtiest piece that ever hit the Yukon."
"Must be right pert then, cause that's coverin' quite a bit of territory."
"Yes, an' you could cover twict as much an' still not find nothin' that would touch her fer looks."
"Where is she?"
"She's comin'. Ace-In-The-Hole's bringin' her in."
"Ace-In-The-Hole! Yer crazy as hell! First place, Ace-In-The-Hole ain't here no more. Folks says old R.E. Morse got him an' he drounded hisself in the river. Camillo Bill an' that bunch he used to trot with, has combed Dawson with a fine tooth comb fer him, an' they can't find him nowheres."
"Drounded?—hell!" exclaimed Claw, "Ain't I be'n to his shack on the Coppermine? Didn't he come up to theBelva Louan' git drunk, an' then git lost, an' then find his way back to his shack an' choke the life out of Cap Jinkins? Yes sir, bare handed! I looked at Cap's throat where he lay dead on thefloor an' it was damn near squose in two! An' he'd of squose mine, if he could caught me!"
"What about the gal? What's he got to do with her? He wouldn't stand fer no such doin's, an' you'd ort to know it. Didn't he knock you down fer whalin' one with a dog whip!"
"Yes, an' I'll even up the score," growled Claw savagely, "An' me an' you'll shove a heft of dust in the safe fer profits. It's like this. She's his girl, an' he's bringin' her here."
"His girl! Say Claw, what you handin' me? Time was when Ace-In-The-Hole could of had his pick of any of 'em. But that time's gone. They wouldn't nokloochlook at him twict, now. He's that fer gone with the hooch. He's a bum."
"You know a hell of a lot about it! Didn't you jest git through tellin' me he was drounded? An' now he's a bum! Both of which they ain't neither one right—by a damn sight. He's be'n out there where they ain't no hooch, an' he's as good a man as he ever was—as long as he can't git the hooch. But here in Dawson he kin git it—see? An' me an' you has got to see that he does git it. An' we'll git the girl. I've figured it all out, comin' over. Was goin' to fetch her myself, but it would of be'n a hell of a job, an' then there's the Mounted. But this way we git her delivered, C.O.D. right to our door, you might say. Startin' about day after tomorrow, we'll put lookouts on the Klondike River, an' the Indian River. They're comin' in over theBonnet Plume. When they git here the lookout will tell us where they go. Then we rig up some kind of excuse to git him away, an' when we've got him paralysed drunk, we'll send a message to the girl that he needs her, an' we'll bring her here—an'—well, the middle room above the little dance hall up stairs will hold her—it's helt 'em before."
Malone grinned: "Guess I didn't know what I was up to when I built that room, eh? They kin yell their head off an' you can't hear 'em outside the door. All right, Claw, you tend to the gittin' her here an' I'll pass the word around amongst the live ones that's got the dust. We ain't had no new ones in this winter, an' the boys'll 'preciate it."
It was evening. Brent and Snowdrift had climbed from the little trail camp at the edge of the timber line, to the very summit of the great Bonnet Plume Pass to watch the sun sink to rest behind the high-flung peaks of the mighty Alaskan ranges.
"Oh, isn't it grand! And wonderful!" cried the girl as her eyes swept the vast panorama of glistening white mountains. "How small and insignificant I feel! And how stern, and rugged, and hard it all looks."
"Yes, darling," whispered Brent, as his arm stole about her waist, "It is stern, and rugged, and hard. But it is clean, and honest, and grand. It is the world as God made it."
"I have never been in the mountains before," saidthe girl, "I have seen them from the Mackenzie, but they were so far away they never seemed real. We have always hunted upon the barrens. Tell me, is it all like this? And where is the Yukon?"
Brent smiled at her awe of the vastness: "Pretty much all like this," he answered. "Alaska is a land of mountains. Of course there are wide valleys, and mighty rivers, and along the rivers are the towns and the mining camps."
"I have never seen a town," breathed the girl, "What will we do when we get there?"
"We will go straight to the Reeves," he answered, with a glad smile. "Reeves is the man who staked me for the trip into the barrens, and his wife is an old, old friend of mine. We were born and grew up in the same town, and we will go straight to them."
"I wonder whether she will like me? I have known no white women except Sister Mercedes."
"Darling, she will love you!" cried Brent, "Everyone will love you! And we will be married in their house."
"But, what will he think when you tell him you have not made a strike?"
Brent laughed: "He will be the first to see that I have made a strike, dear—the richest strike in all the North."
"And you didn't tell me!" cried the girl, "Tell me about it, now! Was it on the Coppermine?"
"Yes, it was on the Coppermine. I made thegreat strike, one evening in the moonlight—when the dearest girl in the world told me she loved me."
Snowdrift raised her wondrous dark eyes to his: "Isn't it wonderful to love as we love?" she whispered, "To be all the world to each other? I do not care if we never make a strike. All I want is to be with you always. And if we do not make a strike we will live in our tepee and snare rabbits, and hunt, and be happy, always."
Brent covered the upturned face with kisses: "I guess we can manage something better than a tepee," he smiled. "I've got more than half of Reeves' dust left, and I've been thinking the matter over. The fact is, I don't think much of that Coppermine country for gold. I reckon we'll get a house and settle down in Dawson for a while, and I'll take the job Reeves offered me, and work till I get him paid off, and Camillo Bill, and enough ahead for a grub-stake, and then we'll see what's to be done. We'll have lots of good times, too. There's the Reeves' and—and——"
Brent paused, and the girl smiled, "What's the matter? Can't you think of any more?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I don't know any others who—that is, married folks, our kind, you know. The men I knew best are all single men. But, lots of people have come in with the dredge companies. The Reeves will know them."
"There is that girl you called Kitty," suggested Snowdrift.
"Yes—" answered Brent, a little awkwardly, "That's so. But, she's—a little different."
"But I will like her, I am sure, because she nursed you when you were sick. I know what you mean!" she exclaimed abruptly, and Brent saw that the dark eyes flashed, "You mean that people point at her the finger of scorn—as they would have pointed at me, had I been—as I thought I was. But it is all wrong, and I will not do that! And I will hate those who do! And I will tell them so!" she stamped her moccasined foot in anger, and the man laughed:
"My goodness!" he exclaimed feigning alarm, "I can see from here where I better get home to meals on time, and not forget to put the cat out."
"Now, you are making fun of me," she pouted, "But it is wrong, and you know it is, and maybe the very ones who do the pointing are worse in their hearts than she is."
"You said it!" cried Brent, "The ones that look down upon the frailties of others, are the very ones who need watching themselves. And that is a good thing to remember in picking out friends. And, darling, you can go as far as you like with Kitty. I'm for you. She's got a big heart, and there's a lot more to her than there is to most of 'em. But, come, it's dark, and we must be getting back to camp. See the little fire down on the edge of the timber line. It looks a thousand miles away."
And as they picked their way, side by side, downthe long slope, Brent was conscious that with the growing tenderness that each day's association with his wonder woman engendered, there was also a growing respect for her outlook upon life. Her years in the open had developed a sense of perception that was keen to separate the dross from the pure gold of human intent. "She's a great girl," he breathed, as he glanced at her profile, half hidden in the starlight, "She deserves the best that's in a man—and she'll get it!"