The sound of little Marcel's piping voice reached them from the outside. Steve turned and glanced out of the window. Oolak was bringing in his train, with its five powerful dogs. Julyman with a club was busy, with little Marcel's assistance, beating off the ferocious welcome of dogs of the post.
For a moment he watched the boy's amazing efforts. Then as the tumult subsided he turned again to the patient woman awaiting his verdict.
"You're a good woman, An-ina," he said simply. "You've told me the whole thing as you see it. Well, I guess I can't ask more. Anyway I'm camping here for the winter, an' during that time I'll need to wake some of these 'sleepers.' I've got to get out and see what happened at that 'big place.' Later on, when the snow goes, why—Say, I guess there isn't a thing to keep you and little Marcel around here—now."
Steve was confronted with six months of desperate winter on the plateau of Unaga. It was an outlook that demanded all the strength of his simple faith. He was equal to the tasks lying before him, but not for one moment did he underestimate them.
For all the harshness of the life which claimed him Steve's whole nature was imbued with a saneness of sympathy, a deep kindliness of spirit that left him master of himself under every emotion. The great governing factor in his life was a strength of honest purpose. A purpose, in its turn, prompted by his sense of right and justice, and those things which have their inspiration in a broad generosity of spirit. So it was that under all conditions his conscience remained at peace.
It was supported by such feelings that he faced the tasks which the desperate heart of Unaga imposed upon him. He had the care of an orphaned child, he had the care of that child's Indian nurse, and the lives and well-being of his own two men charged up against him. He also had the investigations which he had been sent to make, and furthermore, there was his own life to be preserved for the woman he loved, and the infant child of their love, waiting for his return a thousand miles away. The work was the work of a giant rather than a man; but never for one moment did his confidence fail him.
The days following the arrival at the post were urgent. They were days of swift thought and prompt action. The open season was gone, and the struggle for existence might begin without a moment's warning. Steve knew. Everyone knew. That is, everyone except little Marcel.
The boy accepted every changing condition without thought, and busied himself with the preparations of his new friends. It had no significance for him that all day long the forest rang with the clip of the felling axe. Neither did the unceasing work of the buck-saw, as it ploughed its way through an endless stream of sapling trunks, afford him anything beyond the joy of lending his assistance. Then, too, the morning survey of the elemental prospect, when his elders searched the skies, fearing and hoping, and grimly accepting that which the fates decreed, was only one amongst his many joys. It was all a great and fascinating game, full of interest and excitement for a budding capacity which Steve was quick to recognize.
But the child's greatest delight was the moment when "Uncle Steve" invited him to assist him in discovering the economic resources of his own home. As the examination proceeded Steve learned many things which could never have reached him through any other source. He obtained a peep into the lives of these people through the intimate eyes of the child, and his keen perception read through the tumbling, eager words to the great truths of which the child was wholly unaware. And it was a story which left him with the profoundest admiration and pity for the dead man who was the genius of it all.
Not for one moment did Steve permit a shadow to cross the child's sunny, smiling face. From the first moment when the responsibility for Marcel's little life had fallen into his hands his mind was made up. By every artifice the boy must be kept from all knowledge of the tragedy that had befallen him. When he asked for his mother he was told that she was so sick that she could not be worried. This was during the first two days. After that he was told that she had gone away. She had gone away to meet his father, and that when she came back she would bring his "pop" with her. A few added details of a fictitious nature completely satisfied, and the child accepted without question that which his hero told him.
He was permitted to see nothing of the little silent cortège that left the post late on the second night. He saw nothing of the grief-laden eyes of An-ina as she followed the three men bearing their burden of the dead mother, enclosed in a coffin made out of the packing cases with which the fort was so abundantly supplied. He had seen the men digging in the forest earlier in the day, and had been more than satisfied when "Uncle Steve" assured him they were digging a well. Later on he would discover the great beacon of stones which marked the "well." But, for the moment, while the curtain was being rung down on the tragedy of his life, he was sleeping calmly, and dreaming those happy things which only child slumbers may know.
Good fortune smiled on the early efforts at the fort For ten days the arch-enemy withheld his hand. For ten days the weary sun was dragged from its rest by the evil "dogs" which seemed to dominate its movements completely. But each day their evil eyes grew more and more portentious and threatening as they watched the human labourers they seemed to regard with so much contempt.
Then came the change. It was the morning of the eleventh day. The "dogs" had hidden their faces and the weary sun remained obscured behind a mass of grey cloud. The crisp breeze which had swept the valley with its invigorating breath had died out, and the world had suddenly become threateningly silent.
A few great snowflakes fluttered silently to the ground. Steve was at the gateway of the stockade, and his constant attendant was beside him in his bundle of furs. The man's eyes were measuring as they gazed up at the grey sky. Little Marcel was wisely studying, too.
"Maybe us has snow," he observed sapiently at last, as he watched the falling flakes.
"Yes. I guess we'll get snow."
Steve smiled down at the little figure beside him.
"Wot makes snow, Uncle Steve?" the boy demanded.
"Why, the cold, I guess. It just freezes the rain in the clouds. And when they get so heavy they can't stay up any longer, why—they just come tumbling down and makes folk sit around the stove and wish they wouldn't."
"Does us wish they wouldn't?"
"Most all the time."
The child considered deeply. Then his face brightened hopefully.
"Bimeby us digs, Uncle Steve," he said. "Boy likes digging."
Steve held out a hand and Marcel yielded his.
"Boy'll help 'Uncle Steve,' eh?"
"I's always help Uncle Steve."
The spontaneity of the assurance remained unanswerable.
Steve glanced back into the enclosure. Then his hand tightened upon the boy's with gentle pressure.
"Come on, old fellow. We'll get along in, and make that stove, and—wish it wouldn't."
He led the way back to the house.
The snowfall grew in weight and density. Silent, still, the world of Unaga seemed to have lost all semblance of life. White, white, eternal white, and above the heavy grey of an overburdened sky. Solitude, loneliness, desperately complete. It was the silence which well nigh drives the human brain to madness. From minutes to hours; from inches to feet. Day and night. Day and night. Snow, snow all the time, till the tally of days grew, and the weeks slowly passed. It almost seemed as if Nature, in her shame, were seeking to hide up the sight of her own creation.
For three silent weeks the snow continued to fall without a break. Then it ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the fort buried well nigh to the eaves. The herald of change was a wild rush of wind sweeping down the valley from the broken hills which formed its northern limits. And, within half an hour, the silence was torn, and ripped, and tattered, and the world transformed, and given up to complete and utter chaos. A hurricane descended on the post, and its timbers groaned under the added burden. The forest giants laboured and protested at the merciless onslaught, while the crashing of trees boomed out its deep note amidst the shriek of the storm. As the fury of it all rose, so rose up the snowfall of weeks into a blinding fog which shut out every sight of the desolate plateau as though it had never been.
Five weeks saw the extent of winter's first onslaught. And after that for awhile, the battle resolved itself into a test of human endurance, with the temperature hovering somewhere below 60° below zero. For a few short hours the sun would deign to appear above the horizon, prosecute its weary journey across the skyline, and ultimately die its daily death with almost pitiful indifference. Then some twenty hours, when the world was abandoned to the starry magnificence of the Arctic night, supported by the brilliant light of a splendid aurora.
It was during this time that Steve pursued his researches into the lives of these people. He was sitting now in the laboratory, which was a building apart from all the rest. It was the home of the chemist's research. It was equipped with wonderful completeness. Besides the shelves containing all the paraphernalia of a chemist's profession, and the counter which supported a distilling apparatus, and which was clearly intended for other experiment as well, there was a desk, and a small wood stove, which was alight, and radiating a pleasant heat.
It was the desk which held most interest for Steve. It was here he looked to find, in the dead man's papers, in his letters, in his records and books, the answer to every question in his mind.
For some hours he had been reading from one of the volumes of the man's exhaustive diary. It was a living document containing a fascinating story of the chemist's hopes and fears for the great objects which had led to his abandonment of the civilized world for the bitter heights of Unaga. And in every line of it Steve realized it could only have been written by a man of strong, deep conviction and enthusiasm, a man whose purpose soared far above the mere desire for gain. He felt, in the reading, he was listening to the words of a man who was all and more, far more, than his wife had claimed for him.
At last the fire in the stove shook down and he became aware of the work of busy shovels going on just outside. He pulled out his watch, and the yellow light of the oil lamp told him that he had been reading for nearly three hours. Setting a marker in the book he closed it reluctantly, and prepared to return the litter of documents to the drawers which stood open beside him.
At that moment the door opened, and the tall figure of the squaw An-ina stood in the framing.
"Him supper all fixed," she announced, in her quietly assured fashion.
Steve looked up, and his eyes gazed squarely into the woman's handsome face. He was thinking rapidly.
"Say An-ina," he began at last. "I've been reading a whole heap. It's what the man, Brand, wrote. He seems to have been a pretty great feller."
The woman nodded as he paused.
"Heap good man," she commented.
Her eyes lit with an emotion there could be no misunderstanding. For all the savage stock from which she sprang the dead white man had claimed a great loyalty and devotion.
"You see, An-ina," Steve went on, "I came along up here to chase up the murder of two men. My work's to locate all the facts, arrest the murderers, take them back to where I come from, and make my report."
"Sure. That how An-ina mak it so."
The woman's eyes were questioning. She was wondering at the meaning of all this preliminary. And she was not without disquiet. She had come to realize that, with the death of her mistress, only this man and his scouts stood between her and disaster. She could not rid herself of the dread which pursued her now. Little Marcel was a white child. This man was white. She—she was just a squaw. She was of the colour of these "Sleeper" Indians. Would they take the child of her mother heart from her, and leave her to her fate amongst these folk who slept the whole winter through?
"Yes," Steve was gazing thoughtfully at the light which came from under the rough cardboard shade of the lamp. "Well, the whole look of things has kind of changed since I've—" he indicated the papers on the desk—"taken a look into all these."
"Him read—much. Him look—always look. So."
Steve nodded.
"That's so. Well, I've got to get busy now, and do the things I was sent up to do. But it seems likely there's going to be no murderer to take back with me. It looks like a report of two men dead, by each other's hand, a woman dead through accident, and you, and little Marcel left alive. That being so I guess I can't leave you two up here. Do you get that?" He set his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands. "There's the boy, he's white," he said, watching the squaw's troubled face. "He's got to go right back with me, when my work's done. And you—why, you'd best come, too. I'd hate to rob you of the boy. You'll both need to come right along. And the big folk will say what's to be done with you when we get back. How do you say?"
The trouble had completely vanished from the woman's eyes. It was like the passing of a great shadow. Their velvet softness radiated her thankfulness, her gratitude.
"It good. Much good," she cried, with a sudden abandonment of that stoic unemotional manner which was native to her. "An-ina love white boy. She love him much. Boy go? Then An-ina all go dead. An-ina wait. So storm devil him come. Then An-ina go out, and sleep, sleep, and not wake never no more. An-ina keep boy? Then An-ina much happy. An-ina help white man officer. An-ina strong. Mak long trail. An-ina no sick. No mak tire. Work all time. An' help—much help white man officer. So."
Steve's smiling eyes indicated his acceptance of the woman's protestations.
"That's all right," he said. Then he went on after a moment's thought: "Now, you know these folk. These 'Sleepers.' Do you know their lingo—their language? I've got to make a big pow-wow with their head man. I guess that can't be done till they wake. You figger they wake at intervals, and they dope themselves again. If that's so, I've got to get their big chief right at that time. D' you guess you could take me right along to get a look at these folk, and, after that, fix things so I can grab their big man first time he wakes?"
The woman nodded at once, and her eyes wore a contented smile.
"Sure. An-ina know. Show him white man officer. Oh, yes. Show him all this folk. Oh, yes. When? Now? Oh, yes. Him not snow. It good. Then sometime An-ina watch. She watch, watch, all time, and when him wake, an' eat, then him white man come an' mak pow-wow. Good?"
"Fine." Steve returned all the papers to the drawers in the desk and stood up. "Guess I'll eat right away, and after that we'll get along an' take a peek at these folks. The boys got the snow clear outside?"
"Him dig much. Snow plenty gone."
"Good. And little Marcel?" Steve enquired, with a tender smile. "Has he been digging?"
The squaw's eyes lit.
"Oh, yes, him boy dig. An' Julyman, an' him Oolak all laff. Boy dig all time, everywhere." An-ina laughed in her silent way. Then she sobered, and a great warmth shone in her eyes. "Boss white man officer love him boy? Yes?"
Steve nodded in his friendly way.
"Oh, I guess so," he admitted. "You see, I've got a little girl baby of my own way back—where I come from."
"So."
There was no mistaking the understanding in the woman's significant ejaculation.
Steve and An-ina passed out into the wonderful glowing twilight. There was no need for the sun in the steely glittering heavens. The full moonlight of the lower latitudes was incomparable with the Arctic night. From end to end in a great arc the aurora lit the world, and left the stars blazing impotently. The cold was at its lowest depths, and not a breath of wind stirred the air. Up to the eyes in furs the two figures moved out beyond the stockade into the shadowed world.
The squaw led the way, floundering over the frozen snow-drifts with the gentle padding sound of her moccasined feet. Steve kept hard behind her yielding himself entirely to her guidance.
Out in the open no sign remained of the dome-roofed settlement of the Sleepers. The huts had served to buttress the snow for the blizzard. They were buried deep under the great white ridges which the storm had left.
It was something upon which Steve had not calculated. And he swiftly drew the squaw's attention.
"Say," he cried, pointing at the place where the huts had been visible, "I kind of forgot the snow."
The squaw's eyes were just visible under her fur hood. Their brightness suggested a smile.
"No 'Sleeper' man by this hut. Oh, no," she exclaimed decidedly. "No winter, then him 'Sleeper' man live by this hut. Winter come, then him sleep by woods. Much hut. Plenty. All cover, hid-up. Come, I show."
Steve was more than relieved. The snow had looked like upsetting all his calculation.
Once clear of the banked snow-drifts, which rose to the height of the stockade, they moved rapidly over the crusted surface towards the dark wall of woods which frowned down upon them in the twilight, and, in a few moments, the light of the splendid aurora was shut out, and the myriad of night lights were suddenly extinguished.
"Keep him much close," An-ina cried, her mitted hand grasping Steve by the arm. "Bimeby him bush go all thick. An-ina know."
They trudged on, and as they proceeded deeper and deeper into the darkness of the forest, Steve's eyes became accustomed. The snow broke into patches, and soon they found themselves more often walking over the underlay of rotting pine cones than the winter carpet of the Northern world. The temperature, too, rose, and Steve, at least, was glad to loosen the furs from about his cheeks and nose.
Half an hour of rapid walking proved the squaw's words. The lank tree-trunks, down aisles of which they had been passing, became lost in a wealth of dense undergrowth. It was here that the woman paused for her bearings. But her fault was brief, and in a few moments she picked up the opening of a distinct but winding pathway. The windings, the entanglement of the growth which lined it, made the path seem interminable. But the confidence and decision of his guide left Steve without the slightest doubt. Presently his confidence was justified.
The path led directly to the entrance of a stoutly constructed habitation. Even in the darkness Steve saw that the hut exactly occupied a cleared space. The surrounding bush, in its wild entanglement, completely overgrew it. The result was an extraordinarily effective hiding. Only precise knowledge could ever have hoped to discover it.
An-ina paused at the low door and pointed beyond.
"Track him go long way. More hut. Much, plenty. Oh, yes. Much hut. This, big man chief. All him fam'ly. Come."
She bent low, and passed into the tunnel-like entrance, built of closely interlaced Arctic willow. A dozen paces or more brought them to a hanging curtain of skins. The woman raised this, and held it while Steve passed beyond. A few paces farther on was a second curtain, and An-ina paused before she raised it.
"So," she said, pointing at it. "All him Sleepers."
Steve understood. And with a queer feeling, almost of excitement, he waited while the woman cautiously raised the last barrier. He scarcely knew what to expect. Perhaps complete darkness, and the sound of stertorous, drugged slumber. That which was revealed, however, came as a complete surprise.
The first thing he became aware of was light, and a reeking atmosphere of burning oil. The next was the warmth and flicker of two wood fires. And after that a general odour which he recognized at once. It was the same heavy, pungent aroma that pervaded the fort where the dead chemist stored the small but precious quantities of the strange weed he traded.
They stepped cautiously within, and stood in silent contemplation of the fantastic picture revealed by the three primitive lights. They emanated from what looked like earthenware bowls of oil, upon which some sort of worsted wicks were floating. These were augmented by the ruddy flicker of two considerable wood fires, which burned within circular embankments constructed on the hard earthen floor.
The lights and fires were a revelation to the man, and he wondered at them, and the means by which they were tended. But his speculations were quickly swallowed up by the greater interest of the rest of the scene.
The hut was large. Far larger than might have been supposed; and Steve estimated it at something like thirty feet long by twenty wide. The roof was thatched with reedy grass, bound down with thongs of rawhide to the sapling rafters. The ridge of the pitched roof was supported by two tree-trunks, which had been cut to the desired height, and left rooted in the ground, while the two ends of it rested upon the end walls. The walls themselves were constructed of thick mud plaster, overlaying a foundation of laced willow branches. The whole construction was of unusual solidity, and the smoke-blackened thatch yielded two holes, Indian fashion, through which the fire smoke was permitted exit.
But Steve's main interest lay in the drug-suspended life which the place contained. It was there, still, silent. It lay in two rows down the length of either side of the great interior. In the dim light he counted it. There were forty-two distinct piles of furs, each yielding the rough outline of a prone human figure beneath it. Each figure was deathly still. And the whole suggested some primitive mortuary, with its freight, awaiting identification.
For many moments Steve remained powerless to withdraw his fascinated gaze. And all the while he was thinking of Julyman, and the story he had been told so long ago. He remembered how he had derided it as beyond belief.
At last the fascination passed, and he turned his gaze in search of those things which made this extraordinary scene possible. They were there. Oh, yes. Julyman had not lied. No one had lied about these creatures of hibernation. Piles of food were set out in earthenware bowls, similar to the bowls which contained the floating lights. Then there were other vessels, set ready to hand beside the food, and he conjectured their contents to be the necessary brew of the famous drug.
An-ina's voice broke in upon his reflections.
"Him all much sleep," she said. "No wake now. Bimeby. Oh, yes."
She spoke in her ordinary tone. She had no fear of waking these "dead" creatures.
"Tell me," Steve said after a pause, "who keeps these fires going? Who watches them? And those oil lights. Do they burn by themselves?"
An-ina made a little sound. It was almost a laugh.
"Him light burn all time. Him seal oil," she explained. "Indian man much 'fraid for devil-man come. Him light keep him devil-man 'way all time. Winter, yes. Summer, yes. Plenty oil. Only wind mak him blow out. Fire, oh yes. When him wakes bimeby him mak plenty fire. Each man. Him sit by fire all time eat. Then him sleep once more plenty. Each man wake, each man mak fire. So fire all time. No freeze dead."
"None awake now," demurred Steve lowering his voice unconsciously.
"Oh, no," returned the squaw. "No man wake now. Bimeby yes. H'st!"
The woman's sudden, low-voiced warning startled Steve. Her Indian eyes had been quicker than his. There was a movement under the fur robes of one of the curious heaps in the distance, to the left, and she pointed at it.
Steve followed the direction indicated. Sure enough there was movement. One of the men had turned over on his back.
"Him wake—bimeby," whispered the squaw. "Come!"
She moved towards the doorway, and Steve followed closely. In a moment they had passed the curtained barriers out into the fresh night air.
Steve paused.
"Would that be the headman?" he demanded.
An-ina shook her head.
"Him headman by door. Him sleep where we stand. Him sleep by door. Him brave. Keep devil-man away. So."
"I see," Steve moved on down the path. "Well, we'll get right back. I'm going to reckon on you, An-ina. Each day you go. When the headman wakes you speak with him. You tell him white man officer of the Great White Chief come. He looks for dead white men. You must tell him to keep awake while you bring white man officer. See?"
"Sure. An-ina know. An-ina mak him fix all so."
The enclosure of the fort was at last cleared of snow. It was now ready, waiting for the elements to render abortive in a few short hours the labour of many days. Julyman and Steve had spent the brief daylight in setting up a snow-break before the open sheds which housed the sleds and canoes. Oolak was at the quarters of the train dogs at the back of the store. These were his charge. He drove them, he fed them, and cared for them. And his art lay in his nimble manipulation of the club, at once the key to discipline, and his only means of opening up a way to their savage intelligence. Steve shared in every labour and none knew better than he the value of work and discipline under the conditions of their long imprisonment upon the bitter plateau.
Daylight had merged into twilight, and the cold blaze of the Northern night had again enthroned itself. It was on the abandonment of his own labours that Steve's attention was at once drawn to others going on beyond the wall of the stockade. And forthwith he passed out of the gates to investigate.
That which he discovered brought a smile to his eyes. From the summit of a drift, which stood the height of the timbered walls, he found himself gazing down upon the quaintly associated figures of little Marcel and his nurse. They were busy, particularly the boy. Amidst a confusion of coiled, rawhide ropes An-ina, hammer in hand, was securing a rope end to the angle of the wall, while Marcel, with tireless vocal energy, was encouraging and instructing her to his own complete satisfaction.
The sturdy, busy little figure, so overburdened with its bulk of furs, was always a sight that delighted Steve. The childish enthusiasm was so inspiriting, so heedless, so lost to everything but the sheer delight of existence.
While he stood there the rope was made secure and the squaw's efforts ceased. Instantly the scene changed. The high spirits of the boy sought to forestall the next move. With unthinking abandon he flung himself upon the pile of ropes, and manfully struggled to gather them into his baby arms. The result was inevitable. In a moment hopeless confusion reigned and An-ina was to the rescue disentangling him. It was in the midst of this that Marcel became aware of Steve's presence. The moment he was successfully freed he abandoned his nurse for the object of his new worship.
"Us makes life-line," he panted, scrambling up the snow-drift. "Boy fix it all a way through the forest to 'Sleeper' men."
Steve reached out a helping hand, and hauled the little fellow up to his side.
"Ah. I was guessing that way," he said. "And An-ina was helping boy, eh?"
"Oh, 'ess. An-ina help. An-ina always help boy. And boy help Uncle Steve."
Steve led the way down. An-ina was waiting with smiling patience.
"Setting out a line to the Sleepers' camp?" he said, as they reached the woman's side.
An-ina nodded and began to coil the ropes afresh.
"It much good," she said. "Bimeby it storm plenty. So. Each day An-ina mak headman hut. When him wake then white man officer go mak big talk. Storm, it not matter nothin'. No."
"Fine," Steve agreed warmly. "You're a good squaw, An-ina."
His approval had instant effect.
"Him good? An-ina glad," she observed contentedly.
An-ina moved on towards the forest bearing her burden of ropes, paying out the line as she went.
Steve watched her, his steady eyes full of profound thought.
"Us helps An-ina, Uncle Steve?" enquired the boy doubtfully.
The man had almost forgotten the mitted hand he was still clasping. Now he looked down into the up-turned, enquiring eyes.
"I don't guess An-ina needs us for awhile," he said. Then, after a pause: "No," he added. "Boy's worked hard—very hard. Maybe we'll go back to the fort. And—Uncle tell boy a story? Eh?"
Steve had no need to wait for the torrent of verbal appreciation that came. The boy's delight at the prospect was instant. So they forthwith abandoned the snow-drifts for the warm interior of the store.
Their furs removed, Steve settled himself on the bench which stood before the stove. The room was shadowed by the twilight outside, but he did not light a lamp. There was oil enough for their needs in the stores, but eventualities had to be considered, and rigid economy in all things was necessary.
The picture was complete. The dimly lit store, with its traffic counter deserted, and its shelves sadly depleted of trade. The staunch, plastered and lime-washed walls, which revealed the stress of climate in the gaping cracks that were by no means infrequent. The hard-beaten earth floor swept clean. The glowing stove that knew no attention from the cleaner's brush. Then the two figures on the rough bench, which was worn and polished by long years of use.
The completion of the picture, however, lay in the personalities for which the rest was only a setting. Steve, in his buckskin shirt and moleskin trousers, which divested him of the last sign of his relationship to the force which administered the white man's law. His young face so set and weather-tanned, so full of decision and strength, and his eyes, far gazing, like those of the men of the deep seas. And the boy upon his knee, his little hands clasping each other in his lap. With his curling, fair hair, and his wide, questioning eyes gazing up into the man's face. With his small body clad from head to foot in the beaded buckskin, which it was his nurse's joy to fashion for him. There was a wonderfully intimate touch in it all. It was a touch that powerfully illustrated the lives of those who are far removed from the luxury of civilization, and who depend for every comfort, even for their very existence, upon those personal physical efforts, the failure of which, at any moment, must mean final and complete disaster.
"Tell boy of bears, an' wolves, an' Injuns, an' debble-men, wot An-ina hers scairt of."
The demand was prompt and decided.
"An-ina scared of devil-men?" Steve smilingly shook his head. "It's only stupid 'Sleeper' men scared of devil-men. Anyway there's no devil-men. Just wolves, and bears, that boy'll hunt and kill when he grows up."
"But hers says ther's debble-men," the boy protested, his eyes wide with awe.
Steve shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. "Uncle Steve knows. He knows better than Indians. Better than An-ina. Boy always remember that."
"Oh, 'ess, boy 'members."
The child impulsively thrust an arm about the man's neck and Steve's arm tightened unconsciously about the little body.
"Tell us 'tory," the child urged.
Steve's contemplative eyes were upon the glowing stove.
"What'll it be about?" he said at last. Then, as though suddenly inspired, "Why, I know, sure. It's about a little boy. A real bright little boy. Oh, I guess he was all sorts of a boy—like—like Marcel."
"Wot's 'all sorts'?" the child demanded.
"Why, just a sample of all the good things a boy can be. Same as you."
The explanation seemed sufficient, and Marcel's eyes were turned dreamily upon the red patch on the side of the stove.
"'Ess," he agreed.
"Well, Uncle Steve travelled a great, long way. It was dreadful hard. There were bears, and wolves, I guess, and queer Indian folk, and rivers, and lakes, and forests; forests much bigger and darker than boy's ever seen."
"Wos thems bigger than the Sleepers' forest?" The challenge was instantly taken up.
"Oh, yes."
"An' darker, an' fuller of debble-men?"
"Much darker, and there were no devil-men, because there just aren't any."
"No. Course not," the boy agreed readily.
"That's so. Well, Uncle Steve came a long, long way, and his dogs were tired, and his Indians were tired——"
"Wos thems like Julyman an' Oolak?"
"Yes. That's who the Indians were. Uncle always has Julyman and Oolak. Well, he came to a valley where he found a little boy. All sorts of a boy. And he liked the little boy, and the little boy liked him. Didn't he?"
"'Ess."
"Well, the little chap was alone."
"Didn't hims have no An-ina?"
"Oh, yes. He had his nurse. But his Pop had gone away, and so had his Mummy. So he was kind of alone. Well, the little boy and Uncle Steve became great friends. Oh, big friends. Ever so big. And Uncle Steve didn't want ever to leave the little boy. And I don't guess the little boy ever wanted to leave Uncle Steve. But then you see there was the Pop and Mummy, who'd gone away, and of course the boy liked them ever so much. So Uncle Steve was in a dilemma."
"Wot's 'd'lemma'?"
"Why just a 'fix.' Like boy was in when he got all mussed up with the ropes just now."
"Wos you mussed up with ropes?"
"Oh, no. Only in a 'fix.'"
"'Ess." The briefest explanations seemed to satisfy.
"Well, Uncle Steve guessed the Pop an' Mummy wouldn't come back for ever so long, maybe not till the boy was grown up. So he guessed he'd take the little boy—such a jolly little chap—with him, back to his home, where there was a nice Auntie, and a little baby cousin. A little girl, such a pretty little dear, all eyes, and fat cheeks, that sort of tell you life's the bulliest thing ever. Well, he took him to his home, such a long, long way, over snow, and over rivers and lakes, where there's fishes, and through forests where there's wolves, an' bears——"
"Does hims see any debble-mens?"
"No. Because Uncle Steve says there just aren't any."
"But An-ina sezes ther' is."
"An-ina's a squaw."
"'Ess."
"Well, after long time this funny little fellow finds his new Auntie, and he loves his little cousin right away, and he has such a bully time with her. They play together. Such games. She pulls his hair and laughs, and the boy, who's such a bright little kid, likes it because she's a little girl, and they grow, and grow up together, and then—and then——"
"Does hims marry her, an' live happy ever after?"
The question was disconcerting. But Steve did his best.
"Well, I can't just say, old fellow," he demurred. "You see, I hadn't fixed that."
"But they allus does in my Mummy's 'tories," came the instant protest.
"Do they? Well, then I guess these'll have to," the man agreed. "We'll fix it that way."
"'Ess. An' then——"
But the prompting failed in its purpose.
"An' then? Why—I guess that's just all. You see, when folks get married, and live happy ever after, there's most generally no more story to tell. Is there?"
"No." Then the child sat up. His appetite had been whetted. "Tell boy 'nother 'tory. Great big, long one. Ever so long."
Steve shook his head.
"Guess Uncle Steve's not great on yarns," he admitted. "You see, I was kind of thinking. Say, how'd boy like to go with Uncle Steve, and see the nice Auntie, and the little dear, with lovely, lovely curly hair and blue eyes, and cheeks like—like——"
"'Ess. Us goes," the child cried, with a sudden enthusiasm. "Us finds all the lakes, an' rivers, an' forests, an' wolves, an' bears, an' the little dear. Boy likes 'em. Us goes now?"
The headlong nature of the demand set Steve smiling.
"Well, I guess we can't go till winter quits," he said. "We'll need to wait awhile till it's not dark any more. Then we'll take An-ina. And Julyman. And Oolak. And the dogs. How's that? Then, after awhile, when boy's Pop and his Mummy come back, then maybe we'll come right back, too. Eh?"
The anticipation of it all was ravishing to the child mind, and the boy resettled himself.
"'Ess," he agreed, with a great sigh. "An' the little dear, an' the nice Auntie. Us all come back." Then with infantile persistence he returned to his old love. "More 'tory," he demanded. "'Bout debble-mens." Then, as an after-thought: "Wot isn't, cos Uncle says they doesn't, an' An-ina says him is when he wasn't, cos he can't be."
Steve sprang to his feet with a great laugh, bearing the little fellow in his strong arms. He had accomplished his task and all was well.
"No more 'tory," he cried setting him on the ground. "All us men have work to do. We need to help An-ina. Come on, old fellow."
And with a great feeling of relief and contentment he began the re-adjustment of the furs which protected the little life which had become so precious to him.
For all the nights were almost interminable, and the days so desperately short time passed rapidly. It was nearly three weeks later that the patient, indefatigable An-ina brought the word Steve awaited.
The daylight had passed, engulfed by the Arctic night which had added a dull, misty moon to its splendid illumination. The temperature had risen. Steve knew a change was coming. The signs were all too plain. He knew that the period of peace had nearly run its course, and the elements were swiftly mobilizing for a fresh attack.
He was standing in the great gateway considering these things when An-ina came to him. She appeared abruptly over the top of the great snow-drift, which had been driven against the angle of the stockade. The soft "pad" of her moccasined feet first drew his attention, and immediately all thought of the coming storm passed from his mind.
"Him big chief wake all up," she announced urgently, as she reached his side.
"Did you speak to him?"
The man's enquiry was sharpened by responsive eagerness. The squaw nodded.
"An-ina say, 'Boss white man officer come mak big talk with big chief, Wanak-aha. Him look for dead white man by the big water. Yes.' Him big chief say, 'White man officer? Him not know this man. Who?' An-ina say much—plenty. Big chief all go mad. Oh, much angry. Then An-ina mak big talk plenty. She say, 'Big Chief not mak big talk, then boss white man officer of Great White Chief come kill up all Indian man.' Big chief very old. Him all 'fraid. Him shake all over like so as seal fat. Much scare. Oh, yes." She laughed in her silent fashion. "So him say, 'Boss white man officer come, then Big Chief Wanak-aha mak plenty big talk.' Then him sleep. Oh, yes."
The woman's amusement at the chief's panic was infectious. Steve smiled.
"I guess we'll go right along," he said. Then he indicated the moon with its misty halo. "Storm."
Again An-ina nodded.
"Him storm plenty—sure," she agreed. "Boss come quick?"
"Right away."
A moment later An-ina was leading the way up the long slope of the snow-drift, returning over the tracks which her own moccasins had left.
The atmosphere of the hut was oppressive. It reeked with the smoke of wood fire. It was nauseating with a dreadful human foulness. But over all hung the sickly sweet odour of the Adresol drug, which oppressed the brain and weighted down the eyelids of those who had just left the pure cold air beyond the curtained doorway.
Steve was not without a feeling of apprehension. He was in the presence of the active operation of the subtle drug. He had read the dead chemist's papers. He knew the deadly exhalations of the weed when growing, or when in an undried state. He also knew that distillation robbed it of its poisonous effect, but for all that, the sickly atmosphere left him with a feeling of nausea.
He and An-ina were sitting beyond one of the two wood fires that had been replenished. The old chief, Wanak-aha, was squatting on his haunches amongst his frowsy fur robes at the opposite side. He was a shrivelled, age-weazened creature whose buckskin garments looked never to have been removed from his aged body. His years would have been impossible to guess at. All that was certain about him was that his mahogany face was like creased parchment, that his eyes peered out in the dim light of the hut through the narrowest of slits, that he was alert, vital to an astounding degree, and that he suggested a foulness such as humanity rarely sinks to.
An-ina was speaking in the tongue native to the old man, who was replying in his monosyllabic fashion while he kept all his regard for the stern-eyed white man, who, the squaw was explaining, represented all the unlimited power of the white peoples.
Steve waited in patience for the completion of these necessary preliminaries, and acted his part with the confidence of wide experience. And presently An-ina turned to him. Her eyes were serious, but there was a smile behind her words.
"Him say him much big friend for white man," she said, in her broken way. "Him love all white man so as a brother. White man mak plenty good trade with Indian man. It much good. So him big chief plenty friend. Oh, yes."
Steve inclined his head seriously.
"Tell him that's all right," he said. "Tell him white man good friend, too. White man love all Indian man. Tell him all white man children of Great White Chief. When they die Great White Chief know. If Indian man kill white man then Great White Chief send all thunder and lightning and kill up all Indian man. Tell him Great White Chief know that two white men all killed dead by great waters. He know Chief Wanak-aha's young men find them. Great White Chief knows Indian man didn't kill them, but, as he knows where they are, he must show the Great White Chief's Officer where they are, so he can take their bones back to their own country, or bury them as he sees fit. If Chief Wanak-aha does not tell White Officer, and his young men don't show him this place, then the thunders and lightning will come and kill up all Indian 'Sleeper' men."
An-ina interpreted rapidly. And by the length of her harangue, and by the attitude of the old man, Steve shrewdly suspected she was adding liberal embellishments such as her own savage mind suggested as being salutory. It was always so. An Indian on the side of the police was merciless to his own people.
The old man replied with surprising energy, and it was obvious to Steve that panic had achieved all he desired. So he was content to watch silently while the soft-voiced woman, with unsmiling eyes, spurred the little, old, great man to decisions which it is more than probable only real fear could have hastened.
At last An-ina ceased speaking. She turned to Steve who received the net results she had achieved in concrete form.
"It much good," she said, without permitting the smallest display of feeling before the watchful eyes of the old chief. "Him say all as An-ina tell boss white man officer. Young men find dead white men all kill up. In great, deep place by big waters. So. Him say when winter him all go then young men take boss white man officer, show him all. Help him much plenty. All him dog-train, all him young man for boss white man officer. Yes. Not so as snow him not go. Not find. All kill dead, sure. 'Sleeper' man sleep plenty. Then him all wake. Boss white man say 'go.' Yes."
The purpose of the visit was achieved. Steve desired nothing more. These Indians would take him to the place where the two white men had fought out the old, old battle for a woman. Yes, he was convinced now that An-ina's original story was the true one. His visit to these squalid creatures had served a double purpose. The old man's willingness to comply with his demands amply convinced him that the wife's belief had no foundation in the facts. Had the Indians murdered Marcel Brand and his partner, the whole attitude of the chief must have been very different.
It was some moments before he replied. It was necessary that he should play his part to the end. So he appeared to consider deeply before he accepted the chief's offer.
At length he raised his eyes from the flickering blaze of the fire. He gazed round the dimly lit room where the Indians lay about in their deathlike slumber. There was a stirring as of waking in a far corner, and for awhile he contemplated the direction. Then, at last, his eyes came back to the crumpled face of the old man awaiting anxiously his reply.
"Tell him," he said, addressing the squaw without withdrawing his gaze from the face of the old man, "that the officer of the Great White Chief will wait till the snow goes. Tell him he'll need to have his young men ready then to make the trail. And when they've shown the officer all they've found, and told him all they know, then the officer will tell the Great White Chief that the 'Sleeper' men are good men, who deserve all that is good. Tell him, there will be no thunder or lightning. And if white men come again to the fort and find it as it has been left, nothing taken, nothing destroyed, then maybe they'll bring good trade for the Indian men, and presents for the big chief. But if they come and find that one little thing has been destroyed or stolen, then the thunder and lightning will speak, and there'll be no more Indians."
When Steve and An-ina emerged from the woods utter and complete darkness reigned. The world had been swallowed up under an inky pall. The moon, the brilliant stars, the blazing northern lights—all were extinguished, and not a ray of light was left to guide them the last few hundred yards to safety. Furthermore snow was falling. It was falling in great flakes half as big as a man's hand.
The life-line which the woman had set up was all that stood between them and complete disaster.
Winter with all its deadly perils had become a memory. Life was supreme again on the plateau of Unaga. It was in the air, in the breezes sweeping down from the Northern hills, where the crystal snow caps no longer had power to inspire distrust. It was in the flowing waters of the river. It was in the flights of swarming wildfowl, winging to fresh pastures of melting snows. It was in the new-born grass blades, thrusting up their delicate heads to rid the world of winter's unsightliness. The animal world, too, was seeking to alleviate the pangs of semi-starvation to which it had so long been condemned. The sense of gladness was stirring, lifting the world upon a glorious pinacle of youthful hope.
Gladness was in An-ina's heart as she moved over the dripping grass, bearing the water fresh dipped from the river whose banks were a-flood in every direction. Was not the darkness of winter swallowed up by the brilliant sunlight? Was not the child of her heart trudging manfully at her side, firmly grasping the bucket handle in a vain belief in the measure of his help? Was not the moment rapidly approaching, when the white man officer would return with the young men of the Sleepers from the "deep place" by the "big waters?" Would not the day soon come when the trail to the southlands would again be broken? And would she not gaze once more upon the pleasant lands that gave her birth? Oh, yes. She knew. It was a great rush to the promised home, far from the desperate life on the plateau of Unaga, with the child, whose dancing eyes and happy smile were like a ray of sunshine amidst the shadows of her life.
Morning and night, now, An-ina looked for the return of those who had set out before the break of the winter. A month had passed since Steve's going. She was quite alone with her boy, with the wakened Indians preparing for their labours of the open season. The "white man officer" would return. An-ina had no fear for him even on the winter trail of Unaga. He would return, and then—and then—And so she watched and waited, and worked with all the will of her simple, savage heart.
It was no easy task that lay ahead. An-ina knew that. Steve had told her much during those dark days of winter. He had spoken of a thousand miles. What was a mile? She did not know. A sun. A moon. These things she knew. But his tone she understood. And she knew what he meant when he declared his intention of beating schedule, and his determination not to spend another winter on Unaga if it were the last trail he ever made. She was ready. And, in her simple woman's way she beguiled the days of waiting with speculation as to the white woman who had inspired in this white man's heart so great a desire.
Life was more than good to An-ina just now. She was young. She was thrilling with the wild emotions of her untamed blood. She was an Indian of the finest ancestry, but more than all she was a devoted woman. She had lost a mistress whom she had loved, and a master whom she had been glad to serve. She had found one to take their places, one whose first act had been his re-assurance that she should not be robbed of the child who was her all. There was no one greater in all the world to her than the "white man officer" whose courage and will she counted as powers greater than the storms of Unaga.
All day she laboured at her many tasks. And the boy, faithful to his doctrine of helpfulness, found a world of recreation in his idea. Thus, with the passing of the sun, they stood together at the gateway of the fort with eyes searching, as many times they had searched before, for a sign of the return of the trail men.
"Us wants Uncle Steve."
There was a plaintive appeal in the boy's tone which found an echo in the woman's heart. She sighed, but her voice was steady as she replied:
"Bimeby him come," she said.
"'Ess. Bimeby him come."
But the boy's agreement lacked conviction. A moment later, with his big eyes turned to the southeast, the way he had seen the expedition set out, he went on:
"Boy's Pop didn't come. An-ina said him's do. Boy's Mummy go 'way 'cos Uncle Steve said her does. Uncle Steve hims all goes, too. Boy want Uncle Steve."
"Him come bimeby."
The woman had no words with which to comfort. It was not lack of desire. Though her conviction was unwavering, she, too, in her heart, echoed the plaint.
For some moments they continued their evening vigil. The eyes of both searched the growing shadows. And, as was always the case, it was the child who finally broke the silence.
"Us cries," he said half tearfully.
It was then the Indian in the woman asserted itself.
"Squaw-men him weeps. 'Brave' him fight. No cry. Oh, no. Only fight. Boy great white 'brave.' Him not cry. No."
Marcel nodded, but his eyes were turned to the hills.
"'Ess. Boy great white 'brave,'" he agreed, in a choking voice. "Boy not cry—never. What's hims little things all dancing in the fog, An-ina?" he enquired, his mind suddenly distracted, pointing at a gap between two low hills, where a thin vapour of fog was slowly rising. "Is them's debble-mens?"
The keen eyes of the squaw followed the pointing finger. In a moment there leapt into them a light which required no words to interpret. But even in her excited joy the Indian calm remained uppermost. She drew nearer the child, and one of her soft brown hands rested caressingly on his shoulder.
"Him not devil-men," she said, in a deep tone of exaltation. "Him Uncle Steve an' all fool 'Sleeper' men. They all come so as An-ina say."
Then the smile in her eyes suddenly transformed her, and her joy could no longer be denied. She stooped over the small figure and pressed her lips upon the soft white forehead.
"Us go by river. An-ina hide. Boy hide. Then Uncle Steve come. Boy jump out. Him say 'Boo!' Uncle Steve all scairt. Much frightened all dead. So?"
The appeal was irresistible. The boy's excitement leapt. In a moment he was transformed from a tearful "brave" to a happy, laughing child. He set off at a run for the river, with An-ina close upon his heels, utterly regardless of the fact that they were within full view of the on-coming trail men. This was a detail. The child's enthusiasm permitted no second thought, and his breathless orders to his nurse were flung back as he ran. The cover of the bush-lined river was reached, and the hiding-place was selected just short of the flood water.
The child crouched down trembling with excitement. And the sound of Uncle Steve's voice giving orders as he came up on the far side of the water made the suspense almost unendurable. He talked to An-ina, who crouched at his side. He chattered incessantly. The splash of a canoe, dropped into the water, was exquisite torture. The dip of paddles set him well-nigh beside himself. Then, a few moments later, when the light craft slithered on the mud of the shallows, just beyond the hiding-place, he felt the psychological moment had come. Out he sprang at his victim, who was still ankle deep in the water.
"Boo-o-o!" he shrieked, with all the power of his little lungs, and, a moment later, he was gathered into the caressing arms of a terrified "uncle."
The work was accomplished. The police officer had fulfilled his mission, a mission detailed to him coldly, officially, without a shadow of regard for the tremendous trials entailed, and with only an eye for the capacity of the officer selected.
So far he had beaten his own schedule. He had calculated his work would occupy two years from the moment of his going to his return to Deadwater, but he meant to cut this down by something like six months. The resolve to do so had been taken during the drear of winter. He had been haunted by the appealing eyes of the woman he loved, and by the memory of the soft clutch of baby hands. And his desire had become irresistible.
Under his new resolve it had become necessary to speed the waking of the Indians. He had had no scruple. Again he had bearded the chief and forced his will upon him. For all the old man's fears of the white man's threats it had been no easy task. But at last he had convinced him of the hopeless recklessness of denying him. So twenty of the young men were found who reluctantly enough gave up the last month of their winter's sleep. And now he had returned with his work accomplished.
Steve had no illusions upon the desperate nature of the rush for home. He knew the chances he was taking. A week's preparation. He could spare no more time. A journey on foot of some hundreds of miles. An Indian carry-all hauled by reindeer for the boy and the camp outfit, the dogs to be herded without burden till their usefulness could serve. For each man, and An-ina, the burden of a heavy pack. Such preparations were wholly inadequate. He knew that. He was staking the courage and endurance of those he was responsible for against a ruthless, inhospitable world.
Oh, yes, his eyes were wide to the dangers that lay ahead. He knew them all. He had visions of a dripping, melting land. He knew the spring rains with their awesome powers of washout and flood. The blinding, steaming fogs of the high altitudes. So with the glacial avalanches, and the terror of thawing tundra, shaking, treacherous, bottomless.
The week passed rapidly and the moment for the "pull-out" came. The Indians were awake, and their winter quarters in the woods had been abandoned for the domed igloos of the open season. The fort was alive with their comings and goings. They were alert for the promised spoils.
Peaceable, kindly, the sturdy undersized people of the outlands were driven to a supreme selfishness by reason of the conditions under which they lived. They cared little for anything but that which the white folk could provide. Without interest or ambitions, beyond such comfort as they could snatch from life, they desired only to be left in peace. But with real amiability they wished the stranger well in his going.
The post presented a curious enough scene on the morning of departure. And to Steve, at least, thought of it was to recur many times in the great struggle that lay before him. The poles of the carry-all, their ends trailing upon the ground, loaded with camp outfit and ready for the boy, stood just within the stockade. The dogs were ready and waiting under Oolak's charge. Inside the store, Steve supported by Julyman and An-ina, and the child Marcel, occupied the well-worn bench beside the stove.
He was receiving the farewell words of the old chief, Wanak-aha, who was thankful enough to see the last of the disturber of his winter sleep. The old man was surrounded by his equally aged counsellors, and the whole deputation squatted ceremonially upon their haunches about him. The store had been stripped of all supplies. The shelves were bare and only a litter of packings remained to mark the end of the chemist's great enterprise.
Steve addressed the chief through An-ina without relaxing his authority. He told the old man that everything that was good in the store had been handed over a present to his people for their valuable services to the Great White Chief. The store was now empty of everything that was good. He told him that this was the way the Great White Chief always acted towards those who served him. The things that remained in the store were only evil things that were full of evil magic. The Great White Chief had hidden these things deeply, and he had set a spell upon them. This had been done so that no harm should come to the Indian. In this he was referring to the contents of the dead man's laboratory. He told him that the Great White Chief had ordered him to place the store and fort in the chief's safe keeping. No Indian man was to enter it to destroy it. If he did the evil spirits would break loose, and death and disaster for the whole tribe would undoubtedly follow. Therefore he had summoned the council that Wanak-aha might give his pledge for the safety of the property of the Great White Chief.
He told them he was going now because he wanted the Indians to live in peace, with their slumbers undisturbed. He might never come again. He could not say. But if the Great White Chief sent anybody, it would only be for the purpose of giving great benefit to the Indians, whom he undoubtedly regarded as a very wise and good people.
It was a masterly exhibition of Steve's understanding of the savage it was his work to deal with, and the happy effect was promptly evidenced. Ten minutes of monosyllabic discussion between the chief and his counsellors produced the pledge Steve desired, and he knew from the manner of it that the pledge would be kept to the letter. But it brought forth something more. An-ina was called upon to interpret an expression of the friendly spirit in which the Indians parted from the disturber of their slumbers.
The old man in a long peroration explained all he and his people felt. They were in no way behind the Great White Chief in their regard, he assured Steve. They loved the white man, whose ways were not always Indian ways. He re-affirmed his solemn promise that the fort should be safe in Indian hands. Furthermore he told him they had no desire to anger the evil spirits it contained. In conclusion he produced a beaded seal-skin bag which he asked the white man to accept. It contained, he explained, the bones of the right hand of one of his ancestors who had been a great hunter and warrior, and withal a lucky and mighty chief who was only murdered by his people after a long and fierce reign. This bag, with its contents, was a sure talisman and guard against the evil spirits of Unaga, and they were very, very many, and very cruel.
With due solemnity Steve accepted this priceless gift, and, to add to his display of gratification, he drew little Marcel to him and secured it about his neck. Then, turning to the chief, he explained. He pointed at the child, and assured him that the white man regarded his children before all things—even before his own life. Therefore, to display his gratitude to the great chief, he bestowed the gift upon the child whose safety he desired above all things in the world. Approval was unanimous. To every one of these simple creatures the white man's act was one of the greatest self-sacrifice. And even in the more enlightened minds of An-ina and Julyman there was a deep appreciation of the act.
When the council broke up, and the fur-clad Indians moved out, Steve might well have been forgiven had he felt that his work had been well and truly done.
With the going of the last Indian he promptly shouldered his pack, and Julyman and An-ina did the same. A moment later he took the child in his arms.
"Come," he said, and led the way out of the building.
Ten minutes later the outfit was on the move, and the great adventure, with the new-born mosquitoes and flies swarming, began in a blaze of spring sunshine.
Out on a snow-clad ridge, a saddle between two forest-clad hills, a meagre camp was set. The shelter of woods against the keen north wind made the resting-place possible. Two weeks of struggle, two weeks of tremendous effort left the choice of daylight camping ground a matter of small moment, but just now the bleak ridge had been selected for a definite reason.
Steve and An-ina were standing out in the gap, with little Marcel between them. Oolak was somewhere within the woods, tending his savage dogs. Julyman was hugging the fire, with complete disregard for all but its precious warmth.
Those in the gap were staring out at the north-east with eyes held fascinated by the wonder of it all. It was the Spire, the amazing Spire of Unaga rearing its mighty crest out of the far-off distance. Even the child was awed to silence by the spell of the inspiring vision.
They were gazing upon a world of fire and smoke. And the fire was belching out of the bowels of the earth and lighting up the whole skyline far and wide. It was a scene no words could adequately describe. It was a scene to awe the stoutest heart. The whole country in the distant north seemed to lie prostrate at the mercy of a world of devouring flame.