THE VENGEANCE OF USAK
THE VENGEANCE OF USAK
THE VENGEANCE OF USAK
The towering Alaskan hills overshadowed the broad waterway of the Hekor River. From the level of the water the shores rose up monstrously. There were precipitate, sterile, encompassing walls of granite that rose hundreds of feet without a break. And back of them, mounting by dizzy slopes, the great hills raised their snow-crowned crests till the misty cloud line enveloped them. The world was grey, and dark, and something overwhelming towards the headwaters of the great river. It was a territory barren of everything but the tattered clothing of scattered primordial forest bluffs clinging to sheer slopes, or safely engulfed in the shelter of deep, shadowed ravines. It was a scene of crude grandeur in which Nature had designed no place for man.
Yet man refused Her denial. Man with his simple skill and profound daring. No rampart set up by Nature was sufficient to bar the way.
A small kyak was driving against the stream of waters surging at its prow. It was driven with irresistible skill and power, for the man at the paddle was consuming with passionate desire and purpose. For days and days he had driven on up against a stream that was growing in speed with every passing mile. He knew the thing confronting him. He knew every inch of the great waterway’s rugged course. Every shoal, every rapid was an open book to him. So, too, were the shelters and easements where the stream yielded its strength. The man behind the paddle faced his task with the supreme confidence of knowledge and conscious power. And so he neared the canyon of the Grand Falls without the smallest perturbation.
A mere speck in the immensity of its surrounding the kyak glided on. Here it rocked on a ruffled surface, there it passed, perfectly poised, a ghostly shadow upon a smooth mirror-like surface. The dip of the man’s paddle was precise and rhythmic. Every ounce of strength was in every stroke, and every stroke yielded its full of propulsion. For Usak was a master of river craft, and understood the needs of the journey that still lay ahead of him.
His goal was still far off. It was less than a day since he had crossed the unmarked border which opened the gates of Alaska to him. He knew there must be more than another nightless day pass before he reached the toilsome portage where stood the mighty Falls which emptied themselves from the summit of the barrier which he had yet to scale. The goal he sought lay hidden away up amidst those high lands where the drainings of the snow-clad hills foregathered before hurling themselves to feed the river below. But time mattered nothing to his Indian mind. He asked nothing of the great world about him. He sought no favours or clemency. The spur of his savage heart drove him, and death alone could deny him. As he had already driven throughout the endless Arctic days so he would continue to drive until his task was accomplished.
The man’s dark face was hard bitten by his mood. Fierce resolve looked out of eyes that brooded as he gazed alertly over the waters. The soul of the man was afire with the instincts and desires of centuries of savage forbears, just as his mental faculties were similarly keyed for their achievement.
Not a detail of the world about him that might affect his labours escaped the eagle vision of his wide eyes, and his swift understanding taught him how to avail himself of every clemency which the scheme of Nature vouchsafed.
So the kyak progressed seemingly with inadequate speed, but in reality little less swiftly than the speed of the avenging creature’s desire. It gained incredible way against the surge of water that split upon its prow. And as the shadows of the mighty walls enveloped it, and grew ever more and more threatening, the man at the paddle laboured on without pause or hesitation, certain of the course, certain of his powers, certain that no earthly barrier was staunch enough to seriously obstruct him.
The kyak was hauled out of the water. It lay there on a shelving foreshore strewn with grey, broken granite, a graceful thing, so small and light as to look utterly inadequate in face of the terrific race of troubled waters that was speeding by. It was set ready for the portage. The man’s simple outfit was securely lashed amidships, and his precious rifle, long old-fashioned, but well cared for, was made fast to the struts that held the frail craft to its shape.
The Indian was standing at the water’s edge. He was gazing up-river where its course was a dead straight canyon several miles in length. It was wide, tremendously wide. But so high were its sides that its breadth became dwarfed. It was a gloomy, threatening passage of black, broken water, whose rushing torrent no canoe could face.
But the awe of the scene left Usak untouched. It was not the sheer cliffs that concerned him. It was not the swirling race of water blackened by the shadows. It was neither the might of the great river, nor the vastness of the hill country about it that pre-occupied him. It was the far-off white wall of mist and spray at the head of the passage, and the dull distant thunder of the Falls, the Grand Falls, the picture of whose might had lain hidden from the eyes of man throughout the centuries.
He stood for long contemplating the mysterious far-off. His object was uncertain. Perhaps the wonder of it had power to stir him. Perhaps he was not insensible to the might of the things about him for all the absorbing passion that filled him. Perhaps he was contemplating with a sense of triumph this last barrier which still remained to be surmounted.
At last he turned away. He came back to the burden which he knew he had to shoulder. He measured the little vessel, and the stowage of his outfit, with a keen eye for the necessity of his work. And that which had been done left him completely satisfied.
He bent down. He gripped the gunwale of the little craft and tilted it. Then with a swift, twisting movement he lifted, and, rearing his great body erect again, the vessel was safely set where his muscular neck checked it to a perfect balance.
It was the wide smooth waters of a high perched mountain lake. Its expanse was dwarfed by the great hills on every hand. Its surface shone like a mirror in the brilliant sunshine, yet it was without one single grace to temper the fierce austerity of its tremendous setting. On the hillsides there were dark veins which suggested the tattered remnants of Nature’s effort to clothe their naked sides. There were low fringes of attenuated vegetation marking the line where land and water met. But the main aspect was one of barren hills crowned about their lofty summits with eternal snow, and the grey fields of glacial ice that never entirely yielded up possession of the earth they held prisoned.
Usak’s kyak was hugging the southern shore. Now his paddle dipped leisurely, for he had no stream with which to battle and his eyes were searching every yard of the dishevelled scrub which screened the shore.
Slowly the little craft crept on. There was no uncertainty in its progress. It was simply that the man sought for the thing he knew he would find and had no desire to waste a single moment of precious time through careless oversight.
He was rounding a headland. The fringe of scrub had faded out, leaving only the grey rock that sank sheer into the depths of the water. In a moment he flung power into the dip of his paddle and the kyak shot ahead. There was current here. Swift, crossing current that strove to head his craft put for the bosom of the lake. The man counted with prompt skill, and a savage satisfaction shone in his eyes.
Passing the headland he gazed upon the thing he had been searching. It was a narrow inlet debouching from a wide rift in the rampart of hills.
In a moment his vessel shot head on to the current. Then, swiftly, it passed from view of the open lake between the sheltered banks which were heavily overgrown by unbroken stretches of dense pine-wood bluffs.
An amazing transformation left the sterile setting of the mountain lake forgotten. Farther and farther, deeper and deeper into the hills the country seemed to change as by magic. East and west of the valley the hills rose up sheltering the gracious vegetation that looked to belong to latitudes hundreds of miles to the south, and a heat prevailed that was even greater than the intemperate Arctic summer.
Usak needed no explanation of the phenomenon. He knew that he was in the region of the great Fire Hills of the North. Hills that were always burning, whether in the depths of winter or the height of summer. And the heat of the earthly fires transformed the countryside into an oasis of verdant charm, a jewel of Nature set in the cold iron of the North.
A large habitation stood in the heart of a wide clearing in the forest. It was deep hidden from the waterway which split up the length of the valley. Nearly a mile of narrow roadway cut through the forest alone gave access to the river. And the course of the roadway was winding, and its debouchment on the river was left screened with trees. The object of the latter must have been clear to the simplest mind. A perfect secrecy had been achieved, and the great house lay hidden within the forest.
It was a remarkable building whose only relation to the country in which it stood was the material of its construction. Its two lofty stories were built of lateral, rough-hewn green logs. It was of logs carefully dovetailed, from the ground to the summit of a central tower which rose to the height of the forest trees about it. Its walls rambled over a wide extent of ground, and dotted about its main building were a number of lesser buildings, both habitations and accommodation for material. It was rather like a log-built feudal fortress surrounded by, and protecting, the homes of its workers and dependents.
A figure was moving cautiously through the woods beyond the clearing. The moccasined feet gave out no sound as it passed from tree to tree or sought the shelter of such dense clumps of undergrowth as presented themselves. The buckskin-clad creature crouched low as he moved, and the colour of his garments seemed to merge itself into the general hue about him. Now and again he paused for long contemplative moments. And in these he searched closely with keen, purposeful black eyes that nothing escaped.
He was seeking every sign of life the place might afford. And so far he had discovered none. There were one or two prowling dogs, great husky, trail dogs, searching leisurely for that offal which seems to be the sole purpose of their resting moments, but that was all.
He was gazing upon the main frontage of the building which faced the south with a long, deep, heavily constructed verandah running its entire length. The several windows which gave on to it, covered with mosquito netting, were wide open to admit such cooling breeze as might chance in the heat of the day. But the rich curtains hung limply over them undisturbed by the slightest movement. It was the same with the windows of the upper story. They, too, were wide open, but again the curtains were unmoving. The searcher’s eyes passed over the lounging chairs on the verandah. None were occupied, yet each and all looked to be standing ready.
He passed on. Making a wide detour within the shelter of the woods he passed round to the western side of the building. Here there were other habitations. Many were mere log shanties, cabins such as the searcher knew by heart. The cabin of whiteman or coloured in a country where makeshift ruled.
Again there was no sign of life. There was not even a dog prowling loose in this direction. Maybe those who peopled these cabins were resting in the heat. Maybe—but the searching man was concerned with no such speculation. The thing was largely as he had expected to find it, but he desired to re-assure himself. He moved on rapidly. From every point of the compass his searching eyes surveyed the scene, and finally he came back to the spot where his prolonged search had started. He was satisfied.
He stood for a moment while he made his final preparations. They were simple, savagely simple. He moved the belt about his waist, and the two long hunting knives thrusting from their sheaths were brought to the front where they remained ready to each hand. Then he thrust one hand into a voluminous pocket in his buckskin and withdrew a heavy pistol. It was a modern pistol, such as one would hardly expect to find in the dark-skinned hands of the native bred. This he examined with care and deliberation. Then he thrust it back whence it came, and moved swiftly out into the open.
The quick eyes of a scavenging dog discovered him and a low snarl accompanied the canine discovery. Instantly a well-aimed stone silenced the creature and sent it slinking to cover.
The point the man had selected for his approach had been deliberately chosen. It was a door that stood ajar on the north side of the house. It obviously admitted to the kitchen place of the building.
With the vanishing of the man through the doorway the lifelessness of the place which had been momentarily broken descended upon it again. The still air hummed with the somnolent drone of myriads of winged insects. The hush of the surrounding forest seemed to crowd down upon it. The very breathlessness of the day seemed to suggest the utter impossibility of stirring life.
After a moment, the deathly silence was broken. A sound came hard in the wake of the passing man. It was a curious, half-stifled cry, and it came from the direction of the open doorway. It was low, inarticulate, but it was human. It suggested much and betrayed nothing. Then as it died out the engulfing silence descended once more and it remained unbroken.
The wide central hall was unlit by any visible window, yet the light was perfectly distributed and ample. Furthermore it was the light of day without one gleam of the dazzling sunshine.
It was a spacious apartment, lofty and square. Its walls were covered with rich hangings of simple eastern design. They were unusually tasteful and delicate, and obviously the handiwork of home manufacture. The floor of the room was of polished yellow pine littered with a wealth of natural furs without any mountings. Every skin was native to the north of Alaska, and the variety was extensive. In the centre of the room stood a large, open, log fire set up on a built hearth, above which rose a chimney passing straight up through the timbered ceiling in the fashion of an inverted funnel. For all the summer heat the fire was alight, smouldering pleasantly, a heap of white wood ash yielding a delightful aroma as the thin spiral of smoke drifted leisurely up into the mouth of the funnel above it.
About the walls stood several low couches. They were loaded with silken cushions adorned in a fashion similar to the hangings upon the wall with a lavish display of the representations of brilliant-hued flowers, and birds, amongst which chrysanthemum, wistaria, and longbilled, long-legged storks were very prominent.
The only other furnishings in the place were a magnificent pair of oriental vases standing on carved wood plinths, a large bookcase that was also a desk with an armchair before it, and two great, manifold wooden screens with elaborate, incised designs decorating their panels.
In the shelter of one of the latter a small woman was seated on a couch surrounded by the materials of the delicate embroidery she was engaged upon. She was seated with her feet tucked under her, and a book lay in her lap. But she was neither reading nor sewing now. Her dark eyes were raised alertly. They were gazing steadily at an angle of the room where a curtain hung in heavy folds over what was clearly a doorway.
The solitary occupant of the room was not young. She was nearing middle life, yet she bore small enough traces of her years. She was pretty for all the large tortoise-shell rimmed glasses she was wearing. Her jet black hair, dressed closely to her shapely head, bore not a trace of greying, and the small mouth and softly tinted cheeks were as fresh and delicate as a young girl’s.
At the moment a keen look of enquiry was revealed through her large glasses as she regarded the covered doorway. Nor was her look without a suggestion of unease. For a sound had reached her a moment before, which, in the silence of the house about her, had suggested a cry—a cry of pain. Even a call for help.
Apparently, however, she dismissed the idea. For she presently bent over the work she had laid aside in the interest of the book she had been reading.
She was not easily disturbed. She was accustomed to long periods of almost complete solitude. There were two servants in the house. She knew that. Men who were fully capable of safeguarding the place, even though the rest of the folk were abroad on their labours. No. A long life in the remote fastnesses of the northern Alaskan hills had taught her many things, and amongst the things she had learnt was that perfect immunity from intrusion was vouchsafed to the home which had been provided for her. There were times, even, when she felt that her lot resembled that of a closely guarded prisoner.
She plied her needle with the skill and rapidity of long practice. The chrysanthemum she was working was rapidly developing its full beauty under her delicate hands. Then suddenly she dropped her hands into her lap and raised her eyes again to the doorway.
There was no mistaking her expression now. A voiceless alarm gazed out through her glasses. There was a sound of hurried approach. Someone was running beyond the doorway. They were approaching—
The curtain was abruptly dragged aside. A man lurched into the room. He was a smallish, elderly man, dark-skinned and eastern-looking. He was clad in the ordinary garments of civilization, and wore a short apron about his waist. He stood for a moment clinging to the curtain for support. Agony looked out of his black eyes, and his lined face was distorted. He sought to make a gesture with one hand and nearly fell. Then a sound broke from his lips. It was one word. Only one. And that barely articulate.
“Es—cape!” he cried.
With a last gasping effort his hand released its hold on the curtain and he crashed to the floor. And as he fell a stream of blood trickled on to the immaculate woodwork from somewhere in the region of his neck.
The woman was on her feet. A wild panic shone in the eyes behind her glasses. She stood there a pretty, pathetic, helpless little figure.
Escape!
The word was ringing in her ears as she gazed in horror upon the still, fallen figure of the man who had brought her warning as the last faithful act of his life.
Escape! What did it mean? What could it mean?
She abruptly turned away. She bent down and gathered up her sewing and her book. Then she passed rapidly behind the screen which sheltered her couch. Only for one instant did she pause before passing out of view. It was to regard again, with a gaze that was filled with horror and terror, the poor thing that had brought her warning.
Usak was standing in the middle of the great room. He was gazing about him. His dark eyes were aflame with furious desire. His great body bulked enormously and his rough clothing left him a sinister figure in a place of such lavish refinement.
He took in every detail of the place, and at last his fierce eyes came to rest on the dead creature lying just within the doorway. He stared at it without pity or remorse. Without a sign of added emotion. His thin lips were shut tight and the muscles of his jaws stood out with the intensity of their grip. That was all.
After awhile he moved away. He passed over to the couch sheltered by the screen. He bent over it searching closely, and from among the cushions drew some fragments of sewing silk and cuttings of material. He gazed at them. But he was not thinking of them. He was thinking of another woman, a woman whose hands had been accustomed to ply a needle, and to cut out material. But the material was different. It was less refined, rougher. In Usak’s mind Pri-loo’s sewing was mostly to do with the buckskin and beads so dear to the Indian heart.
He flung the things aside. Then he hurried from the room, passing again the doorway through which he had followed the man he had slain.