Part 31 (1/2)

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 the dazzling 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 the _Belva Lou_. But, I'll come clean. I will tell her--and I'll show her the bottle--and thank G.o.d 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 the _Belva 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 G.o.dam 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 gla.s.s. 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 meat _cache_ weighing 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 inward and 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 the _Belva 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 s...o...b..red tongue, the yellow snag-like teeth, the eyes, back-rolled until only the whites showed between the wide-staring lids, and the skin fast purpling between the upper beard and the mottled thatch of hair.