Part 32 (1/2)
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 her blood-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 hooch _cached_ in 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, now and 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 las.h.i.+ngs 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 smas.h.i.+ng 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 door shut. 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 las.h.i.+ngs 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 s.h.i.+fting snow. All through the night they had avoided the timbered 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 who I am, than to know _that_!” 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.”