Part 40 (2/2)
The eyes in the grim face of Macdonald grew hard and steely. He had found, by some strange freak of chance, much more than he had expected, to find. Using his snowshoe as a shovel, he dug the body free and turned it over. At sight of the face he gave a cry of astonishment.
CHAPTER XXIX
”DON'T TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!”
Gordon overslept. His plan had been to reach Kusiak at the end of a long day's travel, but that had meant getting on the trail with the first gleam of light. When he opened his eyes Mrs. Olson was calling him to rise.
He dressed and stepped out into the cold, crisp morning. From the hill crotch the sun was already pouring down a great, fanlike shaft of light across the snow vista. Swift.w.a.ter Pete pa.s.sed behind him on his way to the stable and called a cheerful good-morning in his direction.
Mrs. Olson had put the stove outside the tent and Gordon lifted it to the spot where they did the cooking.
”Good-morning, neighbor,” he called to Sheba. ”Sleep well?”
The little rustling sounds within the tent ceased. A face appeared in the doorway, the flaps drawn discreetly close beneath the chin.
”Never better. Is my breakfast ready yet?”
”Come and help me make it. Mrs. Olson is waiting on Holt.”
”When I'm dressed.” The smiling face disappeared. ”Dublin Bay” sounded in her fresh young voice from the tent. Gordon joined in the song as he lit the fire and sliced bacon from a frozen slab of it.
The howling of the huskies interrupted the song. They had evidently heard something that excited them. Gordon listened. Was it in his fancy only that the breeze carried to him the faint jingle of sleigh-bells?
The sound, if it was one, died away. The cook turned to his job.
He stopped sawing at the meat, knife and bacon both suspended in the air. On the hard snow there had come to him the crunch of a foot behind him. Whose? Sheba was in the tent, Swift.w.a.ter at the stable, Mrs. Olson in the house. Slowly he turned his head.
What Elliot saw sent the starch through his body. He did not move an inch, still sat crouched by the fire, but every nerve was at tension, every muscle taut. For he was looking at a rifle lying negligently in brown, steady hands. They were very sure hands, very competent ones. He knew that because he had seen them in action. The owner of the hands was Colby Macdonald.
The Scotch-Canadian stood at the edge of a willow grove. His face was grim as the day of judgment.
”Don't move,” he ordered.
Elliot laughed irritably. He was both annoyed and disgusted.
”What do you want?” he snapped.
”You.”
”What's worrying you now? Do you think I'm jumping my bond?”
”You're going back to Kusiak with me--to give a life for the one you took.”
”What's that?” cried Gordon, surprised.
”Just as I'm telling you. I've been on your heels ever since you left town. You and Holt are going back with me as my prisoners.”
”But what for?”
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