Part 9 (1/2)

”And all this,” said Philip in a low voice, ”because of a crime committed by the law itself. Five men hung, one a suicide, three in prison and one in an insane asylum--because of a blunder of the law!”

”The king can do no wrong,” said MacGregor with gentle irony, ”and neither can the law. Remember that, Philip, as long as you are in the service. The law may break up homes, ruin states, set itself a Nemesis on innocent men's heels--but it can do no wrong. It is the Juggernaut before which we all must bow our heads, even you and I, and when by any chance it makes a mistake, it is still law, and una.s.sailable. It is the greatest weapon of the clever and the rich, so it bears a moral. Be clever, or be rich.”

”And William DeBar, the seventh brother--” began Philip.

”Is tremendously clever, but not rich,” finished the inspector. ”He has caused us more trouble than any other man in Canada. He is the youngest of the seven brothers, and you know there are curious superst.i.tions about seventh brothers. In the first pursuit after the private hanging he shot two men. He killed a third in an attempt to save his brother at Moose Factory. Since then, Forbes, Bannock, Fleisham and Gresham have disappeared, and they all went out after him. They were all good men, powerful physically, skilled in the ways of the wilderness, and as brave as tigers. Yet they all failed. And not only that, they lost their lives. Whether DeBar killed them, or led them on to a death for which his hands were not directly responsible, we have never known. The fact remains that they went out after De Bar--and died. I am not superst.i.tious, but I am beginning to think that DeBar is more than a match for any one man. What do you say? Will you go with Moody, or--”

”I'll go alone, with your permission,” said Philip.

The inspector's voice at once fell into its formal tone of command.

”Then you may prepare to leave at once,” he said. ”The factor at Fond du Lac will put you next to your man. Whatever else you require I will give you in writing some time to-day.”

Philip accepted this as signifying that the interview was at an end, and rose from his seat.

That night he added a postscript to the letter which he had written home, saying that for a long time he would not be heard from again. The midnight train was bearing him toward Le Pas.

Chapter X. Isobel's Disappearance

Four hundred miles as an arrow might fly, five hundred by snowshoes and dog-sledge; up the Pelican Lake waterway, straight north along the edge of the Geikie Barrens, and from Wollaston westward, Philip hurried--not toward the hiding place of William DeBar, but toward Lac Bain.

A sledge and six dogs with a half-breed driver took him from Le Pas as far as the Churchill; with two Crees, on snow-shoes, he struck into the Reindeer country, and two weeks later bought a sledge and three dogs at an Indian camp on the Waterfound. On the second day, in the barrens to the west, one of the dogs slit his foot on a piece of ice; on the third day the two remaining dogs went lame, and Philip and his guide struck camp at the headwater of the Gray Beaver, sixty miles from Lac Bain. It was impossible for the dogs to move the following day, so Philip left his Indian to bring them in later and struck out alone.

That day he traveled nearly thirty miles, over a country broken by timbered ridges, and toward evening came to the beginning of the open country that lay between him and the forests about Lac Bain. It had been a hard day's travel, but he did not feel exhausted. The full moon was rising at nine o'clock, and Philip rested for two hours, cooking and eating his supper, and then resumed his journey, determined to make sufficient progress before camping to enable him to reach the post by the following noon. It was midnight when he put up his light tent, built a fire, and went to sleep. He was up again at dawn. At two o'clock he came into the clearing about Lac Bain. As he hurried to Breed's quarters he wondered if Colonel Becker or Isobel had seen him from their window.

He had noticed that the curtain was up, and that a thin spiral of smoke was rising from the clay chimney that descended to the fireplace in their room.

He found Breed, the factor, poring over one of the ledgers which he and Colonel Becker had examined. He started to his feet when he saw Philip.

”Where in the name of blazes have you been?” were his first words, as he held out a hand. ”I've been hunting the country over for you, and had about come to the conclusion that you and Bucky Nome were dead.”

”Hunting for me,” said Philip. ”What for?”

Breed shrugged his shoulders.

”The colonel an'--Miss Isobel,” he said. ”They wanted to see you so bad that I had men out for three days after you'd gone looking for you.

Couldn't even find your trail. I'm curious to know what was up.”

Philip laughed. He felt a tingling joy running through every vein in his body. It was difficult for him to repress the trembling eagerness in his voice, as he said: ”Well, I'm here. I wonder if they want to see me--now.”

”Suppose they do,” replied Breed, slowly lighting his pipe. ”But you've hung off too long. They're gone.”

”Gone?” Philip stared at the factor.

”Gone?” he demanded again.

”Left this morning--for Churchill,” affirmed Breed. ”Two sledges, two Indians, the colonel and Miss Isobel.”

For a few moments Philip stood in silence, staring straight out through the one window of the room with his back to the factor.

”Did they leave any word for me?” he asked.