The Golden Snare

by James Oliver Curwood

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A cry from Celie turned his gaze from the broad white trail of ice thatwas the Coppermine, and as he looked she pointed eagerly toward a hugepinnacle of rock that rose like an oddly placed cenotaph out of theunbroken surface of the plain.

  Blake grunted out a laugh in his beard and his eyes lit up with anunpleasant fire as they rested on her flushed face.

  "She's tellin' you that Bram Johnson brought her this way," hechuckled. "Bram was a fool--like you!"

  He seemed not to expect a reply from Philip, but urged the dogs downthe slope into the plain. Fifteen minutes later they were on thesurface of the river.

  Philip drew a deep breath of relief, and he found that same relief inCelie's face when he dropped back to her side. As far as they could seeahead of them there was no forest. The Coppermine itself seemed to beswallowed up in the vast white emptiness of the Barren. There could beno surprise attack here, even at night. And yet there was something inBlake's face which kept alive within him the strange premonition of anear and unseen danger. Again and again he tried to shake off thefeeling. He argued with himself against the unreasonableness of thething that had begun to oppress him. Blake was in his power. It wasimpossible for him to escape, and the outlaw's life depended utterlyupon his success in getting them safely to the cabin. It was notconceivable to suppose that Blake would sacrifice his life merely thatthey might fall into the hands of the Eskimos. And yet--

  He watched Blake--watched him more and more closely as they buriedthemselves deeper in that unending chaos of the north. And Blake, itseemed to him, was conscious of that increasing watchfulness. Heincreased his speed. Now and then Philip heard a curious chucklingsound smothered in his beard, and after an hour's travel on thesnow-covered ice of the river he could no longer dull his vision to thefact that the farther they progressed into the open country, the moreconfident Blake was becoming. He did not question him. He realized thefutility of attempting to force his prisoner into conversation. In thatrespect it was Blake who held the whip hand. He could lie or tell thetruth, according to the humor of his desire. Blake must have guessedthis thought in Philip's mind. They were traveling side by side when hesuddenly laughed. There was an unmistakable irony in his voice when hesaid:

  "It's funny, Raine, that I should like you, ain't it? A man who'smauled you, an' threatened to kill you! I guess it's because I'm socussed sorry for you. You're heading straight for the gates of hell,an' they're open--wide open."

  "And you?"

  This time Blake's laugh was harsher.

  "I don't count--now," he said. "Since you've made up your mind not totrade me the girl for your life I've sort of dropped out of the game. Iguess you're thinking I can hold Upi's tribe back. Well, I can't--notwhen you're getting this far up in their country. If we split thedifference, and you gave me HER, Upi would meet me half way. God, butyou've spoiled a nice dream!"

  "A dream?"

  Blake uttered a command to the dogs.

  "Yes--more'n that. I've got an igloo up there even finer thanUpi's--all built of whalebone and ships' timbers. Think of HER in that,Raine--with ME! That's the dream you smashed!"

  "And her father--and the others--"

  This time there was a ferocious undercurrent in Blake's guttural laugh,as though Philip had by accident reminded him of something that bothamused and enraged him.

  "Don't you know how these Kogmollock heathen look on a father-in-law?"he asked. "He's sort of walkin' delegate over the whole bloomin'family. A god with two legs. The OTHERS? Why, we killed them. But Upiand his heathen wouldn't see anything happen to the old man when theyfound I was going to take the girl. That's why he's alive up there inthe cabin now. Lord, what a mess you're heading into, Raine! And I'mwondering, after you kill me, and they kill you, WHO'LL HAVE THE GIRL?There's a half-breed in the tribe an' she'll probably go to him. Theheathen themselves don't give a flip for women, you know. So it'scertain to be the half-breed."

  He surged on ahead, cracking his whip, and crying out to the dogs.Philip believed that in those few moments he had spoken much that wastruth. He had, without hesitation and of his own volition, confessedthe murder of the companions of Celie's father, and he had explained ina reasonable way why Armin himself had been spared. These facts aloneincreased his apprehension. Unless Blake was utterly confident of thefinal outcome he would not so openly expose himself. He was even moreon his guard after this.

  For several hours after his brief fit of talking Blake made no effortto resume the conversation nor any desire to answer Philip when thelatter spoke to him. A number of times it struck Philip that he wasgoing the pace that would tire out both man and beast before night. Heknew that in Blake's shaggy head there was a brain keenly anddangerously alive, and he noted the extreme effort he was making tocover distance with a satisfaction that was not unmixed of suspicion.By three o'clock in the afternoon they were thirty-five miles from thecabin in which Blake had become a prisoner. All that distance they hadtraveled through a treeless barren without a sign of life. It wasbetween three and four when they began to strike timber once more, andPhilip asked himself if it had been Blake's scheme to reach this timberbefore dusk. In places the spruce and banskian pine thickened untilthey formed dark walls of forest and whenever they approached thesepatches Philip commanded Blake to take the middle of the river. Thewidth of the stream was a comforting protection. It was seldom lessthan two hundred yards from shore to shore and frequently twice thatdistance. From the possible ambuscades they passed only a rifle couldbe used effectively, and whenever there appeared to be the possibilityof that danger Philip traveled close to Blake, with the revolver in hishand. The crack of a rifle even if the bullet should find its way home,meant Blake's life. Of that fact the outlaw could no longer have adoubt.

  For an hour before the gray dusk of Arctic night began to gather aboutthem Philip began to feel the effect of their strenuous pace. Hours ofcramped inactivity on the sledge had brought into Celie's face lines ofexhaustion. Since middle-afternoon the dogs had dragged at times intheir traces. Now they were dead-tired. Blake, and Blake alone, seemedtireless. It was six o'clock when they entered a country that wasmostly plain, with a thin fringe of timber along the shores. They hadraced for nine hours, and had traveled fifty miles. It was here, in awide reach of river, that Philip gave the command to halt.

  His first caution was to secure Blake hand and foot, with his backresting against a frozen snow-hummock a dozen paces from the sledge.The outlaw accepted the situation with an indifference which seemed toPhilip more forced than philosophical. After that, while Celie waswalking back and forth to produce a warmer circulation in her numbedbody, he hurried to the scrub timber that grew along the shore andreturned with a small armful of dry wood. The fire he built was small,and concealed as much as possible by the sledge. Ten minutes sufficedto cook the meat for their supper. Then he stamped out the fire, fedthe dogs, and made a comfortable nest of bear skins for himself andCelie, facing Blake. The night had thickened until he could make outonly dimly the form of the outlaw against the snow-hummock. Hisrevolver lay ready at his side.

  In that darkness he drew Celie close up into his arms. Her head lay onhis breast. He buried his lips in the smothering sweetness of her hair,and her arms crept gently about his neck. Even then he did not take hiseyes from Blake, nor for an instant did he cease to listen for othersounds than the deep breathing of the exhausted dogs. It was only alittle while before the stars began to fill the sky. The gloom liftedslowly, and out of darkness rose the white world in a cold, shimmeringglory. In that starlight he could see the glisten of Celie's hair as itcovered them like a golden veil, and once or twice through the spacethat separated them he caught the flash of a strange fire in theoutlaw's eyes. Both shores were visible. He could have seen theapproach of a man two hundred yards away.

  After a little he observed that Blake's head was drooping upon hischest, and that his breathing had become deeper. His prisoner, hebelieved, was asleep. And Celie, nestling on his breast, was
soon inslumber. He alone was awake,--and watching. The dogs, flat on theirbellies, were dead to the world. For an hour he kept his vigil. In thattime he could not see that Blake moved. He heard nothing suspicious.And the night grew steadily brighter with the white glow of the stars.He held the revolver in his hand now. The starlight played on it in asteely glitter that could not fail to catch Blake's eyes should heawake.

  And then Philip found himself fighting--fighting desperately to keepawake. Again and again his eyes closed, and he forced them open with aneffort. He had planned that they would rest for two or three hours. Thetwo hours were gone when for the twentieth time his eyes shot open, andhe looked at Blake. The outlaw had not moved. His head hung still loweron his breast, and again--slowly--irresistibly--exhaustion closedPhilip's eyes. Even then Philip was conscious of fighting against theovermastering desire to sleep. It seemed to him that he was strugglingfor hours, and all that time his subconsciousness was crying out forhim to awake, struggling to rouse him to the nearness of a greatdanger. It succeeded at last. His eyes opened, and he stared in a dazedand half blinded tray toward Blake. His first sensation was one of vastrelief that he had awakened. The stars were brighter. The night wasstill. And there, a dozen paces from him was the snow-hummock.

  But Blake--Blake--

  His heart leapt into his throat.

  BLAKE WAS GONE!