CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN
In the white North travelers are few and far. It is impossible for oneto pass through the country without leaving a record of his progresswritten on the terrain and in the minds of the natives. The fugitivedid not attempt concealment. He had with him now an Indian guide andwas pushing into the Barren Lands. There was no uncertainty about hismovements. From Fort Chippewayan he had swung to the northwest in theline of the great frozen lakes, skirting Athabasca and following theGreat Slave River to the lake of the same name. This he crossed at thenarrowest point, about where the river empties into it, and headed forthe eastern extremity of Lake La Martre.
On his heels, still far behind, trod the two pursuers, patient,dogged, and inexorable. They had left far in the rear the out-forts ofthe Mounted and the little settlements of the free traders. Alreadythey were deep in the Hudson's Bay Company trapping-grounds. Ahead ofthem lay the Barrens, stretching to the inlets of the Arctic Ocean.
The days were drawing out and the nights getting shorter. Theuntempered sun of the Northland beat down on the cold snow crystalsand reflected a million sparks of light. In that white field the glarewas almost unbearable. Both of them wore smoked glasses, but even withthese their eyes continually smarted. They grew red and swollen. Iftime had not been so great an element in their journey, they wouldhave tried to travel only after sunset. But they could not affordthis. West would keep going as long and as fast as he could.
Each of them dreaded snow-blindness. They knew the sign of it--adreadful pain, a smarting of the eyeballs as though hot burning sandwere being flung against them. In camp at night they bathed theirswollen lids and applied a cool and healing salve.
Meanwhile the weeks slipped into months and still they held likebulldogs to the trail of the man they were after.
The silence of the wide, empty white wastes surrounded them, exceptfor an occasional word, the whine of a dog, and the slithering crunchof the sled-runners. From unfriendly frozen deserts they passed,through eternal stillness, into the snow wilderness that seemed tostretch forever. When they came to forests, now thinner, smaller, andless frequent, they welcomed them as they would an old friend.
"He's headin' for Great Bear, looks like," Morse suggested one morningafter an hour in which neither of them had spoken.
"I was wondering when you'd chirp up, Tom," Beresford grinnedcheerfully. "Sometimes I think I'm fed up for life on the hissing ofsnowshoe runners. The human voice sure sounds good up here. Yes, GreatBear Lake. And after that, where?"
"Up the lake, across to the Mackenzie, and down it to the ocean, I'dsay. He's makin' for the whaling waters. Herschel Island maybe. He'shoping to bump into a whaler and get down on it to 'Frisco."
"Your guess is just as good as any," the Canadian admitted. "He'scut out a man-sized job for himself. I'll say that for him. It's afive-to-one bet he never gets through alive, even if we don't nabhim."
"What else can he do? He's got to keep going or be dragged back to behanged. I'd travel too if I were in his place."
"So would I. He's certainly hitting her up. Wish he'd break his legfor a week or two," the constable said airily.
They swung into a dense spruce swamp and jumped up a half-grown bear.He was so close to them that Tom, who was breaking trail, could seehis little shining eyes. Morse was carrying his rifle, in the hopethat he might see a lynx or a moose. The bear turned to scamper away,but the intention never became a fact. A bullet crashed through thehead and brought the animal down.
An hour later they reached an Indian camp on the edge of a lake. Onstages, built well up from the ground, drying fish were hanging out ofreach of the dogs. These animals came charging toward the travelersas usual, lean, bristling, wolfish creatures that never had beenhalf-tamed.
Beresford lashed them back with the whip. Indians came out from thehuts, matted hair hanging over their eyes. After the usual greetingsand small presents had been made, the man-hunters asked questions.
"Great Bear Lake--wah-he-o-che (how far)?"
The head man opened his eyes. Nobody in his right mind went to thegreat water at this time of year. It was maybe fifteen, maybe twentydays' travel. Who could tell? Were all the fair skins mad? Only threedays since another dog-train had passed through driven by a big shaggyman who had left them no presents after he had bought fish. Threewhites in as many days, and before that none but voyageur half-breedsin twice that number of years.
The trooper let out a boyish whoop. "Gaining fast. Only three daysbehind him, Tom. If our luck stands up, he'll never reach the GreatBear."
There was reason back of Beresford's exultant shout. At least one ofWest's dogs had bleeding feet. This the stained snow on the trailtold them. Either the big man had no shoes for the animals or was toocareless to use them when needed, the constable had suggested to hisfriend.
"It's not carelessness," Morse said. "It's his bullying nature. Likelyhe's got the shoes, only he won't put 'em on. He'll beat the poorbrute over the head instead and curse his luck when he breaks down.He's too bull-headed to be a good driver."
On the fourth day after this they came upon one of the minor tragediesof sub-Arctic travel. The skeleton of a dog lay beside the trail. Itsbones had been picked clean by its ravenous cannibal companions.
"Three left," Beresford commented. "He'll be figuring on picking upanother when he meets any Indians or Eskimos."
"If he does it won't be any good to work with his train. I believewe've got him. He isn't twenty-five miles ahead of us right now."
"I'd put it at twenty. In about three days now the fireworks willbegin."
It was the second day after this that they began to notice somethingpeculiar about the trail they were following. Hitherto it had takena straight line, except when the bad terrain had made a detouradvisable. Now it swayed uncertainly, much as a drunken man staggersdown a street.
"What's wrong with him? It can't be liquor. Yet if he's not drunk,what's got into him?" the soldier asked aloud, expecting no answerthat explained this phenomenon.
Tom shook his head. "See. The Indian's drivin' now. He follows astraight enough line. You can tell he's at the tail line by the shapeof the webs. And West's still lurchin' along in a crazy way. He felldown here. Is he sick, d' you reckon?"
"Give it up. Anyhow, he's in trouble. We'll know soon enough what itis. Before night now we'll maybe see them."
Before they had gone another mile, the trail in the snow showedanother peculiarity. It made a wide half-circle and was heading southagain.
"He's given up. What's that mean? Out of grub, d' you think?"Beresford asked.
"No. If they had been, he'd have made camp and gone hunting. Wecrossed musk-ox sign to-day, you know."
"Righto. Can't be that. He must be sick."
They kept their eyes open. At any moment now they were likely to makea discovery. Since they were in a country of scrubby brush they movedcautiously to prevent an ambush. There was just a possibility that thefugitive might have caught sight of them and be preparing anunwelcome surprise. But it was a possibility that did not look like aprobability.
"Something gone 'way off in his plans," Morse said after they hadmushed on the south trail for an hour. "Looks like he don't know whathe's doing. Has he gone crazy?"
"Might be that. Men do in this country a lot. We don't know what atough time he's been through."
"I'll bet he's bucked blizzards aplenty in the last two months. Noticeone thing. West's trailin' after the guide like a lamb. He's makin' asure-enough drunk track. See how the point of his shoe caught the snowthere an' flung him down. The Cree stopped the sled right away so Westcould get up. Why did he do that? And why don't West ever stray a footouta the path that's broke? That's not like him. He's always boss o'the outfit--always leadin'."
Beresford was puzzled, too. "I don't get the situation. It's beenpretty nearly a thousand miles that we've been following thistrail--eight hundred, anyhow. All the way Bully West has stamped hisbig foot on it a
s boss. Now he takes second place. The reason's beyondme."
His friend's mind jumped at a conclusion. "I reckon I know why he'sfollowin' the straight and narrow path. The guide's got a line roundhis waist and West's tied to it."
"Why?"
The sun's rays, reflected from the snow in a blinding, brilliantglare, smote Morse full in the eyes. For days the white fields hadbeen very trying to the sight. There had been moments when black spotshad flickered before him, when red-hot sand had been flung against hiseyeballs if he could judge by the burning sensation.
He knew now, in a flash, what was wrong with West.
To Beresford he told it in two words.
The constable slapped his thigh. "Of course. That's the answer."
Night fell, the fugitives still not in sight. The country was so roughthat they might be within a mile or two and yet not be seen.
"Better camp, I reckon," Morse suggested.
"Yes. Here. We'll come up with them to-morrow."
They were treated that evening to an indescribably brilliantpyrotechnic display in the heavens. An aurora flashed across the skysuch as neither of them had ever seen before. The vault was aglow withwaves of red, violet, and purple that danced and whirled, with fickle,inconstant flashes of gold and green and yellow bars. A radiantincandescence of great power lit the arch and flooded it with lightthat poured through the cathedral windows of the Most High.
At daybreak they were up. Quickly they breakfasted and loaded. Thetrail they followed was before noon a rotten one, due to a sudden risein the temperature, but it still bore south steadily.
They reached the camp where West and his guide had spent the night.Another chapter of the long story of the trail was written here. Thesled and the guide had gone on south, but West had not been with them.His webs went wandering off at an angle, hesitant and uncertain.Sometimes they doubled across the track he had already made.
Beresford was breaking trail. His hand shot straight out. In thedistance there was a tiny black speck in the waste of white. It moved.
Even yet the men who had come to bring the law into the Lone Lands didnot relax their vigilance. They knew West's crafty, cunning mind.This might be a ruse to trap them. When they left the sled and movedforward, it was with rules ready. The hunters stalked their prey asthey would have done a musk ox. Slowly, noiselessly, they approached.
The figure was that of a huge man. He sat huddled in the snow, hisback to them. Despair was in the droop of the head and the set of thebowed shoulders.
One of the dogs howled. The big torso straightened instantly. Theshaggy head came up. Bully West was listening intently. He turned andlooked straight at them, but he gave no sign of knowing they werethere. The constable took a step and the hissing of the shoe-runnersounded.
"I'm watchin' you, Stomak-o-sox," the heavy voice of the convictgrowled. "Can't fool me. I see every step you're takin'."
It was an empty boast, almost pathetic in its futility. Morse andBeresford moved closer, still without speech.
West broke into violent, impotent cursing. "You're there, you damnedwood Cree! Think I don't know? Think I can't see you? Well, I can.Plain as you can see me. You come here an' get me, or I'll skin youalive like I done last week. Hear me?"
The voice rose to a scream. It betrayed terror--the horrible deadlyfear of being left alone to perish in the icy wastes of the North.
Beresford crept close and waved a hand in front of the big man's eyes.West did not know it. He babbled vain and foolish threats at hisguide.
The convict had gone blind--snow-blind, and Stomak-o-sox had left himalone to make a push for his own life while there was still time.
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