The Yukon Trail: A Tale of the North
Page 29
CHAPTER XXVIII
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD
Macdonald drove his team into the teeth of the storm. The wind camein gusts. Sometimes the gale was so stiff that the dogs could scarcelycrawl forward against it; again there were moments of comparativestillness, followed by squalls that slapped the driver in the face likethe whipping of a loose sail on a catboat.
High drifts made the trail difficult. Not once but fifty times Macdonaldleft the gee-pole to break a way through snow-waves for the sled. Thebest he could get out of his dogs was three miles an hour, and he knewthat there was not another team or driver in the North could have doneso well.
It was close to noon when he reached a division of the road known as theFork. One trail ran down to the river and up it to the distant creeks.The other led across the divide, struck the Yukon, and pointed a way tothe coast. White drifts had long since blotted out the track of the sledthat had preceded him. Had the fugitives gone up the river to the creekswith intent to hole themselves up for the winter? Or was it theirpurpose to cross the divide and go out over the ice to the coast?
The pursuer knew that Gid Holt was wise as a weasel. He could followblindfolded the paths that led to every creek in the gold-fields.It might be taken as a certainty that he had not plunged into such adesperate venture without having a plan well worked out beforehand.Elliot had a high grade of intelligence. Would they try to reach thecoast and make their get-away to Seattle? Or would they dig themselvesin till the heavy snows were past and come back to civilization with thestory of a lucky strike to account for the gold they brought with them?Neither gold-dust nor nuggets could be identified. There would be no wayof proving the story false. The only evidence against them would be thatthey had left at Kusiak and this was merely of a corroborative kind.There would be no chance of convicting them upon it.
But to strike for Seattle was to throw away all pretense of innocence.Fugitives from justice, they would have to disappear from sight in orderto escape. The hunt for them would continue until at last they wereunearthed.
One fork of the road led to comparative safety; the other went bydevious windings to the penitentiary and perhaps the gallows. TheScotchman put himself in the place of the men he was trailing. Giventhe same conditions, he knew which path he would follow.
Macdonald took the trail that led down to the river, to the distantgold-creeks which offered a refuge from man-hunters in many a desertedcabin marooned by the deep snows.
Even the iron frame and steel muscles of the Scotch-Canadian protestedagainst the task he had set them that day. It was a time to sit snuglyinside by a stove and listen to the howling of the wind as it hurleditself down from the divide. But from daylight till dark Colby Macdonaldfought with drifts and breasted the storm. He got into the harness withthe dogs. He broke trail for them, cheered them, soothed, comforted,punished. Long after night had fallen he staggered into the hut of twoprospectors, his parka so stiff with frozen snow that it had to bebeaten with a hammer before the coat could be removed.
"How long since a dog team passed--seven huskies and two men?" was hisfirst question.
"No dog team has passed for four days," one of the men answered.
"You mean you haven't seen one," Macdonald corrected.
"I mean none has passed--unless it went by in the night while we slept.And even then our dogs would have warned us."
Macdonald flung his ice-coated gloves to a table and stooped to take offhis mukluks. His face was blue with the cold, but the bleak look in theeyes came from within. He said nothing more until he was free of his wetclothes. Then he sat down heavily and passed a hand over his frozeneyebrows.
"Get me something to eat and take care of my dogs. There is food forthem on the sled," he said.
While he ate he told them of the bank robbery and the murder. Theirresentment against the men who had done it was quite genuine. Therecould be no doubt they told the truth when they said no sled hadpreceded his. They were honest, reliable prospectors. He knew themboth well.
The weary man slept like a log. He opened his eyes next morning to findone of his hosts shaking him.
"Six o'clock, Mr. Macdonald. Your breakfast is ready. Jim is looking outfor the huskies."
Half an hour later the Scotchman gave the order, "Mush!" He was offagain, this time on the back trail as far as the Narrows, from whichpoint he meant to strike across to intersect the fork of the roadleading to the divide.
The storm had passed and when the late sun rose it was in a blue sky.Fine enough the day was overhead, but the slushy snow, where it was wornthin on the river by the sweep of the wind, made heavy travel for thedogs. Macdonald was glad enough to reach the Narrows, where he couldturn from the river and cut across to hit the trail of the men he wasfollowing. He had about five miles to go before he would reach the SmithCrossing road and every foot of it he would have to break trail for thedogs. This was slow business, since he had no partner at the gee-pole.Back and forth, back and forth he trudged, beating down the loose snowfor the runners. It was a hill trail, and the drifts were in most placesnot very deep. But the Scotchman was doing the work of two, and at akilling pace.
Over a ridge the team plunged down into a little park where the snow wasdeeper. Macdonald, breaking trail across the mountain valley, found hisfeet weighted with packed ice slush so that he could hardly move them.When at last he had beaten down a path for his dogs he stood breathingdeep at the summit of the slope. Before him lay the main road to Smith'sCrossing, scarce fifty yards away. He gave a deep whoop of triumph, foralong it ran the wavering tracks left by a sled. He was on the heels ofhis enemy at last.
As he turned back to his Siberian hounds, the eyes of Macdonald came toabrupt attention. On the hillside, not ten yards from him, somethingstuck out of the snow like a signpost. It was the foot of a man.
Slowly Macdonald moved toward it. He knew well enough what he hadstumbled across--one of the tragedies that in the North are likelyto be found in the wake of every widespread blizzard. Some unfortunatetraveler, blinded by the white swirl, had wandered from the trail andhad staggered up a draw to his death.
With a little digging the Alaskan uncovered a leg. The man had diedwhere he had fallen, face down. Macdonald scooped away the snow andfound a pack strapped to the back of the buried man. He cut the thongsand tried to ease it away. But the gunnysack had frozen to the parka.When he pulled, the rotten sacking gave way under the strain. Thecontents of the pack spilled out.
The eyes in the grim face of Macdonald grew hard and steely. He hadfound, 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 turnedit over. At sight of the face he gave a cry of astonishment.