“About the girl—easy to find out, I say. She sure didn’t fly away. Must ’a’ left tracks. We’ll take a look-see.”
Again Whaley waited deferentially, with a sardonic and mirthless grin, to let the other pass first. There were many tracks close to the cabin where they themselves, as well as the girl, had moved to and fro. Their roving glances went farther afield.
Plain as the swirling waters in the wake of a boat stretched the tracks of a snowshoer across the lower end of the lake.
They pushed across to examine them closer, following them a dozen yards to the edge of the ice-field. The sign written there on that white page told a tale to both of the observers, but it said more to one than to the other.
“Some one’s been here,” West cried with a startled oath.
“Yes,” agreed Whaley. He did not intend to give any unnecessary information.
“An’ lit out again. Must ’a’ gone to git help for the girl.”
“Yes,” assented the gambler, and meant “No.”
What he read from the writing on the snow was this: Some one had come and some one had gone. But the one who had come was not the one who had gone. An Indian had made the first tracks. He could tell it by the shape of the webs and by the way the traveler had toed in. The outward-bound trail was different. Some one lighter of build was wearing the snowshoes, some one who took shorter steps and toed out.
“See. She run out to meet him. Here’s where her feet kept sinkin’ in,” West said.
The other nodded. Yes, she had hurried to meet him but that was not all he saw. There was the impression of a knee in the snow. It was an easy guess that the man had knelt to take off the shoes and adjust them to the girl’s feet.
“An’ here’s where she cut off into the woods,” the convict went on. “She’s hidin’ up there now. I’m hittin’ the trail after her hot-foot.”
Whaley’s derisive smile vanished almost before it appeared. What he knew was his own business. If West wanted to take a walk in the woods, it was not necessary to tell him that a man was waiting for him there behind some tree.
“Think I’ll follow this fellow,” Whaley said, with a lift of the hand toward the tracks that led across the lake. “We’ve got to find out where he went. If the Mounted are hot on our trail, we want to know it.”
“Sure.” West assented craftily, eyes narrowed to conceal the thoughts that crawled through his murderous brain. “We gotta know that.”
He believed Whaley was playing into his hands. The man meant to betray him to the police. He would never reach them. And he, Bully West, would at last be alone with the girl, nobody to interfere with him.
The gambler was used to taking chances. He took one now and made his first mistake in the long duel he had been playing with West. The eagerness of the fellow to have him gone was apparent. The convict wanted him out of the way so that he could go find the girl. Evidently he thought that Whaley was backing down as gracefully as he could.
“I’ll start right after him. Back soon,” the gambler said casually.
“Yes, soon,” agreed West.
Their masked eyes still clung to each other, wary and watchful. As though without intent Whaley backed away, still talking to the other. He wanted to be out of revolver range before he turned. West also was backing clumsily, moving toward the sled. The convict wheeled and slid rapidly to it.
Whaley knew his mistake now. West’s rifle lay on the sled and the man was reaching for it.
The man on the ice-field did the only thing possible. He bent low and traveled fast. When the first shot rang out he was nearly a hundred fifty yards away. He crumpled down into the snow and lay still.
West’s hands were cold, his fingers stiff. He had not been sure of his aim. Now he gave a whoop of triumph. That was what happened to any one who interfered with Bully West. He fired again at the still huddled heap on the lake.
Presently he would go out there and make sure the man was dead. Just now he had more important business, an engagement to meet a girl in the woods back of the house.
“Got him good,” he told himself aloud. “He sure had it comin’ to him, the damned traitor.”
To find the McRae girl could not be difficult. She had left tracks as she waded away in the deep snow. There was no chance for her to hide. Nor could she have gone far without webs. The little catamount might, of course, shoot him. He had to move carefully, not to give her an opportunity.
As he went forward he watched every tree, every stick of timber behind which she might find cover to ambush him. He was not of a patient temperament, but life in the wilds had taught him to subdue when he must his gusty restlessness. Now he took plenty of time. He was in a hurry to hit the trail with his train and be off, but he could not afford to be in such great haste as to stop a bullet with his body.
He called to her. “Where you at, Dawn? I ain’t aimin’ to hurt you none. Come out an’ quit devilin’ me.”
Then, when his wheedling brought no answer, he made the forest ring with threats of what he would do to her when he caught her unless she came to him at once.
Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the tracks that had been made in the snow. They ended abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush. His first thought was that she must be hidden here, but when he had beat through it half a dozen times, he knew this was impossible. Then where was she?
He had told Whaley that she could not fly away. But if she hadn’t flown, what had become of her? There were no trees near enough to climb without showing the impressions of her feet in the snow as she moved to the trunk. He had an uneasy sense that she was watching him all the time from some hidden place near at hand. He looked up into the branches of the trees. They were heavy with snow which had not been shaken from them.
West smothered a laugh and an oath. He saw the trick now. She must have back-tracked carefully, at each step putting her feet in exactly the same place as when she had moved forward. Of course! The tracks showed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasionally when the moccasin went in the second time.
It was slow business, for while he studied the sign he must keep a keen eye cocked against the chance of a shot from his hidden prey.
Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached the place where the back-tracking ceased. Close to the spot was a pine. A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down. That must have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing.
His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt. With his rifle he covered the figure crouching close to it on the far side.
“Come down,” he ordered.
He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The tree-dweller slid down and stood before him. It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil his triumph over the red-coat Beresford.
For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. “Whad you doin’ here?” he asked at last.
“No food my camp. I hunt,” Onistah said.
“Tha’s a lie. Where’s the McRae girl?”
The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blank wall.
West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block of wood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churned over the situation.
“Won’t talk, eh? We’ll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an’ I’m gonna find where. I’ll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop that gun an’ marchê-back to the cabin. Un’erstand?”
Onistah did as he was told.
They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold of in his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He had had a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would be likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a Christian. He had learned from Father Giguère that he must turn the other cheek.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins. He tied his captive
hand and foot, then removed his moccasins and duffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flat chip. This he brought across the room.
“Changed yore mind any? Where’s the girl?” he demanded.
Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian can be.
“Still sulky, eh? We’ll see about that.”
The convict knelt on the man’s ankles and pushed the coal against the naked sole of the brown foot.
An involuntary deep shudder went through the Blackfoot’s body. The foot twitched. An acrid odor of burning flesh filled the room. No sound came from the locked lips.
The tormentor removed the coal. “I ain’t begun to play with you yet. I’m gonna give you some real Apache stuff ’fore I’m through. Where’s the girl? I’m gonna find out if I have to boil you in grease.”
Still Onistah said nothing.
West brought another coal. “We’ll try the other foot,” he said.
Again the pungent acrid odor rose to the nostrils.
“How about it now?” the convict questioned.
No answer came. This time Onistah had fainted.
CHAPTER XXVIII
“IS A’ WELL WI’ YOU, LASS?”
Jessie’s shoes crunched on the snow-crust. She traveled fast. In spite of Onistah’s assurance her heart was troubled for him. West and Whaley would study the tracks and come to at least an approximation of the truth. She did not dare think of what the gorilla-man would do to her friend if they captured him.
And how was it possible that they would not find him? His footsteps would be stamped deep in the snow. He could not travel fast. Since he had become a Christian, the Blackfoot, with the simplicity of a mind not used to the complexities of modern life, accepted the words of Jesus literally. He would not take a human life to save his own.
She blamed herself for escaping at his expense. The right thing would have been to send him back again for her father. But West had become such a horrible obsession with her that the sight of him even at a distance had put her in a panic.
From the end of the lake she followed the trail Onistah had made. It took into the woods, veering sharply to the right. The timber was open. Even where the snow was deep, the crust was firm enough to hold.
In her anxiety it seemed that hours passed. The sun was still fairly high, but she knew how quickly it sank these winter days.
She skirted a morass, climbed a long hill, and saw before her another lake. On the shore was a camp. A fire was burning, and over this a man stooping.
At the sound of her call, the man looked up. He rose and began to run toward her. She snowshoed down the hill, a little blindly, for the mist of glad tears brimmed her eyes.
Straight into Beresford’s arms she went. Safe at last, she began to cry. The soldier petted her, with gentle words of comfort.
“It’s all right now, little girl. All over with. Your father’s here. See! He’s coming. We’ll not let anything harm you.”
McRae took the girl into his arms and held her tight. His rugged face was twisted with emotion. A dam of ice melted in his heart. The voice with which he spoke, broken with feeling, betrayed how greatly he was shaken.
“My bairn! My wee dawtie! To God be the thanks.”
She clung to him, trying to control her sobs. He stroked her hair and kissed her, murmuring Gaelic words of endearment. A thought pierced him, like a sword-thrust.
He held her at arm’s length, a fierce anxiety in his haggard face. “Is a’ well wi’ you, lass?” he asked, almost harshly.
She understood his question. Her level eyes met his. They held no reservations of shame. “All’s well with me, Father. Mr. Whaley was there the whole time. He stood out against West. He was my friend.” She stopped, enough said.
“The Lord be thankit,” he repeated again, devoutly.
Tom Morse, rifle in hand, had come from the edge of the woods and was standing near. He had heard her first call, had seen her go to the arms of Beresford direct as a hurt child to those of its mother, and he had drawn reasonable conclusions from that. For under stress the heart reveals itself, he argued, and she had turned simply and instinctively to the man she loved. He stood now outside the group, silent. Inside him too a river of ice had melted. His haunted, sunken eyes told the suffering he had endured. The feeling that flooded him was deeper than joy. She had been dead and was alive again. She had been lost and was found.
“Where have you been?” asked Beresford. “We’ve been looking for days.”
“In a cabin on Bull Creek. Mr. Whaley took me there, but West followed.”
“How did you get away?”
“We were out of food. They went hunting. West took my snowshoes. Onistah came. He saw them coming back and gave me his shoes. He went and hid in the woods. But they’ll see his tracks. They’ll find him. We must hurry back.”
“Yes,” agreed McRae. “I’m thinkin’ if West finds the lad, he’ll do him ill.”
Morse spoke for the first time, his voice dry as a chip. “We’d better hurry on, Beresford and I. You and Miss McRae can bring the sled.”
McRae hesitated, but assented. There might be desperate need of haste. “That’ll be the best way. But you’ll be carefu’, lad. Yon West’s a wolf. He’d as lief kill ye baith as look at ye.”
The younger men were out of sight over the brow of the hill long before McRae and Jessie had the dogs harnessed.
“You’ll ride, lass,” the father announced.
She demurred. “We can go faster if I walk. Let me drive. Then you can break trail where the snow’s soft.”
“No. You’ll ride, my dear. There’s nae sic a hurry. The lads’ll do what’s to be done. On wi’ ye.”
Jessie got into the cariole and was bundled up to the tip of the nose with buffalo robes, the capote of her own fur being drawn over the head and face. For riding in the sub-Arctic winter is a freezing business.
“Marché,”6 ordered McRae.
Cuffy led the dogs up the hill, following the trail already broken. The train made good time, but to Jessie it seemed to crawl. She was tortured with anxiety for Onistah. An express could not have carried her fast enough. It was small comfort to tell herself that Onistah was a Blackfoot and knew every ruse of the woods. His tracks would lead straight to him and the veriest child could follow them. Nor could she persuade herself that Whaley would stand between him and West’s anger. To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie.
The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the lake. Here the going was better. The sun was down and the snow-crust held dogs and sled. A hundred fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team. He moved forward and examined the snow.
With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that wrapped her and jumped from the cariole. An invisible hand seemed to clutch tightly at her throat. For what she and her father had seen were crimson splashes in the white. Some one or something had been killed or wounded here. Onistah, of course! He must have changed his mind, tried to follow her, and been shot by West as he was crossing the lake.
She groaned, her heart heavy.
McRae offered comfort. “He’ll likely be only wounded. The lads wouldna hae moved him yet if he’d no’ been livin’.”
The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus.
Morse came to the door. He closed it behind him.
“Onistah?” cried Jessie.
“He’s been—hurt. But we were in time. He’ll get well.”
“West shot him? We saw stains in the snow.”
“No. He shot Whaley.”
“Whaley?” echoed McRae.
“Yes. Wanted to get rid of him. Thought your daughter was hidden in the woods here. Afraid, too, that Whaley would give him up to the North-West Mounted.”
“Then Whaley’s dead?” the Scotchman asked.
“No. West hadn’t time right then to finish the job. Pretty badly hurt, though. Shot in the side and in the thigh.”
“And West?”
“We came too s
oon. He couldn’t finish his deviltry. He lit out over the hill soon as he saw us.”
They went into the house.
Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs and knelt beside him. Beresford was putting on one of his feet a cloth soaked in caribou oil.
“What did he do to you?” she cried, a constriction of dread at her heart.
A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the native. “Apache stuff, he called it.”
“But—”
“West burned his feet to make him tell where you were,” Beresford told her gently.
“Oh!” she cried, in horror.
“Good old Onistah. He gamed it out. Wouldn’t say a word. West saw us coming and hit the trail.”
“Is he—is he—?”
“He’s gone.”
“I mean Onistah.”
“Suffering to beat the band, but not a whimper out of him. He’s not permanently hurt—be walking around in a week or two.”
“You poor boy!” the girl cried softly, and she put her arm under the Indian’s head to lift it to an easier position.
The dumb lips of the Blackfoot did not thank her, but the dark eyes gave her the gratitude of a heart wholly hers.
All that night the house was a hospital. The country was one where men had learned to look after hurts without much professional aid. In a rough way Angus McRae was something of a doctor. He dressed the wounds of both the injured, using the small medical kit he had brought with him.
Whaley was a bit of a stoic himself. The philosophy of his class was to take good fortune or ill undemonstratively. He was lucky to be alive. Why whine about what must be?
But as the fever grew on him with the lengthening hours, he passed into delirium. Sometimes he groaned with pain. Again he fell into disconnected babble of early days. He was back again with his father and mother, living over his wild and erring youth.
“… Don’t tell Mother. I’ll square it all right if you keep it from her…. Rotten run of cards. Ninety-seven dollars. You’ll have to wait, I tell you…. Mother, Mother, if you won’t cry like that …”
The Second Western Megapack Page 171