Presently, when the stream of his curiosity as to the outside began to dry, Beresford put a few questions of his own. Manders could give him no information. He was in touch with the trappers for a radius of a hundred miles of which Northern Lights was the center, but no word had come to him of a lone traveler with a dog-train passing north.
“Probably striking west of here,” the big black Englishman suggested.
Beresford’s face twisted to a wry, humorous grimace. East, west, or north, they would have to find the fellow and bring him back.
The man-hunters spent a day at Northern Lights to rest the dogs and restock their supplies. They overhauled their dunnage carefully, mended the broken moose-skin harness, and looked after one of the animals that had gone a little lame from a sore pad. From a French half-breed they bought additional equipment much needed for the trail. He was a gay, good-looking youth in new fringed leather hunting-shirt, blue Saskatchewan cap trimmed with ribbons, and cross belt of scarlet cloth. His stock in trade was dog-shoes, made of caribou-skin by his wife, and while in process of tanning soaked in some kind of liquid that would prevent the canines from eating them off their feet.
The temperature was thirty-five below zero when they left the post and there were sun dogs in the sky. Manders had suggested that they had better wait a day or two, but the man-hunters were anxious to be on the trail. They had a dangerous, unpleasant job on hand. Both of them wanted it over with as soon as possible.
They headed into the wilds. The road they made was a crooked path through the white, unbroken forest. They saw many traces of fur-bearing animals, but did not stop to do any hunting. The intense cold and the appearance of the sky were whips to drive them fast. In the next two or three days they passed fifteen or twenty lakes. Over these they traveled rapidly, but in the portages and the woods they had to pack the snow, sometimes cut out obstructing brush, and again help the dogs over rough or heavy places.
The blizzard caught them the third day. They fought their way through the gathering storm across a rather large lake to the timber’s edge. Here they cleared away a space about nine feet square and cut evergreen boughs from the trees to cover it. At one side of this, Morse built the fire while Beresford unharnessed the dogs and thawed out a mess of frozen fish for them. Presently the kettles were bubbling on the fire. The men ate supper and drew the sled up as a barricade against the wind.
The cold had moderated somewhat and it had come on to snow. All night a sleety, wind-driven drizzle beat upon them. They rose from an uncomfortable night to a gloomy day.
They consulted about what was best to do. Their camp was in a poor place, among a few water-logged trees that made a poor, smoky fire. It had little shelter from the storm, and there was no evidence of fair weather at hand.
“Better tackle the next traverse,” Morse advised. “Once we get across the lake we can’t be worse off than we are here.”
“Righto!” assented Beresford.
They packed their supplies, harnessed the dogs, and were off. Into the storm they drove, head down, buffeted by a screaming wind laden with stinging sleet that swept howling across the lake. All about them they heard the sharp reports of cracking ice. At any moment a fissure might open, and its width might be an inch or several yards. In the blinding gale they could see nothing. Literally, they had to feel their way.
Morse went ahead to test the ice, Cuffy following close at his heels. The water rushes up after a fissure and soon freezes over. The danger is that one may come to it too soon.
This was what happened. Morse, on his snowshoes, crossed the thinly frozen ice safely. Cuffy, a step or two behind the trail-breaker, plunged through into the water. The prompt energy of Beresford saved the other dogs. He stopped them instantly and threw his whole weight back to hold the sled. The St. Bernard floundered in the water for a few moments and tried to reach Morse. The harness held Cuffy back. Beresford ran to the edge of the break and called him. A second or two later he was helping to drag the dog back upon the firm ice.
In the bitter cold the matted coat of the St. Bernard, froze stiff. Cuffy knew his danger. The instant the sled, was across the crack, he plunged at the load and went forward with such speed that he seemed almost to drag the other dogs with him.
Fortunately the shore was near, not more than three or four miles away. Within half an hour land was reached. A forest came down to the edge of the lake. From the nearer trees Morse sliced birch bark. An abundance of fairly dry wood was at hand. Before a roaring fire Cuffy lay on a buffalo robe and steamed. Within an hour he was snuggling a contented nose up to Beresford’s caressing hand.
Fagged out, the travelers went to bed early. Long before daybreak they were up. The blizzard had died down during the night. It left behind a crusted trail over which the dogs moved fast. The thermometer had again dropped sharply and the weather was bitter cold. Before the lights of an Indian village winked at them through the trees, they had covered nearly forty miles. In the wintry afternoon darkness they drove up.
The native dogs were barking a welcome long before they came jingling into the midst of the tepees. Bucks, squaws, and papooses tumbled out to see them with guttural exclamations of greeting. Some of the youngsters and one or two of the maidens had never before seen a white man.
A fast and furious mêlée interrupted conversation. The wolfish dogs of the village were trying out the mettle of the four strangers. The snarling and yelping drowned all other sounds until the gaunt horde of sharp-muzzled; stiff-haired brutes had been beaten back by savage blows from the whip and by quick thrusts of a rifle butt.
The head man of the group invited the two whites into the largest hut. Morse and Beresford sat down before a smoky fire and carried on a difficult dialogue. They divided half a yard of tobacco among the men present and gave each of the women a small handful of various-colored beads.
They ate sparingly of a stew made of fish, the gift of their hosts. In turn the officers had added to the menu a large piece of fat moose which was devoured with voracity.
The Indians, questioned, had heard a story of a white man traveling alone through the Lone Lands with a dog-train. He was a giant of a fellow and surly, the word had gone out. Who he was or where he was going they did not know, but he seemed to be making for the great river in the north. That was the sum and substance of what Beresford learned from them about West by persistent inquiry.
After supper, since it was so bitterly cold outside, the man-hunters slept in the tepee of the chief. Thirteen Indians too slept there. Two of them were the head man’s wives, six were his children, one was a grandchild. Who the rest of the party were or what relation they bore to him, the guests did not learn.
The place was filthy and the air was vile. Before morning both the young whites regretted they had not taken chances outside.
“Not ever again,” Beresford said with frank disgust after they had set out next day. “I’ll starve if I have to. I’ll freeze if I must. But, by Jove! I’ll not eat Injun stew or sleep in a pot-pourri of nitchies. Not good enough.”
Tom grinned. “While I was eatin’ the stew, I thought I could stand sleepin’ there even if I gagged at the eats, and while I was tryin’ to sleep, I made up my mind if I had to choose one it would be the stew. Next time we’re wrastlin’ with a blizzard, we’ll know enough to be thankful for our mercies. We’ll be able to figure it might be a lot worse.”
That afternoon they killed a caribou and got much-needed fresh meat for themselves and the dogs. Unfortunately, while carrying the hind-quarters to the sled, Beresford slipped and strained a tendon in the left leg. He did not notice it much at the time, but after an hour’s travel the pain increased. He found it difficult to keep pace with the dogs.
They were traversing a ten-mile lake. Morse proposed that they camp as soon as they reached the edge of it.
“Better get on the sled and ride till then,” he added.
Beresford shook his head. “No, I’ll carry on all right. Got to grin and bear it.
The sled’s overloaded anyhow. You trot along and I’ll tag. Time you’ve got the fires built and all the work done, I’ll loaf into camp.”
Tom made no further protest. “All right. Take it easy. I’ll unload and run back for you.”
The Montanan found a good camp-site, dumped the supplies, and left Cuffy as a guard. With the other dogs he drove back and met the officer. Beresford was still limping doggedly forward. Every step sent a shoot of pain through him, but he set his teeth and kept moving.
None the less he was glad to see the empty sled. He tumbled on and let the others do the work.
At camp he scraped the snow away with a shoe while Morse cut spruce boughs and chopped wood for the fire.
Beresford suffered a good deal from his knee that night. He did not sleep much, and when day came it was plain he could not travel. The camp-site was a good one. There was plenty of wood, and the shape of the draw in which they were located was a protection from the cold wind. The dogs would be no worse for a day or two of rest. The travelers decided to remain here as long as might be necessary.
Tom went hunting. He brought back a bag of four ptarmigan late in the afternoon. Fried, they were delicious. The dogs stood round in a half-circle and caught the bones tossed to them. Crunch—crunch—crunch. The bones no longer were. The dogs, heads cocked on one side, waited expectantly for more tender tidbits.
“Saw deer tracks. To-morrow I’ll have a try for one,” Morse said.
The lame man hobbled down to the lake next day, broke the ice, and fished for jack pike. He took back to camp with him all he could carry.
On the fourth day his knee was so much improved that he was able to travel slowly. They were glad to see that night the lights of Fort Desolation, as one of the Mounted had dubbed the post on account of its loneliness.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN
In the white North travelers are few and far. It is impossible for one to pass through the country without leaving a record of his progress written on the terrain and in the minds of the natives. The fugitive did not attempt concealment. He had with him now an Indian guide and was pushing into the Barren Lands. There was no uncertainty about his movements. From Fort Chippewayan he had swung to the northwest in the line of the great frozen lakes, skirting Athabasca and following the Great Slave River to the lake of the same name. This he crossed at the narrowest point, about where the river empties into it, and headed for the 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 of the Mounted and the little settlements of the free traders. Already they were deep in the Hudson’s Bay Company trapping-grounds. Ahead of them lay the Barrens, stretching to the inlets of the Arctic Ocean.
The days were drawing out and the nights getting shorter. The untempered sun of the Northland beat down on the cold snow crystals and reflected a million sparks of light. In that white field the glare was almost unbearable. Both of them wore smoked glasses, but even with these their eyes continually smarted. They grew red and swollen. If time had not been so great an element in their journey, they would have tried to travel only after sunset. But they could not afford this. West would keep going as long and as fast as he could.
Each of them dreaded snow-blindness. They knew the sign of it—a dreadful pain, a smarting of the eyeballs as though hot burning sand were being flung against them. In camp at night they bathed their swollen lids and applied a cool and healing salve.
Meanwhile the weeks slipped into months and still they held like bulldogs to the trail of the man they were after.
The silence of the wide, empty white wastes surrounded them, except for an occasional word, the whine of a dog, and the slithering crunch of the sled-runners. From unfriendly frozen deserts they passed, through eternal stillness, into the snow wilderness that seemed to stretch forever. When they came to forests, now thinner, smaller, and less frequent, they welcomed them as they would an old friend.
“He’s headin’ for Great Bear, looks like,” Morse suggested one morning after an hour in which neither of them had spoken.
“I was wondering when you’d chirp up, Tom,” Beresford grinned cheerfully. “Sometimes I think I’m fed up for life on the hissing of snowshoe runners. The human voice sure sounds good up here. Yes, Great Bear Lake. And after that, where?”
“Up the lake, across to the Mackenzie, and down it to the ocean, I’d say. He’s makin’ for the whaling waters. Herschel Island maybe. He’s hoping to bump into a whaler and get down on it to ’Frisco.”
“Your guess is just as good as any,” the Canadian admitted. “He’s cut out a man-sized job for himself. I’ll say that for him. It’s a five-to-one bet he never gets through alive, even if we don’t nab him.”
“What else can he do? He’s got to keep going or be dragged back to be hanged. I’d travel too if I were in his place.”
“So would I. He’s certainly hitting her up. Wish he’d break his leg for 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 see his little shining eyes. Morse was carrying his rifle, in the hope that 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 the head and brought the animal down.
An hour later they reached an Indian camp on the edge of a lake. On stages, built well up from the ground, drying fish were hanging out of reach of the dogs. These animals came charging toward the travelers as usual, lean, bristling, wolfish creatures that never had been half-tamed.
Beresford lashed them back with the whip. Indians came out from the huts, matted hair hanging over their eyes. After the usual greetings and 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 the great water at this time of year. It was maybe fifteen, maybe twenty days’ travel. Who could tell? Were all the fair skins mad? Only three days since another dog-train had passed through driven by a big shaggy man who had left them no presents after he had bought fish. Three whites in as many days, and before that none but voyageur half-breeds in twice that number of years.
The trooper let out a boyish whoop. “Gaining fast. Only three days behind him, Tom. If our luck stands up, he’ll never reach the Great Bear.”
There was reason back of Beresford’s exultant shout. At least one of West’s dogs had bleeding feet. This the stained snow on the trail told them. Either the big man had no shoes for the animals or was too careless to use them when needed, the constable had suggested to his friend.
“It’s not carelessness,” Morse said. “It’s his bullying nature. Likely he’s got the shoes, only he won’t put ’em on. He’ll beat the poor brute 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 tragedies of sub-Arctic travel. The skeleton of a dog lay beside the trail. Its bones had been picked clean by its ravenous cannibal companions.
“Three left,” Beresford commented. “He’ll be figuring on picking up another when he meets any Indians or Eskimos.”
“If he does it won’t be any good to work with his train. I believe we’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 will begin.”
It was the second day after this that they began to notice something peculiar about the trail they were following. Hitherto it had taken a straight line, except when the bad terrain had made a détour advisable. Now it swayed uncertainly, much as a drunken man staggers down 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 answer that explained this phenomenon.
Tom shook his head. “See. The Indian’s drivin’ now. He follows a straight enough line. You can tell he’s at the tail line by the shape of the webs. And West’s still lurchin’ along in a crazy way. He fell down here. Is he sick, d’ you reckon?”
“Give it up. Anyhow, he’s in trouble. We’ll know soon enough what it is. Before night now we’ll maybe see them.”
Before they had gone another mile, the trail in the snow showed another peculiarity. It made a wide half-circle and was heading south again.
“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. We crossed 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 make a discovery. Since they were in a country of scrubby brush they moved cautiously to prevent an ambush. There was just a possibility that the fugitive might have caught sight of them and be preparing an unwelcome surprise. But it was a possibility that did not look like a probability.
“Something gone ’way off in his plans,” Morse said after they had mushed on the south trail for an hour. “Looks like he don’t know what he’s doing. Has he gone crazy?”
“Might be that. Men do in this country a lot. We don’t know what a tough time he’s been through.”
“I’ll bet he’s bucked blizzards aplenty in the last two months. Notice one thing. West’s trailin’ after the guide like a lamb. He’s makin’ a sure-enough drunk track. See how the point of his shoe caught the snow there an’ flung him down. The Cree stopped the sled right away so West could get up. Why did he do that? And why don’t West ever stray a foot outa the path that’s broke? That’s not like him. He’s always boss o’ the outfit—always leadin’.”
The Second Western Megapack Page 174