OUT ON THE NORTHLAND TRAIL
Noon, the following day, saw the dog-train
depart on its homeward journey. The way of it
was curious and said much for the simplicity of these
“old hands” of the northland trail.
They were giants of learning in all pertaining to
their calling; infants in everything that had to do
with the world of men.
Thus Jean Leblaude’s task was
one of no great difficulty. It was necessary
that he should throw dust in their eyes. And such
a dust storm he raised about their simple heads that
they struck the trail utterly blinded to the events
of the previous night.
While they yet slumbered Jean had
freed the dogs from their traces, and unloaded the
sled which bore the treasure-chest. He had restored
everything to its proper place; and so he awaited the
coming of the morning. He did not sleep; he watched,
ready for every emergency.
When, at last, the two men stirred
he was at hand. Rolling Pierre over he shook
him violently till the old man sat up, staring about
him in a daze. A beaker of rum was thrust against
his parched lips, and he drank greedily. The
generous spirit warmed the Frenchman’s chilled
body and roused him. Then Jean performed the
same merciful operation upon Ambrose, and the two
unrepentant sinners were on their legs again, with
racking heads, and feeling very ill.
But Jean cared nothing for their sufferings;
he wanted to be rid of them. He gave them no
chance to question him; not that they had any desire
to do so, in fact it was doubtful if they fully realized
anything that was happening. And he launched
into his carefully considered story.
“Victor’s gone up to the
hills ’way back ther’,” he said.
“Ther’s been a herd o’ moose come
down, from the moose-yard, further north, an’
he’s after their pelts. Say, he left word
fer you to git right on loadin’ the furs,
an’ when ye hit the trail ye’re to take
three bottles o’ the Rye, an’ some o’
the rum. He says he ain’t like to be back
fer nigh on three days.”
And while he was speaking the two
men supped their coffee, and, as they moistened their
parched and burning throats, they nodded assent to
all Jean had to say. At that moment Victor, or
any one else, might go hang. All they thought
of was the awful thirst that assailed them.
Breakfast over, the work of loading
the sleds proceeded with the utmost dispatch.
Thus it was that at noon, without question, without
the smallest suspicion of the night’s doings,
they set out for the weary “long trail.”
Jean saw them go. He stood at
the door of the store and watched them until they
disappeared behind the rising ground of the great Divide.
Then his solemn eyes turned away indifferently, and
he gazed out into the hazy distance. His gaunt
face showed nothing of what was passing in the brain
behind it. He rarely displayed emotion of any
sort. The Indian blood in his veins preponderated,
and much of the stoical calm of the Redskin was his.
Now he could wait, undisturbed, for the return of
Davia. He felt that he had mastered the situation.
He could not make Victor marry the sister he had wronged,
but at least he could pay off the wrong in his own
way, and to his entire satisfaction. Two years
he had waited for the adjustment of these matters.
He was glad that he had exercised patience. He
might have slain Victor a hundred times over, but
he had refrained, vainly hoping to see his sister righted.
Besides, he knew that Davia had loved Victor, and
women are peculiar. Who might say but that she
would have fled from the murderer of her lover?
Jean felt well satisfied on the whole. So he
stood thinking and waiting with a calm mind.
But the tragedy was working itself
out in a manner little suspected, little expected,
by him. This he was soon to learn.
The grey spring snow spread itself
out on every hand, only was the wood-lined hill, which
stretched away to the right and left of him, and behind
the hut, bare of the wintry pall. The sky was
brilliant in contrast with the greyness of the world
beneath it, and the sun shone high in the blue vault.
Everywhere was the deadly calm of the Silent North.
The presence of any moving forest beast in that brooding
picture, however distant, must surely have caught
the eye. There was not a living thing to be seen.
These woful wastes have much to do with the rugged
nature of those who dwell in the north.
Suddenly the whole prospect seemed
to be electrified with a thrill of life. The
change came with a swift movement of the man’s
quiet eyes. Nothing had really altered in the
picture, nothing had appeared, and yet that swift
flash of the eyes had brought a suggestion of something
which broke up the solitude as though it had never
been.
Awhile, and his attention became fixed
upon the long line of woods to the right. Then
his ears caught a slight but distinct sound. He
stood away from the doorway, and, shading his eyes
from the sunlight, looked keenly along the dark shadow
of the woods. No wolf or fox could have keener
instinct than had this man. A sound of breaking
brush, but so slight that it probably would have passed
unheeded by any other, had told him that some one
approached through these woods.
He waited.
Suddenly there was movement in the
shadow. The next moment a figure stepped out
into the open. A figure, dressed in beaded buckskin
and blanket clothing. It was Davia.
She came in haste, yet wearily.
She looked slight and drooping in her mannish garments,
while the pallor of her drawn face was intense.
She came up to where Jean stood and would have fallen
but for his support. Her journey had been rapid
and long, and she was utterly weary of body.
“Quick, let’s git inside,”
she cried, in a choking voice. Then she added
hysterically: “He’s on the trail.”
Without a word Jean led her into the
house, and she flung herself into a seat. A little
whiskey put new life into her and the colour came back
to her face. She was strong, a woman bred to
hardship and toil.
Jean waited; then he put a question
with characteristic abruptness.
“Who’s on the trail?”
“Who? Nick Westley.
He’s comin’ for blood! Victor’s
blood!” Then Davia sprang to her feet with a
look of wild alarm upon her beautiful face. “He’s
killed his brother!” she added. “He’s
mad ravin’ mad.”
The man did not move a muscle.
Only his eyes darkened as he heard the announcement.
“Mad,” he said, thoughtfully.
“An’ he’s comin’ fer Victor.
Wal?”
Davia sat up. Her brother’s
calmness had a soothing effect upon her.
“Listen, an’ I’ll tell you.”
And she told the story of the mountain
tragedy, and the manner in which she watched the madman’s
subsequent actions until he set out for the store.
And the story lost none of its intense horror in her
telling.
Jean listened unemotionally and with
a judicial air. Only his eyes shoved that he
was in any way moved.
When she had finished he asked her,
“An’ when’ll he git here?”
“Can’t say,” came
the swift reply. “Maybe to-night; maybe
in an hour; maybe right now. He’s big an’
strong, an’ an’ he’s mad,
I know it.” And a shudder of apprehension
passed over her frame.
“Fer Victor? Sure?”
Jean asked again presently, like a man weighing up
a difficult problem.
“Sure. He don’t know
you, nor me, at this layout. Ther’s only
Victor. I guess I don’t know how he figgered
it, he’s that crazy, but it’s Victor he’s
layin’ fer, sure. Say, I saw him
sling his gun an’ his ‘six.’
An’ his belt was heavy with ammunition.
I reckon ther’s jest one thing fer us to
do when a crazy man gits around with a gun. It’s
time to light out. Wher’s Victor?”
And her eyes fell upon the treasure-chest.
“Him an’ me’s changed
places. He’s back ther’.”
Jean jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate
the huts in the wood.
Davia was on her feet in an instant
and her eyes sparkled angrily.
“What d’ye mean, Jean?”
The man shrugged. But his words came full of
anger.
“He didn’t mean marryin’ ye.”
“Well?” The blue eyes fairly blazed.
“The boodle,” with a glance
in the direction of the treasure. “He was
fer jumpin’ the lot.”
“Hah! An’ ?”
And Jean told his story. And after that a silence
fell.
“It’s cursed it’s
blood-money!” Davia’s voice was hoarse
with emotion as she said the words.
Jean started.
“We’re goin’ to
git,” he said slowly. And he looked into
the woman’s eyes as though he would read her
very soul.
“An’ Victor?” said Davia harshly.
“Come, we’ll go to him.”
At the door Davia was seized with
an overwhelming terror. She gripped Jean’s
arm forcefully while she peered along the woodland
fringe. The man listened.
“Let’s git on quick,”
Davia whispered. And her mouth was dry with her
terror.
They found Victor as Jean had left
him. The prisoner looked up when the door opened.
His eyes brightened at the sight of the woman.
No word was spoken for some moments.
In that silence a drama was swiftly working itself
out. Victor was calculating his chances.
Davia was thinking in a loving woman’s unreasoning
fashion. And Jean was watching both. At
last the giant stooped and removed the gag from his
captive’s mouth. The questioning eyes of
Victor Gagnon looked from one to the other and finally
rested upon Davia.
“Wal?” he said.
And Davia turned to Jean.
“Loose him!” she said imperiously.
And Jean knew that trouble had come
for his plans. He shook his head. The glance
of Victor’s eyes as they turned upon Jean was
like the edge of a super-sharpened knife. The
trader knew that a crisis had arrived. Which
was the stronger of these two, the brother or the sister?
He waited.
“What are you goin’ to do with him?”
Davia asked.
She could scarcely withhold the anger which had risen
within her.
But Jean did not answer; he was listening
to a strange sound which came to him through the open
door. Suddenly he stooped again and began to
readjust the rope that held his prisoner. He secured
hands and feet together in a manner from which Victor
was not likely to free himself easily; and yet from
which it was possible for him to get loose. Davia
followed his movements keenly. At last the giant
rose; his task was completed.
“Now,” he said, addressing them both.
“Say your says quick.”
“You ain’t leavin’
him here,” said the woman, looking squarely into
her brother’s eyes.
“That’s so.”
A strange light leapt into Davia’s
eyes. Jean saw it and went on with a frown.
“I’m easy, dead easy;
but I guess I’ve had enough. He’ll
shift fer himself. If he’d ‘a’
acted straight ther’d ‘a’ been no
call fer me to step in. He didn’t.
He ain’t settin’ you right, Davi’;
he can’t even act the thief decent. He’d
‘a’ robbed you an’ me, an’
left you what you are. Wal, my way goes.”
Then he turned to Victor and briefly
told him Davia’s story of the mountain tragedy.
As he came to the climax the last vestige of the trader’s
insolence vanished. Nick was on his way to the
store armed and mad. Panic seized
upon the listener. His bravado had ever been but
the veneer of the surface. His condition returned
to the subversive terror which had assailed him when
he was caught in the mountain blizzard.
“Now, see you here, Victor,”
Jean concluded coldly, yet watching the effect he
had produced. “Ye owe us a deal more’n
ye ken pay easy, but I’m fixin’ the reckonin’
my way. We’re goin’, an’ the
boodle goes wi’ us. Savvee?” Davia
watched her brother acutely. Nor could she help
noticing that the great man was listening while he
spoke. “I ’lows you’ll git
free o’ this rope. I mean ye to after
awhiles. Ye’ll keep y’r monkey tricks
till after we’re clear o’ here. Then
ye’ll do best to go dead easy. Fer
that crank’s comin’ right along, an’,
I ’lows, if I was you I’d as lief lie
here and rot, an’ feed the gophers wi’
my carcass as run up agin him. I tell ye, pard,
ther’s a cuss hangin’ around wher’
Nick Westley goes, an’ I don’t reckon it’s
like to work itself out easy by a big sight.”
Jean finished up with profound emphasis.
Then he turned about and faced his sister.
“Now, gal, we’re goin’.”
“Not while Victor’s left here.”
Jean stood quite still for a moment. Then his
rage suddenly broke forth.
“Not while that skunk’s
left?” he cried, pointing scornfully at the
prostrate man. “Ye’d stop here
fer him as has shamed ye; him as ’ud run
from ye this minit if he had the chance; him as ’ud
rob ye too; him as thinks as much to ye as a coyote.
Slut y’ are, but y’ are my sister, an’
I say ye shall go wi’ me.”
He made a step towards her. Then
he brought up to a halt as the long blade of a knife
gleamed before his eyes. But he only hesitated
a second. His great hand went out, and he caught
the woman’s wrist as she was about to strike.
The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from her
grasp and held her.
Now he thrust her out of the hut and
secured the door. He believed that what he had
done was only right.
As they passed out into the bright
spring daylight again a change seemed to come over
Davia. Her terror of Nick Westley returned as
she noted the alert attitude of her brother.
She listened too, and held her breath to intensify
her hearing. But Jean did not relax his hold upon
her till they were once more within the store.
Then he set her to assist in the preparations for
their flight. When all was ready, and they stood
outside the house while Jean secured the door, Davia
made a final appeal.
“Let me stop, Jean,” she
cried, while a sob broke from her. “I love
him. He’s mine.”
“God’s curse on ye, no!”
came the swift response, and the man’s eyes
blazed.
Suddenly a long-drawn cry rose upon
the air. It reached a great pitch and died lingeringly
away. It was near by and told its tale. And
the woman shuddered involuntarily. It was the
wolf cry of the mountains; the cry of the human.
And, as if in answer, came a chorus from wolfish throats.
The last moment had come.
Davia caught Jean’s arm as though seeking protection.
“I will go,” she cried,
and the man took her answer to be a final submission.
The stillness of the day had passed.
Life thrilled the air although no life was visible.
Davia’s fear was written in her face, Jean’s
expression was inscrutable; only was it sure that he
listened.
But Jean was not without the superstitious
dread which madness inspires. And as they raced,
he bearing the burden of the treasure-chest, for the
wood-covered banks of the creek, he was stirred to
horror by the familiar sounds that pursued him.
It was their coming, at that time, in daylight; and
in answer to the human cry that had first broken up
the silence of the hills. How came it that the
legions of the forest were marching in the wake of
that other upon the valley of Little Choyeuse Creek?
Jean halted when they stood upon the
rotten ice of the creek. Now he released his
sister, and they stood facing each other well screened
from view from the store.
The sullen peace of the valley had
merged into the deep-toned, continuous howl of hoarse
throats. A terrible threat was in the sound.
Jean unslung his rifle and looked to his pistol.
“Ther’s six in this gun,”
he said deliberately. “Five of ’em
is fer them beasties, if ne’sary.
The other’s fer you if you git playin’
tricks. Mebbe ye’ll thank me later
fer what I’m doin’. It don’t
cut no figger anyway.”
Then he prodded the ice with his iron-shod staff.
Davia watched him while she listened
to the din of the forest world. At length the
staff had beaten its way to the water below.
“What are ye doin’?” she asked,
quite suddenly.
And Jean’s retort was a repetition of her own
words.
“It’s cursed it’s blood-money!”
She took his meaning, and her cupidity
cried out in revolt. But her protest was useless.
“You’re not goin’ ”
she began.
“It goes,” cried Jean
fiercely, “wher’ he ain’t like to
touch it, ’less Hell gits him. Father Lefleur,
at the mission, says as gold’s Hell’s
pavin’, an’ mebbe this’ll git back
wher’ it come.” And with vengeful
force he threw back the lid of the chest.
Davia’s eyes expressed more
than any words could have told. She stood silently
by, a mute but eloquent protest, while Jean took the
bags of gold dust one by one from the chest, and poured
their contents into the water below. When the
last bag was emptied he took the packet of bills and
fingered them gently. Even his purpose seemed
to be shaken by the seductive feel of the familiar
paper. Suddenly he thrust them into the hole,
and his staff thrust viciously at them as he pushed
them under the ice where they would quickly rot.
It was done.
“Mebbe the water’ll wash
the blood off’n it,” he exclaimed.
“Mebbe.”
Davia’s eyes looked derisively
upon the giant figure as he straightened himself up.
She could not understand.
But her look changed to one of horror
a moment later, as above the cries of the forest rose
the inhuman note of the madman. Both recognized
it, and the dreadful tone gripped their hearts.
Jean leant forward, and seizing the woman by the arm
dragged her off the ice to the cover of the bush.
With hurried strides they made their
way through the leafless branches, until they stood
where, themselves well under cover, they had a view
of the store.