Connie Morgan in the Fur Country Part 18

"Yup, I'm the party. An' they's a heft of other stuff they've got charged up agin me--over on the Yukon side. But they ain't huntin' me, 'cause they think I'm dead." There was a cold glitter in the man's eye and his voice took on a taunting note. "Still playin' a lone hand, eh?

Well, it got you at last, didn't it? Guess you've saw the handwritin' on the wall by this time. You ain't a-goin' no place from here. You've played yer string out. This here country ain't the Yukon. They ain't n.o.body, nor nothin' here to prevent a man's doin' just what he wants to.

The barrens don't tell no tales. Yer smart, all right--an' you've got the guts--that's why we ain't a-goin' to take no chances. By tomorrow night it'll be snowin'. An' when the storm lets up, they won't be no cabin here--just a heap of ashes in under the snow--an' you'll be part of the ashes."

Connie had been in many tight places in his life, but he realized as he sat in his chair and listened to the words of Black Moran that he was at that moment facing the most dangerous situation of his career. He knew that unless the man had fully made up his mind to kill him he would never have disclosed his ident.i.ty. And he knew that he would not hesitate at the killing--for Black Moran, up to the time of his supposed drowning, had been reckoned the very worst man in the North. Escape seemed impossible, yet the boy showed not the slightest trace of fear.

He even smiled into the face of Black Moran. "So you think I'm still with the Mounted do you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, we don't think nothin' like that," sneered the man. "Sure, we don't. That there ain't no service revolver we tuk offen you. That there's a marten trap, I s'pose. 'Course you're trappin', an' don't know nothin' 'bout us tradin' _hooch_. What we'd ort to do is to sell you some flour an' beans, an' let you go back to yer traps."

"Dangerous business b.u.mping off an officer of the Mounted," reminded the boy.

"Not over in here, it ain't. Special, when it's comin' on to snow. No.

They ain't no chanct in the world to git caught fer it--or even to git blamed fer it, 'cause if they ever find what's left of you in the ashes of the cabin, they'll think it got afire while you was asleep. Tomorrow mornin' yo git yourn. In the meantime, Squigg, you roll in an' git some sleep. You've got to take the outfit an' pull out early in the mornin'

an' unload that _hooch_ on to them Injuns. I'll ketch up with you 'fore you git there, though. What I've got to do here won't take me no longer than noon," he glanced meaningly at Connie, "an' then, we'll pull out of this neck of the woods."

"Might's well take the kid's dogs an' harness, they might come in handy," ventured Mr. Squigg.

"Take nothin!" roared Black Moran, angrily. "Not a blame thing that he's got do we take. That's the trouble with you cheap crooks--grabbin' off everything you kin lay yer hands on--and that's what gits you caught.

Sometime, someone would see something that they know'd had belonged to him in our possession. Then, where'd we be? No, sir! Everything, dogs, gun, sled, harness an' all goes into this cabin when she burns--so, shut up, an' git to bed!" The man turned to Connie, "An' now, you kin roll up on the floor in yer blankets an' pertend to sleep while you try to figger a way out of this mess, or you kin set there in the chair an'

figger, whichever you want. Me--I'm a-goin' to set right here an' see that yer figgerin' don't 'mount to nothin'--see?" The evil eyes of Black Moran leered, and looking straight into them, Connie deliberately raised his arms above his head and yawned.

"Guess I'll just crawl into my blankets and sleep," he said. "I won't bother to try and figure a way out tonight--there'll be plenty of time in the morning."

The boy spread his blankets and was soon fast asleep on the floor, and Black Moran, watching him from his chair, knew that it was no feigned sleep. "Well, of all the doggone nerve I ever seen, that beats it a mile! Is he fool enough to think I ain't a-goin' to b.u.mp him off? That ain't his reputashion on the Yukon--bein' a fool! It ain't noways natural he should take it that easy. Is he workin' with a pardner, that he expects'll git here 'fore mornin', or what? Mebbe that Injun comin'

here after _hooch_ a while back was a plant." The more the man thought, the more uneasy he became. He got up and placed the two rifles upon the table close beside him, and returned to his chair where he sat, straining his ears to catch the faintest night sounds. He started violently at the report of a frost-riven tree, and the persistent rubbing of a branch against the edge of the roof set his nerves a-jangle. And so it was that while the captive slept, the captor worried and fretted the long night through.

Long before daylight, Black Moran awoke Squigg and made him hit the trail. "If they's another policeman along the back trail, he'll run on to Squigg, an' I'll have time fer a git-away," he thought, but he kept the thought to himself.

When the man was gone, Black Moran turned to Connie who was again seated in his chair against the wall. "Want anything to eat?" he asked.

"Why, sure, I want my breakfast. Kind of a habit I've got--eating breakfast."

"Say!" exploded the man, "what ails you anyway? D'you think I'm bluffin'? Don't you know that you ain't only got a few hours to live--mebbe only a few minutes?"

"So I heard you say;" answered the boy, dryly. "But, how about breakfast?"

"Cook it, confound you! There it is. If you figger to pot me while _I'm_ gittin' it, you lose. I'm a-goin' to set right here with this gun in my hand, an' the first move you make that don't look right--out goes yer light."

Connie prepared breakfast, while the other eyed him closely. And, as he worked, he kept up his air of bravado--but it was an air he was far from feeling. He knew Black Moran by reputation, and he knew that unless a miracle happened his own life was not a worth a gun-wad. All during the meal which they ate with Black Moran's eyes upon him, and a gun in his hand, Connie's wits were busy. But no feasible plan of escape presented itself, and the boy knew that his only chance was to play for time in hope that something might turn up.

"You needn't mind to clean up them dishes," grinned the man. "They'll burn dirty as well as clean. Git yer hat, now, an' we'll git this business over with. First, git them dogs in the cabin, an' the sled an'

harness. Move lively, 'cause I got to git a-goin'. Every sc.r.a.p of stuff you've got goes in there. I don't want nothin' left that could ever be used as evidence. It's clouded up already an' the snow'll take care of the tracks." As he talked, the two had stepped out the door, and Connie stood beside his sled about which were grouped his dogs. The boy saw that Leloo was missing, and glanced about, but no sign of the great wolf-dog was visible. "Stand back from that sled!" ordered the man, as he strode to its side. "Guess I'll jest look it over to see if you've got another gun." The man jerked the tarp from the pack, and seizing the rifle tossed it into the cabin. Then he slipped his revolver into its holster and picked up Connie's heavy dog-whip. As he did so Connie caught just a glimpse of a great silver-white form gliding noiselessly toward him from among the tree trunks. The boy noted in a flash that the cabin cut off the man's view of the wolf-dog. And instantly a ray of hope flashed into his brain. Leloo was close beside the cabin, when with a loud cry, Connie darted forward and, seizing a stick of firewood from a pile close at hand, hurled it straight at Black Moran. The chunk caught the man square in the chest. It was a light chunk, and could not have possibly harmed him, but it did exactly what Connie figured it would do--it drove him into a sudden rage--_with the dog-whip in his hand._ With a curse the man struck out with the whip, and as its lash bit into Connie's back, the boy gave a loud yell of pain.

At the corner of the cabin, Leloo saw the boy throw the stick. He saw it strike the man. And he saw the man lash out with the whip. Also, he heard the boy's cry of pain. As the man's arm drew back to strike again, there was a swift, silent rush of padded feet, and Black Moran turned just in time to see a great silvery-white shape leave the snow and launch itself straight at him. He saw, in a flash, the red tongue and the gleaming white fangs, and the huge white ruff, each hair of which stuck straight out from the great body.

A single shrill shriek of mortal terror resounded through the forest, followed by a dull thud, as man and wolf-dog struck the snow together.

And then--the silence of the barrens.

It was long past noon. The storm predicted by Black Moran had been raging for hours, and for hours the little wizened man who had left the cabin before dawn had been plodding at the head of his dogs. At intervals of an hour or so he would stop and strain his eyes to pierce the boiling white smother of snow that curtained the back-trail. Then he would plod on, glancing to the right and to the left.

The over-burden of snow slipping from a spruce limb brushed his parka and he shrieked aloud, for the feel of it was a feel of a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Farther on he brought up trembling in every limb at the fall of a wind-broken tree. The snapping of dead twigs as the spruce wallowed to earth through the limbs of the surrounding trees sounded in his ears like--the crackling of flames--flames that licked at the dry logs of a--burning cabin. A dead limb cracked loudly and the man crouched in fear. The sound was the sound of a pistol shot from behind--from the direction of Black Moran.

"Why don't he come?" whispered the wizened man. "What did he send me alone for? Thought I didn't have the nerve fer--fer--what he was goin'

to do. An' I ain't, neither. I wisht I had--but, I ain't." The man shuddered: "It's done by this time, an'--why don't he come? What did I throw in with him fer? I'm afraid of him. If he thought I stood in his way he'd b.u.mp me off like he'd squ'sh a fly that was bitin' him. If I thought I could git away with it, I'd hit out right now--but I'm afraid.

If he caught me--" The wizened man shuddered and babbled on, "An' if he didn't, the Mounted would. An' if they didn't--" again he paused, and glanced furtively into the bush. "They _is_ things in the woods that men don't know! I've heered 'em--an' seen 'em, too. They _is_ ghosts! And they _do_ ha'nt men down. They're white, an--it's beginnin' to git dark!

Why don't Moran come? I'd ruther have him, than _them_--an' now there's another one of 'em--to raise out of the ashes of a fire! I'd ort to camp, but if I keep a pluggin' along mebbe I kin git to the Injun village. 'Taint fur, now--acrost this flat an' then dip down onto the river--What's that!" The man halted abruptly and stared. "It's one of 'em now!" he faltered, with tongue and lips that felt stiff. "An' it's covered with fine white ashes!" He knew that he was trembling in every limb, as he stared at the snow-covered object that stood stiffly beside the trail only a few yards ahead. "Nuthin' but a stump," he said, and laughed, quaveringly. "Sure--it's a stump--with snow on it. I remember that stump. No--it wasn't here where the stump was. Yes, it was. It looks different with the snow on it. Gosh, a'mighty, it's a ghost! No 'taint--'taint moved. That's the stump. I remember it. I says to Moran, 'There's a stump.' An' Moran says, 'Yup, that's a stump.'" He cut viciously at his dogs with the whip. "Hi yu there! Mush-u!"

At the door of the little cabin Connie Morgan stared wide-eyed at the thing that lay in the snow. Schooled as he was to playing a man's part in the drama of the last great frontier, the boy stood horror-stricken at the savage suddenness of the tragedy that had been enacted before his eyes. A few seconds before, he had been in the power of Black Moran, known far and wide as the hardest man in the North. And, now, there was no Black Moran--only a grotesquely sprawled _thing_--and a slush of crimson snow. The boy was conscious of no sense of regret--no thought of self-condemnation--for he knew too well the man's record. This man who had lived in open defiance of the laws of G.o.d and of man had met swift death at the hand of the savage law of the North. The law that the men of the outlands do not seek to explain, but believe in implicitly--because they have seen the workings of that law. It is an inexorable law, cruel, and cold, and hard--as hard as the land it governs with its implacable justice. It is the law of retribution--and its sentence is PAY.

Black Moran had paid. He had played his string out--had come to the end of his trail. And Connie knew that justice had been done. Nevertheless, as the boy stood there in the silence of the barrens and stared down at the sprawling form, he felt strangely impressed--horrified. For, after all, Black Moran had been a human being, and one--the boy shuddered at the thought--who, with murder in his heart, had been ill equipped for pa.s.sing suddenly into the presence of his G.o.d.

With tight-pressed lips the boy dragged the body into the cabin and covered it with a blanket, and then, swiftly, he recovered his rifle and revolver, harnessed his dogs, and struck out on the trail of Squigg. An hour after the storm struck, the trail was obliterated. Here and there, where it cut through thick spruce copses, he could make it out but by noon he knew he was following only its general direction. He knew also that by bearing slightly to the southward he would strike the river that led to the village of the Indians.

It was nearly dark when he came out upon a flat that even in the gloom and the whirling snow he recognized as the beaver meadow from which the trail dipped to the river. Upon the edge of it he halted to examine the spruce thickets along its western side, for signs of the trail of Squigg, and it was while so engaged that he looked up to see dimly in the white smother the form of the man and his dog-team. The man halted suddenly and seemed to be staring at him. Connie stood motionless in his tracks, waiting. For a long time the man stood peering through the flying snow, then the boy saw his arm raise, heard the crack of his whiplash, and then the sound of his voice--high-pitched and unnatural it sounded coming out of the whirling gloom: "Hi yu, there! Mush-u!"

Not until Squigg was within ten feet of him did the boy move, then he stepped directly into the trail. A low, mewling sound quavered from the man's lips, and he collapsed like an empty bag.

"Stand up!" ordered the boy, in disgust. But instead of obeying, the man grovelled and weltered about in the snow, all the while emitting an incoherent, whimpering wail. Connie reached down to s.n.a.t.c.h the man to his feet, when suddenly he started back in horror. For the wailing suddenly ceased, and in his ears, high and shrill, sounded a peal of maniacal laughter. The eyes of the man met his own in a wild glare, while peal after peal of the horrible laughter hurtled from between the parchment-like lips that writhed back to expose the snaggy, gum-shrunken teeth.

Horrible as had been the sight of Black Moran lying in the blood-reddened snow, the sight of Squigg wallowing in the trail and the sound of his weird laughter, were far more horrible. The laughter ceased, the man struggled to his feet and fixed Connie with his wild-eyed stare, as he advanced toward him with a peculiar loose-limbed waddle: "I know you! I know you!" he shrilled. "I heard the flames cracklin', an' snappin'! An' now you've got me, an' Moran's comin' an'

you'll git him, an' we'll all be ghosts together--all of us--an' we'll stand like stumps by the trail! I'm a stump! I'm a stump! Ha, ha, ha.

He, he, he! I'm a stump! I'm a stump!"

"Shut up!" cried Connie in desperation, as he strove to master an almost overwhelming impulse to turn and fly from the spot. "Crazy as a loon," thought the boy, with a shudder, "and I've got to take him clear to Fort Norman, alone!" "I'm a stump, I'm a stump," chanted the man, shrilly, and the boy saw that he had come to a rigid stand close beside the trail.

With a final effort Connie pulled himself together. "I've got it to do, and I'll do it," he muttered between clenched teeth. "But, gee whiz! It will take a week to get to Fort Norman!"

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," came the monotonous chant, from the rigid figure beside the trail.

"Sure, you're a stump," the boy encouraged, "and if you'll only stick to it till I get the tent up and a fire going, you'll help like the d.i.c.kens."

Hurrying to his dogs the boy swung them in, and in the fast gathering darkness and whirling snow he worked swiftly and skillfully in pitching the little tent and building a fire. When the task was finished and the little flames licked about his blackened teapot, he sliced some fat pork, threw a piece of caribou steak in the frying pan, and set it on the fire. Then he walked over to where Squigg stood repeating his monotonous formula.

"Grub's ready," announced the boy.

"I'm a stump. I'm a stump."

"Sure you are. But it's time to eat."

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," reiterated the man.

Connie took hold of him and essayed to lead him to the fire, but the man refused to budge.

"As long as you stay as stiff as that I could pick you up and carry you to the tent, but suppose you change your mind and think you're a buzz saw? Guess I'll just slip a _babiche_ line on you to make sure." The man took not the slightest notice as the boy wound turn after turn of line about his arms and legs and secured the ends. Then he picked him up and carried him to the tent where he laid him upon the blankets. But try as he would, not a mouthful of food would the man take, so Connie ate his supper, and turned in.

In the morning he lashed Squigg to the sled and with both outfits of dogs struck out for Fort Norman. And never till his dying day will the boy forget the nightmare of that long snow-trail.

Two men to the sled, alternating between breaking trail and handling the dogs, and work at the gee-pole, is labour enough on the trail. But Connie had two outfits of dogs, and no one to help. He was in a snow-buried wilderness, back-trailing from memory the route taken by the Bear Lake Indians who had guided him into the country. And not only was he compelled to do the work of four men on the trail, but his camp work was more than doubled. For Squigg had to be fed forcibly, and each morning he had to be lashed to the sled, where he lay all day, howling, and laughing, and shrieking. At night he had to be unloaded and tended like a baby, and then put to bed where he would laugh and scream, the whole night through or else lie and whimper and pule like a beast in pain.

On the fifth day they came suddenly upon the noon camp of the party from Fort Norman, and before Connie could recognize the big man in the uniform of an Inspector of the Mounted he was swung by strong arms clear of the ground. The next moment he was sobbing excitedly and pounding the shoulders of Big Dan McKeever with both his fists in an effort to break the bear-like embrace.