Connie Morgan in the Fur Country Part 19

"Why, you doggone little _tillic.u.m_!" roared the man, "I know'd you'd do it! Didn't I tell you, Mac? Didn't I tell you he'd out-guess 'em? An'

he's got the evidence, too, I'll bet a dog! But, son--what's the matter?

Gosh sakes! I never seen you _cryin'_ before! Tell me quick, son--what's the matter?"

Connie, ashamed of the sobs that shook his whole body, smiled into the big man's face as he leaned heavily against his shoulder: "It's--nothing, Dan! Only--I've been five days and nights on the trail with--_that_!" He pointed toward the trussed figure upon the sled, just as a wild peal of the demoniacal laughter chilled the hearts of the listeners. "And--I'm worn out."

"For the love of Mike!" cried the big Inspector, after Connie lay asleep beside the fire. "Think of it, Mac! Five days an' five nights! An' two outfits!"

"I'm sayin' the lad's a man!" exclaimed the Scotchman, as he shuddered at an outburst of raving from Squigg. "But, why did he bring the other sled? He should have turned the dogs loose an' left it."

For answer McKeever walked over to Squiggs' sled and threw back the tarp. Then he pointed to its contents. "The evidence," he answered, proudly. "I knew he'd bring in the evidence."

"Thought they was two of 'em, son," said McKeever, hours later when they all sat down to supper. "Did the other one get away?"

The boy shook his head. "No, he didn't get away. Leloo, there, caught him. He couldn't get away from Leloo."

"Where is he?"

Connie glanced at the big officer curiously: "Do you know who the other one was?" he asked.

"No. Who was it?"

"Black Moran."

"Black Moran! What are you talkin' about! Black Moran was drowned in the Pelly Rapids!"

"No, he wasn't," answered the boy. "He managed to get to sh.o.r.e, and then he skipped to the other side of the mountains. The body they pulled out of the river was someone else."

"But--but, son," the big Inspector's eyes were serious, "if I had known it was _him_--Black Moran--he was the hardest man in the North--by all odds."

"Yes--I know," replied the boy, thoughtfully. "But, Dan, he PAID. His score is settled now. I forgot to tell you that when Leloo caught him--he cut him half in two."

CHAPTER XV

SETTING THE FOX TRAPS

After turning over the prisoner to Inspector McKeever, Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe accompanied the men from Fort Norman back to the Indian village where they found that the party of hunters had succeeded in locating the caribou herd and had made a big kill, so that it had been unnecessary for the men to use any of the _cached_ meat.

Preparation was at once started by the entire population to accompany McTavish back to the post for the mid-winter trading. In the Indian's leisurely method of doing things these preparations would take three or four days, so Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who seemed to be a sort of chief among them, dispatched some of his young men to haul in all the meat that the two partners had _cached_. Meanwhile, leaving Mr. Squigg at the village in the care of McTavish, Connie piloted Inspector McKeever to the little cabin of the free traders. For McKeever had known Black Moran over on the Yukon, and had spent much time in trying to run him down in the days before his reported drowning, and he desired to make absolutely sure of his ground before turning in his report upon the death of so notorious a character.

Connie had placed the man's body in the cabin, and as the two pushed open the door Dan McKeever stepped forward and raised the blanket with which the boy had covered it. The big officer stooped and peered into the face of the dead man. Finally, he rose to his feet with a nod: "Yes, that's Black Moran, all right. But, gosh, son! If I'd know'd it was him that you was up against over here, I wouldn't have been so easy in my mind. You sure done a big thing for the North when you got him."

"I didn't get him, Dan. It was Leloo that got him--look there!"

McKeever stooped again and breaking back the blood-soaked clothing examined the long deep gash that extended from the man's lower ribs to the point of his hip. Then he turned and eyed Leloo who stood looking on with blazing eyes, his great silver ruff a-quiver. "Some dog!" he exclaimed. "Or is he a dog? Look at them eyes--part dog, part wolf, an'

mostly devil, I'd say. Look out, son, if he ever goes wrong. Black Moran looks like he'd be'n gashed with a butcher's cleaver! But, at that, you can't lay all the credit on the dog. He done his share all right, but the head work--figurin' out jest what Black Moran would do, an' jest what the dog would do, an' throwin' that chunk at jest the right second to make 'em do it--that's where the brains an' the nerve comes in----"

"It was mostly luck," interrupted Connie.

The big officer grinned. "Uh-huh," he grunted, "but I've noticed that if there's about two hundred per cent brains kind of mixed in with the luck, a man's got a better show of winnin' out in the long run--an'

that's what you do."

"What will we do with him?" asked the boy after McKeever had finished photographing the body, and the wolf-dog, and Connie, and such of the surroundings as should be of interest in connection with his report.

"Well, believe me," answered the officer, "I ain't goin' to dig no grave for him in this frozen ground. We'll jest throw a platform together in that clump of trees, an' stick him up Injun fashion. I'd cremate him, like he was goin' to do to you, but he was so doggone tough I don't believe nothin' would burn but his whiskers, an' besides I don't want to burn the cabin. It's got a stove, an' it might save some poor fellow's life sometime."

The early winter darkness had fallen when the work was finished, and Connie and McKeever decided to wait until morning before striking out for the village.

After supper the big Inspector filled his pipe and glanced about the little room. "Seems like old times, son--us bein' on trail together.

Don't you never feel a hankerin' to be back in the service? An' how comes it you're trappin' way over here? Did you an' Waseche Bill go broke? If you did, you've always got a job in the service, an' it beats trappin' at that."

Connie laughed. "You bet, Dan, if I ever need a job I'll hit straight for you. But the fact is Waseche and I have got a big thing over at Ten Bow--regular outfit, with steam point drills and a million dollars'

worth of flumes and engines and buildings and things----"

"Then, what in time are you doin' over here trappin' with a Siwash?"

"Oh, just wanted to have a look at the country. I'll tell you, Dan, hanging around town gets on my nerves--even a town like Ten Bow. I like to be out in the open where a fellow has got room enough to take a good deep breath without getting it second-handed, and where you don't have to be b.u.mping into someone every time you turn around. You know what I mean, Dan--a long trail that you don't know the end of. Northern lights in the night-sky. Valleys, and mountains, and rivers, and lakes that maybe no white man has ever seen before, and a good outfit of dogs--that's playing the game. You never know what's going to happen--and when it does happen it's always worth while, whether it's striking a colour, or bringing in _hooch_-runners."

The big Inspector nodded. "Sure, I know. There ain't nothin' that you know the end of that's worth doin'. It's always what lies jest beyond the next ridge, or across the next valley that a man wants to see.

Mostly, when you get there you're disappointed--but suppose you are?

There's always another ridge, or another valley, jest beyond. An' if you keep on goin' you're bound to find somethin' somewheres that's worth all the rest of the disappointments. And sometime, son, we're goin' to find the thing that's bigger, or stronger, or smarter than we are--an'

then it'll get us. But that's where the fun comes in."

"That's it, exactly!" cried the boy his eyes shining, "and believe me, Dan--that's going to be some big adventure--there at the end of the last trail! It'll be worth all the others--just to _be there_!"

"Down in the cities, they don't think like we do. They'd ruther plug along--every day jest like the days that's past, an' jest like all the days that's comin'."

Connie interrupted him: "Down in the cities I don't care what they think! I've been in cities, and I _hate_ 'em. I'm glad they don't think like we do, or they'd be up here plastering their houses, and factories, and stores all over our hills and valleys."

"Wonder who stuck this shack up here," smiled McKeever, glancing inquisitively around the room. "Looks like it had been here quite a while. You can see where Black Moran an' Squigg rammed in fresh c.h.i.n.kin'."

Connie nodded. "Some prospector or trapper, I guess. I wonder what became of him?"

McKeever shook his head. "Maybe McTavish would know. There's nothin'

here that would tell. If he pulled out he took everything along but the stove, an' if he didn't the Injuns an' the Eskimos have carried off all the light truck. There was a fellow name of Dean--James Dean, got lost in this country along about six or seven years back. I was lookin' over the records the other day, an' run across the inquiry about him. That was long before my time in N Division. There was a note or two in the records where he'd come into the country a couple of years before he'd disappeared, an' had traded at Fort Norman an' at Wrigley. The last seen of him he left Fort Norman with some supplies--grub an' powder. He was prospectin' an' trappin'--an' no one ever seen him since. He was a good man, too--accordin' to reports. He wasn't no _chechako_."

"There you are!" exclaimed Connie, "just what we were talking about. I'd give a lot to know what happened at the end of his trail. I've seen the end of a lot of those trails--and always the signs told the story of the last big adventure. And always it was worth while. And, good or bad, it was always a man's game they played--and they came to a man's end."

"Gee, Dan, in cities men die in their beds!"

Upon the evening before the departure of the Indians who were to accompany McTavish and McKeever back to Fort Norman for the mid-winter trading, Connie Morgan, the factor, and the big officer sat in the cabin of Pierre Bonnet Rouge and talked of many things. The owner of the cabin stoked the fire and listened in silence to the talk, proud that the white men had honoured his house with their presence.

"You've be'n in this country quite a while, Mac," said Inspector McKeever, as he filled his pipe from a buckskin pouch. "You must have know'd something about a party name of James Dean. He's be'n reported missin' since six or seven years back."'

"Know'd him well," answered McTavish. "He was a good man, too. Except, maybe a leetle touched in the head about gold. Used to trap some, an'