The Winds of Chance Part 59

"I give you tas'e of Injun travel. Better you dress light an'

buckle up dat belt, for I got reason to fin' out who keel Courteau. I ain't goin' sleep no more till I know."

The officer smiled as he declared: "That suits me exactly. We may not catch them, but--they'll know they've been in a race before they thumb their noses at us from across the Boundary. Now see how fast you can harness up."

It was considerably after midnight when 'Poleon swung his dog-team into the lighted s.p.a.ce in front of the Rialto; nevertheless, many people were about, for Dawson was a city of sleep-haters. The sight of a racing-team equipped for a flying trip at this hour of the night evoked instant interest and speculation, pointing, as it did, to a new gold discovery and a stampede. Stampedes were frequent, they never failed to create a sensation, therefore the woodsman was soon the center of an inquisitive crowd. Not until he had fully explained the nature of his business was suspicion allayed; then his word that Joe and Frank McCaskey had fled for the Boundary ran up and down the street and caused even greater excitement.

Rouletta came hurrying forth with the others, and to her 'Poleon made known his intention of accompanying the fleet-footed Rock.

"n.o.body is able to catch dem feller but him an' me," he explained.

"Dey got too long start."

"You think they may get across?" she queried, apprehensively.

"Five, six hour, dat's beeg edge. But me--" The speaker shrugged.

"Forty Mile, Circle, Fort Yukon, Rampart, it mak' no differ. I get 'em some place, if I go plumb to St. Michael's. When I get goin'

fas' it tak' me long tam for run down."

Rouletta's eyes opened. "But, 'Poleon--you can't! There's the Boundary. You're not an officer; you have no warrant."

"Dem t'ing is dam' nuisance," he declared. "I don' savvy dis law biznesse. You say get 'em. Bien! I do it."

Rouletta stared curiously, wonderingly into the big fellow's face; she was about to put her thoughts into words when a shout arose from the crowd as the Police team streamed into view. Down the street it came at a great pace, flashing through shadows and past glaring lighted fronts, s.n.a.t.c.hing the light hickory sled along behind as if it were a thing of paper. Rock balanced himself upon the runner heels until, with a shout, he put his weight upon the sharp-toothed sled brake and came to a pause near 'Poleon. The rival teams plunged into their collars and set up a pandemonium of yelping, but willing hands held them from flying at one another's throats. Meanwhile, saloon doors were opening, the street was filling; dance-hall girls, white-ap.r.o.ned bartenders, bleary-eyed pedestrians, night-owls--all the queerly a.s.sorted devotees of Dawson's vivid and roisterous nocturnal life hastened thither; even the second-story windows framed heads, for this clamor put slumber to flight without delay.

The wind was no longer strong, and already a clearing sky was evidenced by an occasional winking star; nevertheless, it was bitterly cold and those who were not heavily clad were forced to stamp their feet and to whip their arms in order to keep their blood in motion.

Nothing is more exciting, more ominous, than a man-hunt; doubly portentous was this one, the hasty preparations for which went forward in the dead of night. Dawson had seen the start of more than one race for the Boundary and had awaited the outcome with breathless interest. Most of the fugitives overtaken had walked back into town, spent, famished, frost-blackened, but there were some who had returned on their backs, wrapped in robe or canvas and offering mute testimony to the speedy and relentless efficiency of the men from the Barracks. Of that small picked corps Lieutenant Rock was by long odds the favorite. Now, therefore, he was the center of attention, and wagers were laid that he would catch his men, however rapidly they traveled, however great their start. Only a few old-timers--"sour-doughs"

from the distant reaches of the Yukon--knew 'Poleon Doret, but those few drew close to him and gave the lieutenant little notice.

This French Canadian they regarded as the most tireless traveler in all the North; about him, therefore, they a.s.sembled, and to him they addressed their questions and offered their advice.

The dogs were inspired, now, with the full intoxication of the chase; they strained forward fretfully, their gray plumes waving, their tongues lolling, their staccato chorus adding to the general disturbance. When the word came to go, they leaped into their harness, and with a musical jingle of bells they swept down toward the river; over the steep bank they poured, and were gone. A shout of encouragement followed Rock as he was snapped into the blackness, then noisily the crowd bolted for the warm interiors behind them.

Rouletta was slow in leaving; for some time she stood harkening to the swift diminuendo of those tinkling sleigh-bells, staring into the night as if to fix in her mind's eye the picture of what she had last seen, the picture of a mighty man riding the rail of a plunging basket sled. In spite of the biting cold he was stripped down; a thin drill parka sufficed to break the temper of the wind, light fur boots were upon his feet, the cheek pieces of his otter cap were tied above his crown. He had turned to wave at her and to shout a word of encouragement just before he vanished. That was like him, she told herself--eager to spare her even the pain of undue apprehension. The shock of her discovery of an hour ago was still too fresh in Rouletta's memory; it was still too new and too agitating to permit of orderly thought, yet there it stood, stark and dismaying. This woodsman loved her, no longer as a sister, but as the one woman of his choice. As yet she could not reconcile herself to such a state of affairs; her attempts to do so filled her with mixed emotions. Poor 'Poleon! Why had this come to him?

Rouletta's throat swelled; tears not of the wind or the cold stood in her eyes once again; an aching tenderness and pity welled up from her heart.

She became conscious finally that her body was growing numb, so she bestirred herself. She had taken but a step or two, however, when some movement in the shadows close at hand arrested her.

Peering into the gloom, she discovered a figure. It was Laure.

The girl wore some sort of wrap, evidently s.n.a.t.c.hed at random, but under it she was clad in her dance-hall finery, and she, too, was all but frozen.

Rouletta was about to move on, when the other addressed her through teeth that clicked like castanets.

"I got here--late. Is it true? Have they--gone after Joe and Frank?"

"Yes."

"What happened? I--I haven't heard. Don't they think--Pierce did it?"

"You KNOW he didn't do it," Rouletta cried. "Neither did he steal Courteau's money."

"What do you mean, 'I know'?" Laure's voice was harsh, imperative.

She clutched at the other girl; then, as Rouletta hesitated, she regained control of herself and ran on, in a tone bitterly resentful: "Oh, you'd like to get him out of it--save him for yourself--wouldn't you? But you can't. You can't have him. I won't let you. My G.o.d! Letty, he's the only thing I ever cared for! I never had even a dog or a cat or a canary of my own. Think a little bit of me."

Almost dazed by this mingled accusation and appeal, Rouletta at length responded by a question, "Then why haven't you done something to clear him?"

Laure drew her flimsy wrap closer; she was shaking wretchedly.

When she spoke her words were spilled from her lips as if by the tremors of her body. "I could help. I would, but--you sha'n't have him. n.o.body shall! I'd rather see him dead. I'd--No, no! I don't know what I'm saying. I'd sooner die than hurt him. I'd do my bit, only--McCaskey'd kill me. Say. Will Rock get him, d'you think? I hear he gets his man every time. But Joe's different; he's not the ordinary kind; he's got the devil in him. Frank--he's a dog, but Joe'll fight. He'll kill--at the drop of the hat. So will Rock, I suppose. Maybe he'll kill them both, eh? Or maybe they'll kill him and get away. I don't care which way it goes--"

"Don't talk like that!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I mean it," Laure ran on, crazily. "Yes, Joe'd kill anybody that stood in his way or doublecrossed him. I guess I know. Why, he told me so himself! And Courteau knew it, perfectly well--the poor fool!--but look at him now. He got his, didn't he?"

Rouletta laid a cold hand upon the shivering, distracted creature before her. Sternly she said:

"I believe you know who committed that murder. You act as if you did."

"I'm a g-good guesser, but--I can keep my mouth shut. I know when I'm well off. That's more than the Count knew."

"And you probably know something about his robbery, too. I mean that gold-sack--"

Laure cast off the hand that rested upon her; she looked up quickly. "If I did, d'you think I'd tell you? Well, hardly. But I don't. I don't know anything, except that--Pierce is a thief. He stole and gave me the money. He did that regularly, and that's more than he'd do for you. You may as well know the truth.

Cavendish knows it. You think he's too good for me, don't you?

Well, he isn't. And you're no better than I am, either, for that matter. You've got a nerve to put on airs. G.o.d! How I hate you and your superior ways."

"Never mind me. I want to know who killed Count Courteau."

"All right. Wait till Rock comes back and ask him. He thinks he'll find out, but--we'll see. Joe McCaskey'll be over the Line and away, thank Heaven! If anything happens and they should overtake him--well, he'll fight. He'll never come in alive, never."

Turning, the speaker stumbled toward the lights of the saloon, and as she went Rouletta heard her mutter again: "He'll never come in alive, never. Thank G.o.d for that!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

From Dawson City the Yukon flows in a northwesterly direction toward the International Boundary, and although the camp is scarcely more than fifty miles due east of American territory, by the river it is ninety. Since the Yukon is the main artery of travel, both winter and summer--there being no roads or trails--it behooved those malefactors who fled the wrath of the Northwest Mounted Police to obtain a liberal start, for ninety miles of dead flat going is no easy run and the Police teams were fleet of foot.

Time was when evil-doers had undertaken to escape up-river, or to lose themselves in the hills to the northward, but this was a desperate adventure at best and had issued in such uniform disaster as to discourage its practice. The Police had won the reputation of never leaving a trail, and, in consequence, none but madmen longer risked anything except a dash for American soil, and even then only with a substantial margin of time in their favor.

But the winter winds are moody, the temper of the Arctic is uncertain, hence luck played a large part in these enterprises.

Both Rock and Doret were sufficiently familiar with the hazards and the disappointments of travel at this time of year to feel extremely doubtful of overhauling the two McCaskeys, and so they were by no means sanguine of success as they drove headlong into the night.

Both teams were loaded light; neither driver carried stove, tent, or camp duffle. Sleeping-bags, a little cooked food for themselves, a bundle of dried fish for the dogs, that was the limit the pursuers had allowed themselves. Given good weather, nothing more was needed. In case of a storm, a sudden blizzard, and a drop in temperature, this lack of equipment was apt to prove fatal, but neither traveler permitted himself to think about such things. Burdened thus lightly, the sleds rode high and the malamutes romped along with them. When the late dawn finally came it found them far on their way.

That wind, following the snowfall of the day before, had been a happy circ.u.mstance, for in many places it had blown the trail clean, so that daylight showed it winding away into the distance like a thread laid down at random. Here and there, of course, it was hidden; under the lee of bluffs or of wooded bends, for instance, it was drifted deep, completely obliterated, in fact, and in such places even a seasoned musher would have floundered aimlessly, trying to hold it. But 'Poleon Doret possessed a sixth sense, it appeared, and his lead dog, too, had unusual sagacity.

Rock, from his position in the rear, marveled at the accuracy with which the woodsman's sled followed the narrow, hard-packed ridge concealed beneath the soft, new covering. Undoubtedly the fellow knew his business and the officer congratulated himself upon bringing him along.

They had been under way for five or six hours when the tardy daylight came, but even thereafter Doret continued to run with his hand upon his sled. Seldom did he ride, and then only for a moment or two when the going was best. For the most part he maintained a steady, swinging trot that kept pace with the pattering feet ahead of him and caused the miles rapidly to drop behind. Through drifts knee-deep, through long, soft stretches he held to that unfaltering stride; occasionally he turned his head and flashed a smile or waved his hand at the man behind.

Along about ten o'clock he halted his team where a dead spruce overhung the river-bank. By the time Rock had pulled in behind him he had clambered up the bank, ax in hand, and was making the chips fly. He sent the dry top crashing down, then explained: