The Winds of Chance Part 61

Rock lay back, finally, but the movement caused him to bare his teeth in agony. At 'Poleon's quick inquiry he shook his head.

"I'm all right," he declared. "Good for the night. You can pull out any time you want to."

"Dere's plenty tam." 'Poleon lit his pipe and reached again for the tea-bucket.

"Better go before you stiffen up."

"I go bimeby--sooner I get li'l drinkin' done."

"They'll fight," Rock announced, after a silence of perhaps five minutes. "I feel pretty rotten, playing out like this."

"You done firs' rate," the woodsman told him. "If I come alone I catch 'em ten mile below, but--li'l tam, more less, don' mak' no differ."

"I believe you WOULD have got 'em," the officer acknowledged.

After a time he persisted: "They'll put up a battle, Doret. You'll need to be careful."

'Poleon was squatted Indian fashion over the blaze; he was staring fixedly into the flames, and an aboriginal reticence had settled upon him. After a long time he answered: "Mebbe so I keel de beeg feller. I dunno. So long one is lef' I mak' him clear dat boy Phillips."

"Decent of you to take a chance like that for Pierce," Rock resumed. "It's different with me; I have to do it. Just the same, I wouldn't care to follow those fellows over the Boundary. I don't think you'd better try it."

In spite of his suffering, the lieutenant fell into a doze; whether he slept ten minutes or an hour he never knew, but he awoke, groaning, to find the big woodsman still bulked over the campfire, still smoking, still sipping tea. Rock ate and drank some more; again he slept. For a second time his pain roused him, and once more he marveled to discover 'Poleon occupied as before.

It seemed to him that the fellow would never satisfy himself.

Eventually, however, the latter arose and made preparations to leave.

The Northern Lights had flickered out now; the empty sky was sprinkled with a million stars which glittered like scintillating frost jewels frozen into the dome of heaven; there were no sounds whatever to break the deathlike silence of the night, for the Arctic wastes are all but lifeless. There were no bird-calls, no sounds of insects, not even the whisper of running water, for the river was locked deep beneath its icy armor.

"You got 'nough wood to las' long tam," 'Poleon declared. "If I don' come back, dem Forty Mile Police is sure to pick you up."

"I can go in alone if I have to," the injured man declared. "Au revoir and good luck."

'Poleon made no attempt to hurry his tired team; for several miles he plodded along behind them, guiding them to right or left by a low-spoken word. Years before, he had rocked on the bars of this stream; therefore its landmarks were familiar to him, and in spite of the darkness he readily identified them. In time he made out the monuments marking the International Boundary, and a short distance beyond that point he unhitched his dogs, then took a carbine from his sled and slipped it full of sh.e.l.ls. Next he removed his lash rope, coiled it, and placed it in his pocket, after which he resumed his journey alone.

Occasionally he dimly glimpsed deserted cabins, habitations built by the gold-diggers of other days. Carefully he followed the all but indistinguishable sled tracks ahead of him until they swerved abruptly in toward the bank. Here he paused, pulled a mitten, and, moistening a finger, held it up to test the wind. What movement there was to the air seemed to satisfy him, for, step by step, he mounted the steep slope until his head finally rose over its crest. Against the skyline he now made out a small clearing; straining his eyes, he could see the black square of a cabin wall.

No light shone from it, therefore he argued that his men had supped and were asleep. He had a.s.sumed that they would not, could not, go far beyond the Boundary; he had purposely allowed them sufficient time in which to overcome the first agony of fatigue and to fall asleep. He wondered apprehensively where they had put their dogs, and if by any evil chance the McCaskey team included an "outside" dog of the watchful, barking variety.

Gingerly he stepped out, and found that the snow underfoot gave off only the faintest whisper. Like a shadow he stole closer to the hut, keeping the imperceptible night breeze in his face.

So noiseless was his approach that the tired dogs, snugly curled each in its own deep bed of snow, did not hear him--your malamutes that are broken to harness are bad watch-dogs at best. Not until he had melted into the gloom beneath the wide overhang above the cabin door did the first disturbance come. Then something started into life and the silence was broken.

'Poleon saw that a canvas sled-cover had been used to curtain the door opening, and during the instant following the alarm he brushed the tarpaulin aside and stepped into the pitch-black interior.

It had been a swift maneuver, the result of a lightning-like decision, and not so reckless as it appeared.

He stood now with his back to the rough log wall, every muscle in his body taut, his ears strained for some sound, some challenge.

He had been prepared for a shot out of the darkness, but nothing came. His lungs were filling with the first deep breath of relief when a sleepy voice spoke:

"That you, Frank?" 'Poleon remained fixed in his tracks. "Frank!"

There was a moment's pause, then, "FRANK!"

Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in answer.

"Was that you?" Joe McCaskey's voice again demanded.

"Me? What--?"

"Was you outside?"

"Outside?"

"I heard the dogs rowing. They're stirring now. Hear 'em? I'll swear I saw that fly drop--" McCaskey's words died out and again the interior of the cabin became soundless.

"Who's there?" the former speaker suddenly barked.

When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck.

For a second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only to silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame ignited the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the shadows of the cabin leaping.

Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream. The flame was crushed in his palms and again the cabin was ink black. It remained as silent as before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother's throat.

"Wha--what'd you--see?" the younger one gasped. Both men were now fully awake, but, disregarding the question, Joe cried, wildly:

"Who are you? What d'you want?" And then, when no answer came: "Christ! SAY something."

'Poleon could hear the wretch moisten his dry lips; he could picture both men sitting bolt upright in their sleeping-bags; he could feel the terror that was creeping over them.

"Who'd you see?" Frank whispered again.

"S-something big! Right there! By G.o.d! Something's in here!"

Joe's tone was firmer now; nevertheless, fright still held him motionless, paralyzed. He was staring with blind eyes into the velvet blackness, and his flesh was rippling with a superst.i.tious horror of that formless creature he had glimpsed. What was it that had walked in out of the night and now crouched ready to spring?

Nothing human, nothing natural, that was sure.

Similar thoughts raced madly through his brother's brain, and the latter let forth a thin wail--almost a sob. The sound set Joe into motion. Swiftly but clumsily he fumbled through the dry gra.s.s with which his bunk was filled. He uttered a throaty curse, for he had laid his revolver by his side, right where his hand would fall upon it. Where was the thing--?

Joe's body turned rigid, his shaking fingers grew stiff and useless, when out of the darkness came a sigh--faint but unmistakable; whence it issued neither brother could tell.

With another shriek Frank fell back and burrowed into his sleeping-bag.

CHAPTER XXIX

Rouletta Kirby spent an anxious and a thoughtful night. The more she dwelt upon Laure's peculiar behavior the more it roused her suspicions and the more she felt justified in seeking an interview with Colonel Cavendish. She rose early, therefore, and went to Police Headquarters.

Two people were in the office when she entered, one a redcoat, evidently acting in some clerical capacity; the other a girl whom Rouletta had never seen. The colonel was engaged, so Rouletta was told, and she sat down to wait. With furtive curiosity she began to study this other young woman. It was plain that the latter was a privileged person, for she made herself perfectly at home and appeared to be not in the least chilled by the official formality of her surroundings. She wandered restlessly about the room, humming a tune under her breath; she readjusted the window- curtains to her liking; she idly thumbed the books upon the shelves; finally she perched herself upon the table in the midst of the doc.u.ments upon which the officer was engaged, and began a low-voiced conversation with him.

Rouletta was not a little impressed by this stranger. She had never seen a finer, healthier, cleaner-cut girl. Here for once was a "nice" woman of the town who did not stare at her with open and offensive curiosity. She was not surprised when she overheard the Police officer address her as "Miss Cavendish." No wonder this girl had poise and breeding--the Cavendishes were the best people in the community. With a jealous pang the caller reflected that the colonel's daughter was very much what she herself would like to be, very much her ideal, so far as she could judge.