CHAPTER XII A DASTARDLY DEED

“HOW!”

As Corporal Roger Bracknell opened his eyes, this characteristic Indian greeting broke on his ears, and he stirred uneasily. Slowly the full consciousness of things came back to him, and with it the sense of intolerable pain in one of his legs. He raised his head to look at the leg and stretched a hand towards it at the same time. Another hand intervened hastily.

“No. Not dat! You damage ze leg, if you touch. It vaire bad!”

The corporal turned his eyes. The two men were standing near the bale of skins on which he was lying, one of them of pure Indian blood, and the second, who had uttered the warning, manifestly a half-breed. Behind them in the darkness of the tepee was a third man, also an Indian. He addressed himself to the half-breed.

“How did I come here?”

“Lagoun and Canim dey find you on ze trail. A tree hav’ fallen an’ crack your leg like a shell of the egg. You not able to move, so dat eef dey not come soon, you dead mans along of ze cold which freeze ze blood. Dey bring you here an’ I set ze leg, so dat it grow together again. Dat is all!”

[130]

Coporal Bracknell looked towards the two Indians. “I am very grateful to you, Lagoun and Canim, and I shall not forget,” he said. “I shall report good of them at the Post. But where am I?”

“At ze winter encampment of my people!” was the reply.

“Of your people. Who are you then?”

“I am Chief Louis of ze Elkhorn tribe. You hear of me, maybe?”

“Yes,” answered the corporal quickly. “Who is there that has not?”

He looked with interest on the man, who was the son of a French-Canadian and an Indian mother, and who throwing in his lot with his mother’s people had risen to the headship of the tribe. And whilst he looked at him the Chief spoke again.

“It ees not good to walk alone in ze North without dogs an’ sled as Lagoun and Canim find you.”

“It is very bad,” laughed the policeman weakly. “But part of my dogs were stolen from me, and the others died.”

“Dat is vaire bad,” was the reply. “Lagoun and Canim dey find ze sled, and dead wolves—many of dem. Dey haf been poisoned. How befell it, so?”

The corporal explained, carefully avoiding any reference to his cousin and the latter’s Indian companion, and when he had finished, the Chief nodded approbation.

“Dat was clevaire to poison ze wolves, for dey hav’ ze hunger-madness at dis time, ze mooze being scarce in ze woods.”

[131]

For a little time Bracknell did not speak, then he glanced down towards his leg, and asked, “Is it very bad?”

“It veel knit together like ze ice on ze river!” was the reply. “An’ you veel not be lame mans. No! But two months veel pass before you take ze trail again.”

“Two months. The ice will be breaking up by then.”

“Oui! dat so! But what matter? Time it ees long in ze North, an’ we can talk together. Where did the trail lead for you, m’sieu?”

“I was making for North Star Lodge in the first instance. There, I hoped to get dogs to take me to the police post.”

Chief Louis did not speak for a little time. He lit an Indian pipe made of some soft stone with a hollowed twig for stem, pulled thoughtfully at it a few times, blowing out clouds of acrid smoke, then he said slowly, “You were going to North Star? You ever know Missi Gargrave’s father?”

“No!” answered the policeman. “He was dead before I came so far North. I understand that he was caught in the ice in the Yukon—and lost. The bottom dropped out of the trail or something.”

“Him die, oui,” was the brief reply.

Something in the other’s tone caught the policeman’s attention. He looked at him quickly. The half-breed’s face was like that of a wooden image, but there was a glitter in the eyes that betrayed an excitement which the mask-like visage concealed.

“Ah!” he commented. “You know how Rolf Gargrave died!”

[132]

“I not say so! But I tink an’ tink, an’ I tink it was not good ze way Gargrave die. Non!”

Bracknell waited, but the half-breed did not continue, and after a little time he said quietly, “Tell me.”

“Not now. It is ze hour of ze evening meal; an’ ze tale will keep. I tell you anoder time.”

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, nodded gravely at the officer and passed out of the tepee, leaving Bracknell the prey of a great curiosity. What on earth was the tale which the half-breed had to tell about Rolf Gargrave’s death? He recalled the little that he had heard about the disappearance of the Northland millionaire and could remember nothing which indicated that his death had been due to anything but an accident. As he remembered the story the river-ice on which Mr. Gargrave and his party of four Indians had been travelling had suddenly turned rotten, in Northland phrase, “the bottom had dropped out of the trail,” and the whole party had been drowned, with a single exception. The exception was one of the Indians who had managed to crawl out, and later in the day reached an Indian lodge there, after telling the story of the disaster, to die of cold and exhaustion. Mr. Gargrave’s death had been a tragedy, but such tragedies were not uncommon in the North; and the police, hearing of the event months afterward, had seen no reason for investigation. Every spring brought similar stories with it; and would, so long as men persisted in keeping to the ice-trails when once the spring thaw had set in.

[133]

But Chief Louis’s vague hints had perplexed Roger Bracknell, and awakened formless suspicions in his mind. Suppose that the death of Joy’s father had not been an accident, suppose—

He broke off his conjectures. It was no use indulging in idle speculations when a short time would probably dispose of any need for them. He gave his mind to the consideration of his own position. As he recognized, his escape from death had been a very narrow one, and though he would have to remain where he was, probably for many weeks, he counted himself fortunate. Chief Louis held the Mounted Police in esteem, and would look after him well, and though the delay would probably mean that his Cousin Dick would escape, he could not find it in his heart to regret that over much. The Indian, Joe, was another matter. He was convinced that by poisoning his dog-food the Indian had deliberately planned his death, and as he thought of the means employed, a hot wrath burned within him. It was so cruel, so treacherous, and he vowed to himself that one day he would make the Indian pay for it.

His thoughts wandered further to Joy Gargrave! She would be in England or well on her way there, and wondering how his quest had sped. He was now in a position to fulfil his promise to her, but he doubted whether such news as he had to send her would be any comfort to her, for the news that Dick Bracknell was alive, and making for the fastnesses of the Northern wilderness, could hardly be good news for her, who had been so bitterly deceived.

[134]

It was the next day when Chief Louis unfolded the mystery of Rolf Gargrave’s death. Seating himself by the corporal’s side, he puffed slowly at his pipe for some time, and the officer watched him, wondering what was in his mind and when he would speak.

Suddenly the half-breed leaned forward and said abruptly—

“Ze bottom nevaire drop out of ze trail under Rolf Gargrave!”

“No?” The corporal’s voice was eager and his manner alert.

“It was blown out!”

“Blown out! What on earth do you mean, Louis?”

“Listen and I veel the tale unfold. Tree winters back, no four! dere come to my tepee a white man who was not used to ze ways of ze North. With him vas another mans who had ze coughing-sickness, and who need the squaws to nurse him. He die vaire shortly—six days after he come, an’ we give him tree-burial; and ze next day, ze other white mans he come to me. He want two men to go on trail with him to ze North, an’ he pay with blankets, two rifles of ze best, mooch cartridges, and many sticks of tabac. He vaire anxious, and I ask him what for he go North before ze spring it have arrive. And he say he go to find a mans. What mans? I ask, and he say Rolf Gargrave, whom he would talk with on business of importance. Den I understand, I tink, Gargrave he is a man of many affairs, an’ this man who know not ze ways of ze North hav’ come so far to talk of gold and[135] ze like, and I agree, and send two men of ze tribe with him to find Gargrave of North Star.

“Dey be good men, who know ze ways of ze trail as none other, but dey are gone a vaire long time, an’ ze wild geeze hav’ gone to their breeding grounds in ze far North, an’ ze river it is free from ice, when dey return. I question dem, and it is a strange tale dey tell. For many days dey travel with ze stranger mans whose name I know not, an’ dey are on the trail of Gargrave all ze time. Dey hear word of him, now here, now dere, and it is a long trail dey follow, but at ze last dey come up with him. Dey hav’ word dat he is but one camp ahead of dem, an’ dey push the dogs, an’ soon dey pass Gargrave’s camp.”

“Pass it?” cried the corporal in astonishment.

“Oui! Dey pass a camp which is Gargrave’s an’ with ze darkness falling, dey push on five, six mile, an’ dere pitch camp, an’ ze stranger mans say he wait for Gargrave dere. It begins to snow, an’ dere is wind, an’ dey crouch by ze fire, an’ sleep, one hour, two hours, tree—I know not. Den Paslik an’ Sibou dey wake suddenly, an’ dere is the roll of thunder in their ears. Dey listen in wonder and again dey hear it, a crash like dat among ze hills when the sun scorches ze grass an’ ze earth it shake an’ tremble.

“Dey look about. Ze white-man’s sleeping bag it is empty, and he is not dere. Dey wait a long time. Ze thunder sound no more, but ze snow still fall, an’ presently, ze stranger mans he return. He hav’ on ze snowshoes an’ he hav’ been on a journey. He tell Paslik an’ Sibou dat he not sleep,[136] dat he hav’ been for little walk to help him. But he is vaire tired, an’ dere is a strange look on his face, and Paslik he whisper to Sibou dat the stranger man hav’ been a long journey.... Den ze snow still falling, dey all sleep till dawn....

“All next day, in ze camp dere, dey wait for ze coming of Gargrave, but he come not, and Paslik he see dat after a time ze mans look not towards ze river-trail, an’ dat dare is a pleased look on his face, a look as of one who has his desire given unto him. Ze next morning, they strike camp, an’ ze stranger mans he say dey go back and look for Gargrave. To Paslik an’ Sibou, ze way of the white man is foolishness, but dey go back, an’ tree miles down ze trail dey find the ice hav’ been broken in. It hav’ frozen over again, but ze snow about have melt an’ frozen in with ze ice, an’ it is rotten. Also dere are great chunks of ice thrown far out over ze snow, which is a strange thing.... Dey cross the broken trail with care, an’ at the far side, dey come on ze tracks of two sleds that hav’ moved in ze direction of ze rotten ice.

“Ze stranger mans he look at dese an’ den he looks back at ze broken trail, an’ den he whistle cheerfully all to himself. Paslik he look, an’ he read ze signs, an’ he whisper dat ze sleds hav’ gone in, ze sleds an’ ze mans, an’ den dey go forward till dey reach ze camp of Gargrave dat dey pass on ze way. He is not dere, ze camp is remove, an’ ze ashes of ze fire are cold. Ze white mans he look, an’ he laugh, but it was ze laugh of a man who is not disappointed, you understand.

[137]

“‘We hav’ missed him,’ he say. ‘We return to Dawson.’

“So Paslik an’ Sibou, dey go to Dawson with him, an’ dere dey hear that Gargrave is lost, because of ze bottom dropping from ze trail an’ casting him in ze river. One mans he have crawled out, he tell ze tale an’ die. An’ Paslik an’ Sibou say nothing, an’ ze stranger mans he give them his dogs an’ sled an’ stores and leave Dawson, and presently when ze river is open dey come back, and whisper to me the tale of their wanderings, and I say ze trail it not fall in, but it is blown out.”

The half-breed broke off, and lighting his pipe, puffed at it stolidly, staring into the fire. For a full half-minute the corporal did not speak. The implications of the other’s story were very clear to him, but they seemed incredible.

“But what makes you so sure?” he asked at last.

Chief Louis rose from his seat and without speaking passed from the tepee. After a few minutes he returned bringing with him a wooden box with a hinged lid. He opened it, and held it towards the corporal, who looked in curiously. Inside half-wrapped in cotton wool were four cakes of some reddish brown material, and when the corporal’s eyes fell on them, he gave vent to a sudden exclamation.

“Ah!”

“You know what dat is? You hav’ before it seen?”

“Yes!” answered Bracknell quickly. “It is dynamite. How did you come by it?”

[138]

“Ze stranger mans he leaves it in ze stores dat he give Paslik an’ Sibou. He forget it, or he tink dey get meddling with it an’ blow themselves to Hell. But dey bring it back, and I know it, and I keep it; and remembering ze winter thunder which Paslik an’ Sibou dey hear in their sleep, I say ze trail it was blown up, an’ not fall in, behold, Paslik an’ Sibou wi’ ze stranger mans go all ze way to Dawson, an’ ze trail it is good.”

“Upon my word, Louis, I believe you are right.”

“Dere is no question. It is so sure as ze rising of ze sun!”

A dark thought shot in the corporal’s mind. Four winters ago this had happened, and in that year Dick Bracknell, who had trapped Joy Gargrave into marriage, had fled from England. Rolf Gargrave’s death might be conceived to serve the interests of his son-in-law, and Rolf Gargrave had been murdered.

“Louis,” he asked abruptly, “what sort of a man was he whom Paslik and Sibou served?”

“He was tall, with full beard and dark eyes. His voice was of ze English an’ not of ze American, for he talked not through the nose.”

The description was not very illuminating, and the policeman almost groaned.

“His hair? did you mark the colour?”

“It was like ze bear—what you call brown, ze brown of ze wood-nuts in autumn!”

Brown! Dick Bracknell’s was brown, but then so was the hair of half the Anglo-Saxon race!

As his mind clutched at this fact seeking escape[139] from the awful thought which was taking possession of it, he frowned.

“You know ze mans?” asked the half-breed.

“No!” he cried violently. “No!”

“All ze same,” said Chief Louis stolidly, “that mans he blow up ze trail.”

And from that conclusion, at any rate, Roger Bracknell could find no escape.