CHAPTER III
A MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE
“What do you know about this murder?”
Donald sat at the dinner table in Fort Dickey with John Buller
and Pierre Cardepie, his two assistants. A roaring log fire barely
fought off the cold as they ate their caribou steak, beans, bread,
and tea.
“Not much,” replied Buller. “The day after you left, one of the
Indians tore in at midnight with the news. He said that he and his
partner, the murdered man, had been met by Charley Seguis while
running their trap-line, and that Charley had drawn the other aside
in private conversation. Half an hour later, there had been sudden
words, followed by blows, and, before Johnny could defend himself,
Seguis had stabbed him. What they had been talking about the Indian
didn't know, for Charley had hurried off immediately after the
murder.”
“What direction did he take?” asked McTavish.
“The rumor declared that he went north, toward Beaver Lake.”
“Could he give any motive for the deed?”
“No. So far as he knew, Johnny had never seen Charley Seguis before.”
“Well, boys, I'm off in the morning after him. The factor is
particularly keen for having him brought in right away. He also
wants to know what I have done with all the furs that he claims
have disappeared from this district during the last year.” Donald's
tone was contemptuous.
“I didn't know any had disappeared,” said Buller, in amazement.
“Nor me! I tink dat Feetzpatreeck ees gone crazy in hees old age,”
added Cardepie, with a snort.
“Well, whatever it is, he claims the Company has lost twenty thousand
pounds, and that I'm to blame for it,” said Donald.
“There's something wrong here, Mac,” remarked Duller, decisively.
“This isn't all accident, and, if you say so, I'll go with you
to-morrow.”
“It's awfully good of you, John, but I think I'll tackle it alone.”
And McTavish wearily rose from the table.
The next morning, he again took the trail, but this time alone. On
his feet were the light moose-webbed snowshoes; from head to heel,
he was clad in white caribou such as the Indian hunters affect,
and on his capote he bore the branching antlers that were left
there as a decoy for the wary animals. With a long whip in one
hand and his rifle held easily in the other, he strode beside the
straining dog-train. In the east, the frost-mist hung low like a
fog. In the south, the sun, which barely showed itself above the
horizon each day, was commencing to engrave faint tree shadows on
the snow. The west was purplish gray, but the north was unrelenting
iron. There was no beaten path to guide him now, and sometimes the
trees were so closely set as barely to permit the passage of the
sledge. On the new snow could be seen the dainty tracks of ermine,
and beside them the cleanly indented marks of a fox. There were
triplicate clusters of impressions, showing where the hare had
passed, and occasionally the huge, splayed imprints of a caribou.
But, though the life of the wild creatures was teeming at this
season, there was no sound in all the leagues of forest, except
the sharp crack of some freezing tree-trunk and the noise of
Donald's own passage.
Late in the afternoon the traveler found the cabin of a white
trapper for which he had started that morning.
“Can you tell me where Charley Seguis is?” he asked.
“Went north, toward Beaver Lake, three days ago,” replied the other,
shortly. “He stopped here on his way up, and said he was looking
for better grounds.”
“Going to set out a new line of traps then, was he?”
“Yes, Mr. McTavish,” assented the trapper.
“Thanks,” said McTavish, gathering up the whip. “I must be going.”
“What! Going to travel all night? Better stay and bunk with me.”
“Can't do it, friend.” And a few minutes later, the captain of Fort
Dickey was on his way again.
He knew that Charley Seguis had three days' start of him. He knew
also that Charley was an exceptionally intelligent half-breed, and
would travel well out of the district before allowing himself
breathing space. McTavish intended surprising him by the swiftness
of pursuit. So, lighted on his way by the brilliant stars and the
silent, flaunting banners of the northern lights, he plodded doggedly
on until midnight. Then he built a fire, thawed fish for the dogs,
and prepared food for himself, finally lying down on his bed of
spruce boughs, his feet to the flames.
Two hours before dawn found him shivering with bitter cold, and
heaping logs upon the fire for the morning tea; and, while the
stars were fading, Mistisi, his leader, plunged into the traces
for the long day's march. It was grilling work. The cold seemed
something vital, sentient, alive, which opposed him with all its
might. The wind and snow appeared cunning allies of the one great
enemy; and, to make matters worse, the very underbrush and trees
themselves apparently conspired against this one microscopic human
who dared invade the regions of death.
But Donald McTavish was not thinking of these things as he toiled
north. His mind was centered on Charley Seguis, the Indian, the
man who must be conquered. There lay his duty; hazardous, fatal,
perhaps; but still his duty. It was the first law of the company
that justice should be infallible among its servants, and right
triumphant.
Donald crossed the tracks of two hunters that morning, but saw no
one. By this time, he was well into the Beaver Lake district.
Seventy-five miles north were the low, desolate shores of Hudson
Bay, and as many miles directly east lay Fort Severn. At the thought,
a short spasm of pain clutched his heart, for he could not forget
that the lonely post contained the world for him.
The splendors and luxuries of civilization in great cities were as
nothing to him now. Only the vast wild, and this one wonderful
creature of the wild, Jean Fitzpatrick, spoke to him in a language
that he understood. He had vague recollections of operas and theaters
and dances, and all the colorful life of Montreal and Winnipeg;
but they only stirred within him a sense of imprisonment and unrest.
“Better to fight and die alone in the deep woods than to live all
one's life as a jellyfish,” was the concise fashion in which he
summed the matter up.
At two o'clock that afternoon McTavish consulted a map he had made
of the district near Fort Dickey, and laid his course for the
trapping shanty of an Indian called Whiskey Bill. It was on the
bank of a little beaver stream that debouched into Beaver River.
The stream was frozen to a thickness of three feet, and Donald
drove his dog team smartly down the snow-covered ice, riding on
the sledge for the first time in many hours. But he finally arrived
at Whiskey Bill's shanty only to find the place deserted, and the
little building slowly disintegrating under the investigations of
animals.
“That's funny,” thought Donald uncertainly. “I can't understand it
at all. He said he was coming in to his old shanty on this fork of
the Beaver when the fall trapping began.”
He closely examined the rickety structure. It showed signs of having
been inhabited up to a month previous. The woodsman shook his head
in uncertain amazement, and again consulted his map. Ten miles
father east, on the north shore of Beaver Lake, lived a Frenchman
named Voudrin.
McTavish cracked his whip over the dogs' backs, and, leaping on
the sledge as it passed, shot down the river to the big lake. But
there, after a swift trip of an hour and a half, he found the same
conditions. Voudrin's cabin, however, showed signs of more recent
occupancy than had Whiskey Bill's. A pair of snowshoes bound high
against the wall, an old pair of fur gloves, and a few pots and
pans, indicated that the Frenchman would probably return. But, in
the meantime, McTavish had these questions to answer: Where had
the men gone? And why?
The swift darkness was coming on, and, in the absence of information
regarding Seguis, Donald decided to spend the night in Voudrin's
cabin, in the hope that the man might return by daylight. It was
possible the Frenchman had a three-day line of traps, and was out
making the rounds, camping in the forest trails, wherever darkness
overtook him.
Though chafing at the delay and the tricks of circumstance, Donald
knew that he could do no better than follow this plan, and so set
about unpacking for the night and preparing food for both himself
and his dogs. Soon there was a roaring fire in the stone fireplace
at the end of the one-room shanty, and the odor of frying meat
pervaded the atmosphere. Presently, he went outside to cut fresh
spruce boughs for the rough bunk.
In the woods he heard a noise. He looked up and found himself face
to face with two silent Indians, who stood looking at him gravely.
Although he was not sure, he thought he recognized them as a couple
of the early risers that had waved him good-by the day he started
from Fort Severn. The impression was only a passing one, however.
“Well, what do you want?” demanded the Scotchman, crisply.
For reply, one of the men reached inside his hunting-coat, and
fumbled a moment. Then he drew forth a scrap of very dirty, wrinkled
paper, which he extended without a word.
Amazed, Donald took it and tried to read the hastily scribbled
contents. The handwriting alone made his heart leap with surprise
and hope. It must have been five minutes before he finished struggling
in the dim light. Then, with his face puckered in a scowl of
perplexity, he turned to address the bearers of the message.
They were gone. So intense had been his concentration that they
had shuffled away in the darkness unnoticed.
Still scowling, Donald thrust the note into a pocket, gathered up
a double armful of spruce boughs, and went inside the shanty. There,
he sat down on an upturned box, and pulled forth the note again.
He read:
If you wish to do the company a great service drop your pursuit
of Charley Seguis and head for Sturgeon Lake. You will find
there something of great importance, but what it is I have no
idea, as my informants could not say. There is a gathering there,
but I know nothing more than that. In sending this to you by
bearers (they ought to reach Fort Dickey almost as you leave in
search of Seguis), I am acting on my own responsibility. What
you said the other day about my being old enough to think for
myself has taken root, you see. If you profit by this suggestion
I shall be happy.
Sincerely,
JEAN FITZPATRICK.
In a sort of stupefaction induced by many emotions clamoring for
recognition at once, Donald sat staring at the fire while the meat
burned black. In love though he was, first and foremost into his
mind leaped consideration of the Company. He had been sent to hunt
down a murderer. By the unwritten code, he must hang to the trail
like a bulldog, even if the chase required six months and led him
through the Selkirks to the Pacific. Charley Seguis must answer
before a tribunal for his crime.
Now came this imperious call to drop the pursuit, and to take up
something else, which was claimed to be of greater importance to
the Company. That it was of great moment Donald was sure; else,
Jean, a factor's daughter, would not have sent him the word. Since
she sent it, why had it not been official from her father? Ah, yes;
she had acted upon her own responsibility. Evidently, she had
received word of this strange, new thing through the Indian woman
who served her, and who hated her father. It was probably too
indefinite to bring before the irascible old factor, and the girl
had taken this method of protecting the Company, while at the same
time giving him a chance for new laurels.
Knowing Jean's straightforward truthfulness, McTavish dared not
disregard the message. He knew there was something in it, and
something much more grave than either of them suspected, probably.
But yet—to leave the trail of Charley Seguis! He shook his head
distractedly, and came to his senses in time to rescue the pieces
of caribou before they turned to cinders.
The fish for the dogs being softened to a certain pliancy, he fed
the ravening animals, and then made a meal himself, sitting
abstractedly on the up-ended box, his thawed bread in one hand and
his chilling tea in the other. Meantime, he wrestled stubbornly
with his problem. It was not until he had almost finished his first
pipe that he came to a decision. Then, jumping up, he slapped his
thigh, and cried aloud:
“By George! I'll do it. Charley Seguis can wait. I'll back Jean's
common sense and intuition against the blue laws of the whole
Hudson Bay Company.”
Presently, he began to dream over the last part of the almost
impersonal letter, reading into it his own fond interpretations,
and holding imaginary interviews with this girl, who looked like
a saint in a stained-glass window, because of the glorious aureole
of her red-bronze hair.
What a woman she was! What a woman! Innocent, clean-minded, vigorous,
virile with that feminine aristocracy of perfect pureness! Ah, she
was no wife for your dance-haunting young millionaire. The man
who won her must fight for her, fight like a tiger for its young,
fight even the girl herself, because in her unstirred nature was
all the virginal resistance to surrender that belongs to a wild
creature of the dim trails.
So, Donald dreamed on, while the traveling wolf-packs howled in
the distance, the trees split with the report of ordnance, and the
fire burned low.
