Читать книгу: «In the Brooding Wild», страница 9

Victor cursed the brute and moved back to the sled. The word “Mush” was hovering on his lips. Suddenly his eyes chanced upon the slumbering form of old Pierre lying in a heap where he had fallen in the doorway. It is impossible to say what made him pause to give a second thought to those he was leaving behind. He had known Pierre for years, and had always been as friendly as his selfish, cruel nature would permit. Perhaps some such feeling now made him hesitate. It might even have been his knowledge of the wild that made him view the helpless figure with some concern. The vagaries of human nature are remarkable. Something held him, then he turned quickly from the sled, and stepping up to the old man’s side, stooped, and putting his arms about him, dragged him bodily into the store. Pierre did not rouse but remained quite still where Victor left him. Then the trader went out again. His back was turned as he reached to close the door. It would not quite shut and he pulled it hard. Then, as it still resisted his efforts, he turned away. As he turned he reeled back with a great cry.

Something large and dark faced him. And, even in the darkness, he could make out a shining ring of metal close in front of his face.

Victor’s horror-stricken cry was the only sound that came. In the twinkling of an eye the metal ring disappeared. Victor felt two bony hands seize him by the throat. The next instant he was hurled to the ground, and a knee was upon his chest. A weight compressed his lungs and he could scarcely breathe. Then he felt the revolver belt dragged from about his waist and his long sheath-knife withdrawn from its sheath. Then, and not till then, the pressure on his chest relaxed, and the hand that had gripped his throat released its hold. The next moment he was lifted to his feet as though he were a mere puppet, and the voice of Jean Leblaude broke harshly upon his ears.

“Guess your bluff wa’n’t wuth a cent, Victor Gagnon. I see’d this comin’ the minit you pass’d me the drink. I ’lows ye ken mostly tell a skunk by the stink. I rec’nized you awhiles back. Guess you ain’t lightin’ out o’ here this night. Come right along.”

The trader had no choice. Jean had him foul, gripping him with a clutch that was vise-like. The giant’s great strength was irresistible when put forth in the deadly earnestness of passion, and just now he could hardly hold his hand from breaking the neck which was so slight beneath his sinewy fingers.

Just for one instant Victor made a faint struggle. As well attempt to resist Doom. Jean shook him like a rat and thrust him before him in the direction of the woods behind the store.

“You’ll pay fer this,” the trader said, between his teeth.

But Jean gave no heed to his impotent rage. He pushed him along in silence, nor did he pause till the secret huts were reached. He opened the door of one and dragged his captive in. There was no light within. But this seemed no embarrassment to the purposeful man. He strode straight over to one corner of the room and took a long, plaited lariat from the wall. In three minutes Victor was trussed and laid upon the ground bound up like a mummy.

Now Jean lighted a lamp and looked down at his victim; there was not the faintest sign of drink about him, and as Victor noticed this he cursed himself bitterly.

There was an impressive silence. Then Jean’s words came slowly. He expressed no emotion, no passion; just the purpose of a strong man who moves relentlessly on to his desired end.

Gagnon realized to the full the calamity which had befallen him.

“Ye’ll wait right here till Davi’ gits back. She’s goin’ to git her ears full o’ you, I guess. Say, she was sweet on you–mighty sweet. But she’s that sensible as it don’t worry any. Say, you ain’t goin’ to marry that gal; ye never meant to. You’re a skunk, an’ I’d as lief choke the life out o’ ye as not. But I’m goin’ to pay ye sorer than that. Savvee? Ye’ll bide here till Davi’ comes. I’ll jest fix this wedge in your mouth till I’ve cleared them drivers out o’ the store. I don’t fancy to hear your lungs exercisin’ when I’m busy.”

With easy deftness Jean gagged his prisoner. Then he glanced round the windowless shack to see if there was any weapon or other thing about that could possibly assist the trader to free himself. Having assured himself that all was safe he put out the light and passed out, securing the door behind him.

CHAPTER XIII.
OUT ON THE NORTHLAND TRAIL

Noon, the following day, saw the dog-train depart on its homeward journey. The way of it was curious and said much for the simplicity of these “old hands” of the northland trail. They were giants of learning in all pertaining to their calling; infants in everything that had to do with the world of men.

Thus Jean Leblaude’s task was one of no great difficulty. It was necessary that he should throw dust in their eyes. And such a dust storm he raised about their simple heads that they struck the trail utterly blinded to the events of the previous night.

While they yet slumbered Jean had freed the dogs from their traces, and unloaded the sled which bore the treasure-chest. He had restored everything to its proper place; and so he awaited the coming of the morning. He did not sleep; he watched, ready for every emergency.

When, at last, the two men stirred he was at hand. Rolling Pierre over he shook him violently till the old man sat up, staring about him in a daze. A beaker of rum was thrust against his parched lips, and he drank greedily. The generous spirit warmed the Frenchman’s chilled body and roused him. Then Jean performed the same merciful operation upon Ambrose, and the two unrepentant sinners were on their legs again, with racking heads, and feeling very ill.

But Jean cared nothing for their sufferings; he wanted to be rid of them. He gave them no chance to question him; not that they had any desire to do so, in fact it was doubtful if they fully realized anything that was happening. And he launched into his carefully considered story.

“Victor’s gone up to the hills ’way back ther’,” he said. “Ther’s been a herd o’ moose come down, from the moose-yard, further north, an’ he’s after their pelts. Say, he left word fer you to git right on loadin’ the furs, an’ when ye hit the trail ye’re to take three bottles o’ the Rye, an’ some o’ the rum. He says he ain’t like to be back fer nigh on three days.”

And while he was speaking the two men supped their coffee, and, as they moistened their parched and burning throats, they nodded assent to all Jean had to say. At that moment Victor, or any one else, might go hang. All they thought of was the awful thirst that assailed them.

Breakfast over, the work of loading the sleds proceeded with the utmost dispatch. Thus it was that at noon, without question, without the smallest suspicion of the night’s doings, they set out for the weary “long trail.”

Jean saw them go. He stood at the door of the store and watched them until they disappeared behind the rising ground of the great Divide. Then his solemn eyes turned away indifferently, and he gazed out into the hazy distance. His gaunt face showed nothing of what was passing in the brain behind it. He rarely displayed emotion of any sort. The Indian blood in his veins preponderated, and much of the stoical calm of the Redskin was his. Now he could wait, undisturbed, for the return of Davia. He felt that he had mastered the situation. He could not make Victor marry the sister he had wronged, but at least he could pay off the wrong in his own way, and to his entire satisfaction. Two years he had waited for the adjustment of these matters. He was glad that he had exercised patience. He might have slain Victor a hundred times over, but he had refrained, vainly hoping to see his sister righted. Besides, he knew that Davia had loved Victor, and women are peculiar. Who might say but that she would have fled from the murderer of her lover? Jean felt well satisfied on the whole. So he stood thinking and waiting with a calm mind.

But the tragedy was working itself out in a manner little suspected, little expected, by him. This he was soon to learn.

The grey spring snow spread itself out on every hand, only was the wood-lined hill, which stretched away to the right and left of him, and behind the hut, bare of the wintry pall. The sky was brilliant in contrast with the greyness of the world beneath it, and the sun shone high in the blue vault. Everywhere was the deadly calm of the Silent North. The presence of any moving forest beast in that brooding picture, however distant, must surely have caught the eye. There was not a living thing to be seen. These woful wastes have much to do with the rugged nature of those who dwell in the north.

Suddenly the whole prospect seemed to be electrified with a thrill of life. The change came with a swift movement of the man’s quiet eyes. Nothing had really altered in the picture, nothing had appeared, and yet that swift flash of the eyes had brought a suggestion of something which broke up the solitude as though it had never been.

Awhile, and his attention became fixed upon the long line of woods to the right. Then his ears caught a slight but distinct sound. He stood away from the doorway, and, shading his eyes from the sunlight, looked keenly along the dark shadow of the woods. No wolf or fox could have keener instinct than had this man. A sound of breaking brush, but so slight that it probably would have passed unheeded by any other, had told him that some one approached through these woods.

He waited.

Suddenly there was movement in the shadow. The next moment a figure stepped out into the open. A figure, dressed in beaded buckskin and blanket clothing. It was Davia.

She came in haste, yet wearily. She looked slight and drooping in her mannish garments, while the pallor of her drawn face was intense. She came up to where Jean stood and would have fallen but for his support. Her journey had been rapid and long, and she was utterly weary of body.

“Quick, let’s git inside,” she cried, in a choking voice. Then she added hysterically: “He’s on the trail.”

Without a word Jean led her into the house, and she flung herself into a seat. A little whiskey put new life into her and the colour came back to her face. She was strong, a woman bred to hardship and toil.

Jean waited; then he put a question with characteristic abruptness.

“Who’s on the trail?”

“Who? Nick Westley. He’s comin’ for blood! Victor’s blood!” Then Davia sprang to her feet with a look of wild alarm upon her beautiful face. “He’s killed his brother!” she added. “He’s mad–ravin’ mad.”

The man did not move a muscle. Only his eyes darkened as he heard the announcement.

“Mad,” he said, thoughtfully. “An’ he’s comin’ fer Victor. Wal?”

Davia sat up. Her brother’s calmness had a soothing effect upon her.

“Listen, an’ I’ll tell you.”

And she told the story of the mountain tragedy, and the manner in which she watched the madman’s subsequent actions until he set out for the store. And the story lost none of its intense horror in her telling.

Jean listened unemotionally and with a judicial air. Only his eyes shoved that he was in any way moved.

When she had finished he asked her, “An’ when’ll he git here?”

“Can’t say,” came the swift reply. “Maybe to-night; maybe in an hour; maybe right now. He’s big an’ strong, an’–an’ he’s mad, I know it.” And a shudder of apprehension passed over her frame.

“Fer Victor? Sure?” Jean asked again presently, like a man weighing up a difficult problem.

“Sure. He don’t know you, nor me, at this layout. Ther’s only Victor. I guess I don’t know how he figgered it, he’s that crazy, but it’s Victor he’s layin’ fer, sure. Say, I saw him sling his gun an’ his ‘six.’ An’ his belt was heavy with ammunition. I reckon ther’s jest one thing fer us to do when a crazy man gits around with a gun. It’s time to light out. Wher’s Victor?” And her eyes fell upon the treasure-chest.

“Him an’ me’s changed places. He’s back ther’.” Jean jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the huts in the wood.

Davia was on her feet in an instant and her eyes sparkled angrily.

“What d’ye mean, Jean?”

The man shrugged. But his words came full of anger.

“He didn’t mean marryin’ ye.”

“Well?” The blue eyes fairly blazed.

“The boodle,” with a glance in the direction of the treasure. “He was fer jumpin’ the lot.”

“Hah! An’–?”

And Jean told his story. And after that a silence fell.

“It’s cursed–it’s blood-money!” Davia’s voice was hoarse with emotion as she said the words.

Jean started.

“We’re goin’ to git,” he said slowly. And he looked into the woman’s eyes as though he would read her very soul.

“An’ Victor?” said Davia harshly.

“Come, we’ll go to him.”

At the door Davia was seized with an overwhelming terror. She gripped Jean’s arm forcefully while she peered along the woodland fringe. The man listened.

“Let’s git on quick,” Davia whispered. And her mouth was dry with her terror.

They found Victor as Jean had left him. The prisoner looked up when the door opened. His eyes brightened at the sight of the woman.

No word was spoken for some moments. In that silence a drama was swiftly working itself out. Victor was calculating his chances. Davia was thinking in a loving woman’s unreasoning fashion. And Jean was watching both. At last the giant stooped and removed the gag from his captive’s mouth. The questioning eyes of Victor Gagnon looked from one to the other and finally rested upon Davia.

“Wal?” he said.

And Davia turned to Jean.

“Loose him!” she said imperiously.

And Jean knew that trouble had come for his plans. He shook his head. The glance of Victor’s eyes as they turned upon Jean was like the edge of a super-sharpened knife. The trader knew that a crisis had arrived. Which was the stronger of these two, the brother or the sister? He waited.

“What are you goin’ to do with him?” Davia asked.

She could scarcely withhold the anger which had risen within her.

But Jean did not answer; he was listening to a strange sound which came to him through the open door. Suddenly he stooped again and began to readjust the rope that held his prisoner. He secured hands and feet together in a manner from which Victor was not likely to free himself easily; and yet from which it was possible for him to get loose. Davia followed his movements keenly. At last the giant rose; his task was completed.

“Now,” he said, addressing them both. “Say your says–quick.”

“You ain’t leavin’ him here,” said the woman, looking squarely into her brother’s eyes.

“That’s so.”

A strange light leapt into Davia’s eyes. Jean saw it and went on with a frown.

“I’m easy, dead easy; but I guess I’ve had enough. He’ll shift fer himself. If he’d ’a’ acted straight ther’d ’a’ been no call fer me to step in. He didn’t. He ain’t settin’ you right, Davi’; he can’t even act the thief decent. He’d ’a’ robbed you an’ me, an’ left you what you are. Wal, my way goes.”

Then he turned to Victor and briefly told him Davia’s story of the mountain tragedy. As he came to the climax the last vestige of the trader’s insolence vanished. Nick was on his way to the store armed and–mad. Panic seized upon the listener. His bravado had ever been but the veneer of the surface. His condition returned to the subversive terror which had assailed him when he was caught in the mountain blizzard.

“Now, see you here, Victor,” Jean concluded coldly, yet watching the effect he had produced. “Ye owe us a deal more’n ye ken pay easy, but I’m fixin’ the reckonin’ my way. We’re goin’, an’ the boodle goes wi’ us. Savvee?” Davia watched her brother acutely. Nor could she help noticing that the great man was listening while he spoke. “I ’lows you’ll git free o’ this rope. I mean ye to–after awhiles. Ye’ll keep y’r monkey tricks till after we’re clear o’ here. Then ye’ll do best to go dead easy. Fer that crank’s comin’ right along, an’, I ’lows, if I was you I’d as lief lie here and rot, an’ feed the gophers wi’ my carcass as run up agin him. I tell ye, pard, ther’s a cuss hangin’ around wher’ Nick Westley goes, an’ I don’t reckon it’s like to work itself out easy by a big sight.”

Jean finished up with profound emphasis. Then he turned about and faced his sister.

“Now, gal, we’re goin’.”

“Not while Victor’s left here.”

Jean stood quite still for a moment. Then his rage suddenly broke forth.

“Not while that skunk’s left?” he cried, pointing scornfully at the prostrate man. “Ye’d stop here fer him as has shamed ye; him as ’ud run from ye this minit if he had the chance; him as ’ud rob ye too; him as thinks as much to ye as a coyote. Slut y’ are, but y’ are my sister, an’ I say ye shall go wi’ me.”

He made a step towards her. Then he brought up to a halt as the long blade of a knife gleamed before his eyes. But he only hesitated a second. His great hand went out, and he caught the woman’s wrist as she was about to strike. The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from her grasp and held her.

Now he thrust her out of the hut and secured the door. He believed that what he had done was only right.

As they passed out into the bright spring daylight again a change seemed to come over Davia. Her terror of Nick Westley returned as she noted the alert attitude of her brother. She listened too, and held her breath to intensify her hearing. But Jean did not relax his hold upon her till they were once more within the store. Then he set her to assist in the preparations for their flight. When all was ready, and they stood outside the house while Jean secured the door, Davia made a final appeal.

“Let me stop, Jean,” she cried, while a sob broke from her. “I love him. He’s mine.”

“God’s curse on ye, no!” came the swift response, and the man’s eyes blazed.

Suddenly a long-drawn cry rose upon the air. It reached a great pitch and died lingeringly away. It was near by and told its tale. And the woman shuddered involuntarily. It was the wolf cry of the mountains; the cry of the human. And, as if in answer, came a chorus from wolfish throats. The last moment had come.

Davia caught Jean’s arm as though seeking protection.

“I will go,” she cried, and the man took her answer to be a final submission.

The stillness of the day had passed. Life thrilled the air although no life was visible. Davia’s fear was written in her face, Jean’s expression was inscrutable; only was it sure that he listened.

But Jean was not without the superstitious dread which madness inspires. And as they raced, he bearing the burden of the treasure-chest, for the wood-covered banks of the creek, he was stirred to horror by the familiar sounds that pursued him. It was their coming, at that time, in daylight; and in answer to the human cry that had first broken up the silence of the hills. How came it that the legions of the forest were marching in the wake of that other upon the valley of Little Choyeuse Creek?

Jean halted when they stood upon the rotten ice of the creek. Now he released his sister, and they stood facing each other well screened from view from the store.

The sullen peace of the valley had merged into the deep-toned, continuous howl of hoarse throats. A terrible threat was in the sound. Jean unslung his rifle and looked to his pistol.

“Ther’s six in this gun,” he said deliberately. “Five of ’em is fer them beasties, if ne’sary. The other’s fer you if you git playin’ tricks. Mebbe ye’ll thank me later fer what I’m doin’. It don’t cut no figger anyway.”

Then he prodded the ice with his iron-shod staff.

Davia watched him while she listened to the din of the forest world. At length the staff had beaten its way to the water below.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked, quite suddenly.

And Jean’s retort was a repetition of her own words.

“It’s cursed–it’s blood-money!”

She took his meaning, and her cupidity cried out in revolt. But her protest was useless.

“You’re not goin’–” she began.

“It goes,” cried Jean fiercely, “wher’ he ain’t like to touch it, ’less Hell gits him. Father Lefleur, at the mission, says as gold’s Hell’s pavin’, an’ mebbe this’ll git back wher’ it come.” And with vengeful force he threw back the lid of the chest.

Davia’s eyes expressed more than any words could have told. She stood silently by, a mute but eloquent protest, while Jean took the bags of gold dust one by one from the chest, and poured their contents into the water below. When the last bag was emptied he took the packet of bills and fingered them gently. Even his purpose seemed to be shaken by the seductive feel of the familiar paper. Suddenly he thrust them into the hole, and his staff thrust viciously at them as he pushed them under the ice where they would quickly rot. It was done.

“Mebbe the water’ll wash the blood off’n it,” he exclaimed. “Mebbe.”

Davia’s eyes looked derisively upon the giant figure as he straightened himself up. She could not understand.

But her look changed to one of horror a moment later, as above the cries of the forest rose the inhuman note of the madman. Both recognized it, and the dreadful tone gripped their hearts. Jean leant forward, and seizing the woman by the arm dragged her off the ice to the cover of the bush.

With hurried strides they made their way through the leafless branches, until they stood where, themselves well under cover, they had a view of the store.