The Snowshoe Trail Part 28

He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks with which civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father's son.

This was a land of savage and primitive pa.s.sions, and he felt no self-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhuman crime. He had learned certain lessons of cruelty from the wilderness; the savage breeds with whom he had mingled had had their influence too.

Bill, born and living in a land of beasts, had kept the glory of manhood; Harold, coming from a land of men, had fallen to the beasts'

own level. And even the savage wolf does not slay the pack-brother that frees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was prompting his every step.

He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of his two confederates. The breeds waited patiently for him to speak.

"Where's Sindy?" he asked at last.

They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lines on their master's face soon rea.s.sured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's--just where you said," Joe replied.

"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'm going to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now--and soon I'm going out with her--to the Outside. But there's things to do first.

Bill has found the mine."

The others nodded gravely. They expected some such development.

"And Bill is as blind as a mole--got caught in a cabin full of green-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So I sent for you right away."

The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete's eyes had begun to gleam,--such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in the eyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow.

"The mine's worth millions--more money than you can dream of. Each of you get a sixth--one third divided between you. You'll never get more money for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live a hundred winters. But you agree first to these terms--or you won't know where the mine is."

"Me--I want a fourth," Joe answered sullenly.

"All right. Turn around and go home. I don't want you."

It was a bluff, but it worked. Joe came to terms at once. Treacherous himself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn't divulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work was done.

"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claim notices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record the claim," Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. No one'll make any trouble."

Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a very pertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"

Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his own woman. "Didn't you hear me say she was _my_ squaw? I'll tend to her.

Besides--the way I've got it planned, she won't know--at least she won't understand. Now listen, you two, and don't make any mistake.

I've got to go back to the cabin now--try to be there before they wake up. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday--and, as I told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher.

"Both of you are to come to the cabin, just about dark. You'll tell me you have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yuga village. Bring along a quart of booze--firewater--and maybe two quarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring along something in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in a better mood. And now--you see what you've got to do?"

Neither of them answered. They could guess--but they didn't conceive of the real brilliancy of the plan.

"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"--and Harold's face drew into an unlovely snarl--"sometime in the early evening give Bill what's coming to him."

"Do him off----?" Joe asked stolidly.

"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breeds leaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmatic now. They were imbued with Harold's own pa.s.sion, and their dark, savage faces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even as his; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.

"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him--better still, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him before he knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go back to my cabin and hide out."

"No food in cabin," Joe objected. "Get some from you?"

For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunate circ.u.mstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up the supplies, eh? Got any booze----?"

"Still two bottles firewater----"

"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either--not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supper to-night, or as much of it as you need--and after you're through with Bill go back to your cabin and get what you have left----"

"There won't be none left----"

"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill's Twenty-three Mile cabin is?"

Pete nodded. Joe made no response.

"Then you can find it, Pete. I haven't any idea where it is myself.

It's only a day's march, and he's got it packed with grub. You hide out there, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough to take us down there too--the woman and I--we'll follow your snowshoes tracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if we have to, we can go over to a grizzly carca.s.s I know of and cut off a few pounds of meat--but we won't have to. We'll join you at the Twenty-three Mile cabin to-morrow night."

Pete the breed looked doubtful. "Bear over--east?" he asked.

"Somewhere over there," Harold replied.

"Don't guess any bear meat left. Heard coyotes--hundred of 'em--over east. Pack of wolves came through too--sang song over there."

Harold could agree with him. If indeed the wolves and the coyotes had gathered--starving gray skulkers of the forest--the great skeleton would have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicate his own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin with the morsel of food they had left--he and Virginia could follow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill's cabin.

"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out," Harold went on. "I'll go down to the recorder's office with the woman. Don't worry about her, I'll tell 'em that you were two Indians from the East Selkirks, give 'em a couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple as day and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through your heads, I'm going back to the cabin."

They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, was exceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete had one more question--one that was wholly characteristic of his weasel soul.

"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thin blade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"

Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a l.u.s.t, a desire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark and evil ways. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't much matter----" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguely exciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to stand listening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if he were scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from the past was speaking through his lips. The words came with no conscious effort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester in his soul. His father's blood was in the full ascendancy at last.

"There's an old pick on the table--Bill had it prospecting." he said.

XXVIII

Bill's eyes were considerably better when he wakened--full in the daylight. The warm wet cloths had taken part of the inflammation out of them, and when he strained to open the lids, he was aware of a little, dim gleam of light. He couldn't make out objects, however, and except for a fleeting shadow he could not discern the hand that he swept before his face. Several days and perhaps weeks would pa.s.s before the full strength of his sight returned.

His greatest hope at present was that he could grope his way about the cabin and build a fire for Virginia. Whether she wished to get up or not to-day, the growing chill in the room must be removed. He got up, fumbled on the floor for such of his outer garments as Virginia had removed, and after a world of difficulty managed to get them on. He was amazingly refreshed by the night's sleep and Virginia's nursing. His eyes throbbed, of course; his muscles were lame and painful, his head ached and his arms and legs seemed to be dismembered, yet he knew that complete recovery was only a matter of hours.

Building the fire, however, was a grievous task. He felt it inc.u.mbent upon him to move with utmost caution so that Virginia would not waken.

By groping about the walls he encountered the stove. It was pleasantly warm to his hands, and when he opened the door he found that hot coals were still glowing in the ashes. Then he fumbled about the floor for such fuel as Harold had provided.

He found a piece at last, and soon a cheery crackle told him that it had ignited. He grinned with delight at the thought that he, almost stone blind, had been able to build a fire in a room with a sleeping girl and not waken her. But his joy was a trifle premature. At that instant he tripped over a piece of firewood and his hands crashed against the logs.

"Oh, blast my clumsiness!" he whispered; then stood still as death to see what had befallen. Virginia stirred behind her curtain.

"Is that you, Harold?" she asked.