CHAPTER XXVII
APACHE STUFF
The hunters brought back three caribou and two sacks of rabbits,supplies enough to enable West to reach Lookout. The dogs werestronger than when they had set out, for they had gorged themselves onthe parts of the game unfit for human use.
Nothing had been said by either of the men as to what was to be donewith Jessie McRae, but the question was in the background of boththeir thoughts, just as was the growing anger toward each other thatconsumed them. They rarely spoke. Neither of them let the other dropbehind him. Neither had slept a wink the previous night. Instead, theyhad kept themselves awake with hot tea. Fagged out after a day of hardhunting, each was convinced his life depended on wakefulness. West'siron strength had stood the strain without any outward signs ofcollapse, but Whaley was stumbling with fatigue as he dragged himselfalong beside the sled.
The bad feeling between the partners was near the explosion point. Itwas bound to come before the fugitive started on his long trip north.The fellow had a single-track mind. He still intended to take the girlwith him. When Whaley interfered, there would be a fight. It could notcome too soon to suit West. His brooding had reached the point wherehe was morally certain that the gambler meant to betray him to thepolice and set them on his track.
Smoke was rising from the chimney of the hut. No doubt the McRae girlwas inside, waiting for them with a heart of fear fluttering inher bosom. Whaley's thin lips set grimly. Soon now it would be ashow-down.
There was a moment's delay at the door, each hanging back underpretense of working at the sled. There was always the chance that theone who went first might get a shot in the back.
West glanced at the big mittens on the other's hands, laughed hardily,and pushed into the cabin. A startled grunt escaped him.
"She's gone," he called out.
"Probably in the woods back here--rabbit-shooting likely. She can'thave gone far without snowshoes," Whaley said.
The big man picked up the ski Jessie had made. "Looky here."
Whaley examined it. "She might have made a pair of 'em and got away.Hope so."
The yellow teeth of the convict showed in a snarl. "Think I don't seeyore game? Playin' up to McRae an' the red-coats. I wouldn't put it byyou to sell me out."
The gambler's ice-cold eyes bored into West. Was it to be now?
West was not quite ready. His hands were cold and stiff. Besides, theother was on guard and the fugitive was not looking for an even break.
"Oh, well, no use rowin' about that. I ain't gonna chew the rag withyou. It'll be you one way an' me another pretty soon," he continued,shifty eyes dodging.
"About the girl--easy to find out, I say. She sure didn't fly away.Must 'a' left tracks. We'll take a look-see."
Again Whaley waited deferentially, with a sardonic and mirthless grin,to let the other pass first. There were many tracks close to the cabinwhere they themselves, as well as the girl, had moved to and fro.Their roving glances went farther afield.
Plain as the swirling waters in the wake of a boat stretched thetracks of a snowshoer across the lower end of the lake.
They pushed across to examine them closer, following them a dozenyards to the edge of the ice-field. The sign written there on thatwhite page told a tale to both of the observers, but it said more toone than to the other.
"Some one's been here," West cried with a startled oath.
"Yes," agreed Whaley. He did not intend to give any unnecessaryinformation.
"An' lit out again. Must 'a' gone to git help for the girl."
"Yes," assented the gambler, and meant "No."
What he read from the writing on the snow was this: Some one had comeand some one had gone. But the one who had come was not the one whohad gone. An Indian had made the first tracks. He could tell it bythe shape of the webs and by the way the traveler had toed in. Theoutward-bound trail was different. Some one lighter of build waswearing the snowshoes, some one who took shorter steps and toed out.
"See. She run out to meet him. Here's where her feet kept sinkin' in,"West said.
The other nodded. Yes, she had hurried to meet him but that was notall he saw. There was the impression of a knee in the snow. It was aneasy guess that the man had knelt to take off the shoes and adjustthem to the girl's feet.
"An' here's where she cut off into the woods," the convict went on."She's hidin' up there now. I'm hittin' the trail after her hot-foot."
Whaley's derisive smile vanished almost before it appeared. What heknew was his own business. If West wanted to take a walk in the woods,it was not necessary to tell him that a man was waiting for him therebehind some tree.
"Think I'll follow this fellow," Whaley said, with a lift of the handtoward the tracks that led across the lake. "We've got to find outwhere he went. If the Mounted are hot on our trail, we want to knowit."
"Sure." West assented craftily, eyes narrowed to conceal the thoughtsthat crawled through his murderous brain. "We gotta know that."
He believed Whaley was playing into his hands. The man meant to betrayhim to the police. He would never reach them. And he, Bully West,would at last be alone with the girl, nobody to interfere with him.
The gambler was used to taking chances. He took one now and made hisfirst mistake in the long duel he had been playing with West. Theeagerness of the fellow to have him gone was apparent. The convictwanted him out of the way so that he could go find the girl. Evidentlyhe thought that Whaley was backing down as gracefully as he could.
"I'll start right after him. Back soon," the gambler said casually.
"Yes, soon," agreed West.
Their masked eyes still clung to each other, wary and watchful. Asthough without intent Whaley backed away, still talking to the other.He wanted to be out of revolver range before he turned. West also wasbacking clumsily, moving toward the sled. The convict wheeled and slidrapidly to it.
Whaley knew his mistake now. West's rifle lay on the sled and the manwas reaching for it.
The man on the ice-field did the only thing possible. He bent low andtraveled fast. When the first shot rang out he was nearly a hundredfifty yards away. He crumpled down into the snow and lay still.
West's hands were cold, his fingers stiff. He had not been sure of hisaim. Now he gave a whoop of triumph. That was what happened to any onewho interfered with Bully West. He fired again at the still huddledheap on the lake.
Presently he would go out there and make sure the man was dead. Justnow he had more important business, an engagement to meet a girl inthe woods back of the house.
"Got him good," he told himself aloud. "He sure had it comin' to him,the damned traitor."
To find the McRae girl could not be difficult. She had left tracks asshe waded away in the deep snow. There was no chance for her to hide.Nor could she have gone far without webs. The little catamount might,of course, shoot him. He had to move carefully, not to give her anopportunity.
As he went forward he watched every tree, every stick of timber behindwhich she might find cover to ambush him. He was not of a patienttemperament, but life in the wilds had taught him to subdue when hemust his gusty restlessness. Now he took plenty of time. He was in ahurry to hit the trail with his train and be off, but he could notafford to be in such great haste as to stop a bullet with his body.
He called to her. "Where you at, Dawn? I ain't aimin' to hurt younone. Come out an' quit devilin' me."
Then, when his wheedling brought no answer, he made the forest ringwith threats of what he would do to her when he caught her unless shecame to him at once.
Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the tracks that had beenmade in the snow. They ended abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush. Hisfirst thought was that she must be hidden here, but when he had beatthrough it half a dozen times, he knew this was impossible. Then wherewas she?
He had told Whaley that she could not fly away. But if she hadn'tflown, what had become of her? There were no trees near enough toclimb without showing the impression
s of her feet in the snow as shemoved to the trunk. He had an uneasy sense that she was watching himall the time from some hidden place near at hand. He looked up intothe branches of the trees. They were heavy with snow which had notbeen shaken from them.
West smothered a laugh and an oath. He saw the trick now. She musthave back-tracked carefully, at each step putting her feet in exactlythe same place as when she had moved forward. Of course! The tracksshowed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasionally when themoccasin went in the second time.
It was slow business, for while he studied the sign he must keep akeen eye cocked against the chance of a shot from his hidden prey.
Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached theplace where the back-tracking ceased. Close to the spot was a pine.A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down. Thatmust have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing.
His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt. With his rifle hecovered the figure crouching close to it on the far side.
"Come down," he ordered.
He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The tree-dweller sliddown and stood before him. It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, anIndian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoilhis triumph over the red-coat Beresford.
For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad youdoin' here?" he asked at last.
"No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said.
"Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?"
The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blankwall.
West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block ofwood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churnedover the situation.
"Won't talk, eh? We'll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an'I'm gonna find where. I'll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop thatgun an' marche-back to the cabin. Un'erstand?"
Onistah did as he was told.
They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold ofin his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He hadhad a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would belikely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was aChristian. He had learned from Father Giguere that he must turn theother cheek.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins.He tied his captive hand and foot, then removed his moccasins andduffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flatchip. This he brought across the room.
"Changed yore mind any? Where's the girl?" he demanded.
Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian can be.
"Still sulky, eh? We'll see about that."
The convict knelt on the man's ankles and pushed the coal against thenaked sole of the brown foot.
An involuntary deep shudder went through the Blackfoot's body. Thefoot twitched. An acrid odor of burning flesh filled the room. Nosound came from the locked lips.
The tormentor removed the coal. "I ain't begun to play with you yet.I'm gonna give you some real Apache stuff 'fore I'm through. Where'sthe girl? I'm gonna find out if I have to boil you in grease."
Still Onistah said nothing.
West brought another coal. "We'll try the other foot," he said.
Again the pungent acrid odor rose to the nostrils.
"How about it now?" the convict questioned.
No answer came. This time Onistah had fainted.