Chapter X. Isobel's Disappearance
Four hundred miles as an arrow might fly, five hundred by snowshoes anddog-sledge; up the Pelican Lake waterway, straight north along the edgeof the Geikie Barrens, and from Wollaston westward, Philip hurried--nottoward the hiding place of William DeBar, but toward Lac Bain.
A sledge and six dogs with a half-breed driver took him from Le Pas asfar as the Churchill; with two Crees, on snow-shoes, he struck into theReindeer country, and two weeks later bought a sledge and three dogs atan Indian camp on the Waterfound. On the second day, in the barrens tothe west, one of the dogs slit his foot on a piece of ice; on the thirdday the two remaining dogs went lame, and Philip and his guide struckcamp at the headwater of the Gray Beaver, sixty miles from Lac Bain. Itwas impossible for the dogs to move the following day, so Philip lefthis Indian to bring them in later and struck out alone.
That day he traveled nearly thirty miles, over a country broken bytimbered ridges, and toward evening came to the beginning of the opencountry that lay between him and the forests about Lac Bain. It had beena hard day's travel, but he did not feel exhausted. The full moon wasrising at nine o'clock, and Philip rested for two hours, cooking andeating his supper, and then resumed his journey, determined to makesufficient progress before camping to enable him to reach the post bythe following noon. It was midnight when he put up his light tent, builta fire, and went to sleep. He was up again at dawn. At two o'clock hecame into the clearing about Lac Bain. As he hurried to Breed's quartershe wondered if Colonel Becker or Isobel had seen him from their window.He had noticed that the curtain was up, and that a thin spiral of smokewas rising from the clay chimney that descended to the fireplace intheir room.
He found Breed, the factor, poring over one of the ledgers which he andColonel Becker had examined. He started to his feet when he saw Philip.
"Where in the name of blazes have you been?" were his first words, ashe held out a hand. "I've been hunting the country over for you, and hadabout come to the conclusion that you and Bucky Nome were dead."
"Hunting for me," said Philip. "What for?"
Breed shrugged his shoulders.
"The colonel an'--Miss Isobel," he said. "They wanted to see you sobad that I had men out for three days after you'd gone looking for you.Couldn't even find your trail. I'm curious to know what was up."
Philip laughed. He felt a tingling joy running through every vein in hisbody. It was difficult for him to repress the trembling eagerness inhis voice, as he said: "Well, I'm here. I wonder if they want to seeme--now."
"Suppose they do," replied Breed, slowly lighting his pipe. "But you'vehung off too long. They're gone."
"Gone?" Philip stared at the factor.
"Gone?" he demanded again.
"Left this morning--for Churchill," affirmed Breed. "Two sledges, twoIndians, the colonel and Miss Isobel."
For a few moments Philip stood in silence, staring straight out throughthe one window of the room with his back to the factor.
"Did they leave any word for me?" he asked.
"No."
"Then--I must follow them!" He spoke the words more to himself than toBreed. The factor regarded him in undisguised astonishment and Philip,turning toward him, hastened to add: "I can't tell you why. Breed--butit's necessary that I overtake them as soon as possible. I don't want tolose a day--not an hour. Can you lend me a team and a driver?"
"I've got a scrub team," said Breed, "but there isn't another man that Ican spare from the post. There's LeCroix, ten miles to the west. If youcan wait until to-morrow--"
"I must follow this afternoon--now," interrupted Philip. "They will haveleft a clean trail behind, and I can overtake them some time to-morrow.Will you have the team made ready for me--a light sledge, it you've gotit."
By three o'clock he was on the trail again. Breed had spoken truthfullywhen he said that his dogs were scrubs. There were four of them, twomongrels, one blind huskie, and a mamelute that ran lame. And besidesthis handicap, Philip found that his own endurance was fast reaching theebbing point. He had traveled sixty miles in a day and a half, and hislegs and back began to show signs of the strain. In spite of this fact,his spirits rose with every mile he placed behind him. He knew that itwould be impossible for Isobel and her father to stand the hardship offast and continued travel. At the most they would not make more thantwenty miles in a day, and even with his scrub team he could makethirty, and would probably overtake them at the end of the next day. Andthen it occurred to him, with a pleasurable thrill, that to find Isobelagain on the trail, as he had first seen her, would be a hundred timesbetter than finding her at Lac Bain. He would accompany her and thecolonel to Churchill. They would be together for days, and at the end ofthat time--
He laughed low and joyously, and for a spell he urged the dogs into aswifter pace. That he had correctly estimated the speed of those aheadof him he was convinced, when, two hours later, he came upon the remainsof their mid-day camp-fire, nine or ten miles from Lac Bain. It was darkwhen he reached this point. There were glowing embers still in thefire, and these he stirred into life, adding armfuls of dry wood to theflames. About him in the snow he found the prints of Isobel's littlefeet, and in the flood of joy and hope that was sweeping more and moreinto his life he sang and whistled, and forgot that he was alone ina desolation of blackness that made even the dogs slink nearer to thefire. He would camp here--where Isobel had been only a few hours before.If he traveled hard he would overtake them by the next noon.
But he had underestimated his own exhaustion. After he had put up histent before the fire he made himself a bed of balsam boughs and tellinto a deep sleep, from which neither dawn nor the restless movements ofthe dogs could awaken him. When at last he opened his eyes it was broadday. He jumped to his feet and looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock,and after ten before he again took up the pursuit of the two sledges.Not until several hours later did he give up hope of overtaking Isobeland her father as he had planned, and he reproved himself roundly forhaving overslept. The afternoon was half gone before he struck theircamp of the preceding evening, and he knew that, because of his own lossof time, Isobel was still as far ahead of him as when he had left LacBain.
He made up some of this time by following the trail for an hour when themoon was at its highest, and then pitched his tent. He was up againthe next morning and breaking camp before it was light. Scarcely had hetraveled an hour over the clear-cut trail ahead of him when he suddenlyhalted his dogs with a loud cry of command and astonishment. In a smallopen the trails of the two sledges separated. One continued straighteast, toward Churchill, while the other turned almost at right anglesinto the south. For a few moments he could find no explanation forthis occurrence. Then he decided that one of the Indians had strucksouthward, either to hunt, or on some short mission, and that he wouldjoin the other sledge farther on. Convinced that this was the rightsolution, Philip continued over the Churchill trail. A little later,to his despair, it began to snow so heavily that the trail which he wasfollowing was quickly obliterated. There was but one thing for him to donow, and that was to hasten on to Fort Churchill, giving up all hope offinding Isobel and the colonel before he met them there.
Four days later he came into the post. The news that awaited him struckhim dumb. Isobel and her father, with one Indian, had gone with thesledge into the South. The Indian who had driven on to Churchill couldgive no further information, except that he knew the colonel and hisdaughter had suddenly changed their minds about coming to Churchill.Perhaps they had gone to Nelson House, or York Factory--or even to LePas. He did not know.
It was with a heavy heart that Philip turned his face once moretoward Lac Bain. He could not repress a laugh, bitter and filled withdisappointment, as he thought how fate was playing against him. If hehad not overslept he would have caught up with the sledges before theyseparated, if he had not forced himself into this assignment it waspossible that Isobel and her father would have come to him. They knewthat his detachment was at Prin
ce Albert--and they were going south. Hehad little doubt but that they were striking for Nelson House, and fromNelson House to civilization there was but one trail, that which led toLe Pas and Etomami. And Etomami was but two hours by rail from PrinceAlbert.
He carried in his breast pocket a bit of written information which hehad obtained from the Churchill factor--that helped to soften, in away, the sting of his disappointment. It was Colonel Becker's Londonaddress--and Isobel's, and he quickly laid out for himself new plans ofaction. He would write to MacGregor from Lac Bain, asking him to put inat once the necessary application for the purchase of his release fromthe service. As soon as he was free he would go to London. He wouldcall on Isobel like a gentleman, he told himself. Perhaps, after all, itwould be the better way.
But first, there was DeBar.
As he had been feverishly anxious to return into the North, so, now, hewas anxious to have this affair with DeBar over with. He lost no time atLac Bain, writing his letter to Inspector MacGregor on the same day thathe arrived. Only two of the dogs which the Indian had brought into thepost were fit to travel, and with these, and a light sledge on which hepacked his equipment he set off alone for Fond du Lac. A week later hereached the post. He found Hutt, the factor, abed with a sprained knee,and the only other men at the post were three Chippewayans, who couldneither talk nor understand English.
"DeBar is gone," groaned Hutt, after Philip had made himself known. "Arascal of a Frenchman came in last night on his way to the Grand Rapid,and this morning DeBar was missing. I had the Chippewayans in, and theysay he left early in the night with his sledge and one big bull of ahound that he hangs to like grim death. I'd kill that damned Indian youcame up with. I believe it was he that told the Frenchman there was anofficer on the way."
"Is the Frenchman here?" asked Philip.
"Gone!" groaned Hutt again, turning his twisted knee. "He left for theGrand Rapid this morning, and there isn't another dog or sledge at thepost. This winter has been death on the dogs, and what few are left areout on the trap-lines. DeBar knows you're after him, sure as fate, andhe's taken a trail toward the Athabasca. The best I can do is to let youhave a Chippewayan who'll go with you as far as the Chariot. That's theend of his territory, and what you'll do after that God only knows."
"I'll take the chance," said Philip. "We'll start after dinner. I've gottwo dogs, a little lame, but even at that they'll have DeBar's outfithandicapped."
It was less than two hours later when Philip and the Chippewayan set offinto the western forests, the Indian ahead and Philip behind, with thedogs and sledge between them. Both men were traveling light. Philip hadeven strapped his carbine and small emergency bag to the toboggan, andcarried only his service revolver at his belt. It was one o'clock andthe last slanting beams of the winter sun, heatless and only cheeringto the eye, were fast dying away before the first dull gray approach ofdesolate gloom which precedes for a few hours the northern night. As theblack forest grew more and more somber about them, he looked over thegrayish yellow back of the tugging huskies at the silent Indian stridingover the outlaw's trail, and a slight shiver passed through him, ashiver that was neither of cold nor fear, yet which was accompanied byan oppression which it was hard for him to shake off. Deep down in hisheart Philip had painted a picture of William DeBar--of the man--and itwas a picture to his liking. Such men he would like to know and tocall his friends. But now the deepening gloom, the darkening of the skyabove, the gray picture ahead of him--the Chippewayan, as silent asthe trees, the dogs pulling noiselessly in their traces like slinkingshadows, the ghost-like desolation about him, all recalled him to thatother factor in the game, who was DeBar the outlaw, and not DeBarthe man. In this same way, he imagined, Forbes, Bannock, Fleisham andGresham had begun the game, and they had lost. Perhaps they, too, hadgone out weakened by visions of the equity of things, for the sympathyof man for man is strong when they meet above the sixtieth.
DeBar was ahead of him--DeBar the outlaw, watching and scheming as hehad watched and schemed when the other four had played against him. Thegame had grown old to him. It had brought him victim after victim, andeach victim had made of him a more deadly enemy of the next. Perhaps atthis moment he was not very far ahead, waiting to send him the way ofthe others. The thought urged new fire into Philip's blood. He spurtedpast the dogs and stopped the Chippewayan, and then examined the trail.It was old. The frost had hardened in the huge footprints of DeBar'sbig hound; it had built a webby film over the square impressions of hissnow-shoe thongs. But what of that? Might not the trail still be old,and DeBar a few hundred yards ahead of him, waiting--watching?
He went back to the sledge and unstrapped his carbine. In a moment thefirst picture, the first sympathy, was gone. It was not the law whichDeBar was fighting now. It was himself. He walked ahead of the Indian,alert, listening and prepared. The crackling of a frost-bitten treestartled him into stopping; the snapping of a twig under its weightof ice and snow sent strange thrills through him which left him almostsweating. The sounds were repeated again and again as they advanced,until he became accustomed to them. Yet at each new sound his fingersgripped tighter about his carbine and his heart beat a little faster.Once or twice he spoke to the Indian, who understood no word he said andremained silent. They built a fire and cooked their supper when it grewtoo dark to travel.
Later, when it became lighter, they went on hour after hour, through thenight. At dawn the trail was still old. There were the same cobwebs offrost, the same signs to show that DeBar and his Mackenzie hound hadpreceded them a long time before. During the next day and night theyspent sixteen hours on their snow-shoes and the lacework of frost inDeBar's trail grew thinner. The next day they traveled fourteen and thenext twelve, and there was no lacework of frost at all. There were hotcoals under the ashes of DeBar's fires. The crumbs of his bannock weresoft. The toes of his Mackenzie hound left warm, sharp imprints. It wasthen that they came to the frozen water of the Chariot. The Chippewayanturned back to Fond du Lac, and Philip went on alone, the two dogslimping behind him with his outfit.
It was still early in the day when Philip crossed the river into thebarrens and with each step now his pulse beat faster. DeBar could not befar ahead of him. He was sure of that. Very soon he must overtake him.And then--there would be a fight. In the tense minutes that followed,the vision of Isobel's beautiful face grew less and less distinct in hismind. It was filled with something more grim, something that tightenedhis muscles, kept him ceaselessly alert. He would come on DeBar--andthere would be a fight. DeBar would not be taken by surprise.
At noon he halted and built a small fire between two rocks, over whichhe boiled some tea and warmed his meat. Each day he had built threefires, but at the end of this day, when darkness stopped him again, itoccurred to him that since that morning DeBar had built but one. Graydawn had scarcely broken when he again took up the pursuit. It wasbitterly cold, and a biting wind swept down across the barrens from theArctic icebergs. His pocket thermometer registered sixty degrees belowzero when he left it open on the sledge, and six times between dawn anddusk he built himself fires. Again DeBar built but one, and this time hefound no bannock crumbs.
For the last twenty miles DeBar had gone straight into the North. Hecontinued straight into the North the next day and several times Philipscrutinized his map, which told him in that direction there lay nothingbut peopleless barrens as far as the Great Slave.
There was growing in him now a fear--a fear that DeBar would beat himout in the race. His limbs began to ache with a strange pain and hisprogress was becoming slower. At intervals he stopped to rest, and aftereach of these intervals the pain seemed to gnaw deeper at his bones,forcing him to limp, as the dogs were limping behind him. He had feltit once before, beyond Lac Bain, and knew what it meant. His legs weregiving out--and DeBar would beat him yet! The thought stirred him on,and before he stopped again he came to the edge of a little lake. DeBarhad started to cross the lake, and then, changing his mind, had turnedback and skirted the edge
of it. Philip followed the outlaw's trailwith his eyes and saw that he could strike it again and save distance bycrossing the snow-covered ice.
He went on, with dogs and sledge at his heels, unconscious of thewarning underfoot that had turned DeBar back. In midlake he turned tourge the dogs into a faster pace, and it was then that he heard underhim a hollow, trembling sound, growing in volume even as he hesitated,until it surged in under his feet from every shore, like the rollingthunder of a ten-pin ball. With a loud cry to the dogs he dartedforward, but it was too late. Behind him the ice crashed like brittleglass, and he saw sledge and dogs disappear as if into an abyss. In aninstant he had begun a mad race to the shore a hundred feet ahead ofhim. Ten paces more and he would have reached it, when the toe of hissnow-shoe caught in a hummock of snow and ice. For a flash it stoppedhim, and the moment's pause was fatal. Before he could throw himselfforward on his face in a last effort to save himself, the ice gaveway and he plunged through. In his extremity he thought of DeBar, ofpossible help even from the outlaw, and a terrible cry for that helpburst from his lips as he felt himself going. The next instant he wassorry that he had shouted. He was to his waist in water, but his feetwere on bottom. He saw now what had happened, that the surface of thewater was a foot below the shell of ice, which was scarcely more thanan inch in thickness. It was not difficult for him to kick off hissnow-shoes under the water, and he began breaking his way ashore.
Five minutes later he dragged himself out, stiff with the cold, hisdrenched clothing freezing as it came into contact with the air.His first thought was of fire, and he ran up the shore, his teethchattering, and began tearing off handfuls of bark from a birch. Notuntil he was done and the bark was piled in a heap beside the tree didthe full horror of his situation dawn upon him. His emergency pouch wason the sledge, and in that pouch was his waterproof box of matches!
He ran back to the edge of broken ice, unconscious that he was almostsobbing in his despair. There was no sign of the sledge, no sound ofthe dogs, who might still be struggling in their traces. They weregone--everything--food, fire, life itself. He dug out his flint andsteel from the bottom of a stiffening pocket and knelt beside the bark,striking them again and again, yet knowing that his efforts were futile.He continued to strike until his hands were purple and numb and hisfreezing clothes almost shackled him to the ground.
"Good God!" he breathed.
He rose slowly, with a long, shuddering breath and turned his eyes towhere the outlaw's trail swung from the lake into the North. Even inthat moment, as the blood in his veins seemed congealing with the icychill of death, the irony of the situation was not lost upon Philip.
"It's the law versus God, Billy," he chattered, as if DeBar stood beforehim. "The law wouldn't vindicate itself back there--ten years ago--but Iguess it's doing it now."
He dropped into DeBar's trail and began to trot.
"At least it looks as if you're on the side of the Mighty," hecontinued. "But we'll see--very soon--Billy--"
Ahead of him the trail ran up a ridge, broken and scattered with rocksand stunted scrub, and the sight of it gave him a little hope. Hope diedwhen he reached the top and stared out over a mile of lifeless barren.
"You're my only chance. Billy," he shivered. "Mebby, if you knew whathad happened, you'd turn back and give me the loan of a match."
He tried to laugh at his own little joke, but it was a ghastly attemptand his purpling lips closed tightly as he stumbled down the ridge. Ashis legs grew weaker and his blood more sluggish, his mind seemed towork faster, and the multitude of thoughts that surged through his brainmade him oblivious of the first gnawing of a strange dull pain. He wasfreezing. He knew that without feeling pain. He had before him, nothours, but minutes of life, and he knew that, too. His arms might havebeen cut off at the shoulders for all feeling that was left in them; henoticed, as he stumbled along in a half run, that he could not bendhis fingers. At every step his legs grew heavier and his feet were nowleaden weights. Yet he was surprised to find that the first horror ofhis situation had left him. It did not seem that death was only a fewhundred yards away, and he found himself thinking of MacGregor, of home,and then only of Isobel. He wondered, after that, if some one of theother four had played the game, and lost, in this same way, and hewondered, too, if his bones would never be found, as theirs had neverbeen.
He stopped again on a snow ridge. He had come a quarter of a mile,though it seemed that he had traveled ten times that distance.
"Sixty degrees below zero--and it's the vindication of the law!"
His voice scarcely broke between his purple lips now, and the bittersweep of wind swayed him as he stood.