CHAPTER I
AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS
It was boasted of Seal Bay that its inhabitants produced more wealth perhead than any other community in the Northern world, not even excludingthe gold cities of Alaska and the Yukon. It was a considerable boast,but with more than usual justice. A cynic once declared that it was theonly distinction of merit the place could fairly claim.
The boast of Seal Bay was sufficiently alluring to those who had not yetset foot on its pestilential shores. For once, by some extraordinarychance, truth had been spoken in Seal Bay. No one need starve upon itsdeplorable streets, if sufficiently clever and unscrupulous.
A photographic plate would have yielded a choice scene of desolation, ifsun enough could have been found to achieve the necessary record. Thelong, low foreshore of Seal Bay was dotted with a large number of mudhuts, thatched with reeds from adjacent marshes, and a fair sprinklingof frame houses of varying shapes and sizes. There were no streets inthe modern sense, only stretches of mire which were more or lessbottomless for about seven months in the year, and lost in the grip ofan Arctic winter for the rest of the time. Foot traffic was only madepossible in the softer portion of the year by means of disjointedsections of wooden sidewalks laid down by those who preferred theexpense and labour to the necessary discomfort of frequent bathing.
There was no doubt that Seal Bay as a trading port owed its existence totwo spits of mud and sand on either side of a completely inhospitableforeshore. They stretched out, forming the two horns of a horseshoe,like puny arms seeking to embrace the wide waters of Hudson's Bay.
Within their embrace was a more or less safe anchorage for light draftcraft. There was a pier. At least it was called a pier by the morereckless. It was propped and bolstered in every conceivable way to keepit from sinking out of sight in its muddy bed, and became a source ofpolitical discord on the subject of its outrageous cost of maintenance.
As for the setting which Seal Bay claimed it was no more happy than therest. There was no background until the far-off distance was reached,and then it was only a serrated line of low and apparently barren hills.Everything else was a wide expanse of deplorable morass and reed-growntundra, through which ran a few safe tracks, which, except in winter,were a deadly nightmare to all travellers.
The handiwork of man is not usually wholly without merit, but Seal Baywould have sent the most hardened real estate agent seeking shelter in asanatorium as a result of overwork. Still, traffic was possible. SealBay was an ideal spot for robbing Indian and half-breed fur traders whoknew no better, and the plunder could be more or less safely dispatchedto the markets of the world outside. Oh, yes, there was easy money andplenty. So what else mattered?
These were the opinions of those who really counted, such men as LorsonHarris, head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation, and Alroy Leclerc,who kept a mud shelter of extensive dimensions for the sale of drink andfood and gambling. There were others, those who came over the greatwhite trail from the north, who possessed very definite opinions oftheir own, but were wise enough to refrain from ventilating them withinthe city limits.
A man who hugged to himself very strong views had just entered the city.He always came when Seal Bay was quite at its best. It may have beensimple chance. Anyway, it was one of the coldest days of winter, with asharp north wind blowing, and the thermometer hard down to zero. SealBay's sins lay concealed under a thick garment of snow, while itssurrounding terrors were rendered innocuous by the iron grip of frost.
Seal Bay was astir. It always was astir when this man paid his annualvisit. He excited a curiosity that never flagged. His coming was lookedfor. His going was watched. His coming and going were two of the mostbaffling riddles confronting the sophisticated minds of a people whosepursuits had no relation to purity or honesty.
The man came with three great dog-trains. Sometimes he came with four,and even five. His sleds were heavy laden, packed to the limits of thecapacity of his dogs. They, in turn, were more powerful and betterconditioned than any Indian train that visited the place, and each was afull train of five savage creatures more than half wolf.
He drove straight through the main thoroughfare of the town. Theonlookers were fully aware of his destination. It was the greatstore-house over which Lorson Harris presided. And this knowledge setmuch ill-feeling and resentment stirring. It was always the same. Thesturdy, hard-faced man from the north ignored Seal Bay as a community,and only recognized a fellow creature in the great man who wove the netwhich the Seal Bay Trading Corporation spread over the Northern world.
Something of the position found illumination in the dialogue whichpassed between two men lounging in Alroy's doorway as the great trainpassed them by.
"Gee! Makes you wonder if us folks has the plague," laughed KidRestless, the most successful gambler that haunted Alroy's dive. "Hedon't see a thing but Lorson's. He'd hate to pass a 'how-dy' to a cur.But his trade ain't as big as last year. Guess Lorson'll halve hissmile. He's been coming along fourteen year, ain't it?"
Dupont nodded, his contemplative gaze following the procession of sledsunder the skilful driving of their attendants.
"Yep." Dupont was a lesser trader who lived in a state of furiousdiscontent at the monopoly of the greater store. "The Brand outfit'sbeen trading here fourteen years--and more."
"How's that?"
"Oh, ther's a heap queer about that outfit," said the envious whiskeredman, whose dark, sallow features suggested plainly enough his Jewishorigin. "Maybe it's that makes that feller act same as if we hadthe--plague. He calls himself Brand, but he ain't the Brand who tradedhere more than twenty years ago. Guess you wasn't around then. Guess Iwasn't, neither. I'd be crazy by now if I had been. But the story'sright enough. Brand--Marcel Brand--and his pardner traded here withLorson more than twenty years back. He came from God knows where, an' hejust went right back to the same place. Then him an' his pardner gotdone up. The darn Eskimos, or neches, or ha'f-breeds, shot 'em both upto small chunks. Lorson was nigh crazy for the trade he lost, for allBrand was a free-trader like Lorson hates best. Then, three years or solater, along comes this guy with the name of 'Marcel Brand,' and carriedon the trade. And he's a white man same as the other. It was then Lorsontook to smiling plenty again."
"You figger he's the feller that?----"
"I don't know. I 'low' got notions though."
Kid Restless was interested. There was little enough to interest him inSeal Bay beyond the life of piracy he carried on at the card tables.
"It's some queer sort o' trade, ain't it?" he asked.
"Queer?" Dupont spat. "Oh, he trades pelts, some o' the best seals everreach this darnation swamp. But the trade that makes Lorson smile isqueer. I've seen bales of it shipped out of this harbour, an' it lookslike dried seaweed, an' smells like some serrupy flower you'd hate tohave around. Lorson just loves it to death, and I guess it needs to be agood trade that sets him lovin'. But he keeps his face closed. Same asthe feller that calls himself Brand. Oh, yes, Lorson's the kind ofoyster you couldn't hammer open with a haf ton maul."
"Why don't they trail him--this guy?" demanded Kid sharply.
"Trail? Why, the sharps are after him all the time. But he skins 'em todeath. Lorson's at the game, too. Oh, yes. Guess Lorson 'ud jump theclaim if he could get wise. But he ain't wise. No one is. But they'llget that way one time, and then that mule-faced guy, who guesses we'llhand him plague, will forget to get around in snow time. You can't beatthe Seal Bay 'sharps' all the time, though I allow he's beat 'em plumbto death fourteen years."
"I'd guess it'll need grit to beat him," returned the Kid. "That is," headded thoughtfully, "if you can judge the face of a--mule."
"Oh, _he's_ got grit--in plenty. Even Lorson gets his hat off to himwhen he's around."
Dupont laughed maliciously.
"You mean----?"
"I was remembering Lorson's play," the trader went on. "He had his'toughs' that time. Brand had pulled out two weeks and more. Then oneday a bunch of Northern neches pulle
d in. They'd beat down the coast ina big-water canoe. The folks didn't notice them. It's the sort of thingfrequent happens. But Lorson got the scare of his life. He woke up nextmorning with his pet 'tough'--a big breed--lying across his homedoorstep. He guessed he was dead. But he wasn't. He woke up about middayand started guessing where he was. Later on he handed out a fancy yarnwhat the neches had done to him. An', happening to dove a hand into apocket, he hauled out a letter addressed to Lorson himself. It just saidfour words, an' Lorson spoke them. I don't guess they'd mean a thing tothe likes of him. They just said, 'Play the darn game.' And under themwas wrote 'Brand.'"
Kid grinned back into the other's eyes which were alight with maliciousdelight.
"That's the med'cine to hand a feller that can understand white--notLorson," the gambler said. "I like that guy that calls himself 'Brand.'"
"Guess he's some boy all right. But--I was thinkin' of that breed. Hewas doped."
The other nodded.
"You're guessing about that--queer trade," he said.
Dupont gazed out in the direction whence the dog train had disappearedbehind the group of great frame buildings which represented theestablishment of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.
"Yep," he said thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Lorson Harris was a type common enough in outland places, where money iseasy and conscience does not exist. He was vulgar, he was brutal, he wasa sensualist in his desire for all that wealth could buy him. He was nota man of education. Far from it. He was a clever, unscrupulous schemer,a product of conditions--rough conditions.
He was a large, coarse man who had permitted his passions to gain theupper hand in the control of his life, but they by no means interferedwith his capacity as the head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.
He overflowed a big armchair before his desk in the office of his greatstore, and beamed a hard-breathing good-nature upon all those who seemedlikely to be useful in his multitudinous schemes. Just now the victim ofhis smile was a man at the zenith of middle life. He was of mediumheight, but of herculean muscle, and the fact was patent enough evenunder the dense bulk of fur-lined buckskin clothing he was wearing.
There was no more sympathy in the two men's appearance than there was intheir condition of mind. While a passionate desire for the flesh-potsenjoyed by other magnates of commerce, whose good fortune had providedthem with a happier hunting-ground than Seal Bay, was the primal motivepower of the trader, the man who had just come off the great white trailwas driven by a desire no less strong, but only selfish in that thefinal achievement should be entirely his.
Just now the fur cap was removed from the visitor's head, and a tingeingof grey was apparent in the shock of brown hair he had bared. A fewsharp lines scored his forehead and played about his clean-shaven mouth,but the steady, serious eyes, with their strongly marked, even browswere quite devoid of all sign of passing years. They accentuated theimpression of tremendous vigour and capacity his personality conveyed.
The smiling eyes of Lorson read all these things. It was his business toread his visitors. He pushed the cigar box across the desk invitingly.
"They're some cigars, boy," he said complacently. "Try one."
The other shook his head.
"Don't use 'em, thanks. Maybe I'll try my pipe."
"Sure. Do. A horn of whisky--imported Scotch?"
The same definite shake of the head followed, but before the visitorcould pass a verbal negative the trader laughed.
"Nothing doing?" he said amiably. "Well, maybe you're right. You boysneed fit stomachs. Drink's a darn fool play, but--Here's 'how,'" headded, as he gulped down the dash of spirit he had poured out forhimself. He smacked his heavy, appreciative lips, and fondlycontemplated the label on the bottle. But he was not really reading it.
"Your trade in the dope's growing," he said, his fat fingers fondlingthe glass bottle neck as though he were loth to release it. "Nearlyfifty thousand dollars. That's your credit for a year's trade. It's thebiggest in--fourteen years. And it don't begin to touch the demand I gotfor the darn stuff. I could sell you a hundred thousand dollars' worth,and still ask for more at the same price. You don't get what that meansto me," he went on, with a laugh intended to be disarming. "You ain'trunning a great store that's crazy to hand out dividends. Here's amarket gasping. Prices are sky high, an' we can't 'touch.' I tell you itwouldn't lower the price a haf cent if you quadrupled your output. Iwant to weep. I sure do."
The man in buckskin was filling his pipe from a bag of Indianmanufacture.
"Sure," he nodded. "I get that." Then he added very deliberately."That's why you send your boys out scouting my trail."
Lorson laughed immoderately to hide the effect of the quietly spokenchallenge.
"That's business, boy. I buy your stuff--all you can hand me. But if Ican jump into your market, why--it's up to me."
"It certainly is up to you." The man lit his pipe and pressed down thetobacco with one of his powerful fingers. "It's up to you more than youknow. I once sent back one of your boys. I shan't worry to send back anymore. Best save their skins whole, Harris. You'll never jump my markettill you can find a feller who can hit a trail such as you never dreamedof. And it's a trail they got to locate first."
The trader leant back in his chair and linked his fat fingers across hiswide stomach. His eyes were twinkling as he regarded the visitor fromthe North. The smile was still in them, but there was a keen speculationin them, too.
"You can't blame me, boy," he said, with perfect amiability. "Hand meall the stuff I'm asking, and your market's as sacred as a woman'svirtue. But you don't hand it me, or maybe you can't. Well, it's up tome to supply my needs any way I know. There's nothing crooked in that.If you're reckoning to squeeze my market you can't kick if I try to openit wide. You see, Brand, this stuff _grows_. I guess it grows in plenty,because you admit you trade it, and I know the Northern neche wellenough to guess he only trades sufficient for his needs. See? Well,I've the same right you have to get on to that source. If you know it,hand me what I'm asking for. If you don't, then you can't stop me tryingto locate it for myself. If all business propositions were as straightas that there'd be no kick coming to anyone. As it is, the man who's gota kick is me--not you."
"I get all that," the visitor said, without relaxing his attention."There's no kick on the moral side of this thing. I never said therewas. I said save your boys' skins whole. That's all. If you fancyjumping my claim, jump it, but I guess I don't need to tell you what toexpect. You sit around here and order other folks to the job. It's theywho're going to suffer. Not you."
"I pay them. They take it on with their darn eyes open," snapped thetrader, his amiability slipping from him in a moment.
The other gathered a half smile at the display. He blew a great cloud ofsmoke, and removed his pipe.
"I'd best tell you something I haven't seen necessary to tell youbefore," he said. "And it's because I'm not yearning for any feller toget hurt in this thing. And, further, I'm telling you because you'll seethe horse sense in cutting out sharp business for real business. There'sa big source of this stuff. Oh, yes. I know that. I've been chasing itfor fourteen years, and--I haven't found it. When I do--if I do, I'llhand you all you need, and save that weep you threatened. Meanwhileyou're sinking dollars in a play that maybe fits your notion ofbusiness, but is going to snuff out uselessly the lights of some of yourboys, who I agree 'ud be better off the earth. Here's where the horsesense comes in. I know all about this stuff, all there is to know. Iknow the folks, all of them, who can supply me. They wouldn't trade withyour folks. They wouldn't trade with a soul but me. This is simplefact, and no sort of bluff. But the whole point is that I--I wish anoutfit ready to face anything the North can hand me, with the confidenceof the folks who know the source, have been chasing for it fourteenyears and failed, while you, with a bunch of toughs who couldn't livefive minutes on one of my winter trails, are guessing to do somethingthat for fourteen years has b
eaten me. That's the horse sense I want tohand you, and I'm only handing it you so you don't pitchfork any morelives into the trouble that's waiting on them. They won't find it. I'llsee to that, and what I don't see to the Northern trail will. If youdon't see the sense of this, it's up to you, and anyway, as I'm needingto pull out early, I'll take a draft on the bank for those dollars. I'llbe along down again this time next year."
He rose from his chair preparatory to departure, and picked up the warmseal cap he had flung aside.
For a moment the trader sat lost in thought. Then, quite suddenly, hestirred, and reached the check book lying on the desk. He wrote rapidly,and finally tore the draft from its counterfoil and blotted it. Then helooked up, and his smiling amiability was uppermost once more.
"Thanks, Brand," he said. "I'm not sure you aren't right. It's hosssense anyway. You aren't given to talk most times. I wanted to know howyou stood about that stuff. I'm glad you told me. What's more, I guessit's true. Still, what I figger to do in the future don't concern anyonebut me. All I can say is I built this enterprise up on a definite hardrule. I never compromise with a rival trading concern, particularly witha free-trading outfit. I trade with 'em, but I'm out to beat 'em all thetime."
The other accepted the draft and signed a receipt. Then he thrust hiscap over his head and his steady eyes smiled down into the amiable facesmiling up at him.
"That's all right, Harris," he said easily. "The feller who don't knowwins a pot now and again. But it's the feller who knows wins in the longrun. You back the game if you feel that way. You won't hand me anightmare. Later you'll wake up and get a fresh dream. The game's lostbefore you start. So long."
* * * * *
Alroy Leclerc beamed on the man who was perhaps the greatest curiosityamongst the many to be found in Seal Bay. His "hotel" had sheltered thetrader, who called himself Brand, for three days. A fact sufficientlyunusual to stir the saloon-keeper to a high pitch of cordiality. For allhis most liberal sources of revenue came from the scallywags of thetown, Alroy, with sound instinct, infinitely preferred the custom of thestable men of the Northern world. Brand was more than desirable.
It was early morning. Much too early for Alroy. He felt lonely in theemptiness of the place. A grey daylight, peering in through the windowof the office, scarcely lit the remote corners of the room. Brand hadbreakfasted by lamplight. The saloon-keeper was more than thankful forthe comforting warmth of the great wood stove they were standing over.
"Guess it looks like bein' our last real cold snap," Alroy said, by wayof making talk with a man who was always difficult. "We'll be runninginto May in a week. 'Tain't as easy with your folks. We git the warmwind of this darn old bay, with all that means, which," he added with alaugh, "is mostly rain. You'll be runnin' into cold right up to July."
The man from the trail was unrolling a bundle of notes for thesettlement of the bill Alroy had presented. He glanced up with a smilingamusement in his eyes.
"Guess that's as may be," he said indifferently. "We get fancy patternswhere I come from."
He passed the account and a number of bills to the other, and returnedhis roll to his pocket.
"And wher' may that be?" enquired the saloon-keeper, with as muchindifference as his curiosity would permit.
"Just north," returned the other. "Guess you'll find that right.Twenty-five fifty. I'll take a receipt."
Alroy turned hastily to the table supporting the hotel register, and,producing an ornate fountain pen, forthwith prepared to scratch areceipt, which was rarely enough demanded by his customers amongst thetrail men.
"Sure," Brand went on, while the other bent over his unaccustomed work."We get all sorts. You can't figger anything this time of year, exceptit'll be a hell of a sight more cussed than when winter's shut downtight. I once knew a red hot chinook that turned the whole darn countryinto a swamp in April, and never let it freeze up again. I once broketrail at Fort Duggan at the start of May on open water with the skittersrunning, like midsummer."
Alroy looked up.
"Duggan?" he questioned sharply. "That's the place Lorson opened up lastspring. It's right on the edge of a territory they call Unaga, ain't it?The boys were full of it last summer and were guessing what sort ofmurder lay behind his play."
Brand took the receipt the other handed him and folded it. He thrust itinto a pocket inside his fur-lined tunic.
"Why?" he demanded, in the curt fashion that seemed so natural to him.
"Why?" Alroy laughed. "Well, the boys around here guess they know LorsonHarris, and ain't impressed with his virtues. You see, Fort Duggan, theyreckon, is a bum sort of location, eaten up by bugs an' a poor sort ofneche race. There's an old fort there, ain't there? One o' them placeswhere a hundred an' more years ago the old fur-traders stole, andlooted, and murdered the darn neches, and mostly drank themselves todeath when they didn't do it by shootin'. That don't figure a heap inthe boys' reckonin'. What does, is the feller Lorson sent there. Theyarn goes that this feller Nicol--David Nicol--that's his name, Ireckon, has been working for the Seal Bay Trading for some years. Heseems to be some crook, and Harris found him out. Guess he seems to havecost the Seal Bay outfit a big bunch of money. They were all for sendinghim down for penitentiary. Then a sort of miracle happened. Lorsonbegged off. Why? It ain't usually Lorson's way. Next thing happens isLorson opens up Fort Duggan, and puts the tough in. So the boys areguessin'. There sure is some sort of murder behind it. Lorson don't missthings. His chances are mostly a cinch."
"Yes, he's pretty wise." The thoughtful eyes of the trail man wereturned on the sides of the glowing stove so that the saloon-keeper hadno chance of observing them. "You can't guess the things behind Lorson'ssmile," he went on. "But I reckon you can figger there's alwayssomething. As far as I can recollect of Fort Duggan--and I haven't beenthere these years--I'd say he's no mean judge. I always wondered when abig corporation would come along and open it up. There's big trade therein pelts. Still, it's a tough sort of place."
"From what I hear it can't be too tough for the feller Lorson's sentthere. There'll be blood and murder amongst the neches there if theydon't hand over easy."
Alroy laughed immoderately at the prospect he contemplated, and held outhis hand in friendly farewell as his customer prepared to depart.
"Well, so long, Mister," he grinned amiably. "I guess there's thingsworse in the world than the shelter of this old shanty. Anyway I'dsooner you hit the Northern trail than me. I'll be mighty pleased to seeyou around come--next year."
"So long."
Alroy's cordiality found very little that was responsive in the other.Perhaps the trail man understood its exact value. Perhaps he was simplyindifferent. The saloon-keeper served a purpose, and was amply paid forhis service. Anyway he shook hands, and departed without any otherresponse.
Alroy watched him go. There was nothing else to do at this early hourwith his entire establishment still abed, and Seal Bay's mainthoroughfare still a desert of dirty, rutted snow, some foot or moredeep. He stood in his doorway gazing out at the cheerless grey of earlymorning, watching with interest the handling of the three great dogtrains which he had seen come into town with their laden sleds onlythree days before.
For all the cold and the early morning drear, for all he was of the lifeof the desolate shores of Seal Bay, for all the comings and goings ofthe men of the trails, for whom he mostly entertained a more or lessprofound contempt, for Alroy Leclerc there was still a fascinationattached to the mysterious beyond to which these people belonged.Somewhere out there was a great white world whose secrets he could onlyguess at. The life was a life he did not envy. He knew it by thethousand and one stories of disaster and miraculous escape he hadlistened to, but that was all. There was more in it, he knew. Much more.It held fascinated the adventurous, untamed spirits of men whosesuperhuman efforts, yielding them little better than a pittance, stillmade possible the enormous profits of a parasitic world which battenedupon them, and sucked them dry. Oh, yes. What
ever his sympathies he hada pretty wide understanding of the lives of these men. He also knew thathe was one of the parasites which battened upon them. But he had noscruples. Nor had he envy. Only a sort of fascination which never failedat the sight of a sled, and a powerful train of well-handled dogs.
It was that which he looked upon now. He watched the two Indians stirthe savage creatures from their crouching upon the snow. It was theharsh law of the club administered by skilled but merciless hands. Thegreat, grey beasts, fully half wolf, understood nothing more gentle.
In moments only the whole of the three trains were alert and ready ontheir feet straining against the rawhide breast draws of their harness.Then the white man shouted the word to "mush." The long hardwood polesof the men broke out the sleds from the frozen grip of snow, and thewhole of the lightened outfit dashed off at a rapid, almost headlonggait.
For a few moments Alroy remained at his post gazing after them. Then ofa sudden his attention was drawn in an opposite direction.
It was an incoming train. A single sled, heavily laden, but with only ateam of three dogs, far inferior to those which had just passed out ofthe town. They cut into the main thoroughfare out of a side turning andheaded at once for the store of the Seal Bay Trading Company.
He looked for the owner. The owner was always his chief interest. Heanticipated that a liberal share of the value of the man's cargo wouldfind its way across his counter, and the extent of his profit woulddepend on the man's identity.
He was destined to receive the surprise of his life. He looked for anIndian, a half-breed, or a white man. Some well-known man of the trail.But it was none of these. Despite the fur-lined tunic almost to theknees, despite the tough, warm nether garments, and the felt leggings,and beaded moccasins, and the well-strung snow-shoes, there remained nodoubt in his startled mind. None whatsoever. It was a woman! A girl!
Alroy ran a hand across his astonished eyes. He pushed back his fur capand stared. The girl was moving down the trail towards him. He had afull view of the face looking out of the fur hood which surrounded it. Awhite girl, with the heightened colour and brightening eyes of youth andperfect health and strength. She was tall, beautifully tall, and as sheswept on past him in her gliding snow-shoes he had a fleeting vision ofa strand of fair hair escaped from beneath her fur hood, and a pair ofbeautiful blue eyes, and pretty, parted lips which left him hugginghimself.
The vision had rewarded him for his early rising.