XXVII
The same rifle shots that brought bad dreams to Bill had a much morelucid meaning for Joe Robinson and Pete the Breed, the two Indians thatwere occupying Harold's cabin. The wind bore toward them from Harold'snew abode, the rifle was of heavy caliber, and the sound came clear andunmistakable through the stillness. They looked from one to the other.
"Four shots," Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal."
Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick,"he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga--aftersupplies."
"Yes--but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfishcharacter of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. Therewas a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face.
"That means--big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go."
Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Someof these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmenof the region,--for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of theirweapons. The red race--at least such representatives of it as livedin Clearwater--was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. Itwas noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, andPete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt.Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.
There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place,--a springa half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. Thelook on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would,it seemed, be big doings, and very soon.
A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk.Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his featureswere drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands,however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette.
For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessonsHarold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear tooeager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference,gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold wasseared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black andbitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a longtime in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame.
There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatredwas an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Billfrom the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stoodfor--so opposite to Harold in everything--but also for that firstmortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him forrescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, andBill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factorin his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further causefor hatred, till now it stung and burned him like strong drink, likelive hot steam in his brain. In his inner soul he knew that Bill hadendured tests in which he had failed, and he hated him the worse for it.He had sensed Bill's contempt for him, and the absolute fairness withwhich the woodsman had always treated him brought no remorse. Bill hadfound the mine for which he sought, to which, by the degenerate code bywhich he lived, he felt he had an ancestral right.
Ever since he had gone down into that darkened treasure house he hadknown in his own soul, late or soon, his future course. The gold alonewas worth the crime he planned. And as a crowning touch came the eventsof the day and night just passed.
He had had no desire for Bill to return to the cabin alive. It wouldhave been a simple way out of his difficulties for the woodsman to falland die in the snow wastes of Clearwater. For him to lie so still andimpotent in the drifts would compensate for many things, and in such acase he would never have opportunity to record the finding of his mine.The only imperfection, in this event, was that it deprived Harold of hispersonal vengeance, and magnanimously he was willing to forgo that. Itwouldn't be his pleasure to see the final agony, the last shudder of theframe,--but yet at least he might see much remnants as would be leftwhen the snow had melted in spring.
Every event of the day had pointed to a successful trip, from Harold'spoint of view. He had known that Bill couldn't make it through to hisTwenty-three Mile cabin after the Chinook wind had softened the snow.The bitter night that followed would have likely claimed quickly any onethat tried to sleep, without blankets, unsheltered in the snow fields.And when Virginia had gone out to save him and had brought back theblind and reeling man, his first impulse had been to leap upon him, inhis helplessness, and drive his hunting knife through his heart!
It wouldn't, however, had been a wise course to pursue. He didn't wantto lose Virginia. He flattered himself that he had been cunning andself-mastered. He had watched Virginia's tender services to thewoodsman, and once he had seen a luster in her eyes that had seemed toshatter his reason. And he knew that the time had come to strike.
He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks withwhich civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father'sson.
This was a land of savage and primitive passions, and he felt noself-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhumancrime. 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 ofmanhood; 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 thatfrees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was promptinghis every step.
He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of histwo 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 lineson their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's--justwhere you said," Joe replied.
"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'mgoing to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now--and soon I'mgoing 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 ofgreen-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So Isent for you right away."
The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete'seyes had begun to gleam,--such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in theeyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow.
"The mine's worth millions--more money than you can dream of. Each ofyou get a sixth--one third divided between you. You'll never get moremoney for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live ahundred winters. But you agree first to these terms--or you won'tknow 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. Treacheroushimself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn'tdivulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work wasdone.
"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claimnotices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record theclaim," Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. Noone'll make any trouble."
Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a verypertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"
Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his ownwoman. "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 shewon'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 wakeup. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday--and, asI told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher.
"Both of you are to come to the cabin
, just about dark. You'll tell meyou have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yugavillage. Bring along a quart of booze--firewater--and maybe twoquarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring alongsomething in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in abetter mood. And now--you see what you've got to do?"
Neither of them answered. They could guess--but they didn't conceiveof the real brilliancy of the plan.
"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"--and Harold's facedrew into an unlovely snarl--"sometime in the early evening give Billwhat's coming to him."
"Do him off----?" Joe asked stolidly.
"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breedsleaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmaticnow. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savagefaces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even ashis; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.
"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him--betterstill, 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 beforehe knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go backto 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 unfortunatecircumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up thesupplies, 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 supperto-night, or as much of it as you need--and after you're through withBill 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'sTwenty-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 outthere, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough totake us down there too--the woman and I--we'll follow your snowshoestracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if wehave to, we can go over to a grizzly carcass I know of and cut off a fewpounds of meat--but we won't have to. We'll join you at theTwenty-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 hadgathered--starving gray skulkers of the forest--the great skeletonwould have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicatehis own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Milecabin with the morsel of food they had left--he and Virginia couldfollow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill'scabin.
"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out," Harold went on. "I'llgo 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 'ema couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple asday and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through yourheads, I'm going back to the cabin."
They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, wasexceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete hadone more question--one that was wholly characteristic of his weaselsoul.
"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thinblade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"
Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a lust, adesire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark andevil ways. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't muchmatter----" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguelyexciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to standlistening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if hewere scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from thepast was speaking through his lips. The words came with no consciouseffort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester inhis 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.