Snow-blind
clothing or on his person there might be some identifying mark to label
him as the real Sergeant Tearl. In which event Kit would have trouble
explaining why he was wearing another man’s uniform and perhaps even
might be accused of his brother’s murder.
It was too late now to abandon his imposture. Diane Durand knew him as
Sergeant Tearl. If he had tried to change back to private citizenship
she would discover the falsity of his previous claim: and having every
reason to wish him out of the way, she would not hesitate to denounce
him. He had to go on being a policeman.
As long as he was not found out there were advantages in playing out the
rôle. He was the boss in this part of the woods, and every human being
in the neighborhood had to step to his authority. By wearing the
insignia of the police he held the moral prestige at any future meeting
with Hell Bent. He could arrest his man or shoot him down, and there
could be nobody to interfere or to question his act. Meanwhile, if he
could learn anything of the old tragedy at Great Owl Run, he could keep
the information to himself or use it as he saw fit. Circumstances would
decide him. But for the present there would be no outside blundering to
hamper him. It was safest to work alone.
So Kit did not allow the constables to think that he was much concerned
over the fugitive’s whereabouts. He said nothing about the man’s being
the ex-convict, Sim Bent, and was particular to use the alternative name
of Durand.
“There’s no charge against him,” he said. “I’m looking for him on
account of his niece, Miss Diane Durand. She followed him into the woods
and somehow missed connections, and I picked her up farther down
country. She’s waiting at the old cabin down by Great Owl Run.”
“You had his trail?” asked Constable Cross.
“Yes. He had two teams of dogs, one of which he drove ahead, the other
running at his heels. I wasn’t two hours behind him last night at
midnight. There was no trouble following his tracks with a flashlight.
But early this morning he suddenly turned east and entered that
Yellow-Knife village by the long lake. That’s where I lost him.”
The two constables looked interested, but asked no questions. Apparently
they hesitated to say anything that might reflect upon their superior
officer’s woodcraft.
Kit shook his head ruefully. “There are a thousand tracks around that
camp, of course. Snowshoes and sledges and huskies’ pads. The
waffle-meshes entered on one side, and didn’t come out again. Well, when
I got there I searched the camp, looked in every teepee, talked to all
the Indians. No good. The trail went into the camp, but the man wasn’t
there.”
“What did the Yellow Knives say?” ventured Sergeant Devon.
“Hadn’t seen him, that was all. It may have been true. He could have
crossed through their camp while they were all parked in for the night.
They sleep like a lot of mud-turtles. Maybe for a fact they didn’t know
a thing about him.
“I circled the village several times,” Kit pursued, “but no waffle marks
passing out.”
“What do you think?” asked Devon.
“There’s only one thing that could have happened. He must have had
another pair of snowshoes with him, or else he stole a pair, and changed
’em after he got among the cluttered trails of the village. After that
there wasn’t any way of knowing which tracks were his.
“Well, I crawled into a teepee and caught a few hours of badly needed
sleep,” Kit finished. “Then I thought I might as well come on here and
report.”
He turned unexpectedly to the two trappers. “When did you two get here?”
he asked.
Giffard’s little eyes shifted uncomfortably before the sergeant’s
scrutiny. “This evenin’--early,” he answered. “A little before dark.”
“Either of you run across a stranger to-day?”
“No, sir,” said Giffard.
“P’r’aps,” insinuated the bearded Bruyas, “if we meet dis fellow we say
de sergeant he seek for him. Eh, w’at?”
“Tell him if he wishes to find his niece to get in touch with the police
post.”
“It is a fonny t’ing to arrive in dis col’ country when winter she
come,” Bruyas ventured to remark. “What is it he wish?”
“I understand he expects to trap a bit,” Kitchener replied.
The two natives exchanged a fleeting glance, and Bruyas scowled and
showed the ugly line of his broken teeth. “If he expect to use his trap
on Great Owl Run we have somethin’ to say about dat.”
“Bruyas,” explained the wizened Giffard, “runs his lines on the north
side of that creek, and I on the south. There’s no room for any others.”
“What do you have--leases or something?” inquired Kit ironically.
“We have been on dose groun’ for ten year,” put in Bruyas darkly. “Dat’s
plenty long time so we can say odders keep out.”
“Tell him anything you like as long as you don’t make a police case of
it,” said Kit indifferently. He measured the pair with appraising eyes,
and grinned at them. “After you’ve had a look at him you may not go
quite so heavy on conversation.”
Constable Cross had gone over to investigate the pot on the stove. He
tasted and wrinkled his nose with a fine appreciation. “It’s done,” he
announced.
Devon brought out a stack of crockery bowls and began dipping out the
contents of the stew-pot. Places for three policemen were set at the one
table boasted by the barracks. Giffard and Bruyas were served on the top
of a packing box. The Yellow Knives were handed out their Christmas Eve
dinner, catch-as-catch-can, crouched on the floor in the stifling hot
corner behind the stove.
“We just received a radio message for you, sergeant,” remarked Devon
when Kitchener, as was the commanding officer’s right, took his seat at
the head of the table, facing the door.
Kit lifted his head quickly. “Where from?”
“Edmonton--from Inspector Bowman. He wants us to look into a murder
among the Yellow Knives. I don’t know just what it amounts to, if
anything.”
Kitchener nodded. This, he was thinking, was a fortunate excuse to
return to the Indian village, which was not far from Great Owl Run. He
could prowl about that neighborhood as much as he pleased, attending to
his own affairs, and working ostensibly under the orders of Inspector
Bowman. “They didn’t say anything about it when I was in the village,”
he remarked.
“They wouldn’t,” said Constable Cross. “You can’t cork-screw information
out of those dull-blades.”
“All right,” announced Kitchener. “I’ll go back down there in the
morning.”
Devon chuckled under his breath as he darted a triumphant glance at his
fellow constable. He had predicted that Sergeant Tearl would turn out to
be an agreeable chap. Here indeed was an officer after his own heart--a
man who tackled a mean job himself instead of commanding an underling to
do it.
“You tried to pump any of these three anacondas?” inquired Kit, glancing
over his shoulder at the Indians, who were drinking their stew noisily
out of tin pans.
“Sure,” said Cross. “They don’t know anything. But if you really want me
to find out what they know, just say the word.”
“Never mind,” said Kit. “I’ll make somebody talk when I get down below.”
If the Indians knew they were the subject of conversation they gave no
sign. The three continued to eat until the well-scoured bottom of the
big cooking vessel came into view. This evidently was the sole purpose
of their visit. When the pot was empty they wrapped themselves in their
furs, stalked solemnly to the door and went out into the night without a
word of thanks for the provender which the police had supplied them.
Giffard and Bruyas lingered after their meal for a couple of pipefuls of
kinnikinnick mixed with tobacco. At length, however, Bruyas hoisted his
bulk from the stool, upon which it might have been feared that he had
become a permanent fixture.
“De leedle fox and mink will be lonesome waitin’ in traps,” he remarked.
“I make my way back down. _Bon soir._ I see you again mebby. _Merci._”
“I’ll go with you,” announced Giffard. He buttoned his cadaverous body
into a bulky mackinaw coat. “Good-by, everybody.” His piggy eyes shifted
Kitchener’s direction for a last squinting look, as though to make sure
of remembering the sergeant if they met again.
He picked up his rifle and snowshoes, bowed his head to the blast that
came through the open doorway, and followed Bruyas into the storm.
Devon, who was standing by the door, banged it shut. “If our nearest
neighbors don’t drop in again before next Christmas Eve,” he remarked,
“that’ll make it once too often. If I had my choice between the two
trappers and those Yellow Knives, I’d take a musk-ox.”
Kitchener went to the window, scratched the thick frost with his nail,
and looked out into the darkness. After a moment he turned back and
started to gather up his duffle.
The constables observed him wonderingly. “What are you planning to do?”
demanded Cross.
“I’m going back,” announced Kit--“down towards Great Owl Run.”
“To-night?”
“I don’t know whether you two noticed, but this Giffard had a queer look
in his eyes when I mentioned a girl left alone in that cabin.” Kit
scowled. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s all right. But I thought I might as
well follow him back. He lives down that direction, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does. The end of his trapping loop reaches that cabin on this
side of the brook. Giffard! A measly animal. I wouldn’t trust him
anywhere on the outside of a jail cell.”
“I thought not,” said Kit. “Give me a fresh battery for my flashlight,
will you?”
“Listen, sergeant,” suggested Devon. “Let Cross go, or I will if you say
so. There’s no sense in your bucking this nor’-easter again to-night.”
“Thanks,” said Kit. “But I had plenty of sleep this afternoon. I’ll go
myself.”
“We can give you dogs and a sledge,” offered Cross.
“Don’t need ’em. I left a team down at Great Owl Run.” Kitchener slipped
his arms into the parka that had been drying over the stove, and hitched
his pack onto his shoulders.
“Don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” he remarked. “If I happen to need
either of you boys I can send word. You go on with your usual routine
until you hear from me again.”
Kitchener opened the front door and looked out into the blustering
night. The trappers and the three Indians had vanished without a sound.
But the line of their footprints turned westward, and presumably they
were on their way home.
After a moment Kit stepped outside and kicked his toes into his snowshoe
lashings. “If you see this Durand,” he said in parting, “don’t try to
hold him, but keep in touch with him and let me know as soon as you
can.” He glanced back into the lighted, warm barracks room, and then
resolutely faced the clouds of flying snow.
“So long,” he called over his shoulder, and set forth on his return trip
to Great Owl run.
CHAPTER XIII
LAST-STAND OUTPOST
In the great North the lands of “big-sticks” and “little-sticks” and the
treeless arctic prairies are not divided evenly by the lines of
latitude. There are no definitely marked borders of forestation. For
long stretches the timber country dwindles through graduations of
stunted, failing growth across the frontiers of the open barrens. But
there are other places where the forests send out the massed array of
their mightiest giants, like shock-forces, to wage the endless, bitter
fight with the polar winds.
Great Owl Run stood at the head of one of these last-stand outposts of
the great forests. A broad, sheltered valley and an unusual fertility of
soil gave the trees a chance to root and grow tall and thrust their
dense ranks northward in a hundred-mile fringe. Huge spruces and firs
and wild, dark underwoods crowded each other in a jungle-like wilderness
that reached to the southern edge of the deep-cut creek.
On the opposite bank of the stream the ground rose abruptly into a high