Snow-blind
old cabin and waits, figuring Bent’ll come some day. Sounds as though
there was an old score between them that had to be reckoned up. And Bent
came and settled it for keeps by killing this other chap when he was
asleep.”
“Maybe,” agreed Jerry. “But anyway you fit it together it’s guesswork.”
He touched his brother’s sleeve. “By the way, I didn’t introduce you to
my friend.”
“Who?”
“The man who came down with me from Queen Maud Sea.”
“Your trip up there turned out to be a bust, didn’t it? I never did pin
any hope in that business.”
“My friend didn’t want to come,” pursued Jerry. “But I made him believe
that I wouldn’t be able to make the return trip unless I had a good
hunter with me, and I finally persuaded him to see me down as far as the
police post.”
Jerry spoke to the man on the river ice. “I want you to know my
brother,” he said. “I’m Jerry Tearl. This is Kit Tearl.” He stressed the
name with a peculiar emphasis.
There was a momentary silence. Jerry seemed to be waiting for something.
Kit at length heard him fill his lungs deeply. “His name is Kablunak,”
said Jerry. “He belongs to the Ahiagmuit tribe.”
“Yes?” said Kit, and stopped with a sudden, queer breathlessness.
“Kablunak! Why--that was the name--wasn’t it? You said-- Kablunak!
Why--why, that means ‘white man,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” The fingers on Kitchener’s sleeve gripped a little tighter. “This
man only talks Esquimau, but he is not an Esquimau. His own
language--he’s forgotten it. He’s lost his language, his
identity--everything. Everything is completely gone.”
“You--what do you mean?” gasped Kit. His blinded eyes were turned wildly
towards the tall, straight-formed figure of the stranger, whom he saw as
in a blurring fog.
“He was frightfully wounded a number of years ago,” said Jerry in a
slow, curiously strained voice. “A bullet in his head. You could see the
scar if you were able to see. That bullet snapped something in his
brain--what do they call it?--aphasia--forgetfulness. He doesn’t
remember a thing. He doesn’t remember who he is or where he came from or
what he had been.”
Kit was breathing hard, staring tragically through the mists. “My God!”
he whispered.
“A party of Esquimaux found him in the snow in the forest down yonder,
apparently dying. Twelve years back. They bundled him on a sledge and
took him north with them, and nursed his body back to health, but
not--not his brain.”
“Who is he?” whispered Kit in agonized suspense.
“He became one of the Ahiagmuit,” stated Jerry. “In the years that he
lived with them they came to accept him as their chief hunter, their
leader--”
“Who?” Kit demanded hoarsely.
Jerry’s hand was a vice, clutching his brother’s arm. “He’s a lean, tall
man with a white mustache and a shock of snow-white hair, a hawk’s face,
and a pair of steel eyes that glow sometimes with a strange inward
flame. And under his artikis he wears the badge of the royal police.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THERE WERE THREE
Kitchener was on his feet with a stabbing breath, stumbling down the
embankment. In his dim-sighted, watering eyes the erect figure on the
ice loomed like a specter in an unbelievable dream. He reached
awe-stricken towards the stiff, unresponsive silhouette.
“Dad!” he said in a stifled voice. And again, in sudden, breaking
emotion: “_Dad!_”
With a quiet, gentle dignity the man drew away from the hands that had
touched him. Jerry hastened forward and crooked his arm about his
brother’s shoulders.
“No, Kit! I’ve talked and talked with him, and he doesn’t get me. It’s
no use. Save yourself the heartbreak. He knows us only as a couple of
white men whom he’s just happened to meet out here on the barrens.
That’s all.”
The tears that drenched Kit’s eyes were not wholly the weeping of
tormented, aching nerves. His father! Inspector Tearl of the Royal
Canadian Police--wearing the garb and living the life and thinking the
thoughts of an Ahiagmuit Esquimau! The pathos of that stern and lonely
figure--the man who had emerged out of the ghostly years, and did not
even know he had come back to his own.
The old man said something in a strange tongue, and ended with a kindly
laugh.
Jerry answered with an unusual gentleness of voice.
“What is it?” Kit asked with a sound that was like a sob.
“He sees what’s wrong with you, and he says that snow-blindness
sometimes makes men act queerly. But he likes your looks and is glad to
have made your acquaintance.”
“To make my--” Kit could not finish. He felt as though he were stifling.
“I found him on Queen Maud Sea, sitting by a seal hole with a spear in
his hand,” said Jerry. “His tribesmen told me that they have not known a
starvation winter since he became one of them. A white man’s brains to
help them through the long midnights. They adored him.”
Kit was too choked-up to speak. He had never heard of a more complete
tragedy than this. Bill Tearl, lost to the world and to himself--not
knowing who he was or where he came from--spending the years in an
Esquimau igloo. Death in itself is not so terrible. But to die, and
still go on living! It might not have been so bad if utter forgetfulness
had blotted out everything of the past. But was it possible ever for the
memory to go into a total eclipse?
Life for Bill Tearl must have been a fantastic nightmare. Wandering
through lonesome, six-months-long nights. Bewilderment and yearning and
discontent. There must have been times when the smoldering fires of the
poor, estrayed brain, the vague, vain efforts to remember, would
overwhelm him like a madness.
Kit found himself fumbling at the snap of his revolver holster. If there
were only some way to touch the spark that surely still lived in the
darkness, to set off the lost train of recollection! He pulled out the
engraved, ivory-butted revolver and offered it to the man who called
himself Kablunak.
“Inspector William Tearl!” He tried desperately to speak clearly and
steadily. “This is your gun. Please take it back again. It’s the old six
shooter your men gave you when you left to take command of the outpost
at _Saut Sauvage_.”
He could almost see the grizzled face of the old sergeant who had made
the presentation years ago, and he recalled the little speech that
accompanied the gift.
“May it never fire first,” he said; “may it never fire too late.”
The old man took the gun from Kitchener’s unsteady hand. He turned it
over and examined it minutely, barrel, trigger-guard, the engraved
silver name-plate, the beautifully carved butt. After a moment his hand
cuddled the stock and he sighted at some imaginary target. Then he broke
into a pleased, gentle laugh that snapped the awful tension like the
parting of a chain.
He asked some question in the Ahiagmuit dialect, and Jerry let go a
pent-up breath that was almost suffocating him. “He doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t recognize it. He--he only wanted to know if you were loaning
it to him.”
“Tell him it’s his--it’s his very own,” Kit said in a gulping voice.
“I thought--for just a minute, there was something in his eyes. As
though something was trying to remind him. And then it faded--was gone.”
“Tell him!” Kit pleaded. “Make him understand, Jerry!”
“I’ve told him--dozens of times. And it just doesn’t register.”
Jerry turned and exchanged a few sentences with the old man, and then he
looked back somberly at his brother, and shook his head. “He thinks
you’re giving it to him--as a gift--between comrades who are willing to
fight together. That’s as much as I can make him understand.” The
sergeant’s hardlimned features held a strange, boyish wistfulness. “He
says it is a fine, handsome gun--to thank you very much--to tell you
that if he were ever privileged to use it to protect your life, it would
be a trifling return for such a splendid present.”
Kit could not trust himself to speak.
“Where did you get it?” asked Jerry.
“The gun? Grabbed it from Hell Bent--last night. If it hadn’t have been
for my eyesight I’d have got Bent--”
Something screamed across the river terrace behind them and stopped with
a tearing, meaty _curump_!
“Lookout! Down!” Jerry seized Kit and shouldered him back into a niche
of the embankment.
Kit wrenched himself loose and squirmed about, impotently gripping his
shotgun. “Jerry--who’s hit?”
“One of your dogs! Stay there! Cut him nearly in two. Dum-dums--”
Jerry snatched up his rifle, and fired, and cursed with a lilting
gayety. “How can you hit ’em when you can’t see ’em?”
“The bunch in the rear?” asked Kit.
“And how! They’ve buried themselves under the snow, with nothing but
peep-holes. Just a landscape to look at.”
“You hate to have to kill ’em,” said Kit. “The poor, misguided fools. If
we could only get Bent, there’d be a chance.”
“Yeh,” mocked Jerry. “Hate to kill ’em! Where’s this Bent?”
The first shot was followed by others, mean, vicious sounds whipping
through the sunlight. Another dog went down, got up and tried to walk,
dragging his hind quarters, and crumpled gasping in the snow.
Jerry was crouching at Kit’s back, squinting into the snow-glare, trying
to find a living mark. “Look!” he suddenly gasped. “Dad!”
“Huh?” exclaimed Kit, twisting around.
“He’s trying to crawl up on them--across the river. With the revolver!”
He raised his voice in sharp warning. “No! They’re on this side too!
Dad! Stay where you are!”
Instantly he recollected, and his English shifted into a lingo of harsh
consonants, the meaning of which Kit could only surmise. But the old man
paid no heed.
He was out on the river ice, sprawled flat, pushing a little breastwork
of snow ahead of him, hitching his way across the stream as though he
were stalking caribou. The Yellow Knives ambushed on the west side would
make short shrift of the trapped defenders--unless they were quickly
suppressed. So the one-time policeman had chosen that hazardous job for
his own.
Heedless of the bullets that nipped the air about him, Jerry was on his
feet, hurrying down the slope. The old man was more than half-way across
the river, and now was shielded from the sight of his quarry by the
rising embankment above him. But the opposite terrace no longer served
as a buttress behind him. He had crept out into view of the men who were
firing from the sledges on the eastern side.
Kit and Jerry had been partly sheltered in the rear by a break in the
embankment. The old man kept himself covered with snow as he crawled
ahead. Only the top of his head was showing. But the dogs were huddled
out in the open. The first few rounds from the west bank were picking
them off.
Evidently the attackers proposed to make certain of their victims by
first destroying the means of flight. There was to be no last-minute
dash for safety with the sledges. Kit’s team was wiped out in two
minutes. Buzz-saw was down, back-broken. Two of the Chippewyan huskies
lay stone-dead, a third was trying to walk on two feet, with his muzzle
plowing the snow. Jerry’s leader was out, and numbers two and four had
tumbled together in the traces, moaning and kicking feebly.
“Bent’s in back of the middle sledge!” gasped Kit. “High power and a
deadly shot! Jerry! Dad! Come back!”
The bright, windless morning was filled with hard, electric
cracklings--ripping, snapping sounds breaking in from both sides of the
river. Two dozen or more savages were at work now, combing over the
defenders from both directions with a venomous cross-fire. The heavy
explosions echoed back and forth with a sullen malignity. At bay between
the embankments of the wide river-bed, the three trapped men were left
the grim alternative of taking it either from one shore or the other.
The pain in Kit’s eyes throbbed intermittently like a jumping toothache.