Snow-blind
Kitchener stepped behind and circled the sergeant’s broad back with his
arms. He pulled the firing-bolt pin, and dug his chin firmly into the
hollow of his brother’s neck. Then he crooked his forefinger under the
trigger-guard.
“Look out!” grunted Jerry. “Here they come!”
Without actually seeing, Kit’s instinct told him that the line of men
had surged forward. The yelling swelled into an appalling savagery, he
caught the distant crunch of oncoming feet. Bullets were plowing around
his face.
Jerry’s brawny bulk settled, stiffened. His breathing stopped. He became
rock-like in his transcendental calm. Kitchener waited in readiness.
Seconds passed--minutes, it seemed to him. He could hear the advancing
snowshoes cutting through the snow. The suspense was growing unbearable.
“Jerry!” he whispered. “What’s the matter? Can’t you line ’em?”
“A second!” soothed the sergeant. “He’s kneeling to fire. It’s hard to
hold a rifle with one hand. Easy now! I’ll say ‘go.’”
The back muscles hardened to steel--the physical rigidity of the cool
marksman inexorably engrossed.
“Ready!” said Jerry crisply.
Kit’s trigger-finger clenched to the steel--put on all but the final
ounce of pressure.
“_Go!_”
CHAPTER XXVII
HELL BENT
The curt voice and the rifle report cracked out together as a unity. Kit
felt his brother’s shoulder yield with the kick-back of the heavy
discharge. He grabbed the rifle and shoved another cartridge under the
bolt. Jerry was straining forward, breathless, staring.
“Hit!” Jerry’s cry rang jubilant, and then checked lamely. “No....”
Kitchener gawked at the snowy barrens. His throbbing, visionless eyes
overtaxed themselves in feverish uncertainty. He desperately wanted to
see, and he couldn’t.
“Yes!” The grimness of Jerry’s speech sent a shiver through Kit.
“_Yes!_”
The racket along the river had choked off as abruptly as though unseen
hands had gripped a score of wildly shrieking throats. The senseless
outburst of firing dwindled, almost ceased. Kit was aware of a sudden
lagging of footsteps up and down the line of advance.
“He stood against it for a few seconds,” explained Jerry. “I thought
we’d missed.”
Jerry spoke in a casual, chatty tone. The tension had lifted. He was his
carefree, natural self again. “But he buckled up finally, as though he
had the gripes, and rooted his nose in the tundra. He’s lying out there
like something that the dog fetched. The brother act was the hit of the
piece.”
Kit at that moment was not sorry that his eyes were spared the need of
seeing. He was not squeamish. But also he was without morbid curiosity.
Jerry’s description did not sound pretty.
A few minutes ago Kit would have given his eyesight permanently for a
fair shot at the man who had killed Inspector Bill Tearl. But now that
it was over his wrath had simmered down and left him cold. His
conscience did not disturb him. He knew that he would never feel the
slightest twinge of remorse. It was as though he had merely helped to
execute the decree of a higher judgment. The dead man had been one of
the world’s ugly liabilities, and they had simply wiped him off the
debit column. Kit was thankful only that Jerry shared the responsibility
with him, fifty-fifty.
The quiet was a bit disconcerting after the recent hubbub. Evidently it
was the white man who had incited the Yellow Knives to the pitch of
daring that brought them out from their cover. But the white man was
down, and Kit sensed the wavering in the line of attack. These Yellow
Knives knew him. He had bluffed them once before....
With the Winchester at a menacing slant he planted his knee on the
embankment and scrambled to the top. He stood boldly erect and faced the
tribesmen. Two or three bullets, hastily fired, whanged past him.
“Come down, you idiot!” gasped Jerry.
Kit’s blinded gaze moved slowly, unflinching, across the invisible arc
of the prairie. “Stop!” he shouted, and threw up his hand.
“Are you fools?” He queried them cheerfully in a voice only loud enough
to reach across that narrow area of snow. “You know me! And my brother
shoots straighter than I do. You’ve seen what happens. We’ll kill ten of
you before you get here, and the few who live now will be hanged by the
police later on.”
“You tell ’em, Cocky-bird!” he heard Jerry chuckling behind him. “Gad!
They’re half wilting right now.”
“Tom Salmonfish!” Kitchener called. “And you, Athu! You needn’t hide
behind the others. I see you’re there. Come forward a little way. I want
to talk to you. You needn’t be afraid.” He spoke with disarming
friendliness. “The man who shot one of us and made fools of you is dead.
There can now be peace among us.”
No shots had been fired in the last minute or so. These men at least had
accepted the truce long enough to hear what he had to say. He caught a
creaking of snowshoes as somebody stirred restlessly off at his right.
“We come get Oogly,” one of them announced, dispassionate and stubborn.
“Oogly!” Kit echoed the name with apparent amazement. “He’s not here.
Didn’t you know? Oogly’s dead!”
There was quiet for a few seconds after that, a hushed and incredulous
interval.
“I’m telling the truth!” Kit broke in sharply. He pointed southward with
his finger. “Down the river, three or four miles from here--go look for
a mound of snow and a spear sticking in it. Dig in that mound, and
you’ll find Oogly.”
The silence of the next moment or two was nerve-racking. Kit was just
able to distinguish a few blurred shapes confronting him in a gloomy,
watchful immobility.
“Oogly’s not here I tell you!” Kitchener insisted earnestly. “Salmonfish
and Athu--come and see for yourselves.” With a splendidly magnanimous
gesture he tossed aside the rifle, which he was unable to aim anyhow,
and exhibited his defenseless hands. “You two come on.” He smiled
benignly. “You needn’t be afraid.
“Show yourself,” he said over his shoulder. “Let ’em see you’re
unarmed.”
“Right behind you!” said Jerry.
“You needn’t worry about anything that happens afterwards,” Kit
reassured the Yellow Knives. “You can go your way and everything will be
forgotten.”
For a dozen seconds, perhaps, the issue hung in the balance. But from
the hesitation of the tribesmen it was clear enough that Kit’s talk had
made an impression. He had long since taught them a wholesome respect
for his marksmanship. Although he had dropped his rifle, anybody could
see an ivory pistol butt sticking out of his holster. There was no
foreseeing how many of the tribesmen might go down before that deadly
gun if hostilities were suddenly renewed. And at Kit’s back stood the
hard-jowled Jerry, whose potentialities as a fighter still must be
reckoned with. Probably also a few of the more reflective minds had
begun to ponder dubiously about the white man’s law, which, in its own
manner, at its own leisure, was capable of reaching a merciless arm even
into the remotest wilderness.
Besides, they just wanted Oogly. They had no real quarrel with anybody
else.
Kit suddenly was aware that two of the men had stepped out ahead of the
line and were coming towards him warily.
He waited with apparent indifference. The advancing Indians finally
ventured to the river’s edge, and he allowed them to look over the
embankment.
“You see,” he said, “there were only three of us. My brother and I
and--the man who was shot.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “What you do after we go away?” one of
the Indians finally blurted out.
“Nothing,” said Kit. “The white man was to blame, not you. You killed
our dogs, but we will forget that. If you leave now, nothing will ever
be done to you. You have my promise.”
“Oogly dead?” temporized the tribal spokesman.
“I said so. You search where I told you and you’ll know that I’m telling
the truth. Oogly is dead.”
“Good!” said the man heartily.
He said something in his harsh jargon to the nearest group of his
comrades, and then flung up his arm to signal to those across the river.
It seemed to be a pacific gesture.
Jerry had been watching suspiciously, with his left hand tucked under
his parka. He relaxed with a twisted smile. “You’ve got ’em on the run,
Crow-eye. They’re going to call it a day.”
The two Indians had turned on their heels to stalk away, but Kit
motioned them to halt. “Just a minute,” he commanded. “Who was the man
who told you you’d find Oogly here?”
“Bruyas,” one of the men informed him.
“Is that Bruyas lying off there by the sledges?”
“Yup!” said the Yellow Knife carelessly.
“All right. You may go now.”
Kitchener picked up his rifle and dropped down beside his brother.
“Bruyas!” he mused. “I’m beginning to think that he was behind most of
our troubles. Bruyas, and probably Giffard. I shouldn’t doubt if one of
them was Durand’s assassin. And they guessed, of course, why I was
hanging around the Great Owl forest. Figured I knew too much and thought
they’d better put me out too. They wanted a clear field for Hell Bent
when he arrived. The only thing I don’t understand is why he bothered to
follow me into the barrens.”
“It’s quite likely,” Jerry suggested, “that they’d heard the same rumors
we did about the mysterious white man at Queen Maud Sea, who might turn
out to be the lost Inspector Tearl. You were posing around as Sergeant
Tearl. When you suddenly struck north it would be natural for them to
suppose that you were off to hunt for the old man. His return would be
fatal to them. They grabbed the chance to stop you before you started by
sicking a crowd of irresponsible smokies on you.”
Jerry was leaning against the terrace, eyeing the Indians. “It looks as
though they’re leaving us,” he remarked. “They’re hitching in the dogs.
As soon as they pull out we’ll be getting on ourselves.”
Kit faced his brother in startled recollection. “Say!” he exclaimed.
“I’m under arrest--a fugitive from the police. I’d darned near
forgotten. They spotted me a couple of days ago--impersonating an
officer--”
“Who did?” interrupted the sergeant.
“Devon and Cross.” Kit grinned ruefully. “Murder too. They think I made
away with you.”
“Really?” Jerry was amused by the notion. “Good! You’ll have to take
good care of me if you want to clear yourself of the murder charge.” He
laughed calmly. “I guess it’ll be all right. If Cross and Devon are like
the usual run of the mounties they’ll be a couple of four-square chaps
whom we can tell the truth to and trust to keep their mouths shut
afterwards.”
The Yellow Knives were moving away. Kit heard the cracking whips and the
shouts of the dog drivers. The tribesmen had started down the river to
look for Oogly, to find out if the blood-debt were really paid.
As soon as the last of the creaking sledges had drawn off out of range
Kit climbed the embankment again and walked out on the prairie. The
Yellow Knives, with cynical unconcern, had left their white companion as
he had fallen. It needed but a moment’s investigation to establish the
fact of death. Here at least was one who never again would trouble the
crown’s lawful forces.
At that moment Kit’s stinging eyes saw as much as he cared to have them
see. The broad, bearded face, with the missing front teeth--the man
undeniably was Bruyas. Kit lingered only to unlace the upturned
snowshoes, and he carried them under his arm back to Jerry.
“Jim Durand’s square-webbed snowshoes!” he remarked. “We guessed right.
It was Bruyas who killed him and dumped him out of the cabin window, who
found use for the snowshoes, who helped himself to Dad’s old service
gun. Bruyas--who tracked me into the barrens, and shot Oogly--
“It’s funny,” he puzzled after an interval of silence. “Durand evidently
timed his return to this country to coincide with Hell Bent’s release