Snow-blind
was the finding of Sergeant Buck Tearl. His new mission was to hold the
trail and, by hook or crook, to ferret out the history of the man with
the ivory-butted gun.
The short day broke sullenly to the steady accompaniment of falling
snow. Kit and his traveling mate were cruising through a dense spruce
forest. There were no landmarks visible--nothing but trees and trees and
trees, with the endless expanse of snow underfoot and snow-chinked
ceilings of greenery above.
Men and dogs were like shadows stealing through muffled, unechoing
corridors of whiteness. The only sounds to be heard were the silken
whisper of sledge runners, the padding of industrious feet, the creak of
raquettes sliding through the feathery drifts.
The motions of snowshoeing came naturally enough to Kit, but by the end
of his first couple of hours on the march he began to feel acute little
pains in his ankles and calves and thighs. Since his graduation from
college his most arduous journeys had been undertaken by subway between
his apartment and the law office in which he had hoped in time to become
a junior partner. He was in for a few days of torment before his muscles
hardened up; meanwhile he shut a stubborn jaw and held the pace.
A while before noon they halted for a breathing space and to give the
dogs a drink. They picked up a cold snack and Kit’s companion squatted
by his sledge, unsociable and saturnine, crunching with strong, white
teeth the bannock and hard chunk of pemmican which he had produced from
his pack.
The taciturnity of the man was beginning to wear upon Tearl’s nerves. If
he would only say something, even to grouch at his fellow traveler! But
his harsh mouth stayed shut and his eyes remained as cold and unfeeling
as the wilderness that reached into mysterious silence for a thousand
miles about him.
They had left the river far behind and were traveling a diagonal course
across the spruce ridges. To ignore the natural guidance of the valleys
and waterways is the easiest way of getting lost in the big timber. Each
wooded crown or hollow looked exactly like the hills and hollows ahead
or those left behind. Had Kit been alone he would have been hopelessly
muddled long ago. But the stranger apparently scorned the need of route
marks. He plowed on tirelessly and without hesitation, having neither
sun nor compass to correct his turnings, driving his dogs through the
unbroken leagues of the forest, breaking trail and never at loss in his
points of direction.
Kitchener at first thought that the man’s silence was due merely to a
surly and unfriendly disposition. But as they traversed the miles of
solitude, it occurred to him that perhaps there were grimmer reasons for
keeping so quiet. He noticed that his trail-mate continually shifted his
glance, right and left, and whenever he came to an open glade in the
woods, where a moving object would stand out boldly against the snowy
backgrounds, he invariably skulked close to the edges of the fringing
thickets. At every high ridge he paused to scan the surrounding
landscape and to watch briefly over his own back-trail.
Once when the dogs started up a snowshoe rabbit and gave chorus
excitedly, their driver sent them back to their business with a savagely
curling whiplash, and within ten seconds had reduced them to whimpering
obedience. On another occasion the man checked his team in mid-stride on
the slant of a sheer hillside. He crouched to stare fixedly across the
valley, and, with a quick, reflexive jerk, his hand reached for the
rifle that rode under the lashings of his sledge. Whatever he thought he
saw or heard, it failed to reveal itself. By the time Kit had scrambled
across the slide, he had straightened again and was ready to send his
team onward.
“What was it?” Kit asked.
The man gave him a stony look from under his wet, bristling eyebrows.
“Habit!” he explained in a voice that he was cautious to keep lowered.
“It gets to be second nature to keep a lookout around you.”
“You were grabbing for your rifle,” Tearl observed.
“Thought I saw a moose,” the other returned sourly, and commanded his
team to _marche_!
Kitchener followed without further comment. But he knew that the man was
lying. The sledges were overloaded now, and it would be impossible for
either of them to take on any extra haunches of meat. Besides, no moose
would ever have allowed them to approach that close on his windward
side, as this woodsman knew perfectly well. It was evident that he was
on his guard against somebody or something that he feared was on his
trail or ambushed in the dim coverts ahead.
The winter darkness overtook them in mid-afternoon, and they promptly
made camp. In a deep little glen, screened densely by the alders, where
a spring of water welled forth in a half frozen trickle from underneath
an old, fallen hemlock, they erected shelter sheets and spread their
blankets. Jim built a tiny fire of knots kicked off the rotting tree,
and took pains to keep the flame low and well hidden in the deepest
pocket of their retreat. It was not an honest fire of logs that a
care-free bushman would have ignited to warm himself on a winter’s
night. Obviously the man did not wish to risk the attention of spying
eyes.
Kitchener was too tired to perturb himself over the significance of all
these precautions. He fed his dogs, helped to drain the pot of coffee,
wrapped his aching frame in the red blankets, and in ten seconds had
fallen into profound sleep.
What it was that aroused him he could not have said. The wind had died
during the night and the forest was invested in utter quiet. Jim had
trampled out the fire before he turned in. The faint aurora of a
northern white night lent a magical unreality to the muffled shapes of
the surrounding forest. Great downy snowflakes sifted interminably
through the weary-drooping branches. Kitchener had no idea whether it
was midnight or the edge of daybreak.
A drift of snow had formed over his feet and a current of outside air
had found a way in between the flaps of his blankets. He was curled up
in a tight ball, cramped and shivering. With clicking teeth he sat up,
intending to remake his bed.
His companion had bunked down on the opposite side of the spring.
Kitchener looked sleepily in that direction, and then his eyes blinked
wider and he looked harder. In the obscurity he could just make out the
oblong shape of the folded robes. But they lay flat on the ground. There
was nothing under them. Wonderingly, Kit crept forward to make sure that
he was not deceiving himself. He pulled back the furs, and saw in the
snow the deep impression of a man’s body. Jim had rolled up under his
covers for a while--presumably until he was sure that the other man was
safely asleep. Then he had got up again, and disappeared from camp.
At first Kitchener supposed that the man had decided to rid himself of
his traveling mate and had sneaked away into the night. But a hurried
glance around corrected that notion. Jim’s packed sledge still remained
where he had unhitched the evening before on the other side of the
brook, and on the neighboring slope, where the dogs had buried
themselves in the snow, a group of little hummocks, like grave mounds,
tallied in number with the count of the two teams. The man had slipped
off somewhere on some benighted business of his own, but it would seem
that he expected to come back.
Kit fastened his boots and picked up his rifle. The other man had taken
his own gun from the sledge, and his broad-toed snowshoes also were
missing. It was merely a question of casting across the brook to pick up
the web-scuffled marks in the snow. Jim had climbed out of the hollow
and, for some unguessed reason, had struck back over the windings of his
own down-country trail.
There was no hesitation on Kit’s part. Here was a chance for
discoveries. It must be a momentous errand to pull a man out of his warm
robes in the middle of such a night. He noticed that his fellow traveler
wore broad snowshoes with a peculiar square web packing. An inspection
of the departing prints showed only a light powdering of new-fallen
flakes. Presumably the man had quitted camp only a short while ago. Kit
scrambled up the embankment, intending to follow.
From a distance of a half-dozen paces he could dimly make out the
furrowed line that curved down through the spruces. By staying off at
one side of the trail he could pursue the back-track without being
betrayed later by his own footsteps.
Kit reached the top of the first terrace and there halted with a
startled abruptness. He had an impression that something had stirred
behind him. A bulky shadow loomed in the alder thicket. Before he had
half turned a brawny arm reached suddenly forward to crook itself about
his head, and an astounding voice accosted him.
“Hello, Cocky-bird!”
For an instant Kit felt as though his heart had gone dead in his chest,
and then all his blood coursed through him again in a wild, warm
resurgence. He knew without looking around. The low, mocking laugh, the
bearlike embrace squeezing his head and pinching his ears: there was
only one person in the world who ever hugged him like this, or chuckled
at him with such ironic amusement. It was Gerald Tearl. It could be
nobody on earth except his brother Jerry.
CHAPTER IV
A GHOSTLY VOYAGEUR
The arm in its rough, icy sleeve clutched Kit tightly, and in that
breath-taking moment he neither moved nor recovered the voice to speak.
It was as though time had swept backwards to rediscover the heart of an
eager, small boy, whose bigger, rougher brother sometimes stalked up
behind him with laughter to clench his head like this. The pain of his
ruffled ears had always seemed to him a very trifling price to pay for
the ecstasy of being noticed by the redoubtable Jerry. Even to-night
Kitchener was conscious only of a sudden, blinding happiness in feeling
himself caught in that harshly affectionate grip, in knowing that his
brother had found him.
“I saw your funny old face this morning,” said the man behind him. “You
stopped on a hillside and goggled your eyes my direction. And then I
knew it was you, Cocky-bird.”
Kit broke the muscular hold and squirmed around. He saw a tall,
deep-chested figure in duffles and furs, and wearing the royal insignia
of the northern police.
“Jerry!” he gasped.
The other man grinned at him, displaying teeth as white as the snow that
clung to his hood.
Jerry had matured since Kit last saw him, and seemingly had grown in
stature and taken on several more inches of girth. The eyes that
twinkled in the half-light were older with knowledge and experience.
Even in smiling the mouth held something of the ruthless inflexibility
of a wolf-trap. He looked harder and more competent than ever before,
and also, Kit fancied, with a touch of misgiving, much more self-willed
and reckless and devil-may-care.
“Are you Sergeant Buck Tearl?” Kit asked.
“None other. Almost demoted now and then, but still Sergeant Tearl. What
are you doing here, Oakheart?”
“I intercepted a radio message for you from WBZ. It was about some
Esquimaux and the dead not dying. I’ve got it written down for you. I
was sure this Buck party would be you.”
Jerry laughed quietly. “The same old Cocky-bird! Would hike three
thousand miles through a freeze-up of hell--if you take the notion--just
to tell me you got WBZ on your radio. That would be little Kit--always.
Too bad, after all your trouble, but I got the message too. I carry a
small, portable set on my sledge, and I picked it out of the air the
same night you did, about a month ago.”
“Then you must know--” Kit regarded him sharply. “What does it mean?
Who’s Diane?”
Jerry shook his head. “I’ll tell you about that later when we have a