Snow-blind
Kitchener shook his head, and his eyes begged his brother to get on with
the story.
“I didn’t either. But there must be. Of course the color may be found
almost everywhere. But what I mean is a lode or pocket or placer drift
in which the raw, yellow wealth has clustered like the raisins in a
pudding. Enough of it to shovel out with a scoop and load up a dog
sledge.”
“And where is this fabulous hoard?” asked Kit.
Jerry shrugged indifferently. “Who knows? You’ve got ten thousand miles
of territory to guess in. That part of it doesn’t mean anything in our
lives. Maybe some Indian found the deposit in the first place, or
perhaps it was rifled by one of those wandering, crack-brained
prospectors whom you’re apt to meet almost everywhere. The loaded sledge
is plenty for us to worry about. For all we know it may have been hauled
half-way across a continent and passed from murderer to murderer before
it reached its ultimate tragedy.
“The police,” Jerry went on, “maintain a little advance post near the
edge of big timber, some few days northeast of here at a place called
_Saut Sauvage_. At the time I am talking about a sergeant and two men
were wintering at this post. Dad, as you recall, was then the inspector
in charge of this district. Twelve years ago this December, Dad went out
on an inspection patrol and paid a little visit to the _Saut Sauvage_
boys. It was at that time, as you know, that he disappeared.”
“Where does the sledge-load of gold come in?” inquired Kit.
“I have this part of the story from Inspector Bowman, who, twelve years
ago, was the sergeant in command at _Saut Sauvage_,” said Jerry. “Much
of it never went into the official records, and almost all of it was
hushed up by the higher officers. Even Bill Tearl’s family wasn’t told
all of the facts. You’ll see why when you hear what happened.
“On the particular day I have in mind,” Jerry resumed, “when Inspector
Tearl was a guest at _Saut Sauvage_, a man and a woman came in from the
north somewhere, driving a train of huskies and a sledge. Bowman doesn’t
remember what they said their names were, or even whether names were
mentioned. He recalls only that the man was a lanky, rather good-looking
chap around thirty or so. The woman, he introduced as his sister. She
appeared to be near her brother’s age--an athletic-looking woman with an
astonishing lot of golden hair--they didn’t bob it in those days. I
gather from the inspector that she was a knock-out.”
The policeman pitched a couple of fresh birch logs on the fire, and then
moved a foot or two farther away to escape the heat. “The stranger and
his sister, it seems,” he went on, “had been up on the barrens hunting
musk-ox. They had started out with guides and packers--three men, whites
or breeds. What happened I don’t know. But there was some sort of
trouble, and either their men left them, or they cleared out and left
their men. It doesn’t matter about that. The two were alone when they
arrived at the police post. They had been caught by winter and were
hurrying to reach the outside before the big snow trapped them.
“One who lives in this country,” Jerry ruminated, “is apt to lose his
sense of wonderment. If you told me that you had found diamond pipes in
the hills yonder to rival Kimberley, I would say, ‘why not?’ There’s
everything else--coal and iron and copper and platinum and gold fields,
untouched as yet, and for the greater part undiscovered--waiting to be
dumped into a world that’s already too fat with wealth. Oil,
illuminating gas, water-power to run all the earth’s industries in high.
I’ve seen a natural gas vent up on the rim of the Circle, which some
passing Indian ignited, possibly a hundred years ago, which is burning
to-day, and perhaps will be spouting its fifty foot jet of flame a
century or two or three from now.”
Jerry sighed and shook his head. “It’s a pity to think that some day
this will all be filled up with sweaty ditch diggers and shrieking
machinery. Thank God, you and I will be dead.”
He looked into the darkness and stretched his arms in a wide gesture.
“It still belongs to you and me, and it hasn’t changed much since the
first white man found it. A wilderness bigger than the whole United
States. Peopled by a few of the simple, sooty brothers and a few whites
who have nerve enough to live as they damn please. An earth chockful of
virgin wealth, and a few primitives prowling upon it. If they see
anything they want they take it, and what the hell! Raw tastes and
hungers and desires let loose in a wild and opulent land. No law worth
mentioning; no restraints; every man for himself. Queer and terrible
things can happen. Almost every dark stretch of the forest holds its own
grisly secret--”
“What,” demanded Kit, “is all this about?”
Jerry’s hard features for a moment relaxed in a wry grin. “I was just
thinking,” he remarked, “that Dad and Sergeant Bowman wouldn’t have been
skeptical or even astonished when this stranger and his beautiful sister
arrived at the police cabin to tell them that they had found in the
woods farther north a sledge stacked with gold nuggets in rotting
caribou bags, and a man’s tattered skeleton sprawled on top of it.
“These two gave the skeleton as nice a burial as they could under the
circumstances, and then they hitched their own dogs to the sledge and
came on south. Bowman says he himself saw the sledge, and he saw and
hefted some of the nuggets. He said there must have been a quarter of a
million--”
“Who was the poor devil?” interrupted Kit.
“The skeleton? Who knows? He may not have been the original digger. As I
said, that sledge may have come by stages clear across from the
Klondike--one man slaying the man ahead of him for its possession. The
last chap, perhaps, died of the great northern illness known as
‘nothing-to-eat.’ That story is lost forever in the mists. We’re
concerned only with what happened afterwards.”
Kit was somberly watching his brother’s face. “Yes?” he breathed.
“The new owners of the sledge,” said Jerry, “were a bit nervous about
it. They had reason to be. Their guides, it seems, had turned out to be
a bad lot, and they had parted company with them in a nasty row. These
guides were loitering about somewhere in the neighborhood of _Saut
Sauvage_. The truth was that the brother and sister were afraid to go on
alone. It so happened that Inspector Bill Tearl was intending to go down
to McMurray, and he volunteered to escort the sledge out of the woods.
The three started off next morning in a snow storm--Dad and the two
lucky finders.” Jerry paused for a moment, and his lower lip bent up
under his teeth as he gazed with moody eyes beyond the crackling fire.
“They said good-by to Bowman,” he resumed quietly, “and set out for the
south. And none of the three was ever seen alive afterwards.”
The sergeant glanced at the crumpled cigarette in his fingers, and for
the first time seemed to remember why he had rolled it. He pulled a
blazing fagot out of the fire, puffed industriously for a moment, and
then settled back at ease on one elbow.
“Two weeks later,” he stated abruptly, “Sergeant Bowman made a little
patrol southward. Not twenty miles below the police post, at a place
called Great Owl Run, he found the woman with the lovely hair. She was
lying face down in a deep drift with a .45 bullet in the back of her
head. Her brother was nowhere to be found, nor Inspector Bill Tearl, nor
the sledge load of caribou sacks.”
Kitchener sat straighter, his dark eyes suddenly constricted with
horror. “What had happened?” he asked.
“There had been two or three snow storms before Bowman took the trail,”
Jerry explained, “and there was not much left even for a schooled
woodsman to read. No sledge tracks, no footprints. Between the spot
where the woman lay and the high, steep bank of Great Owl Run, the
underbrush had been broken and crushed down, as though a body, or
perhaps two of them, had been dragged off and dumped into the creek. The
stream runs deep and swift at that point, and seldom freezes over.
Anything thrown into it would be swept down under the ice tunnels and
probably carried all the way to the Arctic Sea.”
“And you know no more than this?” Kitchener asked in a hushed voice.
“A little more, maybe. But the rest is pure guessing.
“At about the time that Bowman was finding the dead woman,” Jerry added,
“a man by the name of Simeon Bent came out of the woods at Fort
McMurray. He had been in some sort of a fight a while before and had
wounds about the head and face. I got wind of this man a couple of years
ago and found out all about him that I could. One thing, he had been the
head guide for the two musk-ox hunters.
“From McMurray this Bent bird went on down to Edmonton,” Jerry continued
after a brief interval. “He went a bit wild on whiskey blanc down there.
In a rumpus in a back room he killed a man and was stretched a short
term for manslaughter.” The sergeant observed his brother fixedly. “He
was splurging some in Edmonton, with plenty to spend, and I have it
straight that his cash reserve was a bagful of gold nuggets.”
“You mean--” said Kit, and stopped.
Jerry answered with a short nod. “Sounds that way, doesn’t it? It was
Bent who ambushed Dad and the two strangers. My guess it that he got the
sledge, but for some reason he wasn’t able to take it down country with
him. Maybe the other guides were lurking near by and he didn’t want to
declare them in. He helped himself to one bagful of gold, and cleared
out.
“It’s my belief that he cached that sledge in the woods somewhere in the
neighborhood of Great Owl Run,” Jerry declared. “It’s probably still
there where he hid it on that ugly day twelve years ago.” The sergeant
tossed his cigarette into the fire and his muscular hands clenched
tightly over one knee. “Bent served out his term in prison, hugging his
secret. The minute they turned him loose he started for the north--”
“Carrying Dad’s old gun,” Kitchener cut in, his eyes suddenly grown as
cold and murky as the wintry dawn.
“That sledge,” asserted Jerry, “is still concealed in the forest up
yonder, and Hell Bent is on his way to get it.”
The sergeant raised himself to his feet and stood erect on the snowy
hillside. “When Bent’s time was nearly up I asked for the _Saut Sauvage_
assignment, and Bowman sent me to take command of the outpost up there.
I’m supposed to be on my way to that place.”
“I understand now,” said Kit, “why he’ll kill you if he can.”
“Of course,” said Jerry carelessly. “I want to nail him when he gets
that sledge, and he knows it.” The policeman knitted his brows darkly.
“The trouble is,” he reflected, “I can’t keep the assignment. Something
else has turned up.”
He contemplated his brother with shrewd eyes for a moment, and then
faintly nodded his head as though he had made up his mind about
something.
“Kit,” he declared, “it’s the luckiest thing in the world that you
turned up when you did. I needed you frightfully. But you were always
like that--an on-the-spot Johnny. You ready to carry on, Cocky-bird?”
“You know I am.”
“Good! It’s an outrageous and extremely hazardous business I’m wishing
on you. But I have no choice. You’re to go up there instead of me, and
stick tight to this Bent, and get him.”
“All right,” said Kitchener. “I’d like to.”
“I’m not going to report at all, Crowfeathers. I’ve got something else
to do. But I don’t want to be let out of the service for going
A.W.O.L.--heading off on my own. I’ve disgraced you plenty as it is.”
Kit watched his brother uneasily. “What are you going to do?”
“You and I don’t look a lot alike,” Jerry temporized. “I’m a darned
sight better-looking guy than you, if it comes to that. But at the same
time you approximate me enough to get by. Luckily the two constables up