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Isobel

<h4>XII</h4> <h4>LITTLE MYSTERY FINDS HER OWN</h4> After convincing Pelliter that he must ride on the sledge Billy ran on ahead, and the dogs started with their heavier load. “Now for the timber-line,” he called down to Kazan. “It’s fifty miles, old boy, and you’ve got to make it by dawn. If we don’t—” He left the words unfinished, but Kazan tugged harder, as if he had heard and understood. The sledge had reached the unbroken sweep of the Barren now, and MacVeigh felt the wind in his face. It was blowing from the north and west, and with it came sudden gusts filled with fine particles of snow. After a few moments he fell back to see that Little Mystery’s face was completely covered. Pelliter was crouching low on the sledge, his feet braced in the blanket straps. His wound and the uncomfortable sensation of riding backward on a swaying sledge were making him dizzy, and he wondered if what he saw creeping up out of the night was a result of this dizziness or a reality. There was no sound from behind. But a darker spot had grown within his vision, at times becoming larger, then almost disappearing. Twice he raised his rifle. Twice he lowered it again, convinced that the thing behind was only a shadowy fabric of his imagination. It was possible that their pursuers would lose trace of them in the darkness, and so he held his fire. He was staring at the shadow when from out of it there leaped a little spurt of flame, and a bullet sang past the sledge, a yard to the right. It was a splendid shot. There was a marksman with the shadow, and Pelliter replied so quickly that the first shot had not died away before there followed the second. Five times his automatic sent its leaden messengers back into the night, and at the fifth shot there came a wild outburst of pain from one of the Eskimo dogs. “Hurrah!” shouted Billy. “That’s one team out of business, Pelly. We can beat ’em in a running fight!” He heard the quick metallic snap of fresh cartridges as Pelliter slipped them into the chamber of his rifle, but beyond that sound, the wind, and the straining of the huskies there was no other. A grim silence fell behind. The roar of the distant ice grew less. The earth no longer seemed to shudder under their feet at the terrific explosions of the crumbling bergs. But in place of these the wind was rising and the fine snow was thickening. Billy no longer turned to look behind. He stared ahead and as far as he could see on each side of them. At the end of half an hour the panting dogs dropped into a walk, and he walked close beside his comrade. “They’ve given it up,” groaned Pelliter, weakly. “I’m glad of it, Mac, for I’m— I’m— dizzy.” He was lying on the sledge now, with his head bolstered up on a pile of blankets. “You know how the wolves hunt, Pelly,” said MacVeigh— “in a moon-shape half circle, you know, that closes in on the running game from in front? Well, that’s how the Eskimos hunt, and I’m wondering if they’re trying to get ahead of us— off there, and off there.” He motioned to the north and the south. “They can’t,” replied Pelliter, raising himself to his elbow with an effort. “Their dogs are bushed. Let me walk, Mac. I can—” He fell back with a sudden low cry. “Gawd, but I’m dizzy—” MacVeigh halted the dogs, and while they dropped upon their bellies, panting and licking up the snow, he kneeled beside Pelliter. Darkness concealed the fear in his eyes and face. His voice was strong and cheerful. “You’ve got to lie still, Pelly,” he warned, arranging the blankets so that the wounded man could rest comfortably. “You’ve got a pretty bad nip, and it’s best for all of us that you don’t make a move. You’re right about the Eskimos and their dogs. They’re bushed, and they’ve given the chase up as a bad job, so what’s the use of making a fool of yourself? Ride it out, Pelly. Go to sleep with Little Mystery if you can. She thinks she’s in a cradle.” He got up and started the dogs. For a long time he was alone. Little Mystery was sleeping and Pelliter was quiet. Now and then he dropped his mittened hand on Kazan’s head, and the faithful old leader whined softly at his touch. With the others it was different. They snapped viciously, and he kept his distance. He went on for hours, halting the team now and then for a few minutes’ rest. He struck a match each time and looked at Pelliter. His comrade breathed heavily, with his eyes closed. Once, long after midnight, he opened them and stared at the flare of the match and into MacVeigh’s white face. “I’m all right, Billy,” he said. “Let me walk—” MacVeigh forced him back gently, and went on. He was alone until the first cold, gray break of dawn. Then he stopped, gave each of the dogs a frozen fish, and with the fuel on the sledge built a small fire. He scraped up snow for tea, and hung the pail over the fire. He was frying bacon and toasting hard bannock biscuits when Pelliter aroused himself and sat up. Billy did not see him until he faced about. “Good morning, Pelly,” he grinned. “Have a good nap?” Pelliter groped about on the sledge. “Wish I could find a club,” he growled. “I’d— I’d brain you! You let me sleep!” He thrust out his uninjured arm, and the two shook hands. Once or twice before they had done this after hours of great peril. It was not an ordinary handshake. Billy rose to his feet. Half a mile away the edge of the big forest for which they had been fighting rose out of the dawn gloom. “If I’d known that,” he said, pointing, “we’d have camped in shelter. Fifty miles, Pelly. Not so bad, was it?” Behind them the gray Barren was lifting itself into the light of day. The two men ate and drank tea. During those few minutes neither gave attention to the forest or the Barren. Billy was ravenously hungry. Pelliter could not get enough of the tea. And then their attention went to Little Mystery, who awoke with a wailing protest at the smothering cover of blankets over her face. Billy dug her out and held her up to view the strange change since yesterday. It was then that Kazan stopped licking his ashy chops to send up a wailing howl. Both men turned their eyes toward the forest. Halfway between a figure was toiling slowly toward them. It was a man, and Billy gave a low cry of astonishment. But Kazan was facing the gray Barren, and he howled again, long and menacingly. The other dogs took up the cry, and when Pelliter and MacVeigh followed the direction of their warning they stood for a full quarter of a minute as if turned into stone. A mile away the Barren was dotted with a dozen swiftly moving sledges and a score of running men! After all, their last stand was to be made at the edge of the timber-line! In such situations men like MacVeigh and Pelliter do not waste precious moments in prearranging actions in words. Their mental processes are instantaneous and correlative— and they act. Without a word Billy replaced Little Mystery in her nest without even giving her a sip of the warm tea, and by the time the dogs were straightened in their traces Pelliter was handing him his Remington. “I’ve ranged it for three hundred and fifty yards,” he said. “We won’t want to waste our fire until they come that near.” They set out at a trot, Pelliter running with his wounded arm down at his side. Suddenly the lone figure between them and the forest disappeared. It had fallen flat in the snow, where it lay only a black speck. In a moment it rose again and advanced. Both Pelliter and Billy were looking when it fell for a second time. An unpleasant laugh came from MacVeigh’s lips. The figure was climbing to its feet for the fifth time, and was only on its hands and knees when the sledge drew up. It was a white man. His head was bare, his face deathlike. His neck was open to the cold wind, and, to the others’ astonishment, he wore no heavier garment over his dark flannel shirt. His eyes burned wildly from out of a shaggy growth of beard and hair, and he was panting like one who had traveled miles instead of a few hundred yards. All this Billy saw at a glance, and then he gave a sudden unbelieving cry. The man’s red eyes rested on his, and every fiber in his body seemed for a moment to have lost the power of action. He gasped and stared, and Pelliter started as if stung at the words which came first from his lips. “Deane— Scottie Deane!” An amazed cry broke from Pelliter. He looked at MacVeigh, his chief. He made an involuntary movement forward, but Billy was ahead of him. He had flung down his rifle, and in an instant was on his knees at Deane’s side, supporting his emaciated figure in his arms. “Good God! what does this mean, old man?” he cried, forgetting Pelliter. “What has happened? Why are you away up here? And where— where— is she?” He had gripped Deane’s hand. He was holding him tight; and Deane, looking up into his eyes, saw that he was no longer looking into the face of the Law, but that of a brother. He smiled feebly. “Cabin— back there— in edge— woods,” he gasped. “Saw you— coming. Thought mebbe you’d pass— so— came out. I’m done for— dying.” He drew a deep breath and tried to assist himself as Billy raised him to his feet. A little wailing cry came from the sledge. Startled, Deane turned his eyes toward that cry. “My God!” he screamed. He tore himself away from Billy and flung himself upon his knees beside Little Mystery, sobbing and talking like a madman as he clasped the frightened child in his arms. With her he leaped to his feet with new strength. “She’s mine— mine!” he cried, fiercely. “She’s what brought me back! I was going for her! Where did you get her? How—” There came to them now in sudden chorus the wild voice of the Eskimo dogs out on the plain. Deane heard the cry and faced with the others in their direction. They were not more than half a mile away, bearing down upon them swiftly. Billy knew that there was not a moment to lose. In a flash it had leaped upon him that in some way Deane and Isobel and Little Mystery were associated with that avenging horde, and as quickly as he could he told Deane what had happened. Sanity had come back into Deane’s eyes, and no sooner had he heard than he ran out in the face of the army of little brown men with Little Mystery in his arms. MacVeigh and Pelliter could hear him calling to them from a distance. They were in the edge of the forest when Deane met the Eskimos. There was a long wait, and then Deane and Little Mystery came back— on a sledge drawn by Eskimo dogs. Beside the sledge walked the chief who had been wounded in the cabin at Fullerton Point. Deane was swaying, his head was bowed half upon his breast, and the chief and another Eskimo were supporting him. He nodded to the right, and a hundred yards away they found a cabin. The powerful little northerners carried him in, still clutching Little Mystery in his arms, and he made a motion for Billy to follow him— alone. Inside the cabin they placed him on a low bunk, and with a weak cough he beckoned Billy to his side. MacVeigh knew what that cough meant. The sick man had suffered terrible exposure, and the tissue of his lungs was sloughing away. It was death, the most terrible death of the north. For a few moments Deane lay panting, clasping one of Billy’s hands. Little Mystery slipped to the floor and began to investigate the cabin. Deane smiled into Billy’s eyes. “You’ve come again— just in time,” he said, quite steadily. “Seems queer, don’t it, Billy?” For the first time he spoke the other’s name as if he had known him a lifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, and in spite of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane saw the look. “She didn’t come,” he whispered. “I left her—” He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to his lips. Billy felt a choking grief. “You must be quiet,” he said. “Don’t try to talk now. You have no fire, and I will build one. Then I’ll make you something hot.” He went to move away, but one of Deane’s hands detained him. “Not until I’ve said something to you, Billy,” he insisted. “You know— you understand. I’m dying. It’s liable to come any minute now, and I’ve got to tell you— things. You must understand— before I go. I won’t be long. I killed a man, but I’m— not sorry. He tried to insult her— my wife— an’ you— you’d have killed him, too. You people began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north— among the Eskimos— an’ lived there— long time. The Eskimos— they loved the little girl an’ wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels— some sort. Then we heard you were goin’ to hunt for me— up there— among the Eskimos. So we set out with the box. Box was for her— to keep her from fearful cold. We didn’t dare take the baby— so we left her up there. We were going back— soon— after you’d made your hunt. When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in the box— an’ so— so you found us. You know— after that. You thought it was— coffin— an’ she told you I was dead. You were good— good to her— an’ you must go down there where she is, and take little Isobel. We were goin’ to do as you said— an’ go to South America. But we had to have the baby, an’ I came back. Should have told you. We knew that— afterward. But we were afraid— to tell the secret— even to you—” He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin, cold hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting to stifle the sobbing grief in his breath. “You were good— good— good— to her,” repeated Deane, weakly, “You loved her— an’ it was right— because you thought I was dead an’ she was alone an’ needed help. I’m glad— you love her. You’ve been good— ’n’ honest— an I want some one like you to love her an’ care for her. She ain’t got nobody but me— an’ little Isobel. I’m glad— glad— I’ve found a man— like you!” He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy’s tense face between them, staring straight into his eyes. “An’— an’— I give her to you,” he said. “She’s an angel, and she’s alone— needs some one— an’ you— you’ll be good to her. You must go down to her— Pierre Couchée’s cabin— on the Little Beaver. An’ you’ll be good to her— good to her—” “I will go to her,” said Billy, softly. “And I swear here on my knees before the great and good God that I will do what an honorable man should do!” Deane’s rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with a sigh of relief. “I worried— for her,” he said. “I’ve always believed in a God— though I killed a man— an’ He sent you here in time!” A sudden questioning light came into his eyes. “The man who stole little Isobel,” he breathed— “who was he?” “Pelliter— the man out there— killed him when he came to the cabin,” said Billy. “He said his name was Blake— Jim Blake.” “Blake! Blake! Blake!” Again Deane’s voice rose from the edge of death to a shriek. “Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with red hair— red beard— yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake— Blake—” He sank back again, with a thrilling, half-mad laugh. “Then— then it’s all been a mistake— a funny mistake,” he said; and his eyes closed, and his voice spoke the words as though he were uttering them from out of a dream. Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man’s last words. Deane’s hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white. And then Deane whispered: “We fought— I thought I killed him— an’ threw him into the sea. His right name was Samuelson. You knew him— by that name— but he went often— by Blake— Jim Blake. So— so— I’m not a murderer— after all. An’ he— he came back for revenge— and— stole— little— Isobel. I’m— I’m— not— a— murderer. You— you— will— tell— her. You’ll tell her— I didn’t kill him— after all. You’ll tell her— an’— be— good— good—” He smiled. Billy bent lower. “Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorable man should do,” he replied. Deane made no answer. He did not hear. The smile did not fade entirely from his lips. But Billy knew that in this moment death had come in through the cabin door. With a groan of anguish he dropped Deane’s stiffening hand. Little Isobel pattered across the floor to his side. She laughed; and suddenly Billy turned and caught her in his arms, and, crumpled down there on the floor beside the one brother he had known in life, he sobbed like a woman. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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