<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:20px;margin-top:40px;font-size:2.0em;'>The Hound From<br/>The North</p>
<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.8em;margin-bottom:20px;'>By RIDGWELL CULLUM</p>
<SPAN name='CHAPTER_I_IN_THE_MOUNTAINS' id='CHAPTER_I_IN_THE_MOUNTAINS'></SPAN>
<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>IN THE MOUNTAINS</h3>
<p>A pallid sun, low, gleaming just over a rampart
of mountain-tops. Sundogs––heralds of stormy
weather––fiercely staring, like sentries, upon either
hand of the mighty sphere of light. Vast glaciers
shimmering jewel-like in the steely light of the semi-Arctic
evening. Black belts of gloomy pinewoods
on the lower slopes of the mountains; the trees
snow-burdened, but black with the darkness of night
in their melancholy depths. The earth white; snow
to the thickness of many feet on all. Life none; not
a beast of the earth, nor a fowl of the air, nor the
hum of an insect. Solitude. Cold––grey, pitiless
cold. Night is approaching.</p>
<p>The hill ranges which backbone the American
continent––the northern extremity of the Rocky
Mountains. The barrier which confronts the traveller
as he journeys from the Yukon Valley to the Alaskan
seaboard. Land where the foot of man but rarely
treads. And mid-winter.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_2' name='page_2'></SPAN>2</span></div>
<p>But now, in the dying light of day, a man comes
slowly, painfully into the picture. What an atom
in that infinity of awful grandeur. One little life in
all that desert of snow and ice. And what a life.
The poor wretch was swathed in furs; snow-shoes
on his feet, and a long staff lent his drooping figure
support. His whole attitude told its own tale of
exhaustion. But a closer inspection, one glance into
the fierce-burning eyes, which glowered from the
depths of two cavernous sockets, would have added
a sequel of starvation. The eyes had a frenzied look
in them, the look of a man without hope, but with
still that instinct of life burning in his brain. Every
now and again he raised one mitted hand and
pressed it to nose and cheeks. He knew his face
was frozen, but he had no desire to stop to thaw
it out. He was beyond such trifles. His upturned
storm-collar had become massed with icicles about
his mouth, and the fur was frozen solidly to his chin
whisker, but he gave the matter no heed.</p>
<p>The man tottered on, still onward with the dogged
persistence which the inborn love of life inspires.
He longed to rest, to seat himself upon the snow
just where he happened to be, to indulge that craving
for sleep which was upon him. His state of exhaustion
fostered these feelings, and only his brain
fought for him and clung to life. He knew what
that drowsy sensation meant. He was slowly freezing.
To rest meant sleep––to sleep meant death.</p>
<p>Slowly he dragged himself up the inclining ledge
he was traversing. The path was low at the base
of one of the loftiest crags. It wound its way upwards
in such a fashion that he could see little more
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_3' name='page_3'></SPAN>3</span>
than fifty yards ahead of him ere it turned away to
the left as it skirted the hill. He was using his last
reserve of strength, and he knew it. At the top he
stood half dazed. The mountain rose sheer up to
dizzy heights on one side, and a precipice was on the
other. He turned his dreadful eyes this way and
that. Then he scanned the prospect before him––a
haze of dimly-outlined mountains. He glanced back,
tracing his uneven tracks until they disappeared in
the grey evening light. Then he turned back again
to a contemplation of what lay before him. Suddenly
his staff slipped from his hand as though he no
longer had the strength to grip it. Then, raising his
arms aloft, he gave vent to one despairing cry in which
was expressed all the pent-up agony of his soul. It
was the cry of one from whom all hope had gone.</p>
<p>“God! God have mercy on me! I am lost––lost!”</p>
<p>The despairing note echoed and re-echoed among
the hills. And as each echo came back to his dulled
ears it was as though some invisible being mocked
him. Suddenly he braced himself, and his mind
obtained a momentary triumph over his physical
weakness. He stooped to recover his staff. His
limbs refused to obey his will. He stumbled. Then
he crumpled and fell in a heap upon the snow.</p>
<p>All was silent, and he lay quite still. Death
was gripping him, and he knew it. Presently he
wearily raised his head. He gazed about him with
eyelids more than half closed. “Is it worth the
struggle?” he seemed to ask; “is there any hope?”
He felt so warm, so comfortable out there in the
bitter winter air. Where had been the use of his
efforts? Where the use of the gold he had so
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_4' name='page_4'></SPAN>4</span>
laboriously collected at the new Eldorado? At the
thought of his gold his spirit tried to rouse him from
the sleep with which he was threatened. His eyelids
opened wide, and his eyes, from which intelligence
was fast disappearing, rolled in their gaunt
sockets. His body heaved as though he were about
to rise, but beyond that he did not move.</p>
<p>As he lay there a sound reached his numbed ears.
Clear through the crisp night air it came with the
keenness and piercing incision which is only obtained
in the still air of such latitudes. It was a human
cry: a long-drawn “whoop.” Like his own cry, it
echoed amongst the hills. It only needed such as
this to support the inclinations of the sufferer’s will.
His head was again raised. And in his wild eyes
was a look of alertness––hope. He listened. He
counted the echoes as they came. Then, with an
almost superhuman effort, he struggled to his feet.
New life had come to him born of hope. His
weakened frame answered to his great effort. His
heart was throbbing wildly.</p>
<p>As he stood up the cry came to him again, nearer
this time. He moved forward and rounded the bend
in the path. Again the cry. Now just ahead of
him. He answered it with joy in his tone and
shambled on. Now two dark figures loomed up in
the grey twilight. They were moving swiftly along
the ledge towards him. They cried out something
in a foreign tongue. He did not understand, but
his joy was no less. They came up, and he saw
before him the short, stout figures of two fur-clad
Eskimos. He was saved.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_5' name='page_5'></SPAN>5</span></div>
<p>Inside a small dugout a dingy oil lamp shed its
murky rays upon squalid surroundings. The place
was reeking with the offensive odours exhaled from
the burning oil. The atmosphere was stifling.</p>
<p>There were four occupants of this abode, and,
stretched in various attitudes on dusty blankets
spread upon the ground, they presented a strange
picture. Two of these were Eskimos. The broad,
flat faces, sharp noses, and heavy lips were unmistakable,
as were their dusky, greasy skins and
squat figures. A third man was something between
the white-man and the redskin. He was in the nature
of a half-breed, and, though not exactly pleasant to
look upon, he was certainly interesting as a study.
He was lying with limbs outstretched and his head
propped upon one hand, while his gaze was directed
with thoughtful intensity towards a small, fierce-burning
camp-stove, which, at that moment, was
rendering the hut so unbearably hot.</p>
<p>His face was sallow, and indented with smallpox
scars. He had no hair upon it, except a tuft or two
of eyebrows, which the ravages of disease had condescended
to leave to him. His nose, which was his
best feature, was beaky, but beautifully aquiline;
but his mouth was wide, with a lower lip that sagged
loosely from its fellow above. His head was small,
and was burdened with a crown of lank black hair
which had been allowed to grow Indian-like until it
hung upon his shoulders. He was of medium height,
and his arms were of undue length.</p>
<p>The other occupant of the dugout was our traveller.
He was stretched upon a blanket, on which was
spread his fur coat; and he was alternating between
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_6' name='page_6'></SPAN>6</span>
the disposal of a bowl of steaming soup and groaning
with the racking pains caused by his recently
thawed-out frost-bites.</p>
<p>The soup warmed his starving body, and his pain
increased proportionately. In spite of the latter, however,
he felt very much alive. Occasionally he glanced
round upon his silent companions. Whenever he
did so one or the other, or both of the Eskimos were
gazing stolidly at him.</p>
<p>He was rather a good-looking man, notwithstanding
his now unkempt appearance. His eyes were
large––very large in their hollow sockets. His nose
and cheeks were, at present, a mass of blisters from
the thawing frost-bites, and his mouth and chin were
hidden behind a curtain of whisker of about three
weeks’ growth. There was no mistaking him for
anything but an Anglo-Saxon, and a man of considerable
and very fine proportions.</p>
<p>When his soup was finished he set the bowl down
and leaned back with a sigh. The pock-marked man
glanced over at him.</p>
<p>“More?” he said, in a deep, not unmusical, tone.</p>
<p>The half-starved traveller nodded, and his eyes
sparkled. One of the Eskimos rose and re-filled the
bowl from a tin camp-kettle which stood on the
stove. The famished man took it and at once began
to sup the invigorating liquid. The agonies of his
frost-bites were terrible, but the pangs of hunger
were greater. By and by the bowl was set down
empty.</p>
<p>The half-breed sat up and crossed his legs, and
leant his body against two sacks which contained
something that crackled slightly under his weight.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_7' name='page_7'></SPAN>7</span></div>
<p>“Give you something more solid in an hour or so.
Best not have it too soon,” he said, speaking slowly,
but with good enunciation.</p>
<p>“Not now?” said the traveller, in a disappointed
tone.</p>
<p>The other shook his head.</p>
<p>“We’re all going to have supper then. Best wait.”
Then, after a pause: “Where from?”</p>
<p>“Forty Mile Creek,” said the other.</p>
<p>“You don’t say! Alone?”</p>
<p>There was a curious saving of words in this man’s
mode of speech. Possibly he had learned this method
from his Indian associates.</p>
<p>The traveller nodded.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Where to?”</p>
<p>“The sea-coast.”</p>
<p>The half-breed laughed gutturally.</p>
<p>“Forty Mile Creek. Sea-coast. On foot. Alone.
Winter. You must be mad.”</p>
<p>The traveller shook his head.</p>
<p>“Not mad. I could have done it, only I lost my
way. I had all my stages thought out carefully. I
tramped from the sea-coast originally. Where am I
now?”</p>
<p>The half-breed eyed the speaker curiously. He
seemed to think well before he answered. Then––</p>
<p>“Within a few miles of the Pass. To the north.”</p>
<p>An impressive silence followed. The half-breed
continued to eye the sick man, and, to judge from
the expression of his face, his thoughts were not
altogether unpleasant. He watched the weary face
before him until the eyes gradually closed, and, in
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_8' name='page_8'></SPAN>8</span>
spite of the burning pains of the frost-bites, exhaustion
did its work, and the man slept. He waited
for some moments listening to the heavy, regular
breathing, then he turned to his companions and
spoke long and earnestly in a curious tongue. One
of the Eskimos rose and removed a piece of bacon
from a nail in the wall. This he placed in the
camp-kettle on the stove. Then he took a tin billy
and dipped it full from a bucket containing beans
that had been set to soak. These also went into the
camp-kettle. Then the fellow threw himself down
again upon his blankets, and, for some time, the
three men continued to converse in low tones. They
glanced frequently at the sleeper, and occasionally
gurgled out a curious throaty chuckle. Their whole
attitude was furtive, and the man slept on.</p>
<p>An hour passed––two. The third was more than
half gone. The hut reeked with the smell of cooking
victuals. The Eskimo, who seemed to act as cook,
occasionally looked into the camp-kettle. The other
two were lying on their blankets, sometimes conversing,
but more often silent, gazing stolidly before
them. At length the cook uttered a sharp ejaculation
and lifted the steaming kettle from its place on the
stove. Then he produced four deep pannikins from
a sack, and four greasy-looking spoons. From another
he produced a pile of biscuits. “Hard tack,” well
known on the northern trails.</p>
<p>Supper was ready, and the pock-marked man leant
over and roused the traveller.</p>
<p>“Food,” he said laconically, as the startled sleeper
rubbed his eyes.</p>
<p>The man sat up and gazed hungrily at the iron pot.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_9' name='page_9'></SPAN>9</span>
The Indian served out the pork with ruthless hands.
A knife divided the piece into four, and he placed
one in each pannikin. Then he poured the beans
and soup over each portion. The biscuits were placed
within reach, and the supper was served.</p>
<p>The sick man devoured his uncouth food with great
relish. The soup which had been first given him had
done him much good, and now the “solid” completed
the restoration so opportunely begun. He was a
vigorous man, and his exhaustion had chiefly been
brought about by lack of food. Now, as he sat with
his empty pannikin in front of him, he looked gratefully
over at his rescuers, and slowly munched some
dry biscuit, and sipped occasionally from a great
beaker of black coffee. Life was very sweet to him
at that moment, and he thought joyfully of the belt
inside his clothes laden with the golden result of his
labours on Forty Mile Creek.</p>
<p>Now the half-breed turned to him.</p>
<p>“Feeling pretty good?” he observed, conversationally.</p>
<p>“Yes, thanks to you and your friends. You must
let me pay you for this.” The suggestion was coarsely
put. Returning strength was restoring the stranger
to his usual condition of mind. There was little
refinement about this man from the Yukon.</p>
<p>The other waived the suggestion.</p>
<p>“Sour-belly’s pretty good tack when y’ can’t get
any better. Been many days on the road?”</p>
<p>“Three weeks.” The traveller was conscious of
three pairs of eyes fixed upon his face.</p>
<p>“Hoofing right along?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I missed the trail nearly a week back.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_10' name='page_10'></SPAN>10</span>
Followed the track of a dog-train. It came some
distance this way. Then I lost it.”</p>
<p>“Ah! Food ran out, maybe.”</p>
<p>The half-breed had now turned away, and was
gazing at the stove as though it had a great fascination
for him.</p>
<p>“Yes, I meant to make the Pass where I could lay
in a fresh store. Instead of that I wandered on till I
found the empty pack got too heavy, then I left it.”</p>
<p>“Left it?” The half-breed raised his two little
tufts of eyebrows, but his eyes remained staring at
the stove.</p>
<p>“Oh, it was empty––clean empty. You see, I
didn’t trust anything but food in my pack.”</p>
<p>“No. That’s so. Maybe gold isn’t safe in a
pack?”</p>
<p>The pock-marked face remained turned towards
the glowing stove. The man’s manner was quite
indifferent. It suggested that he merely wished to
talk.</p>
<p>The traveller seemed to draw back into his shell
at the mention of gold. A slight pause followed.</p>
<p>“Maybe you ain’t been digging up there?” the
half-breed went on presently.</p>
<p>“It’s rotten bad digging on the Creek,” the traveller
said, clumsily endeavouring to evade the question.</p>
<p>“So I’ve heard,” said the half-breed.</p>
<p>He had produced a pipe, and was leisurely filling
it from a pouch of antelope hide. His two companions
did the same. The stranger took his pipe
from his fur coat pocket and cut some tobacco from
a plug. This he offered to his companions, but it was
rejected in favour of their own.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_11' name='page_11'></SPAN>11</span></div>
<p>“The only thing I’ve had––that and my fur coat––to
keep me from freezing to death for more than four
days. Haven’t so much as seen a sign of life since I
lost the dog track.”</p>
<p>“This country’s a terror,” observed the half-breed
emphatically.</p>
<p>All four men lit their pipes. The sick man only
drew once or twice at his, then he laid it aside. The
process of smoking caused the blisters on his face to
smart terribly.</p>
<p>“Gives your face gyp,” said the half-breed, sympathetically.
“Best not bother to smoke to-night.”</p>
<p>He pulled vigorously at his own pipe, and the
two Indians followed suit. And gradually a pleasant
odour, not of tobacco but some strange perfume,
disguised the reek of the atmosphere. It was
pungent but delightful, and the stranger remarked
upon it.</p>
<p>“What’s that you are smoking?” he asked.</p>
<p>For one instant the half-breed’s eyes were turned
upon him with a curious look. Then he turned back
to the contemplation of the stove.</p>
<p>“Kind o’ weed that grows around these wilds,” he
answered. “Only stuff we get hereabouts. It’s good
when you’re used to it.” He laughed quietly.</p>
<p>The stranger looked from one to the other of his
three companions. He was struck by a sudden
thought.</p>
<p>“What do you do here? I mean for a living?”</p>
<p>“Trap,” replied the Breed shortly.</p>
<p>“Many furs about?”</p>
<p>“Fair.”</p>
<p>“Slow work,” said the stranger, indifferently.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_12' name='page_12'></SPAN>12</span></div>
<p>Then a silence fell. The wayfarer was getting
very drowsy. The pungent odour from his companions’
pipes seemed to have a strangely soothing
effect upon him. Before he was aware of it he caught
himself nodding, and, try as he would, he could not
keep his heavy eyelids open. The men smoked on
in silence. Three pairs of eyes watched the stranger’s
efforts to keep awake, and a malicious gleam was in
the look with which they surveyed him. He was too
sleepy to observe. Besides, had he been in condition
to do so, the expression of their eyes would probably
have been different. Slowly his head drooped forward.
He was dreaming pleasantly already, although,
as yet, he was not quite asleep. Now he no longer
attempted to keep his eyes open. Further his head
drooped forward. The three men were still as mice.
Then suddenly he rolled over on one side, and his
stertorous breathing indicated a deep, unnatural
slumber.</p>
<hr class='tb' />
<p>The hut was in darkness but for a beam of light
which made its way in through a narrow slit over the
door. The sunlight shone down upon the huddled
figure of the traveller, who still slept in the attitude
in which he had rolled over on his fur coat when
sleep had first overcome him. Otherwise the hut
was empty. The half-breed and his companions had
disappeared. The fire was out. The lamp had
burned itself out. The place was intensely cold.</p>
<p>Suddenly the sleeper stirred. He straightened
himself out and turned over. Then, without further
warning, he sat up and found himself staring up at
the dazzling streak of light.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_13' name='page_13'></SPAN>13</span></div>
<p>“Daylight,” he murmured; “and they’ve let the
stove go out. Gee! but I feel queer about the head.”</p>
<p>Moving his head so that his eyes should miss the
glare of light, he gazed about him. He was alone,
and as he realized this he scrambled to his feet, and,
for the moment, the room––everything about him––seemed
to be turning topsy-turvy. He placed his
hand against the post which supported the roof and
steadied himself.</p>
<p>“I wonder where they are?” he muttered. “Ah!
of course,” as an afterthought, “they are out at their
traps. They might have stoked the fire. It’s perishing
in here. I feel beastly queer; must be the effects
of starvation.”</p>
<p>Then he moved a step forward. He brought up
suddenly to a standstill. His two hands went to his
waist. They moved, groping round it spasmodically.
Undoing his clothes he passed his hand into his shirt.
Then one word escaped him. One word––almost a
whisper––but conveying such a world of fierce, horror-stricken
intensity––</p>
<p>“Robbed!”</p>
<p>And the look which accompanied his exclamation
was the look of a man whose mind is distracted.</p>
<p>So he stood for some seconds. His lips moved,
but no words escaped them. His hand remained
within his shirt, and his fingers continued to grope
about mechanically. And all the time the dazed,
strained look burned in his great, roving eyes.</p>
<p>It was gone. That broad belt, weighted down with
the result of one year’s toil, gold dust and nuggets,
was gone. Presently he seated himself on the cold
iron of the stove. Thus he sat for an hour, looking
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_14' name='page_14'></SPAN>14</span>
straight before him with eyes that seemed to draw
closer together, so intense was their gaze. And who
shall say what thoughts he thought; what wild
schemes of revenge he planned? There was no outward
sign. Just those silent moving lips.</p>
<hr class='toprule' />
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_15' name='page_15'></SPAN>15</span>
<SPAN name='CHAPTER_II_MR_ZACHARY_SMITH' id='CHAPTER_II_MR_ZACHARY_SMITH'></SPAN>
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