<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>MR. ZACHARY SMITH SMOKES</h3>
<p>It was the third morning of the travellers’ sojourn
in Mr. Smith’s dugout. Two long idle days had been
spent in the fœtid atmosphere of the trapper’s half-buried
house. During their enforced stay neither
Grey nor his subordinates had learnt much of their
reticent host. It is doubtful if they had troubled
themselves much about him. He had greeted them
with a sort of indifferent hospitality, and they were
satisfied. It was not in the nature of their work to
question the characters of those whom they encountered
upon their journey. To all that he had Mr. Zachary
Smith had made them welcome; they could expect
no more, they needed no more. Now the day had
arrived for their departure, for the storm had subsided
and the sun was shining with all its wintry splendour.</p>
<p>The three men leisurely devoured an early morning
breakfast.</p>
<p>Mr. Smith was quite cheerful. He seemed to be
labouring under some strange excitement. He looked
better, too, since the advent of his guests. Perhaps
it was the result of the ample supplies of canned
provisions which the two men had lavished unsparingly
upon him. His face was less cadaverous; the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_30' name='page_30'></SPAN>30</span>
deep searing furrows were less pronounced. Altogether
there was a marked improvement in this
solitary dweller in the wild. Now he was discussing
the prospects of the weather, whilst he partook liberally
of the food set before him.</p>
<p>“These things aren’t like most storms,” he said.
“They blow themselves out and have done with it.
They don’t come back on you with a change of wind.
That isn’t the way of the blizzard. We’ve got a clear
spell of a fortnight and more before us––with luck.
Now, which way may you be taking, gentlemen? Are
you going to head through the mountains for the
main trail, or are you going to double on your
tracks?”</p>
<p>“We are going back,” said Grey, with unpleasant
emphasis. Any allusion to his mistake of the road
annoyed him.</p>
<p>Chillingwood turned his head away and hid a
smile.</p>
<p>“I think you will do well,” replied the trapper
largely. “I know these hills, and I should be inclined
to hark back to where you missed the trail. I hope
to cover twenty miles myself to-day.”</p>
<p>“Your traps will be buried, I should say,” suggested
Robb.</p>
<p>“I’m used to that,” replied the tall man quietly.
“Guess I shan’t have much difficulty with ’em.” He
permitted himself the suspicion of a smile.</p>
<p>Grey drew out his pipe and leisurely loaded it.
Robb followed suit. Mr. Zachary Smith pushed his
tin pannikin away from before him and leaned back.</p>
<p>“Going to smoke?” he asked. “Guess I’ll join
you. No, not your plug, thanks. I’m feeling pretty
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_31' name='page_31'></SPAN>31</span>
good. My weed’ll do me. You don’t fancy to try
it?”</p>
<p>“T. and B.’s good enough for me,” said Grey, with
a smile. “No, I won’t experiment.”</p>
<p>Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.</p>
<p>“Can I?”</p>
<p>Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.</p>
<p>“Guess not, thanks. What’s good enough for my
chief is good enough for me.”</p>
<p>The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide
pouch of native workmanship. He emptied out a
little pile of greenish-brown flakes into the palm of
his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff, suggestive
of discoloured bran. This he poured into the
bowl of a well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which
he carefully and with accuracy adjusted into the corner
of his mouth.</p>
<p>“If you ever chance to have the experience I have
had in these mountains, gentlemen,” he then went on
slowly, as gathering into the palm of his hand a red-hot
cinder from the stove he tossed it to and fro until
it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, “I think you’ll find
the use of the weed which grows on this hillside,” with
a jerk of his head upwards to indicate the bush which
flourished in that direction, “has its advantages.”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” said Grey contemptuously.</p>
<p>“I doubt it,” said Robb, with a pleasant smile.</p>
<p>The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe
and emitted a cloud of pungent smoke from between
his lips. The others had lit up. But the odour of the
trapper’s weed quickly dominated the atmosphere.
He talked rapidly now.</p>
<p>“You folks who travel the main trails don’t see
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_32' name='page_32'></SPAN>32</span>
much of what is going on in the mountains––the real
life of the mountains,” he said. “You have no conception
of the real dangers which these hills contain.
Yes, sir, they’re hidden from the public eye, and only
get to be known outside by reason of the chance
experience of the traveller who happens to lose his
way, but is lucky enough to escape the pitfalls with
which he finds himself surrounded. I could tell you
some queer yarns of these hills.”</p>
<p>“Travellers’ tales,” suggested Grey, with a yawn and
a disparaging smile. “I have heard some.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Robb, “there are queer tales afloat of
adventures encountered by travellers journeying from
the valley to the coast. But they’re chiefly confined
to wayside robbery, and are of a very sordid, everyday
kind. No doubt your experiences are less matter-of-fact
and more romantic. By Jove, I feel jolly
comfy. Not much like turning out.”</p>
<p>“That’s how it takes me,” said Smith quietly, but
with a quick glance at the speaker. “But idleness
won’t boil my pot. It’s a remarkable thing that I’ve
felt wonderfully energetic these last few days, and
now that I have to turn out I should prefer to stop
where I am. I s’pose it’s human nature.”</p>
<p>He gazed upon his audience with a broad smile.</p>
<p>At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated
the thick sides of the dugout. Rainy-Moon
was preparing for the start. Doubtless the brilliant
change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers
of the north.</p>
<p>“That’s curious-smelling stuff you’re smoking,” said
Grey, rousing himself with an effort after a moment’s
dead silence. “What do you call it?”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_33' name='page_33'></SPAN>33</span></div>
<p>“Can’t say––a weed,” said Zachary Smith, glancing
down his nose towards the bowl of his pipe. “Not
bad, is it? Smells of almonds––tastes like nutty
sherry.”</p>
<p>Grey stifled a yawn.</p>
<p>“I feel sleepy, d–––d sleepy. Wonder if Rainy-Moon
has got the sleigh loaded.”</p>
<p>Smith emitted another dense cloud of smoke from
between his pursed lips; he seemed wrapt in the
luxurious enjoyment of his smoke. Robb Chillingwood’s
eyelids were drooping, and his pipe had gone
out. Quite suddenly the trapper’s eyes were turned
on the face of Grey, and the smoke from his pipe was
chiefly directed towards him.</p>
<p>“There’s time enough yet,” he said quietly. “Half-an-hour
more or less won’t make much difference to
you on the road. You were talking of travellers’ tales,
and I reckon you were thinking of fairy yarns that
some folks think it smart to spin. Well, maybe those
same stories have some foundation in fact, and ain’t
all works of imagination. Anyhow, my experience
has taught me never to disbelieve until I’ve some good
sound grounds for doing so.”</p>
<p>He paused and gazed with a far-off look at the
opposite wall. Then a shadowy smile stole over his
face, and he went on. His companions’ heads had
drooped slowly forward, and their eyes were heavy
with sleep. Grey was fighting against the drowsiness
by jerking his head sharply upwards, but his eyes
would close in spite of his efforts.</p>
<p>“Well, I never thought that I’d get caught napping,”
continued Smith, with a chuckle. “I thought
I knew these regions well enough, but I didn’t. I
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_34' name='page_34'></SPAN>34</span>
lost my way, too, and came near to losing my
life–––”</p>
<p>He broke off abruptly as Robb Chillingwood
slowly rolled over on his side and began to snore
loudly. Then Smith turned back to Leslie Grey, and
leaning forward, so that his face was close to that of
the officer, blew clouds of the pungent smoke right
across the half-stupefied man’s mouth and nostrils.</p>
<p>“I lost other things,” he then went on meditatively,
“but not my life. I lost that which was more
precious to me. I lost gold––gold! I lost the result
of many weary months of toil. I had hoarded it up
that I might go down to the east and buy a nice little
ranch, and settle down into a comfortable, respectable
man of property. I didn’t even wait until the spring
opened so that I could take the river route. No,
that wasn’t my way, because I knew it would cost a
lot of money and I wasn’t overburdened with wealth.
I had just enough–––”</p>
<p>He puffed vigorously at his pipe. Grey’s head was
now hanging forward and his chin rested on his chest.</p>
<p>There came the sound of Rainy-Moon’s voice
adjuring the dogs outside the door of the dugout.
The trapper’s eyes flashed evilly in the direction of
the unconscious Indian.</p>
<p>“–––to do what I wanted,” he resumed. “No
more––no less; and I set out on foot.” He was
anxiously watching for Grey’s collapse. “Yes, I was
going to tramp to the sea-coast through these mountains.
I hit the wrong trail, decoyed by a false track
carefully made by those who waited for me in these
hills.”––Grey was swaying heavily and his breathing
was stertorous.––“I met my fate and was robbed of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_35' name='page_35'></SPAN>35</span>
my gold. I was drugged––as you poor fools are
being drugged now. When it was too late I discovered
how it was done, and determined to do the
same thing by the first victim that fell into my
clutches. I tried the weed and soon got used to its
fumes. Then I waited––waited. I had set my decoy
at the cross-roads, and you––you––came.”</p>
<p>As the trapper ceased speaking Grey slowly rolled
over, insensible.</p>
<p>In a moment the watching man was upon his feet.
His whole face was transfigured. Alertness was in
every movement, in every flash of his great eyes.
He moved quickly across the floor of the hut and
took two shallow pannikins from the sack which lay
upon the floor, dropped some of the flaky weed into
the bottom of each one, and then from the stove he
scraped some coals of fire into them. The fire set
the dry weed smouldering, and the thick smoke rose
heavily from the two tins. These he placed upon the
ground in such a position that his hard-breathing
victims should thoroughly inhale the fumes. Thus
he would make doubly sure of them.</p>
<p>This done he stood erect and gazed for some
seconds at the result of his handiwork; he was
satisfied, but there was no look of pleasure on his
face. He did not look like a man of naturally criminal
instincts. There was nothing savage about his expression,
or even callous. His look merely seemed
to say that he had set himself this task, and, so far,
what he had done was satisfactory in view of his
object. He turned from the heavy-slumbering men
and his eyes fell upon the two small gold chests.
Instantly his whole expression changed. Here was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_36' name='page_36'></SPAN>36</span>
the keynote to the man’s disposition. Gold! It was
the gold he coveted. At all costs that gold was to
be his. His eyes shone with greed. He moved
towards the boxes as though he were about to handle
them; but he paused abruptly before he reached
them. The barking of the dogs and the strident
tones of the Indian’s voice outside arrested him. He
suddenly remembered that he had not yet completed
his work.</p>
<p>Now he moved with unnecessarily stealthy steps
over to the darkest corner of the hut, to where a pile
of rough skins stood. The steady nerve which had
hitherto served him seemed in a measure to have
weakened. It was a phase which a man of his disposition
must inevitably pass through in the perpetration
of a first crime. He was assailed by a sensation
of watching eyes following his every movement;
with a feeling that another presence than those two
slumbering forms moved with him in the dim light of
the dugout. He was haunted by his other self; the
moral self.</p>
<p>From beneath the pile of furs he drew a heavy
revolver which he carefully examined. The chambers
were loaded.</p>
<p>Again came the sound of the dogs outside. And
he even fancied he heard the shuffling of Rainy-Moon’s
moccasins over the beaten snow just outside
the door. He turned his face in the direction. The
expression of his great hungry eyes was malevolent.
Whatever moral fear might have been his, there could
be no doubt that he would carry his purpose out.
He gripped his pistol firmly and moved towards the
door.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_37' name='page_37'></SPAN>37</span></div>
<p>As his hand rested on the latch he paused. Just
for one instant he hesitated. It seemed as though all
that was honest in him was making one final appeal
to the evil passions which swayed him. His eyelids
lowered suddenly, as though he could not even face
the dim light of that gloomy interior. It was the
attitude of one who fully realizes the nature of his
actions, of one who shrinks from the light of honest
purpose and prefers the obscure recesses of his own
moral darkness. Then with an effort he pulled himself
together; he gripped his nerve. The next
moment he flung wide the door.</p>
<p>A flood of wintry sunshine suffused the interior of
the dugout. The glare of the crystal white earth was
dazzling to a degree, and the hungry-looking trapper
stood blinking in the light. His pistol was concealed
behind him. The sleigh was before the door. Rainy-Moon
stood on the far side of the path in the act of
hitching the dogs up. One of the animals, the largest
of them all, was already harnessed, the others were
standing or squatting around, held in leash by the
Indian.</p>
<p>When he heard the door open Rainy-Moon looked
up from his work. He was standing with his back to
the precipice which bordered the narrow ledge. His
great stolid face expressed nothing but solemn
gravity. He grunted and turned again to his work.</p>
<p>Like a flash the trapper’s pistol darted from behind
him, and its report rang out echoing and re-echoing
amongst the surrounding hills. There was an answering
cry of pain from the harnessed dog, and Rainy-Moon
with a yell stood erect to find himself gazing
into the muzzle of the revolver. The expression of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_38' name='page_38'></SPAN>38</span>
the trapper’s face was relentless now. His first shot
had been fired under the influence of excitement, and
he had missed his object and only wounded the dog.
Now it was different.</p>
<p>Again the pistol rang out. Rainy-Moon gave one
sharp cry of pain and sprang backwards––into space.
In one hand he still gripped the leashes of the dogs.
The other clutched wildly at the air. For one instant
his fall was broken by his hold upon the four dogs,
then the suddenness of his precipitation and his
weight told, and the poor beasts were dragged over
the side of the chasm after him.</p>
<p>The whole dastardly act was but the work of a
moment.</p>
<p>The next all was silence save for the yelping of the
wounded dog lying upon the snow.</p>
<p>The trapper stood for a moment framed in the
doorway. The horror of his crime was upon him.
He waited for a sound to come up to him from below.
He longed to, but he dared not, look over the side of
the yawning chasm. He feared what awful sight his
eyes might encounter. His imagination conjured up
pictures that turned him sick in the stomach, and
a great dread came over him. Suddenly he turned
back into the hut and slammed the door.</p>
<p>The wounded dog had not changed its attitude.
The moments sped by. Suddenly the poor beast
began to struggle violently. It was a huge specimen
of the husky breed, exceptionally powerful and wolfish
in its appearance. The wretched brute moaned
incessantly, but its pain only made it struggle the
harder to free itself from its harness. At length it
succeeded in wriggling out of the primitive “breast-draw”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_39' name='page_39'></SPAN>39</span>
which held it. Then the suffering beast
limped painfully away down the path. Fifty yards
from the hut it squatted upon its haunches and began
to lick its wounded foot. And every now and then it
would cease its healing operation to throw up its long
muzzle and emit one of those drawn-out howls, so
dismal and dispiriting, in which dogs are able to
express their melancholy feelings.</p>
<p>At length the hut door opened again and the
trapper came out; he was equipped for a long journey.
Thick blanket chaps covered his legs, and a great
fur coat reached to his knees. His head was buried
beneath a beaver cap, which, pressed low down over
his ears, was overlapped by the collar of his coat.
He carried a roll of blankets over his shoulder and
a pack on his back. As he came out into the sunshine
he looked fearfully about him. There stood the
loaded sleigh quite undisturbed. The harness alone
was tumbled about by reason of the wounded dog’s
struggles. And there was a pool of canine blood
upon the snow, and a faint trail of sanguinary hue
leading from it. The man eyed this and followed its
direction until he saw the dog crouching down further
along the path. But he was not thinking of the dog.
He turned back to the sleigh, and his eyes wandered
across, beyond it, to the brink of the precipice. The
only marks that had disturbed the smooth white edge
of the path were those which had tumbled the snow
where the dogs had been dragged to their fate.
Otherwise there was no sign.</p>
<p>The man stepped forward as though to look down
to the depths below, but, as he neared the edge, he
halted shudderingly. Nor did his eyes turn downwards,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_40' name='page_40'></SPAN>40</span>
he looked around him, above him––but not
down. He gazed long and earnestly at the hard,
cold, cloudless sky. His brow frowned with unpleasant
thought. Then his lips moved, and he
muttered words that sounded as though he were
endeavouring to justify his acts to himself.</p>
<p>“The gold was mine––honestly mine. It was
wrested from me. It may be Christian to submit
without retaliation. It is not human. What is a
neche’s life––nothing. Pooh! An Indian life is of
no value in this country. Come on, let’s go.”</p>
<p>He spoke as though he were not alone. Perhaps
he was addressing that moral self of his which kept
reminding him of his misdeeds. Anyhow, he was
uncomfortable, and his words told of it.</p>
<p>He stooped and adjusted his snow-shoes, after
which he gripped his long staff and slowly began his
journey down the hill.</p>
<p>He quickly got into his stride, that forward, leaning
attitude of the snow-shoer; nor did he glance to the
left or right.</p>
<p>Straight ahead of him he stared, over the jagged
rampart of mountains to the clear steely hue of the
sky above. He was leaving the scene of his crime;
he wished also to leave its memory. He gave no
heed to the trail of blood that stained the whiteness
of the snow beneath his feet; his thoughts were not
of the present––his present; his mind was travelling
swiftly beyond. The whining of the dog as he passed
him fell upon ears that were deaf to all entreaty.</p>
<p>The crystal-covered earth glided by him; the long,
reaching stride of the expert snow-shoer bore him
rapidly along.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_41' name='page_41'></SPAN>41</span></div>
<p>He paused in the valley below and took fresh
bearings. He intended to strike through the heart of
the mountains. The Pass was his goal, for he knew
that there lay the main trail he sought.</p>
<p>He cast about for the landmarks which he had
located during his long tenancy of the dugout. Not
a branch of a tree rustled. Not a breath of air
fanned the steaming breath which poured from his
lips. His mind was centred on his object, but the
nervous realization of loneliness was upon him.</p>
<p>Suddenly the awful stillness was broken. The
man bent his head in a listening attitude. The
sound came from behind and he turned sharply.
His movement was hurried and anxious. His nerves
were not steady. A long-drawn-out wail rose upon
the air. Fifty yards behind stood the wounded hound
gazing after him as if he, too, were endeavouring to
ascertain the right direction. The creature was standing
upon three legs, the fourth was hanging useless,
and the blood was dripping from the footless limb.</p>
<p>The man turned away with an impatient shrug and
stepped out briskly. He knew his direction now, and
resolutely centred his thoughts upon his journey.
Past experience told him that this would tax all his
energy and endurance, and that he must keep a clear
head, for he was not a native of the country, nor had
he the instinct of one whose life had been passed in a
mountainous world. Once he turned at the sound of
a plaintive whining, and, to his annoyance, he saw
that the dog was following him. A half-nervous
laugh escaped him, but he did not pause. He had
hitherto forgotten the creature, and this was an
unpleasant reminder.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_42' name='page_42'></SPAN>42</span></div>
<p>An hour passed. The exhilarating exercise had
cleansed the atmosphere of the murderer’s thoughts.
Once only he looked back over his shoulder as some
memory of the dog flashed across his brain. He
could see nothing but the immaculate gleam of snow.
Something of the purity of his surroundings seemed
to communicate itself to his thoughts. He found
himself looking forward to a life, the honest, respectable
life, which the burden he carried in his pack
would purchase for him. He saw himself the owner
of vast tracts of pasture, with stock grazing upon it,
a small but comfortable house, and a wife. He
pictured to himself the joys of a pastoral life, a
community in which his opinions and influence would
be matters of importance. He would be looked up
to, and gradually, as his wealth grew, he would
become interested in the world of politics, and he
would–––</p>
<p>He was dragged back to the present by a memory
of the scene at the dugout, and quite suddenly he
broke into a cold perspiration. He increased his
pace, nor did those pleasant visions again return to
him. It was well past noon when at last he halted
for food and rest.</p>
<p>He devoured his simple fare ravenously, but he
gained no enjoyment therefrom. He was moody.
At that moment he hated life; he hated himself for
his weak yielding to the pricks of conscience; he
hated the snow and ice about him for their deadening
effect upon the world through which he was passing;
he hated the dreadful solitude with which he was
surrounded.</p>
<p>Presently he drew out a pipe. He looked at it for
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_43' name='page_43'></SPAN>43</span>
one instant, then raised it to his nose. He smelt it,
and, with a motion of disgust and a bitter curse, he
threw it from him. It reeked of the weed he had
found at the dugout.</p>
<p>Now he was seized with a feverish restlessness
and was about to rise to his feet. Suddenly, out
on the still, biting air wailed the familiar long-drawn
note of misery. To his disturbed fancy it
came like a dreadful signal of some awful doom.
It echoed in undulating waves of sound, dying
away hardly, as though it were loth to leave its
mournful surroundings. He turned in the direction
whence it proceeded, and slowly into view limped
the wounded husky, yelping piteously at every
step.</p>
<p>At that moment the man was scarcely responsible
for what he did. He was beside himself with dread.
The solitude was on his nerves, this haunting dog, his
own reflections, all had combined to reduce him to
the verge of nervous prostration. With the last
dying sound his heavy revolver was levelled in the
direction of the oncoming hound. There was a
moment’s pause, then a shot rang out and the dog
stood quite still. The bullet fell short and only
kicked up the snow some yards in front of the
animal, nor did the beast display the least sign of
fear. The man prepared to take another shot, but,
as he was about to fire, his arm dropped to his
side, and, with a mirthless laugh, he put the pistol
away.</p>
<p>“The d–––d cur seems to know the range of a
gun,” he muttered, with an uneasy look at the
motionless creature. His words were an apology to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_44' name='page_44'></SPAN>44</span>
himself, although perhaps he would not have admitted
it.</p>
<p>The dog remained in its rigid attitude. Its head
was slightly lowered, and its wicked grey eyes glared
ferociously. Its thick mane bristled, and it looked
like a gaunt, hungry wolf following upon the trail of
some unconscious traveller. So long as the man
stood, so long did the dog remain still and silent.
But as the former returned to his seat, and began to
pack up, the dog began to whine and furtively draw
nearer.</p>
<p>Although he did not look up the man knew that
the animal was coming towards him. When he had
finished packing he straightened himself; the dog
was within a few paces of him. He called gently,
and the animal responded with a whimper, but remained
where it was. Its canine mind was evidently
dubious, and the man was forced to take the initiative.
Whatever may have been his intention in the first
place, he now exhibited a curious display of feeling
for one who could plan and perpetrate so dastardly a
crime as that which he had committed at the dugout.
Human nature is a strange blending of good and evil
passions. Two minutes ago the man would, without
the least remorse, have shot the dog. Now as he
reached him, and he listened to the beast’s plaintive
cries, he stretched out his arm and stroked its
trembling sides, and then stooped to examine the
wounded limb. And, stranger still, he tore off a
portion of the woollen scarf that circled his waist
and proceeded to bandage up the shattered member.
The dog submitted to the operation with languid
resignation. The foot of one hind leg had been
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_45' name='page_45'></SPAN>45</span>
entirely torn away by a revolver shot, and only the
stump of the leg was left. The poor beast would go
on three legs for the rest of his life.</p>
<p>When the man had finished he rose to his feet, and
a bitter laugh shocked the silence of the snow-bound
world.</p>
<p>“There, you miserable cur. It’s better like that
than to get the cold into it. I’ve had some; besides,
I didn’t intend to damage you. If you’re going to
travel with me you’d best come along, and be d–––-d
to you.”</p>
<p>And he walked back to where his pack and blankets
lay, and the dog limped at his heels.</p>
<hr class='toprule' />
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_46' name='page_46'></SPAN>46</span>
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