<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1 class="p4"> THE LADY OF<br/> NORTH STAR</h1>
<p class="pc4 lmid">BY</p>
<p class="pc1 large">OTTWELL BINNS</p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER I</h2>
<p class="pch">THE END OF A TRAIL</p>
<p class="drop-cap05"><span class="beg">THERE</span> was a smell of burning spruce in the
sharp air, and Corporal Bracknell, of the
North-west Mounted Police, threw back
his head and sniffed it gratefully. His team of
dogs had been conscious of it for some time, and
now, quickening the pace, they broke into joyous
yelps as they turned inward towards the Saskatoon
bushes on the left bank of the frozen river. The
corporal smiled to himself.</p>
<p>“They’re wise dogs,” he muttered, “but not wise
enough to know the trail’s end. I wonder if I shall
find the man here.”</p>
<p>He followed the well-marked track towards
the bank. The aromatic smell of the spruce grew
stronger, but there was nothing to be seen save
the shadowy woods, and the packed sled-road between.
The road had been cut through the trees,
and here and there a stump bearing the mark of
the ax protruded above the snow. For perhaps
three hundred yards it ran in a bee-line between
the tall trunks, and then turned abruptly to the
right. He reached the turning, and looked about
him curiously. The road still continued, but the
end of it was not in sight, for again it turned, as it
seemed to him into the very heart of the forest.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“There’s a house or encampment somewhere
about,” he said to himself, “but—”</p>
<p>He broke off abruptly as something caught his
eye. It was a new-marked sled-trail debouching
from the main track, and he stooped to examine
it carefully. When he straightened himself there
was an eager light in his eye, and curbing his impatient
dogs he stood considering for a full two
minutes.</p>
<p>“He may have a shack here,” so his thoughts ran,
“but if there’s more than that, why this broad
road?”</p>
<p>He considered the avenue made by the sombre
pinewoods on each side of the road, and then shook
his head. “Too much style for Koona Dick.
There must be a homestead somewhere about, but
if those are not the marks of his sled-runners I’m
a dutchman.”</p>
<p>He spoke a word or two to his well-trained dogs,
and slipping off his snowshoes turned towards the
trail which led into the wood, and began to follow
it carefully. As he walked, he unbuttoned the pistol-holster
at his waist, and gripped the handle of
the weapon in preparation for action. The man
whose trail he believed that he was following was
not given to being over-scrupulous. He had pursued
him for nearly four hundred miles, and now
that the end of the chase was in sight, it behoved him
to be cautious, for if Koona Dick suspected his
presence his resentment of it might even go to the
extreme length of a rifle bullet. He left the trail,
and began to move cautiously from tree to tree.</p>
<p>The short Northland day was almost over.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</SPAN></span>
Dusk was coming on apace, and the gloom under
the trees deepened, little misgivings awake in his
mind.</p>
<p>Was it wise to follow the track into the heart
of the wood? His dogs were good dogs, but—</p>
<p>The sudden sharp crash of a rifle echoed
through the stillness, followed immediately by a
second, and that by the sharp cry of a woman assailed
by mortal terror, and then there came the
quick yelp of dogs. He turned in his tracks and
began to run back under the trees.</p>
<p>How long it was before he reached the main
trail he never knew, but never in his life had he
run so fast before. Fear was pounding at his
heart. His dogs? If they were gone—</p>
<p>He reached the edge of the wood to find them
still where he had left them, and his relief found
expression in a quick “Thank God!” He looked
round him, up and down the road and into the
dark woods on either hand. There was nothing
to be seen, and the coming of night had already
shortened the range of vision. He stood listening
intently. No sound broke the awful silence
that had followed the shots and the curdling cry
of fear. His hand, resting on the gee-pole of the
sled, shook a little.</p>
<p>“It was a woman,” he whispered, “a white
woman, at that. There’s some infernal mystery
about. I wonder if Koona Dick—”</p>
<p>He did not finish the thought. Setting his face
to the turn in the road, he gave the dogs the word
and they moved forward. Somewhere at the end
of the road there was a human habitation. Of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</SPAN></span>
that he was convinced. He would find it, and perhaps
at the same time find Koona Dick and the
solution of that mysterious cry which had so suddenly
startled the silent woods.</p>
<p>But he was not destined to reach the end of the
road without further adventure. As he reached
the turn he became aware of a narrow road on
the left hand cut at right angles from the main
track, and as he looked down it, saw a shadowy
figure moving swiftly between the trees straight
towards him. Against the fading light and the
white background of snow he made out the form
of a woman, and instantly halted his dogs with
the intention of speaking to her. She was perhaps
five and twenty yards away when he first saw
her, and the distance between them she covered
at a run, approaching him apparently without seeing
him. Her line of progression brought her
within four yards of the place where he stood
waiting in the shadow of a giant spruce. Still she
did not see him, and he was about to make his
presence known, when the sight of her face
checked him.</p>
<p>It was a young face, and beautiful, but as he
saw it, it was a picture of incarnate terror. The
eyes were staring as in horror. There was a
stony look about the cameo-like features, and he
caught the gasping intake of breath as she passed
him. He had seen terror in feminine faces before,
once when a drunken half-breed had lifted a
knife to slay, and once on the face of an Indian
girl, swept towards the White Horse Rapids on
the Yukon in a frail canoe, and he had no doubt<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</SPAN></span>
whatever as to the emotion which found expression
in that stonily beautiful face. The girl was
badly frightened. He was quite certain of that,
and the fact of her passing both himself and his
team without observing them was further evidence
that she was in great stress of mind. As
she hurried by something in her hand caught his
eye. It was a rifle carried at the trail.</p>
<p>For a moment he stood there undecided what
to do. Once he made as if to follow the girl, and
then checking himself again, stood considering.
Those two shots which he had heard—what did
they mean? They had sounded quite close, and
now there came this girl, clearly badly frightened,
carrying a rifle and hurrying from the wood. He
looked up the narrow path between the gloomy
pines, his trained mind and his instincts working
together. Something had occurred in the wood,
something tragical, or it had not brought that
look on the girl’s face. What was it?</p>
<p>Tired as he was with the day’s travel, and certain
though he was of the nearness of some house
of rest, he could not leave the problem unsolved.
For the moment he even forgot Koona Dick, and
again leaving his dogs he turned into the path
from which the girl had emerged. He moved
cautiously, with the service pistol in his hand. He
did not know what to expect, and he was not inclined
to be caught unprepared. Once, as he
walked in the darkness of the trees, he paused,
and throwing back the ear-flaps of his fur-cap,
stood listening. No sound reached him,
though a moment before he had caught a noise<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</SPAN></span>
which had seemed like the snapping of a dry twig.
Thinking he must have been mistaken, he resumed
his way. As he did so, a shadowy form behind
him slid from one tree trunk to another; and as he
progressed the form in the wood followed, evidently
stalking him.</p>
<p>Corporal Bracknell, however, remained unconscious
of the shadow, and moving quickly but silently
on his way, came suddenly upon something
which brought him to an abrupt halt. In the
snow not three yards from where he stood lay the
huddled form of a man. For a moment he stared
at it as if fascinated, and as the man did not move,
when the moment had passed he stepped swiftly
forward, and bent over the inanimate form. The
man was lying on his side, and a dark stain in the
snow the corporal divined was blood. Apparently
the man was dead, and as it was now too
dark to see his face, the corporal felt in his pouch
and produced a tin box of sulphur matches.
Striking one, he waited until the sulphur had finished
spluttering, and when the wood was fairly
alight, he bent over the prostrate form, shading
the match with his hands so as to throw the light
upon the man’s face. Then suddenly he dropped
the match and stood upright.</p>
<p>“Koona Dick!” he muttered, and then whistled
softly to himself.</p>
<p>He struck another match and looked again in
order to make sure. As for the second time the
flickering light fell on the face in the snow, every
doubt vanished. The man who was lying there
was the man whom he had followed for <i>four</i> hundred<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</SPAN></span>
miles through the waste, the man whom he
had hoped to make his prisoner, but who now, if
appearances were to be trusted, had finally escaped
him. Dropping the match as it burned towards
the end, he thrust his hand inside the man’s fur
parka to feel if the heart were beating. He could
detect no movement, and as he withdrew the hand,
he stood upright, and as he considered question
after question went through his mind at the gallop.</p>
<p>Who had killed Koona Dick? The girl whom
he had met with that look of frozen terror on her
face? Who was she? Had she shot the man lying
at his feet? Why had she done so? Where did
she live? As the last question shot in his mind
he knew that the answer to it was in his grasp.
He had seen the direction she had followed, and
he guessed that whatever homestead lay at the
end of that road cut through the forest would be
her dwelling place. As this conviction surged
into his mind the whining of his dogs came to his
ears. They were evidently growing restless, and
since he could do nothing by lingering there, after
one glance at the still form lying in the snow, he
swung on his heel, and made all speed back to
where his team awaited him. They yelped with
delight as he appeared, and when he gave the
word, bounded impatiently forward along the well-beaten
track.</p>
<p>Four minutes later, a turn in the road unexpectedly
brought into view the homestead that he
was seeking. It was set in the midst of a large
clearing, and from its outline in the darkness was
of considerable proportions for a Northland lodge.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</SPAN></span>
Lights shone in three of the windows, and just
as he reached the wooden fence which ran round
the house, a door opened, and a light within
streaming through outlined the form of a man in
the act of entering.</p>
<p>Corporal Bracknell shouted to him, and the man
turned round and peered into the darkness, then
he rested something against the wooden wall of
the passage, shut the door, and moved towards
the policeman.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” he asked, as he came nearer.</p>
<p>“Corporal Bracknell—on Dominion service,”
replied the policeman.</p>
<p>“Corporal Bracknell?”</p>
<p>As the man echoed the words the corporal caught
a puzzled note in his tones, and explained further.</p>
<p>“Yes, of the Mounted Police.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course! I was not thinking of the
Mounted service. I am a stranger in the Nor’-West—”
Bracknell had already divined that such
must be the case, but he did not say so. He laughed
lightly, and made his wants known.</p>
<p>“I’m on service, and tired. I should be grateful
for supper and a bunk if that is possible.”</p>
<p>“It is quite possible, Officer, and Joy—I mean
Miss Gargrave will be very glad to oblige you.
She is always pleased to play the Good Samaritan.”</p>
<p>As the man spoke the name, the corporal remembered
that he had heard it before. It had been
borne by an eccentric Englishman, who had been
reported enormously wealthy and who had perished
rather tragically on the Klondyke, three years before,
and the mystery of whose death had never<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</SPAN></span>
been cleared up, satisfactorily. He knew now
where he was.</p>
<p>“This is the North Star Lodge, then?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“Yes!” was the reply. “Will you go in now
and attend to your team afterwards, or—”</p>
<p>“In my service,” laughed Bracknell, “the dogs
come first.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” answered the other. “I will wait
for you!”</p>
<p>He lit a cigarette and watched the corporal
whilst he loosed the dogs from the traces, and
fed them with frozen fish. The light from the
window fell on his face and showed that he was
less interested in the operation than in the man
engaged upon it, for never for a moment did his
eyes leave the officer, and there was a ruminative
look in them, as if he were speculating what manner
of man the policeman was. The corporal was
quite conscious of the stare, but gave no sign of it,
though once or twice as he moved about, he flashed
a glance at the stranger, endeavouring in his turn to
take the other’s measure. When he had finished
his task he turned to him.</p>
<p>“I am ready now.”</p>
<p>“So am I,” laughed the man; “it is cold waiting
about.”</p>
<p>He threw his cigarette away, and moved towards
the door of the house. Corporal Bracknell followed
him, and as the door opened his guide stumbled
over something which fell with a clatter on
the pinewood floor.</p>
<p>The man stooped and picked it up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“My rifle,” he explained. “I had forgotten it
was there. I rested it against the wall when you
hailed me.”</p>
<p>The corporal nodded, but made no remark.
His thoughts were engaged with Koona Bill lying
out there under the shadow of the pines, and he
was wondering what the meeting with Joy Gargrave
would be like, guessing as he did that she
must be the girl who had passed him out in the
wood. His companion conducted him to a room
that for the Northland was positively luxurious,
and waved him a chair near the stove.</p>
<p>“You will like to change your socks and moccasins,”
he said politely. “I will go and inform Miss
Gargrave, and return for you in ten minutes or so.
It should be almost dinner time.”</p>
<p>Corporal Bracknell nodded, and when the man
had departed looked round the room with some
curiosity. Nowhere in the wild region where his
work was done was there another such room, he
was sure. Even the commandant’s rooms down
at the Post were poor beside it. The furniture
was of excellent quality. The wall was match-boarded,
hiding the outer logs, and there were furs
everywhere. Pictures too! Something familiar in
one of them caught his eye, and moving towards
it he saw that it was a photograph of Newham College,
Cambridge.</p>
<p>He stood looking at it, whistling softly to himself.
He himself had been at Caius, and having a
sister at Newham, had once or twice had tea in
its precincts. He wondered what the picture was
doing here in this lodge in the northern wilderness,
and he was still wondering when a gong sounded.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</SPAN></span>
Hastily he began to change his socks, and the operation
was scarcely completed, when the man who
had introduced him to the house appeared.</p>
<p>“Ready, Corporal?”</p>
<p>“Almost,” he replied, and half a minute later
stood up and nodded.</p>
<p>“This way,” said the other laconically, and led
the way out of the room and across the wide passage.
The policeman was prepared for surprises,
but the appearance of the room into which he entered
almost took his breath away. Except for
the roaring Yukon stove, and the fur rugs on the
polished floor, it was a replica of the typical dining-room
of an English country house. The furniture
was Jacobean, the table was laid with the whitest
napery, and silver and glasses gleamed on its whiteness.
He had a quick apprehension of oil-paintings
on the wall, of a long-cased clock in the corner,
and of two girls standing together near the stove,
then his companion’s voice sounded.</p>
<p>“Corporal Bracknell! Miss Gargrave! Miss
La Farge.”</p>
<p>He bowed to the two ladies in turn. The second
he knew as he glanced at her was of French
Canadian extraction, with perhaps a dash of Indian
blood in her veins; but the first was a golden-haired
English girl, tall, blue-eyed, with face a little
bronzed by the open-air, and—the girl who had
passed him with her face the index of mortal terror
and her rifle at the trail. It was she who spoke in
a voice that had the indescribable accent of culture.</p>
<p>“We are pleased to see you, Corporal Bracknell.
No doubt, if you have been long on the trail, you
will be ready for dinner.”</p>
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