<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="break">
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER X</h2>
<p class="pch">A DESPERATE SITUATION</p>
<p class="drop-cap15"><span class="beg">AN HOUR LATER</span> Roger Bracknell started on his
way back to the police-post, in a not very
happy frame of mind. The chief of Fort
Pilgrim was a man with little tolerance for failure,
and the corporal knew that when he made his report
it would be received with frowns. That was inevitable,
but there was nothing for it but to return.
His cousin and the Indian Joe had taken very
effective measures to prevent him following on their
trail when they had left him with a depleted dog-team
and with only sufficient rations to carry him
as far as North Star Lodge. Sorry as he was for
his cousin he yet resented the action which had left
him helpless, and his failure rankled as he swung
steadily forward on the southward trail. Before
the end of the day, however, a thought came to him.
Duty was duty, and if he could reach North Star
Lodge, there would be dogs there, and he could
requisition them in the King’s name, and return to
the pursuit. It did not seem a very nice thing to
contemplate, but his oath of service left him no
option, whilst the officer at Fort Pilgrim was bound
to look askance at the whole affair, if he returned
to explain that Koona Dick was his cousin, and that
he had escaped him. Besides, there was Joy to
consider. She could never be safe from molestation<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</SPAN></span>
whilst Dick Bracknell was at large. It was even
possible that the latter, finding the Territory growing
too hot for him, might venture to follow her to
England, and as her husband claim his rights. That
must be prevented at all costs, even at the cost of
Dick suffering incarceration in the penal prison at
Stony Mountain.</p>
<p>The end of the day, however, brought an unlooked-for
event, which made an end of these half-formed
plans. He had camped for the night, and
having fed his dogs with the dried salmon-roe which
formed their staple food, was preparing his own
meal, when one of the animals gave a sudden sharp
howl of pain. He looked hastily round, and saw
the dog twisted in some kind of spasm, its backbone
arched, its legs jerking in a strange fashion. He
went to it, and as he approached the spasm ended,
and the dog lay in the snow completely exhausted.
He was stooping over it, wondering what was the
matter when the other two dogs howled simultaneously,
and he turned swiftly to see one of them leap
straight in the air, and in a moment both of them
were in spasms similar to the one he had already
witnessed, and before his eyes one of them curled
up like a bow, then suddenly relaxed, and lay stark
and dead.</p>
<p>A dark suspicion shot through his mind, as he
jerked himself upright. The first dog was plainly
at the point of death, whilst the third was twisted
by spasms that could have but one ending. He
knew that there could be no recovery, that he could
do nothing for them, and in a swift impulse of mercy
he drew his pistol and shot them. Then he strode<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</SPAN></span>
to the sled, and lifting the small bale of dog food
carried it to the fire, and by the flames of the burning
pine examined it carefully. He had not to look
long before he came upon some small white crystals
in the creases of the roe. They might be snow,
they might be frost crystals, but he did not think
that they were either, and selecting one of the smallest
of the white specks he placed it on his tongue.
It was exceedingly bitter in taste.</p>
<p>“Strychnine!” he cried aloud, and then stood
looking at the dead dogs with horror shining in his
eyes. As he stood there one question was beating
in his brain. “Who has done this thing? Who?
Who?”</p>
<p>His thoughts flew back to his cousin. Had he—No!
He could not believe that; for whoever had
placed the strychnine in the dog food, had callously
planned to murder him. And bad as Dick Bracknell
was, the corporal felt that his cousin would not
have done a thing like this.</p>
<p>“There’s that Indian—Joe,” he said, speaking
his thoughts aloud. “From what Dick said he was
afraid of me ... and he would have disposed of
me at the beginning if he had had his way!” He
was silent for a little time, then he nodded his
head. “Yes! The Indian did it without Dick’s
knowledge.”</p>
<p>For the moment he refused to think further
about the matter. About him was the gloom of
the pines, with their pall of snow, and everywhere
the terrible silence of the North. Alone and without
dogs to carry his stores, the situation was altogether
desperate; and to reflect upon it overmuch<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</SPAN></span>
was to court madness. So he put the thought of it
from him for the time being, and after dragging
the dead dogs into the shadow of the forest, resumed
the preparation of his evening meal. When he had
eaten it, he erected a wind-screen, and lying in his
sleeping bag, with his feet to the fire, lighted a pipe,
and once more considered the problem before him.</p>
<p>It was at least four days’ journey to North Star
Lodge, probably five or six, since he would have to
carry the necessaries of life himself, and so burdened
would not be able to travel fast. There
was food for four days on the sled, and to make
sure of reaching North Star, he would have to put
himself on rations, and travel as fast as he could.
Barring accidents there was an even chance of his
getting through, but if any ill-chance arose then—He
did not finish the thought. Knocking the ashes
out of his pipe, he stretched himself down in the
sleeping berth, and presently fell asleep.</p>
<p>When he awoke it was still dark, and the fire was
burning low. He looked at his watch. It was five
o’clock. He stretched himself a little, and thrusting
his arm out of the sleeping bag, he threw a
couple of spruce boughs on the fire. The resinous
wood quickly caught, and as it flared up he looked
round. On the edge of the circle of light, which
his fire cut out of the darkness, something caught
his eye. He looked again. Two tiny globes of
light, about three feet above the ground, appeared
to be suspended on nothing. He watched them
steadily, and for the briefest moment of time, saw
them eclipsed, then they reappeared. He looked
further. There were other twin globes of light,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</SPAN></span>
scattered all round, and, as the spruce crackled into
flame, he caught sight of an animal’s head, and the
outline of its form.</p>
<p>“Timber-wolves!” he whispered to himself.</p>
<p>Feeling for his automatic pistol, he lay waiting
his opportunity. Undoubtedly, the bodies of his
dead dogs had already served the savage beasts
for a meal, and now they were watching him, perhaps
already counting him their prey.</p>
<p>He did not feel particularly afraid. He knew
that the wolf is really a coward, and that unless
driven by hunger, it seldom attacks man, but all the
same he thought it wise to teach the beast a lesson.
So when the shadowy form of one of the beasts
moved, he sighted and fired. The wolf gave a
yelp, jumped clean in the air, and dropped dead well
within the circle of firelight. He looked round
again. The watching eyes in the darkness had disappeared.
Presently however they returned, and
lying perfectly still, he saw a gaunt dog wolf slink
out of the shadows towards its dead comrade, and
fall on it with its teeth. Another followed and
another, and a moment later there was a snarling
tangle of furry beasts where the dead wolf had
been.</p>
<p>“Phew!” he whistled to himself, as he noted
their disregard of the firelight, “they’re mad with
hunger!”</p>
<p>He emptied his pistol into the bunch, and the
pack fell back, leaving three of its number dead
in the snow. Of the first wolf nothing remained
but the skull and tail. Behind the trees the snarling
and yelping continued, and as he crept out of his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</SPAN></span>
sleeping bag, he conjectured that others of the
beasts had been injured by his shots, and were falling
a prey to their hungry companions. There was
a serious look upon his face, as, crossing to the
other side of the fire, he picked up the dead wolves,
and one by one flung them into the darkness, where
as his ears assured him they also became food for
their famished pack-mates.</p>
<p>He had meant to commence his journey at an
early hour, but the presence of the wolf-pack forced
him to reconsider his plans, and to delay until dawn.
The interval he filled in by packing his stores in a
convenient form for carrying, and with the aid of
things from the sled and his sleeping bag he devised
a knapsack, which whilst it bulked large was not
really heavy. Then he breakfasted, and that done,
as the dawn broke, looked round once more. On
one side of him the wolves were still in the shadows
of the trees, and as he turned to look on the other,
his eye caught the package of poisoned salmon roe,
which was still upon the sledge. A thought struck
him.</p>
<p>“The very thing!” he muttered, and going to the
sled, he broke up the food with an ax and then scattered
it in small portions about the camping place.</p>
<p>“I shall bag some of them for certain,” he said, as
he saw the wolves watching him. “When they find
it they’ll bolt it like one o’clock.”</p>
<p>The day had well broken when, adjusting his
snowshoes, he shouldered his pack, and stepped out
on the trail. None of the wolves were now in
sight, but he had gone only a little way, when a
sharp howl behind him, told him that they were still<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</SPAN></span>
about. He looked back. A little spur of trees on
the bank hid his late camp, but as he glanced back,
a wolf leaped on the ice, ran howling a short way,
then dropped in the snow. Other yelps of pain
came from behind the screen of trees, and as the
sounds reached him a sigh of satisfaction came in
his eyes.</p>
<p>“It’s working like a charm,” he said to himself.
“There’s an end of Mr. Wolf for this trip, I fancy.”</p>
<p>As he journed he kept a sharp look out, turning
frequently to observe the trail behind him. Not
a single wolf appeared, and through the short day
he marched on, the solitary living thing in a landscape
that was unutterably forlorn and desolate.
The quick night drew on, and he decided to camp.
Halting in a sheltered cove he felled a small spruce,
gathered some dry twigs and built himself a fire,
then he thrust his hand to his tunic pocket for
matches. They were gone. He had lost them.
For a minute or two he was filled with dismay,
and real terror clutched at his heart-strings, for to
be without means of making a fire in the desolate
Northland, is to have entered the valley of the
shadow of death.</p>
<p>Then he recalled an old device of the Voyageurs,
and proceeded to put it into execution. With
his jack knife he cut some thin shavings of spruce,
mixed them with a handful of dead lichen scraped
from trees, and biting the bullets from a couple of
cartridges shook the powder of one over the little
heap that he had made, and with that from the other
cartridge made a short train. Then he fired his
pistol to light the train. The powder caught,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</SPAN></span>
spluttered and burned out without lighting the
lichen and the pine-shavings, and the operation had
to be performed three times before it was successful.
He built up his fire, and when it was well going, and
he was congratulating himself on his success a
thought struck him. Hastily he examined his
bandolier. He had but three cartridges left.</p>
<p>As he weighed the metal shells in his hand, his
face grew very serious. Each of them carried a
message of death, but to him, as his sole means of
making a fire, they were to him the bridge of life,
and a precarious bridge at that. With at least
three camps to make before he reached North
Star Lodge, he recognized that the chances were
almost desperate, and that only care and skill and
a large slice of luck could carry him through. Very
carefully he stowed the cartridges where they would
be safe against damp or accidental loss, and then
proceeded to cook his meal.</p>
<p>The next morning he started an hour before
dawn. Light snow was falling, but he could not
afford to regard that, and on snowshoes he pressed
forward steadily. It began to blow, and he sought
the lee of the river-bank for shelter, then that happened
which put a term to his journey. A great tree,
well up the bank, collapsed under its weight of
snow. Roger Bracknell caught the rending sound
of its fall and instinctively leaped aside, but the
snowshoes embarrassed him and he fell. A bough
of the falling tree alighted on his right leg, snapping
it like a pipestem, and pinning him down in the
snow.</p>
<p>Under the first shock of pain, he almost fainted,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</SPAN></span>
but in a minute or two recovered himself sufficiently
to take stock of the situation. It was, as he instantly
recognized, very desperate. He sat up, and tried
to move the weight from his leg. The bough which
held him fast was not a very thick one, but the
weight of the tree was behind it, and with his
hatchet he began to cut through the branch. Every
stroke he made jarred him terribly, and more than
once he had to desist, but at last the bough parted,
and he was able to push the weight from his leg.
He was, however, in little better case, since he
could not stand upright; and to crawl would have
been futile, even if the deepening snow had allowed
the possibility of doing so.</p>
<p>He looked round, and through the falling snow
caught sight of the sombre pinewoods. They had
a funereal look, and in their shadows brooded the
menace of the North, which had surely overtaken
him at last. Death was staring him in the eyes.
He took out his pocket book, and made shift to
write a note to his superior down at the Post.
Then he took out his pistol, and loaded it with one
of the cartridges that had held his life, but which
now carried only death, swift and merciful. It was
no use waiting. He held the pistol ready, and for a
moment his thoughts strayed to Joy Gargrave.
Would she ever hear? Would she guess that
he—</p>
<p>His thoughts broke off suddenly. Through the
gloom of the falling snow he caught a sound of
voices. Some one, it seemed, was urging a dog-team
to greater efforts. Was he dreaming? He
listened carefully. No! There it was again, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</SPAN></span>
with it came the yelp of a dog cut by a whip. A
great wave of thankfulness rolled over him. He
shouted and fired his pistol in the air. A moment
later came an answering shout, and he called back
again. Presently, out of the snow-murk emerged
the forms of two men—Indians, and as they bent
over him he lapsed into unconsciousness.</p>
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