Part 18 (1/2)
”Yup, I'm the party. An' they's a heft of other stuff they've got charged up agin me--over on the Yukon side. But they ain't huntin' me, 'cause they think I'm dead.” There was a cold glitter in the man's eye and his voice took on a taunting note. ”Still playin' a lone hand, eh?
Well, it got you at last, didn't it? Guess you've saw the handwritin' on the wall by this time. You ain't a-goin' no place from here. You've played yer string out. This here country ain't the Yukon. They ain't n.o.body, nor nothin' here to prevent a man's doin' just what he wants to.
The barrens don't tell no tales. Yer smart, all right--an' you've got the guts--that's why we ain't a-goin' to take no chances. By tomorrow night it'll be snowin'. An' when the storm lets up, they won't be no cabin here--just a heap of ashes in under the snow--an' you'll be part of the ashes.”
Connie had been in many tight places in his life, but he realized as he sat in his chair and listened to the words of Black Moran that he was at that moment facing the most dangerous situation of his career. He knew that unless the man had fully made up his mind to kill him he would never have disclosed his ident.i.ty. And he knew that he would not hesitate at the killing--for Black Moran, up to the time of his supposed drowning, had been reckoned the very worst man in the North. Escape seemed impossible, yet the boy showed not the slightest trace of fear.
He even smiled into the face of Black Moran. ”So you think I'm still with the Mounted do you?” he asked.
”Oh, no, we don't think nothin' like that,” sneered the man. ”Sure, we don't. That there ain't no service revolver we tuk offen you. That there's a marten trap, I s'pose. 'Course you're trappin', an' don't know nothin' 'bout us tradin' _hooch_. What we'd ort to do is to sell you some flour an' beans, an' let you go back to yer traps.”
”Dangerous business b.u.mping off an officer of the Mounted,” reminded the boy.
”Not over in here, it ain't. Special, when it's comin' on to snow. No.
They ain't no chanct in the world to git caught fer it--or even to git blamed fer it, 'cause if they ever find what's left of you in the ashes of the cabin, they'll think it got afire while you was asleep. Tomorrow mornin' yo git yourn. In the meantime, Squigg, you roll in an' git some sleep. You've got to take the outfit an' pull out early in the mornin'
an' unload that _hooch_ on to them Injuns. I'll ketch up with you 'fore you git there, though. What I've got to do here won't take me no longer than noon,” he glanced meaningly at Connie, ”an' then, we'll pull out of this neck of the woods.”
”Might's well take the kid's dogs an' harness, they might come in handy,” ventured Mr. Squigg.
”Take nothin!” roared Black Moran, angrily. ”Not a blame thing that he's got do we take. That's the trouble with you cheap crooks--grabbin' off everything you kin lay yer hands on--and that's what gits you caught.
Sometime, someone would see something that they know'd had belonged to him in our possession. Then, where'd we be? No, sir! Everything, dogs, gun, sled, harness an' all goes into this cabin when she burns--so, shut up, an' git to bed!” The man turned to Connie, ”An' now, you kin roll up on the floor in yer blankets an' pertend to sleep while you try to figger a way out of this mess, or you kin set there in the chair an'
figger, whichever you want. Me--I'm a-goin' to set right here an' see that yer figgerin' don't 'mount to nothin'--see?” The evil eyes of Black Moran leered, and looking straight into them, Connie deliberately raised his arms above his head and yawned.
”Guess I'll just crawl into my blankets and sleep,” he said. ”I won't bother to try and figure a way out tonight--there'll be plenty of time in the morning.”
The boy spread his blankets and was soon fast asleep on the floor, and Black Moran, watching him from his chair, knew that it was no feigned sleep. ”Well, of all the doggone nerve I ever seen, that beats it a mile! Is he fool enough to think I ain't a-goin' to b.u.mp him off? That ain't his reputas.h.i.+on on the Yukon--bein' a fool! It ain't noways natural he should take it that easy. Is he workin' with a pardner, that he expects'll git here 'fore mornin', or what? Mebbe that Injun comin'
here after _hooch_ a while back was a plant.” The more the man thought, the more uneasy he became. He got up and placed the two rifles upon the table close beside him, and returned to his chair where he sat, straining his ears to catch the faintest night sounds. He started violently at the report of a frost-riven tree, and the persistent rubbing of a branch against the edge of the roof set his nerves a-jangle. And so it was that while the captive slept, the captor worried and fretted the long night through.
Long before daylight, Black Moran awoke Squigg and made him hit the trail. ”If they's another policeman along the back trail, he'll run on to Squigg, an' I'll have time fer a git-away,” he thought, but he kept the thought to himself.
When the man was gone, Black Moran turned to Connie who was again seated in his chair against the wall. ”Want anything to eat?” he asked.
”Why, sure, I want my breakfast. Kind of a habit I've got--eating breakfast.”
”Say!” exploded the man, ”what ails you anyway? D'you think I'm bluffin'? Don't you know that you ain't only got a few hours to live--mebbe only a few minutes?”
”So I heard you say;” answered the boy, dryly. ”But, how about breakfast?”
”Cook it, confound you! There it is. If you figger to pot me while _I'm_ gittin' it, you lose. I'm a-goin' to set right here with this gun in my hand, an' the first move you make that don't look right--out goes yer light.”
Connie prepared breakfast, while the other eyed him closely. And, as he worked, he kept up his air of bravado--but it was an air he was far from feeling. He knew Black Moran by reputation, and he knew that unless a miracle happened his own life was not a worth a gun-wad. All during the meal which they ate with Black Moran's eyes upon him, and a gun in his hand, Connie's wits were busy. But no feasible plan of escape presented itself, and the boy knew that his only chance was to play for time in hope that something might turn up.
”You needn't mind to clean up them dishes,” grinned the man. ”They'll burn dirty as well as clean. Git yer hat, now, an' we'll git this business over with. First, git them dogs in the cabin, an' the sled an'
harness. Move lively, 'cause I got to git a-goin'. Every sc.r.a.p of stuff you've got goes in there. I don't want nothin' left that could ever be used as evidence. It's clouded up already an' the snow'll take care of the tracks.” As he talked, the two had stepped out the door, and Connie stood beside his sled about which were grouped his dogs. The boy saw that Leloo was missing, and glanced about, but no sign of the great wolf-dog was visible. ”Stand back from that sled!” ordered the man, as he strode to its side. ”Guess I'll jest look it over to see if you've got another gun.” The man jerked the tarp from the pack, and seizing the rifle tossed it into the cabin. Then he slipped his revolver into its holster and picked up Connie's heavy dog-whip. As he did so Connie caught just a glimpse of a great silver-white form gliding noiselessly toward him from among the tree trunks. The boy noted in a flash that the cabin cut off the man's view of the wolf-dog. And instantly a ray of hope flashed into his brain. Leloo was close beside the cabin, when with a loud cry, Connie darted forward and, seizing a stick of firewood from a pile close at hand, hurled it straight at Black Moran. The chunk caught the man square in the chest. It was a light chunk, and could not have possibly harmed him, but it did exactly what Connie figured it would do--it drove him into a sudden rage--_with the dog-whip in his hand._ With a curse the man struck out with the whip, and as its lash bit into Connie's back, the boy gave a loud yell of pain.
At the corner of the cabin, Leloo saw the boy throw the stick. He saw it strike the man. And he saw the man lash out with the whip. Also, he heard the boy's cry of pain. As the man's arm drew back to strike again, there was a swift, silent rush of padded feet, and Black Moran turned just in time to see a great silvery-white shape leave the snow and launch itself straight at him. He saw, in a flash, the red tongue and the gleaming white fangs, and the huge white ruff, each hair of which stuck straight out from the great body.
A single shrill shriek of mortal terror resounded through the forest, followed by a dull thud, as man and wolf-dog struck the snow together.
And then--the silence of the barrens.
It was long past noon. The storm predicted by Black Moran had been raging for hours, and for hours the little wizened man who had left the cabin before dawn had been plodding at the head of his dogs. At intervals of an hour or so he would stop and strain his eyes to pierce the boiling white smother of snow that curtained the back-trail. Then he would plod on, glancing to the right and to the left.