The Intriguers

Robertson smiled.

"If there was a rich strike, we would no object. We're here to trade, and supplying miners is no quite so chancy as dealing in furs; but to have a crowd from the settlements disturbing our preserves and going away after finding nothing o' value would not suit us. Still, I'm thinking it's no likely: the distance and the winter will keep them out."

"Did you ever see signs of oil?"

"No here; there's petroleum three hundred miles south, but no enough, in my opinion, to pay for driving wells. Onyway, the two prospecting parties that once came up didna come back again."

He left them presently, and when they heard him moving about an adjoining room, Harding made a suggestion.

"We'll stay here for a while and then look for that petroleum on our way to the settlements."

Blake agreed readily; the determination, he thought, was characteristic of his comrade. Harding's project had failed, but instead of being crushed by disappointment, he was already considering another.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BACK TRAIL

Blake and his friends spent three weeks at the Hudson Bay post, and throughout the first fortnight an icy wind hurled the snow against the quivering building. It was dangerous to venture as far as a neighboring bluff, where fuel had been cut; Benson and the agent, who were hauling cordwood home, narrowly escaped from death one evening in the suddenly freshening storm. None of the half-breeds could reach the factory, and Robertson confessed to some anxiety about them. There was little that could be done, and they spent the dreary days lounging about the red-hot stove, and listening to the roar of the gale. In the long evenings, Robertson told them grim stories of the North.

Then there came a week of still, clear weather, with intense frost; and when several of the trappers arrived, Robertson suggested that his guests had better accompany a man who was going some distance south with a dog team. He could, however, spare them only a scanty supply of food, and they knew that a long forced march lay before them when they left their guide.

Day was breaking when the dogs were harnessed to the sled, and Harding and his companions, shivering in their furs, felt a strong reluctance to leave the factory. It was a rude place and very lonely, but they had enjoyed warmth and food there, and their physical nature shrank from the toil and the bitter cold. None of them wished to linger in the North—Harding least of all—but it was daunting to contemplate the distance that lay between them and the settlements. Strong effort and stern endurance would be required of them before they rested beside a hearth again.

There was no wind, the smoke went straight up and, spreading out, hung above the roof in a motionless cloud; the snow had a strange ghostly glimmer in the creeping light; and the cold bit to the bone. It was with a pang that they bade their host farewell, and followed the half-breed, who ran down the slope from the door after his team. Robertson was going back to sit, warm and well-fed, by his stove, but they could not tell what hardships awaited them.

Their depression, however, vanished after a while. The snow was good for traveling, the dogs trotted fast, and the half-breed grunted approval of their speed as he pointed to landmarks that proved it when they stopped at noon. After that they held on until dark, and made camp among a few junipers in the shelter of a rock. All had gone well the first day; Harding's leg no longer troubled him; and there was comfort in traveling light with their packs on the sled. The journey began to look less formidable. Gathering close round the fire, they prepared their supper cheerfully, while the dogs fought over scraps of frozen fish. Harding, however, had misgivings about their ability to keep up the pace; he thought that in a day or two it would tell on the white men.

They slept soundly, for the cold has less effect on the man who is fresh and properly fed. Breakfast was quickly despatched, and after a short struggle with the dogs they set out again. It was another good day, and they traveled fast, over a rolling tableland on which the snow smoothed out the, inequalities among the rocks. Bright sunshine streamed down on them, the sled ran easily up the slopes and down the hollows, and the men found no difficulty in keeping the pace. Looking back when they nooned, Harding noticed the straightness of their course. Picked out in delicate shades of blue against the unbroken white surface surrounding it, the sled trail ran back with scarcely a waver to the crest of a rise two miles away. This was not how they had journeyed north, with the icy wind in their faces, laboriously struggling round broken ridges and through tangled woods. Harding was a sanguine man, but experience warned him to prepare for much less favorable conditions. It was not often the wilderness showed a smiling face.

Still, the fine weather held, and they were deep in the timber when they parted from their guide on a frozen stream which he must follow while they pushed south across a rugged country. He was not a companionable person, and he spoke only a few words of barbarous French, but they were sorry to see the last of him when he left them with a friendly farewell. He had brought them speedily a long distance on their way, but they must now trust to the compass and their own resources; while the loads they strapped on were unpleasantly heavy. Before this task was finished, dogs and driver had vanished up the white riband of the stream, and they felt lonely as they stood in the bottom of the gorge with steep rocks and dark pines hemming them in. Blake glanced at the high bank with a rueful smile.

"There are advantages in having a good guide," he said. "We haven't had to face a climb like that all the way. But we'd better get up."

It cost them some labor, and when they reached the summit they stopped to look for the easiest road. Ahead, as far as they could see, small, ragged pines grew among the rocks, and breaks in the uneven surface hinted at troublesome ravines.

"It looks rough," said Benson. "There's rather a high ridge yonder.
It might save trouble to work round its end. What do you think?"

"When I'm not sure," Harding replied, "I mean to go straight south."

Benson gave him an understanding nod.

"You have better reasons for getting back than the rest of us; though I've no particular wish to loiter up here. Break the trail, Blake; due south by compass!"

They plunged deeper into the broken belt, clambering down ravines, crossing frozen lakes and snowy creeks. Indeed, they were thankful when a strip of level surface indicated water, for the toil of getting through the timber was heavy.

After two days of travel there was a yellow sunset, and the snow gleamed in the lurid light with an ominous brilliance, while as they made their fire a moaning wind got up. These things presaged a change in the weather, and they were rather silent over the evening meal. They missed the half-breed and the snarling dogs, and it looked as if the good fortune that had so far attended them were coming to an end.

The next morning there was a low, brooding sky, and at noon snow began to fall, but they kept on until evening over very rough ground, and then they held a council round the fire.

"The situation requires some thought," Blake said. "First of all, our provisions won't carry us through the timber belt. Now, the shortest course to the prairie, where the going will be easier, is due south; but after we get there we'll have a long march to the settlements. I'd partly counted on our killing a caribou, or perhaps a moose, but so far we've seen no tracks."

"There must be some smaller animals that the Indians eat," Benson suggested.

"None of us knows where to look for them, and we haven't much time to spare for hunting."

"That's so," Harding agreed. "What's your plan?"

"I'm in favor of heading southwest. It may mean an extra hundred miles, or more, but it would bring us nearer the Stony village, and afterward the logging camp on the edge of the timber, where we might get supplies."

"It's understood that the Indians are often half starved in winter," Benson reminded him. "For all that, they might have had good luck; and, anyway, we couldn't cross the prairie with an empty grubsack. My vote's for striking off to the west."

Harding concurred, though his leg had threatened further trouble during the last day or two, and he would have preferred the shorter route.

"What about the petroleum?" Blake asked.

"We can't stop to look for it unless we can lay in a good stock of food, and I don't suppose we could do much prospecting with the snow on the ground," Harding paused with a thoughtful air. "When we reach the settlement I must go home, but if the money can be raised, I'll be back as soon as the thaw comes, to try for the oil, Clarke's an unusually smart man, and there's no doubt he's on the trail."

"We'll raise enough money somehow," Benson declared.

Harding smiled.

"Yes, we'll raise the money somehow," he agreed. "It has been my experience that when you want a thing badly enough, there's always some way to get it."

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and stood up, stretching and yawning.

"Right now I want sleep," he said.

When dawn came the next morning, it was snowing hard, and for a week they made poor progress, with a bitter gale driving the flakes in their faces. Each day the distance covered steadily lessened, and rations were cut down accordingly. Harding's leg was getting sore, but he did not mean to speak of it unless it became necessary. They were, however, approaching the neighborhood of the Indian village and Blake began to speculate upon the probability of their finding its inhabitants at home. He understood that the Stonies wandered about, and he realized with uneasiness that it would be singularly unfortunate if they were away on a hunting trip.

At last, after spending all of one blustering day laboriously climbing the rough but gently rising slope of a long divide, they camped on a high tableland, and lay awake, too cold to sleep, beside a sulky, greenwood fire. In the morning it was difficult to get up on their feet, but as the light grew clearer, the prospect ahead of them seized their attention. The hill summits were wrapped in leaden cloud, but a valley opened up below. It was wider and deeper than any they had come across since leaving the factory, the bottom looked unusually level, and it ran roughly south.

They gazed at it in silence for a time; and then Harding spoke.

"I've an idea that this is the valley where Blake fell sick, and it's going to straighten things out for us if I'm right."

"That's so," Benson agreed, "We would be sure of striking the Stony village, and we could afterward follow the low ground right down to the river. With the muskegs frozen solid, it ought to make an easy road."

Blake was conscious of keen satisfaction; but there was still a doubt.

"We'll know more about it after another march," he said.

No snow fell that morning, and as their packs were ominously light they made good speed across the hill benches and down a ravine where they scrambled among the boulders of a frozen creek. It was a gray day without the rise in temperature that often accompanies cloudiness, and the light was strangely dim. Rocks and pines melted into one another at a short distance, and leaden haze obscured the lower valley. Blake was becoming sure, however, that it was the one they had traveled up and, dispensing with the usual noon halt, they pushed on as fast as possible. All were anxious to set their doubts at rest, for there was now a prospect of obtaining food and shelter in a few days; but they recognized no landmarks, and with the approach of evening the frost grew very keen. The haze drew in closer, and the scattered pines they passed wailed drearily in a rising wind. The men were tired, but they could see no suitable camping place, and they pushed on, looking for thicker timber.

It was getting dark when a belt of trees stretched across the valley, and they decided to stop there. Benson, leading the way, suddenly cried out.

"What is it?" Harding asked.

Benson hesitated.

"Well," he said, "the thing doesn't seem probable, but I believe I saw a light. Anyway, it's gone."

They stopped, gazing eagerly into the gloom. A light meant that there were men not far off, and after the grim desolation through which they had traveled all were conscious of a longing for human society. Besides, the strangers would no doubt have something to eat—they might even be cooking a plentiful supper. There was, however, nothing to be seen until Blake moved a few yards to one side. Then he turned to Benson with a cheerful laugh.

"You were right! I can see a glimmer about a mile ahead. I wonder who the fellows are?"

They set off as fast as they could go, though traveling among the fallen branches and the slanting trees was difficult in the dark. Now and then they lost their beacon, but the brightening glow shone out again, and when it was visible Blake watched it with surprise. It was low, hardly large enough, he thought, for a fire, and it had a curious irregular flicker. Drawing nearer, they dipped into a hollow where they could distinguish only a faint brightness beyond the rising ground ahead. They eagerly ascended that, and reaching the summit, they saw the light plainly; but it was very small, and there were no figures outlined against it. Benson shouted, and all three felt a shock of disappointment when no answer came to them.

He ran as fast as his snowshoes would let him, smashing through brush, floundering over snowy stories, with Blake and Harding stumbling, short of breath, behind; and then he stopped with a hoarse cry. He stood beside the light; there was nobody about; the blaze sprang up mysteriously from the frozen ground.

"A blower of natural gas!" Harding exclaimed excitedly. "In a sense, we've had our run for nothing, but this may be worth a good deal more than your supper."

"If I had the option, I'd trade all the natural gas in Canada for a thick, red, moose steak, and a warm place to sleep in," Benson said savagely. "Anyway, it will help us to light our fire, and we have a bit of whitefish and a few hard bannocks left."

Blake shared his comrade's disappointment. He was tired and hungry, and he felt irritated by Harding's satisfaction. For all that, he chopped wood and made camp, and their frugal supper was half eaten before he turned to the optimistic American.

"Now," he said, "maybe you will tell us why you were so cheerful about this gas."

"First of all," Harding answered good-humoredly, "it indicates that there's oil somewhere about—the two generally go together. Anyway, if there were only gas, it would be worth exploiting, so long as we found enough of it; but judging by the pressure there's not much here."

"What would you do with gas in this wilderness?"

"In due time, I or somebody else would build a town. Fuel's power, and if you could get it cheap, you'd find minerals that would pay for working. Men with money in Montreal and New York are looking for openings like this; no place is too remote to build a railroad to if you can ensure freight."

"You're the most sanguine man I ever met," Blake commented. "Take care your optimism doesn't ruin you."

"I wonder," Harding went on, "whether Clarke knows about this gas? On the whole, I think it probable. We can't be very far from the Stony camp, and there's reason to believe he's been prospecting this district. It's oil he's out for."

"How did the thing get lighted?" Benson asked in an indifferent tone.

Harding smiled as he gave him a sharp glance. He had failed in his search for the gum, and he did not expect his companions to share his enthusiasm over a new plan. They had, however, promised to support him, and that was enough, for he believed he might yet show them the way to prosperity.

"Well," he said, "I guess I can't blame you for not feeling very keen; but that's not the point. I can't answer what you ask, and I believe our forest wardens are now and then puzzled about how bush fires get started. We have crossed big belts of burned trees in a country where we saw no signs of Indians."

"If this blower has been burning long, the Stonies must know of it," Blake said. "Isn't it curious that no news of it has reached the settlements?"

"I'm not sure. They may venerate the thing; and, anyway, they're smart in some respects. They know that where the white men come their people are rounded up on reservations, and I guess they'd rather have the whole country to themselves for trapping and fishing. Then, Clarke may have persuaded them to say nothing."

"It's possible," Blake agreed thoughtfully. "We'll push on for their camp the first thing tomorrow."

CHAPTER XIX

THE DESERTED TEPEES

Starting at daybreak, they reached a hillside overlooking the Stony village on the third afternoon. Surrounded by willows and ragged spruces, the conical tepees rose in the plain beneath, but Blake stopped abruptly as he caught sight of them. They were white to the apex, where the escaping heat of the fire within generally melted the snow, and no curl of smoke floated across the clearing. The village was ominously silent and had a deserted look.

"I'm very much afraid Clarke's friends are not at home," Blake said with forced calm. "We'll know more about it in half an hour; that is, if you think it worth while to go down."

Harding and Benson were silent a moment, struggling with their disappointment. They had made a toilsome journey to reach the village, their food was nearly exhausted, and it would cost them two days to return to the valley, which was their best road to the south.

"Now that we're here, we may as well spend another hour over the job," Harding decided. "It's possible they haven't packed all their food along."

His companions suspected that they were wasting time, but they followed him down the hill, until Benson, who was a short distance to one side of them, called out. When they joined him he indicated a row of footsteps leading up the slope.

"That fellow hasn't been gone very long; there was snow yesterday," he said. "By the line he took, he must have passed near us. I wonder why he stayed on after the others."

Blake examined the footsteps carefully, and compared them with the impress of his own snowshoes.

"It's obvious that they can't be older than yesterday afternoon," he said. "From their depth and sharpness, I should judge that the fellow was carrying a good load, which probably means that he meant to be gone some time. The stride suggests a white man."

"Clarke," said Harding. "He seems to be up here pretty often; though I can't see how he'd do much prospecting in the winter."

"It's possible," Blake replied. "But I'm anxious to find out whether there's anything to eat in the tepees."

They hurried on, and when they reached the village they discovered only a few skins in the first tent. Then, separating, they eagerly searched the others without result, and when they met again they were forced to the conclusion that there was no food in the place. It was about three o'clock, and a threatening afternoon. The light was dim and a savage wind blew the snow about. The three men stood with gloomy faces in the shelter of the largest tepee, feeling that luck was hard against them.

"These northern Indians often have to put up with short rations while the snow lies," Benson remarked. "No doubt, they set off for some place where game's more plentiful when they found their grub running out; and as they've all gone the chances are that they won't come back soon. We've had our trouble, for nothing, but we may as well camp here. With a big fire going, one could make this tepee warm."

Blake and Harding felt strongly tempted to agree. The cold had been extreme the last few nights, and, weary and scantily fed as they were, they craved shelter. Still they had misgivings.

"We have wasted too much time already," Blake said with an effort; "and there's only a few days' rations in the bag. We have got to get back to the valley, and we ought to make another three hours' march, before we stop."

"Yes," Harding slowly assented; "I guess that would be wiser."

Setting off at once, they wearily struggled up the hill; and it had been dark some time when they made camp in a hollow at the foot of a great rock. The rock kept off the wind, and the spruces which grew close about it further sheltered them, but Blake told his companions to throw up a snow bank while he cut wood.

"I'm afraid we're going to have an unusually bad night, and we may as well take precautions," he said.

His forecast proved correct, for soon after they had finished supper a cloud of snow swept past the hollow, and the spruces roared among the rocks above. Then there was a crash and the top of a shattered tree plunged down between the men and fell on the edge of the fire, scattering a shower of sparks.

"Another foot would have made a difference to two of us," Harding said coolly. "However, it's fallen where it was wanted; help me heave the thing on."

It crackled fiercely as the flame licked about it. Sitting between the snowbank and the fire, the men kept fairly warm, but a white haze drove past their shelter and, eddying in now and then, covered them with snow. In an hour the drifts were level with the top of the bank, but this was a protection, and they were thankful that they had found such a camping place, for death would have been the consequence of being caught in the open. The blizzard gathered strength, but though they heard the crash of broken trees through the roar of the wind no more logs fell, and after a while they went to sleep, secure in the shelter of the rock.

When day broke it was long past the usual hour, and the cloud of driving flakes obscured even the spruces a few yards away. The hollow at the foot of the crag was shadowy, and the snow had piled up several feet above the bank, and lapped over at one end. Still, with wood enough, they could keep warm; and had their supplies been larger they would have been content to rest. As things were, however, they were confronted with perhaps the gravest peril that threatens the traveler in the North—the possibility of being detained by bad weather until their food ran out. None of them spoke of this, but by tacit agreement they made a very sparing breakfast, and ate nothing at noon. When night came, and the storm still raged, their hearts were very heavy.

It lasted three days, and on the fourth morning it seemed scarcely possible to face the somewhat lighter wind and break a trail through the fresh snow. However, they dare risk no further delay. Strapping on their packs, they struggled up the range. At nightfall they were high among the rocks, and it was piercingly cold, but they got a few hours' sleep in a clump of junipers, and struck the valley late the next day. Finding shelter, they made camp, and after dividing a small bannock between them they sat talking gloomily. Their fire had been lighted to lee of a cluster of willows, and it burned sulkily because the wood was green. Pungent smoke curled about them, and they shivered in the draughts.

"How far do you make it to the logging camp?" Benson asked. "I'm taking it for granted that the lumber gang's still there."

"A hundred and sixty miles," said Blake. "And we have food enough for two days; say forty miles."

"About that; it depends on the snow."

Benson made no answer, and Harding was silent a while, sitting very still with knitted brows.

"I can't see any way out," he said at last. "Can you?"

"Well," Blake answered quietly, "we'll go on as long as we are able.
Though I haven't had a rosy time, I have faith in my luck."

Conversation languished after this. The men had a small cake of tobacco left, and they sat smoking and hiding their fears while the wind moaned among the willows and thin snow blew past. The camp was exposed, and, hungry and dejected as they were, they felt the stinging cold. After an hour of moody silence, Harding suddenly leaned forward, with a lifted hand.

"What's that?" he said sharply. "Didn't you hear it?"

For a few moments they heard only the rustle of the willows and the swishing sound of driven snow; then a faint patter caught their ears, and a crack like the snapping of a whip.

"A dog team!" cried Benson.

Springing to his feet, he set up a loud shout. It was answered in English; and while they stood, shaken by excitement and intense relief, several low shadowy shapes emerged from the gloom; then a tall figure appeared, and after it two more. Somebody shouted harsh orders in uncouth French; the dogs sped toward the fire and stopped. Their driver, hurrying after them, began to loose the traces, while another man walked up to Blake.

"We saw your fire and thought we'd make for it," he explained. "I see your cooking outfit's still lying round."

"It's at your service," Blake responded. "I'm sorry we can't offer you much supper, though there's a bit of a bannock and some flour."

"We'll soon fix that," the man declared. "Guess you're up against it, but our grub's holding out." He turned to the driver. "Come and tend to the cooking when you're through, Emile."

Though the order was given good-humoredly, there was a hint of authority in his voice, and the man to whom he spoke quickened his movements. Then another man came up, and while the dogs snapped at each other, and rolled in the snow, the half-breed driver unloaded a heavy provision bag and filled Harding's frying-pan.

"Don't spare it," said the first comer. "I guess these men are hungry; fix up your best menoo."

Sitting down by the fire, shapeless in his whitened coat, with his bronzed face half hidden by his big fur cap, he had nevertheless a soldierly look.

"You're wondering who we are?" he asked genially.

"Oh, no," Blake smiled. "I can make a guess; there's a stamp on you I recognize. You're from Regina."

"You've hit it first time. I'm Sergeant Lane, R.N.W.M.P. This"—he indicated his companion—"is Private Walthew. We've been up on a special patrol to Copper Lake, and left two of the boys there to make some inquiries about the Indians. Now we're on the back trail."

He looked as if he expected the others to return his confidence, and Blake had no hesitation about doing so. He knew the high reputation of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, a force of well-mounted and carefully chosen frontier cavalry. Its business is to keep order on a vast stretch of plain, to watch over adventurous settlers who push out ahead of the advancing farming community, and to keep a keen eye on the reservation Indians. Men from widely different walks of life serve in its ranks, and the private history of each squadron is rich in romance, but one and all are called upon to scour the windy plains in the saddle in the fierce summer heat and to make adventurous sled journeys across the winter snow. Their patrols search the lonely North from Hudson Bay to the Mackenzie, living in the open in arctic weather; and the peaceful progress of western Canada is due largely to their unrelaxing vigilance, Blake gave them a short account of their journey and explained his party's present straits.

"Well," said the Sergeant, "I figure that we have provisions enough to see us down to the settlements all right, and we'll be glad of your company. The stronger the party, the smoother the trail; and after what you've told me, I guess you can march."

"Where did you find the half-breed?" Benson asked. "Your chiefs at
Regina don't allow you hired packers."

"They surely don't. He's a Hudson Bay man, working his passage. Going back to his friends somewhere about Lake Winnipeg, and decided he'd come south with us and take the cars to Selkirk. I was glad to get him; I'm not smart at driving dogs."

"We found it hard to understand the few Indians we met," said Harding. "The farther north you go, the worse it must be. How will the fellows you left up yonder get on?"

The Sergeant laughed.

"When we want a thing done, we can find a man in the force fit for the job. One of the boys I took up can talk to them in Cree or Assiniboin; and it wouldn't beat us if they spoke Hebrew or Greek. There's a trooper in my detachment who knows both."

Benson did not doubt this. He turned to Private Walthew, whose face, upon which the firelight fell, suggested intelligence and refinement.

"What do you specialize in?"

"Farriery," answered the young man, he might have added that extravagance had cut short his career as veterinary surgeon in the old country.

"Knows a horse all over, outside and in," Sergeant Lane interposed. "I allow that's why they sent him when I asked for a good dog driver, though in a general way our bosses aren't given to joking. Walthew will tell you there's a difference between physicking a horse and harnessing a sled team."

"It's marked," Walthew agreed with a chuckle. "When I first tried to put the traces on I thought they'd eat me. Even now I have some trouble; and I'll venture to remind my superior that he'd be short of some of his fingers if they didn't serve us out good thick mittens."

"That's right," admitted Lane good-humoredly. "I'm sure no good at dogs. If you're going to drive them, you want to speak Karalit or French. Plain English cussin's no blame use."

Emile announced that supper was ready, and the police watched their new acquaintances devour it with sympathetic understanding, for they had more than once covered long distances on very short rations in the arctic frost. Afterward they lighted their pipes, and Emile, being tactfully encouraged, told them in broken English stories of the barrens. These were so strange and gruesome that it was only because they had learned something of the wilds that Harding and his friends could believe him. Had they been less experienced, they would have denied that flesh and blood could bear the things the half-breed calmly talked about.

While Emile spoke, there broke out behind the camp a sudden radiance which leaped from the horizon far up the sky. It had in it the scintillation of the diamond, for the flickering brilliance changed from pure white light to evanescent blue and rose. Spreading in a vast, irregular arc, it hung like a curtain, wavering to and fro and casting off luminous spears that stabbed the dark. For a time it blazed in transcendental splendor, then faded and receded, dying out with unearthly glimmering far back in the lonely North.

"That's pretty fine," Lane commented mildly.

Blake smiled, but made no answer. He and his comrades were getting drowsy, and although a stinging wind swept the camp and the green wood burned badly, they were filled with a serene content. The keen bodily craving was satisfied; they had eaten and could sleep; and it looked as if their troubles were over. The dogs were obviously fit for travel, for they were still engaged in a vigorous quarrel over some caribou bones; the toil of the journey would be lightened by carrying their loads on the sled; and the party was strong enough to assist any member of it whose strength might give way. There was no reason to apprehend any difficulty in reaching the settlements; and in their relief at the unexpected rescue their thoughts went no farther. After the hunger and the nervous strain they had borne, they were blissfully satisfied with their present ease. There would be time enough to consider the future.

Sergeant Lane got up and shook the snow from his blanket.

"I've seen a better fire, boys, but I've camped with none at all on as cold a night," he said. "So far as I can figure, we have grub enough; but now that there are three more of us we don't want to lose time. You'll be ready to pull out by seven in the morning."

They lay down in the most comfortable places they could find, and slept soundly, although once during the night Harding was awakened by a dog that crept up to him for warmth.

CHAPTER XX

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

It was getting light the next morning when the reinforced party entered a belt of thicker timber where they first clearly realized the fury of the storm. The trees were small and sprang from a frozen muskeg, so that they could not be uprooted, but the gale had snapped the trunks and laid them low in swaths. Even in the spots where some had withstood its force the ground was strewn with split and broken branches, and to lee of them the snow had gathered in billowy drifts. The scene of ruin impressed the men, who were forced to make long rounds in search of a passage for the sled.

"About as fierce a blizzard as I remember," Sergeant Lane remarked. "We were held up three days, and thought ourselves lucky in making a ravine with a steep bank; but the wind couldn't have been quite so strong back north a piece. There'd have been two names less on the roster if we'd been caught down here."

Harding thought this was probable. He had had a protecting rock at his back, but in the valley there was no shelter from the storm that had leveled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the wilds could hardly have escaped. As he stumbled among the wreckage, Harding thought about the man whose footsteps they had seen near the Indian village. Unless he had found some secure retreat he must have had to face the fury of the gale. Harding felt convinced that the man was Clarke. It was curious that he should have been living alone among the empty tepees, but Harding imagined that he was in some way accountable for the Indians' departure, and he wondered where he was going when he crossed the range. There was a mystery about the matter, and if an explanation could be arrived at it would be of interest to him and his friends. Even before Clarke had sent them into the muskeg when he knew it was practically impassable, Harding had entertained a deep distrust of him.

Blake called him to help in dragging the sled over an obstacle, and the difficulties of the way afterward occupied his attention. When they found clearer ground they made good progress, and, late in the afternoon, seeing a rocky spur running out from the hillside, they headed for it to look for a sheltered camping place. There was still some daylight, but a cold wind had sprung up, blowing the loose snow into their faces.

As they neared the spur, the dogs swerved, as if attracted by something, and the half-breed struck the nearest dog and drove them on.

"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led them off, and he's not given to playing tricks."

"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the sergeant suggested. "I didn't notice anything, but they have a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into camp."

They found a nook among the rocks, and Emile loosed the dogs and threw them some frozen fish while the men had supper. It was a heavy, lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading, they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a sweep of chill, lifeless gray. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane looked round the camp.

"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."

"I leaf zem la bas," explained Emile, waving his hand toward a neighboring hollow. Then, moving a few paces forward, he exclaimed: "Ah! les coquins!"

"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew said. "I think I know where to find them."

He left the camp with Emile, and presently they heard the half-breed threatening the dogs; then Walthew's voice reached them and there was a hoarse and urgent tone in it. Springing up, they ran back along the trail and found Emile keeping off the dogs while Walthew bent over a dark object that lay half revealed in the clawed up snow. At first Harding saw only a patch or two of ragged fur that looked as if it belonged to an animal; then with a shock he caught the outline of a man's shoulder and arm. The rest of the party gathered round, breathless after their haste, and when Lane spoke there was grave authority in his voice.

"Give me a hand, boys. We have to get him out."

They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was sensible of a curious strained expectation. Soon the body lay clear of the snow, and the dim light fell on the frozen face.

"It's Clarke!" Blake cried.

"Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised."

"Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp.

Benson answered him.

"Yes; I knew him pretty well. He lived at Sweetwater, where we're going. I can give you any particulars you want."

"I'll ask you later." The sergeant knelt down and carefully studied the dead man's pose. "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and died of exposure; but that's a thing I've got to ascertain. I'll want somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."

None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order Blake and Harding joined them, and Harding afterward held the fur coat. Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what seemed needless care, though he first turned his back toward the others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body, and the men stood watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale glimmer of the snow, and the white patch of the face was faintly distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew trails of it about.

"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.

"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.

"Well," the sergeant answered dryly, "it's my duty to make investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been a knife cut or a bullet hole. One of you had better bring up the sled. We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose rocks along the foot of the spur."

The sled was brought and Clarke was gently placed on it, wrapped in his fur coat. Then they took the traces and started for the ridge, where they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of relief.

"Well," he said, "that's done, and he'll lie safely there. Rough on him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in it. I guess we'll get back to camp."

They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sled, and for a while after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire, where the light fell on the book in which he wrote with a pencil held awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the man. Gifted with high ability, he had, through no fault of his own, been driven out of a profession in which he was keenly interested, and made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but it had ended in a tragic manner; and this was made all the more impressive because Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped the same fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air, and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and the dusky trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that daunted him.

Harding's reflections also centered on the dead man, and he had food for thought. There was a mystery to be explained. He imagined that he had a clue to it in his pocket, though he could not follow it up for the present. He waited with some anxiety until Lane closed his book.

"Now," said the sergeant, "there are one or two points I want explained, and as you know the man, it's possible that you can help me. How did he come to be here with only about three days' rations?"

"I can answer that," said Harding. "He was in the habit of staying at the Indian village we told you of. We saw tracks coming from it when we were there the day before the blizzard began."

"A white man's tracks? Why did you go to the village?"

"I believe they were. We went to look for provisions, and didn't get them, because the place was empty."

"Then how do you account for the fellow's being there alone?"

"I can't account for it," Blake said quietly.

Lane turned to Harding. The American had a theory, but he was not prepared to communicate it to the police.

"It's certainly curious," he said evasively.

"We'll start for the village to-morrow."

"As the Indians are away, there won't be much to be learned," Benson suggested.

"They may have come back. Anyway, it's my business to find out all I can."

Soon afterward they went to sleep; and, rising an hour or two before daylight, they broke camp and turned back across the hills. The march was rough and toilsome, and when they camped at night fatigue and drowsiness checked conversation, but Blake and his comrades were sensible of a difference in Lane's manner. It had become reserved, and he had a thoughtful look. Reaching the village one evening, they were surprised to find that some of the Indians had returned. After supper Lane summoned them into the tepee he occupied. Emile interpreted, but he had some difficulty in making himself understood, for which Harding was inclined to be thankful.

The sergeant began by explaining the authority and business of the North-West Police, of whom it appeared one or two of the Indians had heard. Then he made Emile ask them if they knew Clarke. One of them said that they did, and added that he stayed with them now and then. Lane next asked why they took him in, and the Indian hesitated.

"He was a big medicine man and cured us when we were ill," he answered cautiously.

"Do you know these white men?" Lane asked, indicating Blake's party.

An Indian declared that they had never seen them, though he added that it was known that they were in the neighborhood. Being questioned about this, he explained that about the time of Clarke's arrival one of the tribe had come in from the North, where he had met a half-breed who told him that he had traveled some distance with three white men who were going to the settlements. Knowing the country, they had calculated that the white men could not be very far off.

Harding felt anxious. He saw where Lane's questions led, and realized that the sergeant meant to sift the matter thoroughly. There was not much cause to fear that he and his friends would be held responsible for Clarke's death; but he suspected things he did not wish the police to guess; and the Indians might mention having seen a white man's footprints on the occasion when he had forcibly taken Clarke away. Owing perhaps to their difficulty in making themselves understood, nothing, however, was said of this.

"How was it you left the white man in your village by himself?" Lane asked.

The Indians began to talk to one another, and it was with some trouble that Emile at last elicited an answer.

"It is a thing that puzzles us," said one. "The white man came alone and told us he had seen tracks of caribou three days' journey back. As we had no meat, and our fish was nearly done, six of us went to look for the deer."

"Six of you? Where are the rest? These tepees would hold a good many people."

"They are hunting farther north," the Indian explained. "When we got to the place the white man told us of, we could see no caribou tracks. As he was a good hunter, we thought this strange; but we went on, because there was another muskeg like the one he spoke of, and we might not have understood him. Then the snow came and we camped until it was over, and afterward came back, finding no deer. When we reached the tepees, he had gone, and we do not know what has become of him. We could not follow because the snow had covered his trail."

"He is dead," Lane said abruptly. "I found him frozen a few days ago."

Their surprise was obviously genuine, and Lane was quick to notice signs of regret. He imagined that Clarke had been a person of some importance among them.

"Tell them I don't want them any more," he said to Emile, and when the Indians went out he turned to Benson. "Give me all the information you are able to about the man."

Benson told him as much as he thought judicious, and Lane sat silent for a while.

"There is no reason to doubt that he came to his death by misadventure," he decided. "I don't quite understand what led him to visit these fellows; but, after all, that doesn't count."

"It isn't very plain," Benson replied. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"

"No," said Lane, looking at him steadily. "You can take it that this inquiry is closed; we'll pull out the first thing to-morrow." He beckoned Walthew. "Now that we're here, we may as well find out what we can about these fellows, and how they live. It will fill up our report, and they like that kind of information at Regina."

When the police had left the tepee Harding turned to his companions with a smile.

"Sergeant Lane is a painstaking officer, but his shrewdness has its limits, and there are points he seems to have missed. It would have been wiser not to have let Clarke's coat out of his hands until he had searched it."

"Ah!" Blake exclaimed sharply. "You emptied the pockets?"

"I did. My action was hardly justifiable, perhaps, but I thought it better that the police shouldn't get on the track of matters that haven't much bearing on Clarke's death. I found two things, and they're both of interest to us. We'll take this one first."

He drew out a metal flask, and when he unstoppered it a pungent smell pervaded the tepee.

"Crude petroleum," he explained. "I should imagine the flash-point is low. I can't say how Clarke got the stuff when the ground's hard frozen, but here it is."

"Isn't a low flash-point a disadvantage?" Benson asked. "It must make the oil explosive."

"It does, but all petroleum's refined, and the by-products they take off, which includes gasoline, fetch a remarkably good price. Shake a few drops on the end of a hot log and we'll see how it lights."

A fire burned in a ring of stones in the middle of the tepee, and Benson carefully did as he was told. Hardly had the oil fallen on the wood before it burst into flame.

"As I thought!" exclaimed Harding. "I suspect the presence of one or two distillates that should be worth as much as the kerosene. We'll get the stuff analyzed later; but you had better stopper the flask, because we don't want the smell to rouse Lane's curiosity. The important point is that, as I've reasons for believing the oil is fresh from the ground, Clarke must have found it shortly before the blizzard overtook him. That fixes the locality, and we shouldn't have much trouble in striking the spot when we come back again." His eyes sparkled. "It's going to be well worth while; this is a big thing!"

Blake did not feel much elation. He had all along thought his comrade too sanguine; though he meant to back him.

"In a way, it was very hard luck for Clarke," he said. "If you're right in your conclusions, he's been searching for the oil for several years; and now he's been cut off just when it looks as if he'd found it."

"You don't owe him much pity. What would have happened if we hadn't met the police?"

"It's unpleasant to think of. No doubt we'd have starved to death."

"A sure thing!" said Harding. "It hasn't struck you that this was what he meant us to do."

Blake started.

"Are you making a bold guess, or have you any ground for what you're saying?"

"I see you'll have to be convinced. Very well; in the first place, the man would have stuck at nothing. I've already tried to show you that he had something to gain by Benson's death. I suspected when we took you away from him that you were running a big risk, Benson."

"I was running a bigger one before that, if you can call a thing a risk when the result's inevitable," Benson replied. "The pace I was going would have killed me in another year or two, and even now I'm half afraid——" He paused for a few moments, with somber face and knitted brows. "I believe you're right, Harding," he went on thoughtfully; "but you haven't told us how he proposed to get rid of me."

"I'm coming to that. There was, however, another member of this party who was in his way, and he made his plans to remove you both."

"You mean me?" Blake broke in. "I don't see how he'd profit by my death."

"First, let's look at what he did. As soon as he reached the village, he heard that we had started from the Hudson Bay post. It wouldn't be difficult to calculate how long the food we could carry would last, and he'd see that the chances were in favor of our calling at the village for provisions. Presuming on that, he sent his friends away to look for caribou which they couldn't find. They admitted that they were puzzled, because he was a good hunter. Then he cleared out by himself; and I believe that if there was any food left in the place he carefully hid it."

Harding took out a letter and handed it to Blake.

"That," he said, "will show you how he would have profited. I found it in his pocket."

Blake started. It was Colonel Challoner's handwriting, and was addressed to Clarke.

"Read it," Benson advised; "it's justifiable."

Blake read it aloud, holding the paper near the fire, where the light showed up the grimness of his face:

"'In reply to your letter, I have nothing further to say. I believe I have already made my intentions plain. It would be useless for you to trouble me with any further proposals.'"

Blake folded the letter and put it into his pocket before he spoke.

"I think I see," he said very quietly. "The man has been trying to bleed the Colonel, and has got his answer."

"Is that all?" Harding asked.

"Well, I believe it proves that your conclusions are right. I won't go into particulars, but where my uncle and cousin are threatened I'm, so to speak, the leading witness for the defense, and it wouldn't have suited Clarke to let me speak. No doubt, that's why he took rather drastic measures to put me out of the way."

"Then you mean never to question the story of the Indian affair?"

"What do you know about it?" Blake asked curtly.

Harding laughed.

"I know the truth. Haven't I marched and starved and shared my plans with you? If there had been any meanness in you, wouldn't I have found it out? What's more, Benson knows what really happened, and so does Colonel Challoner. How else could Clarke have put the screw on him?"

"He doesn't seem to have made much impression; you have heard the
Colonel's answer." Blake frowned. "We'll drop this subject. If
Challoner attached any importance to what you think Clarke told him,
his first step would have been to send for me.

"I expect you'll find a letter waiting for you at Sweetwater," Harding replied.

Blake did not answer, and soon afterward Sergeant Lane came in with
Walthew.

CHAPTER XXI

A MATTER OF DUTY

The campfire burned brightly in a straggling bluff at the edge of the plain. The scattered trees were small and let in the cold wind, and the men were gathered close round the fire in a semi-circle on the side away from the smoke. Sergeant Lane held a notebook in his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of which they had been carefully estimating. The sergeant's calculations were not reassuring, and he frowned.

"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do a few more miles a day."

"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest another plan. You have brought us a long way, and Sweetwater's a bit off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half rations and let us push on."

"No, sir!" said Lane decidedly. "We see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out, and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."

Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sled. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, for the men preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigors of the wilds alone.

"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.

They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It was a clear night and very cold, but there was a crescent moon in the sky. The wind had fallen; the fragile twigs of the birches which shot up among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide stretch of snow.

"Ah!" Emile exclaimed suddenly. "You hear somet'ing?"

They did not, though they listened hard; but the half-breed had been born in the wilderness, and they could not think him mistaken. For a minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.

"White man come from ze sout'. Mais, oui! He come, sure t'ing."

Lane nodded.

"I guess he's right. I can hear it now; but I can't figure on the kind of outfit."

Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick patter of a dog team, nor the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise was dull and heavy, and as the snow would deaden it, whoever was coming could not be far away.

"Bob-sled!" Emile exclaimed with scorn. "V'la la belle chose!
Arrive ze great horse of ze plow."

"The fellow's sure a farmer, coming up with a Clydesdale team," Lane laughed. "One wouldn't have much trouble in following his trail."

A few minutes later three men appeared, carefully leading two big horses through the trees.

"Saw your fire a piece back," said one, when they had hauled up a clumsy sled. "I'm mighty glad to find you, Blake; we were wondering how far we might have to go."

"Then you came up after me, Tom?" exclaimed Blake. "You wouldn't have got much farther with that team; but who sent you?"

"I don't quite know. It seems that Gardner got orders from somebody that you were to be found, and he hired me and the boys. We had trouble in getting here, but we allowed we could bring up more grub and blankets on the sled, and we could send Jake back with the team when we struck the thick bush. Then we were going to make a cache, and pack along as much stuff as we could carry. But I have a letter which may tell you something."

Blake opened it, and Harding noticed that his face grew intent; but he put the letter into his pocket and turned to the man.

"It's from a friend in England," he said. "You were lucky in finding me, and we'll go back together in the morning."

After attending to their horses, the new arrivals joined the others at the fire, and explained that at the hotel-keeper's suggestion they had meant to head for the Indian village, and make inquiries on their way up at the logging camp. Though Blake talked to them, he had a preoccupied look, and Harding knew that he was thinking of the letter. He had, however, no opportunity for questioning him, and he waited until the next day, when Emile, whom they were helping, chose a shorter way across a ravine than that taken by the police and the men with the bob-sled. When they reached the bottom of the hollow, Blake told the half-breed to stop, and he took his comrades aside.

"There's something I must tell you," he said. "It was Colonel Challoner who sent the boys up from the settlement with food for us, and he begs me to come home at once. That's a point on which I'd like your opinion; but you shall hear what he has to say."

Sitting down on a log, he began to read from his letter:

"'A man named Clarke, whom you have evidently met, lately called on me and suggested an explanation of the Indian affair. As the price of his keeping silence on the subject, he demanded that I should take a number of shares in a syndicate he is forming for the exploitation of some petroleum wells.'"

"It was a good offer," Harding interrupted. "Clarke must have had reason for believing he was about to make a big strike; he'd have kept quiet until he was sure of it."

"'The fellow's story was plausible,'" Blake continued reading. "'It seems possible that you have been badly wronged; and I have been troubled——'" He omitted the next few lines, and went on: "'After giving the matter careful thought, I feel that the man may have hit upon the truth. It would, of course, afford me the keenest satisfaction to see you cleared, but the thing must be thoroughly sifted, because——'"

Blake stopped and added quietly:

"He insists on my going home."

"His difficulty is obvious," Benson remarked. "If you are blameless, his son must be guilty."

Blake did not answer, but sat musing with a disturbed expression. There was now no sign of the men with the bob-sled, and no sound reached them from the plain above. Emile stood patiently waiting some distance off, and though they were sheltered from the wind it was bitterly cold.

"In some ways, it might be better if I went home at once," Blake said at last. "I could come back and join you as soon as I saw how things were going. The Colonel would feel easier if I were with him; but, all the same, I'm inclined to stay away."

"Why?" Harding asked.

"For one thing, if I were there, he might insist on taking some quite unnecessary course that would only cause trouble."

"I'm going to give you my opinion," said Harding curtly. "I take it that your uncle is a man who tries to do the square thing?"

Blake's face relaxed and his eyes twinkled.

"He's what you call white, and as obstinate as they're made. Convince him that a thing's right and he'll see it done, no matter how many people it makes uncomfortable. That's why I don't see my way to encourage him."

"Here's a man who's up against a point of honor; he has, I understand, a long, clean record, and now he's prepared to take a course that may cost him dear. Are you going to play a low-down game on him; to twist the truth so's to give him a chance for deceiving himself?"

"Aren't you and Benson taking what you mean by the truth too much for granted?"

Harding gave him a searching look.

"I haven't heard you deny it squarely; you're a poor liar. It's your clear duty to go back to England right away, and see your uncle through with the thing he means to do."

"After all, I'll go to England," Blake answered with significant reserve. "However, we'd better get on, or we won't catch the others until they've finished dinner."

Emile started the dogs, and when they had toiled up the ascent they saw the men with the bob-sled far ahead on the great white plain.

"We may not have another chance for a private talk until we reach the settlement," Blake said. "What are you going to do about the petroleum?"

"I'll come back and prospect the muskeg as soon as the frost goes,"
Harding answered promptly.

"It will cost a good deal to do that thoroughly. We must hire transport for a full supply of all the tools and food we are likely to need; one experience of the kind we've had this trip is enough. How are you going to get the money?"

"I'm not going to the city men for it until our position's secure. The thing must be kept quiet until we're ready to put it on the market."

"You were doubtful about taking me for a partner once," Benson interposed. "I don't know that I could blame you; but now I mean to do all I can to make the scheme successful, and I don't think you'll have as much reason for being afraid that I might fail you."

"Call it a deal," said Harding. "You're the man we want."

"I ought to be back before you start," Blake said; "and if I can raise any money in England I'll send it over. You're satisfied that this is a project I can recommend to my friends?"

"I believe it's such a chance as few people ever get," Harding answered in a tone of firm conviction.

"Then we'll see what can be done. It won't be your fault if the venture fails."