was the one who broke the ice. The more slow-going Ralph had not taken so much spirit as his brother. Nick’s eyes were bright, almost burning, as he turned his flushed, rugged face upon the half-breed. He leant forward in his eagerness and his words came rapidly, almost fiercely.
“Say, Victor,” he jerked out, as though he had screwed himself up for the necessary courage to speak on the subject. “I was thinkin’ o’ that white crittur you got yarnin’ about when you come around our shanty. Jest whar’s that Moosefoot Reserve, an’–an’ the bit o’ forest whar her lodge is located? Maybe I’d fancy to know. I ’lows I was kind o’ struck on that yarn.”
The trader saw the eager face, and the excitement in the eyes which looked into his, and, in a moment, his merry mood died out. His dark face became serious, and his keen black eyes looked sharply back into Nick’s expressive countenance. He answered at once in characteristic fashion.
“The Reserve’s nigh on to a hund’ed an’ fifty miles from here, I guess. Lies away ther’ to the nor’east, down in the Foothills. The bluff lies beyond.” Then he paused and a flash of thought shot through his active brain. There was a strange something looking out of Nick’s eyes which he interpreted aright. Inspiration leapt, and he gripped it, and held it.
“Say,” he went on, “you ain’t thinkin’ o’ makin’ the Reserve, Nick?” Then he turned swiftly and looked at Ralph. The quieter man was gazing heavily at his brother. And as Victor turned back again to Nick his heart beat faster.
Nick lowered his eyes when he found himself the object of the double scrutiny. He felt as though he would like to have withdrawn his questions, and he shifted uneasily. But Victor waited for his answer and he was forced to go on.
“Oh,” he said, with a shamefaced laugh, “I was on’y jest thinkin’. I ’lows that yarn was a real good one.”
There was a brief silence while swift thought was passing behind Victor’s dark face. Then slowly, and even solemnly, came words which gripped the hearts of his two guests.
“It wa’n’t no yarn. I see that White Squaw wi’ my own two eyes.”
Nick started to his feet. The “punch” had fired him almost beyond control. His face worked with nervous twitchings. He raised one hand up and swung it forcefully down as though delivering a blow.
“By Gar!” he cried, “then I go an’ find her; I go an’ see for myself.”
And as he spoke a strange expression looked out of Victor’s eyes.
Ralph removed his pipe from his lips.
“Good, Nick,” he said emphatically. “The dogs are fresh. Guess a long trail’ll do ’em a deal o’ good. When’ll we start?”
Nick looked across at his brother. He was doubtful if he had heard aright. He had expected strong opposition from the quiet, steady-going Ralph. But, instead, the elder man gave unhesitating approval. Just for one instant there came a strange feeling in his heart; a slight doubt, a sensation of disappointment, something foreign to his nature and unaccountable, something which took all pleasure from the thought of his brother’s company. It was quite a fleeting sensation, however, for the next moment it was gone; his honest nature rose superior to any such jealousy and he strode across the room and gripped Ralph’s hand.
“Say, we’ll start at daylight, brother. Jest you an’ me,” he blurted out, in the fulness of his large heart. “We’ll hunt that white crittur out, we’ll smell her out like Injun med’cine-men, an’ we’ll bring her back wi’ us. Say, Ralph, we’ll treat her like an angel, this dandy, queer thing. By Gar! We’ll find her, sure. Shake again, brother.” They wrung each other forcefully by the hand. “Shake, Victor.” And Nick turned and caught the trader’s slim hand in his overwhelming grasp.
His enthusiasm was at boiling point. The brew of essences had done its work. Victor’s swift-moving eyes saw what was passing in the thoughts of both his guests. And, like the others, his enthusiasm rose. But there was none of the simple honesty of these men in Victor. The half-breed cunning was working within him; and the half-breed cunning is rarely clean.
And so the night ended to everybody’s satisfaction. Ralph was even more quiet than usual. Victor Gagnon felt that the stars were working in his best interests; and he blessed the lucky and innocent thought that had suggested to him the yarn of the White Squaw. As for Nick, his delight was boisterous and unrestrained. He revelled openly in the prospect of the morrow’s journey.
Nor had broad daylight power to shake the purpose of the night. Too long had the trappers brooded upon the story of the White Squaw. Victor knew his men so well too; while they breakfasted he used every effort to encourage them. He literally herded them on by dint of added detail and well-timed praise of the woman’s beauty.
And after the meal the sled was prepared. Victor was chief adviser. He made them take a supply of essences and “trade.” He told them of the disposition of Man-of-the-Snow-Hill, the Moosefoot chief, assuring them he would sell his soul for strong drink. No encouragement was left ungiven, and, well before noon, the dogs stood ready in the traces.
A hearty farewell; then out upon the white trail Nick strung the willing beasts, and the flurry of loose surface-snow that flew in their wake hid the sled as the train glided away to the far northeast.
Victor stood watching the receding figures till the hiss of the runners died down in the distance, and the driving voice of Nick became lost in the grey solitude. The northern trail held them and he felt safe. He moved out upon the trampled snow, and, passing round to the back of the store, disappeared within the pine wood which backed away up the slope of the valley.
Later he came to where three huts were hidden away amongst the vast tree-trunks. They were so placed, and so disguised, as to be almost hidden until the wanderer chanced right upon them. These habitations were a part of Victor’s secret life. There was a strange mushroom look about them; low walls of muck-daubed logs supported wide-stretching roofs of reeds, which, in their turn, supported a thick covering of soot-begrimed snow. He paused near by and uttered a low call, and presently a tall girl emerged from one of the doors. She walked slowly toward him with proud, erect carriage, while at her heels followed two fierce husky dogs, moving with all the large dignity of honoured guards. The woman was taller than the trader, and her beauty of figure was in no wise hidden by the blanket clothing she wore. They talked earnestly together for some time, and then, in answer to a further summons from Victor, they were joined by a tall, gaunt man, with the solemn cast of face of an Indian, and a pair of eyes as darkly brooding as those of a moose. Although he was very dark-skinned he was plainly of the bastard race of his companions, and a certain resemblance between himself and the woman spoke of relationship.
The three talked long and seriously, and finally Victor returned alone to the store. Again he took up his stand in the doorway and remained gazing out upon the valley of the Little Choyeuse Creek, and the more distant crags of the foothills beyond.
His face was serious; serious even for the wild, where all levity seems out of place, and laughter jars upon the solemnity of the life and death struggle for existence which is for ever being fought out there. On his brow was a pucker of deep thought, whilst his eyes shone with a look which seemed to have gathered from his surroundings much of the cunning which belongs to the creatures of the forest. His usual expression of good-fellowship had passed; and in its place appeared a hungry, avaricious look which, although always there, was generally hidden behind a superficial geniality. Victor had hitherto lived fairly honestly because there was little or no temptation to do otherwise where his trading-post was stationed. But it was not his nature to do so. And as he stood gazing out upon the rugged picture before him he knew he was quite
