by the hand, because he was her husband and because he was man enough to make her love him. Perhaps it was Deane who had hung the wreath of bakneesh on his tent and who had scribbled the words in charcoal. And Deane surely knew of the note his wife had written. The feeling of brotherhood grew stronger in Billy, and thought of their faith in him filled him with a strange elation.
The fire was growing low, and he turned to add fresh fuel. His eyes caught sight of the box in the tent, and he dragged it out. He was about to throw it on the fire when he hesitated and examined it more closely. How far had they come, he wondered? It must have been from the other side of the Barren, for Deane had built the box to protect Isobel from the fierce winds of the open. It was built of light, dry wood, hewn with a belt ax, and the corners were fastened with babiche cord made of caribou skin in place of nails. The balsam that had been placed in it for Isobel was still in the box, and Billy’s heart beat a little more quickly as he drew it out. It had been Isobel’s bed. He could see where the balsam was thicker, where her head had rested. With a sudden breathless cry he thrust the box on the fire.
He was not hungry, but he made himself a pot of coffee and drank it. Until now he had not observed that the storm was growing steadily worse. The thick, low-hanging spruce broke the force of it. Beyond the shelter of the forest he could hear the roar of it as it swept through the thin scrub and open spaces of the edge of the Barren. It recalled him once more to Pelliter. In the excitement of Isobel’s presence and the shock and despair that had followed her flight he had been guilty of partly forgetting Pelliter. By the time he reached the Eskimo igloos there would be two days lost. Those two days might mean everything to his sick comrade. He jumped to his feet, felt in his pocket to see that the letters were safe, and began to arrange his pack. Through the trees there came now fine white volleys of blistering snow. It was like the hardest granulated sugar. A sudden blast of it stung his eyes; and, leaving his pack and tent, he made his way anxiously toward the more open timber and scrub. A few hundred yards from the camp he was forced to bow his head against the snow volleys and pull the broad flaps of his cap down over his cheeks and ears. A hundred yards more and he stopped, sheltering himself behind a gnarled and stunted banskian. He looked out into the beginning of the open. It was a white and seething chaos into which he could not see the distance of a pistol shot. The Eskimo igloos were twenty miles across the Barren, and Billy’s heart sank. He could not make it. No man could live in the storm that was sweeping straight down from the Arctic, and he turned back to the camp. He had scarcely made the move when he was startled by a strange sound coming with the wind. He faced the white blur again, a hand dropping to his empty pistol holster. It came again, and this time he recognized it. It was a shout, a man’s voice. Instantly his mind leaped to Deane and Isobel. What miracle could be bringing them back?
A shadow grew out of the twisting blur of the storm. It quickly separated itself into definite parts—a team of dogs, a sledge, three men. A minute more and the dogs stopped in a snarling tangle as they saw Billy. Billy stepped forth. Almost instantly he found a revolver leveled at his breast.
“Put that up, Bucky Smith,” he called. “If you’re looking for a man you’ve found the wrong one!”
The man advanced. His eyes were red and staring. His pistol arm dropped as he came within a yard of Billy.
“By—It’s you, is it, Billy MacVeigh!” he exclaimed. His laugh was harsh and unpleasant. Bucky was a corporal in the service, and when Billy had last heard of him he was stationed at Nelson House. For a year the two men had been in the same patrol, and there was bad blood between them. Billy had never told of a certain affair down at Norway House, the knowledge of which at headquarters would have meant Bucky’s disgraceful retirement from the force. But he had called Bucky out in fair fight and had whipped him within an inch of his life. The old hatred burned in the corporal’s eyes as he stared into Billy’s face. Billy ignored the look, and shook hands with the other men. One of them was a Hudson’s Bay Company’s driver, and the other was Constable Walker, from Churchill.
“Thought we’d never live to reach shelter,” gasped Walker, as they shook hands. “We’re out after Scottie Deane, and we ain’t losing a minute. We’re going to get him, too. His trail is so hot we can smell it. My God, but I’m bushed!”
The dogs, with the company man at their head, were already making for the camp. Billy grinned at the corporal as they followed.
“Had a pretty good chance to get me, if you’d been alone, didn’t you, Bucky?” he asked, in a voice that Walker did not hear. “You see, I haven’t forgotten your threat.”
There was a steely hardness behind his laugh. He knew that Bucky Smith was a scoundrel whose good fortune was that he had never been found out in some of his evil work. In a flash his mind traveled back to that day at Norway House when Rousseau, the half Frenchman, had come to him from a sick-bed to tell him that Bucky had ruined his young wife. Rousseau, who should have been in bed with his fever, died two days later. Billy could still hear the taunt in Bucky’s voice when he had cornered him with Rousseau’s accusation, and the fight had followed. The thought that this man was now close after Isobel and Deane filled him with a sort of rage, and as Walker went ahead he laid a hand on Bucky’s arm.
“I’ve been thinking about you of late, Bucky,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that affair down at Norway, an’ I’ve been lacking myself for not reporting it. I’m going to do it—unless you cut a right-angle track to the one you’re taking. I’m after Scottie Deane myself!”
In the next breath he could have cut out his tongue for having uttered the words. A gleam of triumph shot into Bucky’s eyes.
“I thought we was right,” he said. “We sort of lost the trail in the storm. Glad we found you to set us right. How much of a start of us has he and that squaw that’s traveling with him got?”
Billy’s mittened hands clenched fiercely. He made no reply, but followed quickly after Walker. His mind worked swiftly. As he came in to the fire he saw that the dogs had already dropped down in their traces and that they were exhausted. Walker’s face was pinched, his eyes half closed by the sting of the snow. The driver was half stretched out on the sledge, his feet to the fire. In a glance he had assured himself that both dogs and men had gone through a long and desperate struggle in the storm. He looked at Bucky, and this time there was neither rancor nor threat in his voice when he spoke.
“You fellows have had a hard time of it,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. I’m not overburdened with grub, but if you’ll dig out some of your own rations I’ll get it ready while you thaw out.”
Bucky was looking curiously at the two tents.
“Who’s with you?” he asked.
Billy shrugged his shoulders. His voice was almost affable.
“Hate to tell you who was with me, Bucky,” he laughed, “I came in late last night, half dead, and found a half-breed camped here—in that silk tent. He was quite chummy—mighty fine chap. Young fellow, too—almost a kid. When I got up this morning—” Billy shrugged his shoulders again and pointed to his empty pistol holster. “Everything was gone—dogs, sledge, extra tent, even my rifle and automatic. He wasn’t quite bad, though, for he left me my grub. He was a funny cuss, too. Look at that!” He pointed to the bakneesh wreath that still hung to the front of his tent. “`In honor of the living,’ ” he read, aloud, “Just a sort of reminder, you know, that he might have hit me on the head with a club if he’d wanted to.” He came nearer to Bucky, and said, good-naturedly: “I guess you’ve got me beat this time, Bucky. Scottie Deane is pretty safe from me, wherever he is. I haven’t even got a gun!”
“He must have left a trail,” remarked Bucky, eying him shrewdly.
