Chapter XVIII: Lost

Brent was conscious of a drone of voices. They came from a great distance--from so great a distance that he could not distinguish the words. He half-realized that somewhere, men were talking.

Befuddled, groping, his brain was struggling against the stupor that had held him unconscious for an hour. Two months before, half the amount of liquor he had taken into his system would have drugged him into a whole night's unconsciousness, but the life in the open, and the hard work in the gravel and on the trail, had so strengthened him physically that the rum, even in the poisonous air of the cabin could not deaden him for long. Gradually, out of the drone of voices a word was sensed by his groping brain. Then a group of words. Where was he? Who were these men? And why did they persist in talking when he wanted to sleep? His head ached, and he was conscious of a dull pain in his cramped neck. He was about to shift into an easier position, when suddenly he realized where he was. He was drunk--in the filthy cabin of the _Belva Lou_--and the voices were the voices of Claw, and the mate, and the Captain, who were still at their liquor. A wave of sickening remorse swept him. He, Carter Brent, couldn't keep away from the hooch. Even in the vile cabin of the _Belva Lou_, he had fallen for it. It was no use. He would kill himself--would blow his worthless brains out and be done with it, rather than face--A sudden savage rage obsessed him. Kill himself, he would, but first--he would rid the North of these vultures.

He was upon the point of leaping to his feet, and with his fists, his chair--anything that came to hand, annihilating the brutish occupants of the cabin, when the gruff voice of the Captain cut in upon Claw's droning monotone.

"An' when we git him an' his Injun planted, me an' Asa'll take his dogs an' hit back here, an' you kin strike east along the coast till you pick up another woman. It's a damn outrage--that's what it is! Chargin' me fifty dollars apiece fer greasy old pelters like them, that ain't worth the grub they eat! What I want is a young one--good lookin' an' young."

"You had yer pick out of the eight," growled Claw.

"An' a hell of a pick it was! Why, I've went out an' rustled 'em myself, an' fer a sack of flour, an' a half a dozen fish-hooks, an' mebbe a file er two, I've got the pick of a hull village."

Brent's brain cleared gradually as he listened to the villainous dialogue. Vaguely he sensed that it was himself and Joe Pete that the Captain spoke of "planting." So they intended to murder him, did they? And, when that detail had been attended to, they would go on with their traffic in "winter wives." But, they did not intend to kill him here on board the vessel. The Captain had spoken of coming back, after the deed was done. Where would they take him? Brent suddenly found himself possessed by curiosity. He decided to wait and see. And, when the time came, he would give as good an account of himself as he could--and then--what difference did it make? They were not fit to live. He would kill them if he could--or maybe they would kill him. But he was not fit to live either. He had sat at table with them--had fraternized with them--drank liquor in the stinking cabin with the scum of the earth. He was no better than they--he was one of them. The bottle scraped along the table, and he could hear the audible gulping of liquor, the tap of the returned glasses, and the harsh rasping of throats as they were cleared of the fiery bite.

Then the voice of Claw: "You ain't had no pick of a village since the Mounted begun patrolin' the coast."

"Damn the Mounted!"

"Yeh, that's what I say. But damnin' 'em don't git red of 'em. Facts is, they're here, an' every year it's harder an' harder fer a man to make a livin'. But listen, Cap, I've got one bet up my sleeve. But it'll cost you more'n any fifty dollars--er a hundred, either. She ain't no Husky--she's an Injun breed--an' damn near white. Her name's Snowdrift--an' she's the purtiest thing in the North. I've had my eyes on her fer a couple of years. She was in the mission over on the Mackenzie. But she ain't there no more. She's way up the Coppermine, with a band of about twenty Dog Ribs." Claw paused to pour a glass of liquor, and Brent felt the blood pounding his eardrums in great surging throbs. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead and the palms of his hands, and it was only by a superhuman effort that he continued to feign sleep. Surely, they would notice the flush on his face, the sweat glistening on his forehead and the dryness of his lips--but, no--Claw was speaking again:

"I tried to buy her once--last year it was, offen her mother--offered her a thousan' dollars, cash money--an' 'fore I know'd what happened, the damned old squaw had me about half killed. She's a hell cat. She done it barehanded--clawed my eyes, an' clawed out a hull handful of whiskers--you kin see that patch on my throat where they never grow'd back. It was over near Good Hope, an' I didn't dast to make no holler, nor kill her neither, on account of the Mounted--but I'll get her yet. An' when I do, I'll learn her to pull folks whiskers out by the ruts when they're tryin' to do the right thing by her!"

"You won't git no thousan' dollars from me!" exploded the Captain, "They ain't no woman, white, red, brown, yaller, or black that's worth no thousan' dollars o' my money!"

"Oh, ain't they?" sneered Claw, "Well you don't git her then. Fact is I never figgered on sellin' her to you, nohow. I kin take her over to Dawson an' make ten thousan' offen her in six months' time. They got the dust over there, an' they ain't afraid to spend it--an' they know a good lookin' woman when they see one. I'm a tellin' you they ain't no woman ever hit the Yukon that kin anyways touch her fer looks--an' I've saw 'em all. The only reason I'm offerin' her to you is because I kin run her up here a damn sight easier than I kin take her clean over to Dawson--an' with a damn sight less risk, too."

"How old is she?" growled the Captain.

"Ain't a day over twenty. She's dirt cheap at a thousan'. You could have her all winter, an' next summer you could slip into one of them coast towns, Juneau, or Skagway, or even the ones farther north, an' make five or ten times what you paid fer her."

"But s'pose she got spunky, an' I'd kill her, or knock out her teeth, er an eye--then where'd my profits be? Women's hell to handle if they take a notion."

"That's your lookout. It's your money that's invested, an' if you ain't got sense enough to look after it, it's your funeral--not mine."

"How you goin' to git her here? How you goin' to git her away from the Injuns? An' how do you know where she's at?"

"It's like this. Last summer she leaves the mission an' her an' the old squaw talks the Dog Ribs into hittin' over onto the Coppermine to prospect. They gits over there an' builds 'em a camp, an' starts in trappin' an' prospectin'. But a couple of the bucks has got a thirst fer hooch, an' they can't git none so they pulls out an' hits back fer the Mackenzie. I run onto one of 'em an' he give me the dope--he's the one that's here with me, an' he's goin' to guide me down to the village when I git ready to go. That's why I asked Ace-In-The-Hole if he'd saw 'em. I didn't want him buttin' in on the deal--the old squaw's bad enough, but Gawd! I seen him kill three men in about a second in a saloon in Dawson over a stud game--bare handed. They ain't no woman ever got her hooks into him--not even The Queen of the Yukon--an' she done her damndest--really loved him, an' all that sort of bunk. I know all about women, an' she'd of run straight as hell if he'd of married her--some says she's run straight ever sense she got caked in on him--even after she seen it wasn't no use. He kind of sticks up fer 'em all. Anyways, he knocked hell out of me one night when I was lacin' it to a gal I'd brung into the country with a dog whip. He won't stand fer no rough stuff when they's women mixed up in it, an' I'd ruther be in hell with my legs cut off than have him find out what we was up to. I don't want none of his meat--me!"

"Better go easy with yer jaw then," advised the Captain, "Mebbe he ain't so damn dead to the world as he's lettin' on."

Claw laughed: "I've got him gauged. I've studied him 'cause I aimed to git him sometime. He's a hooch-hound right. Half what he's drunk today will put him dead fer hours. You could pull all his teeth an' he'd never feel it. No, we ain't got to bother about him. He'll be out of the way before I hit fer the Injun camp, anyhow. We'll wake him up after while, an' I'll give him the bottle of hooch, like I said, so he'll stay soused an' not move his camp, then we'll hit over there with more hooch, an' when he uncovers his dust we'll git him an' the Injun both. Your share of his dust will be half enough to pay fer the breed. But, before we start out you fork over half the price--balance payable on delivery, an' me an' the Injun'll hit on up the river an' fetch back the girl. It'll cost you a keg of rum besides the thousan', 'cause the only way to git her away from them Siwashes'll be to git 'em all tanked up. They'll be right fer it, bein' off the hooch as long as they have. But, at that, I better take along a man or two of the crew, to help me handle 'em."

"We won't bother none of the crew," rasped the Captain, harshly. "I'll jest go 'long myself. With five hundred dollars of my dust in yer jeans fer a starter after ye'd got her, ye might git to thinkin' o' them ten thousan' you could make off her in Dawson--not that I wouldn't trust you, you understand, but jest to save myself some worry while you was gone, then, if she's as good lookin' as you say, I'd ruther be along myself than let you an' some of the crew have her till you get here."

Brent's first sensation when he heard the name of Snowdrift upon Claw's lips had been one of blind, unreasoning fury, but his brain cleared rapidly as the man proceeded, and as he listened to the unspeakable horror of the conversation, the blind fury gave place to a cold, deadly rage. He realized that if he were to save the woman he loved from a fate more horrible than he had ever conceived of, he must exert the utmost care to make no false move. His heart chilled at the thought of what would have happened to her had he yielded to the first blind impulse to launch himself at the throats of the men there in the little cabin where all the odds were against him. A pistol shot, a blow from behind, and Snowdrift would have been left absolutely in the power of these fiends.

Cold sober, now, his one thought was to get out of the cabin, yet he dared not move. Should he show signs of returning consciousness he knew that suspicion would immediately fasten upon him, and that his life would not be worth a penny. He must wait until they roused him, and even then, he must not be easily roused. Claw had assured the Captain that half the amount of liquor would deaden him for hours, therefore he must play his part. But could he? Was it humanly possible to endure the physical torture of his cramped position. Every muscle of his body ached horribly. His head ached, he was consumed with torturing thirst, and his mouth was coated with a bitter slime. Added to this was the brain torture of suspense when his every instinct called for action. Suppose they should change their minds. He dared not risk opening his eyes to the merest slit, because he knew that Claw or the Captain might be holding a knife to his ribs, or a pistol at his head. Any moment might be his last--and then--Snowdrift--he dared not even shudder at the thought. There was another danger, suppose he should over-play his part, when they undertook to awaken him, or should under-play it? He knew to a certainty that one false move would mean death without a chance to defend himself, unarmed as he was and with the odds of three to one against him.

An interminable period, during which the men talked and wrangled among themselves, was interrupted by a loud knock upon the door.

"Who's there?" roared the Captain, "An' what d'ye want?"

"Dat me--Joe Pete," came a familiar voice from beyond the door. "An' I'm t'ink dat tam we goin' back. She start to snow, an' I ain' lak we git los'. Too mooch no trail."

"Might's well git 'em started now as anytime," whispered Claw. "_We_ don't want 'em to git lost, neither. What we want is fer 'em to git to their camp an' then the snow an' the hooch'll hold 'em till we git there."

"Next thing is to git him woke up," answered the Captain. Aloud, he called to Joe Pete: "All right, come on in an' give us a hand, yer pardner's stewed to the guards, an' it ain't goin' to be no cinch to wake him up."

The door opened, and Brent's heart gave a leap as he felt the hand of the big Indian upon his shoulder. If anything should go wrong now, at least the odds against him were greatly reduced insofar as the occupants of the cabin were concerned. But, there would still be the crew--they could shoot from the cover of the igloos-- The hand was shaking him roughly, and it was with a feeling of vast relief that Brent allowed his head to roll about upon the stiffened muscles of his neck. A glass was pressed to his lips, and there was nothing feigned in the coughing with which he sought to remove the strangling liquor from his throat. His eyes opened, and the next instant a dipper of cold water was dashed into his face. The shaking continued, and he babbled feeble protest: "Lemme 'lone. G'way--le'me sleep!" The shaking was redoubled, and Brent blinked stupidly, and feigned maudlin anger as the Indian slapped him with the flat of his hand, first on one cheek and then on the other. "Who you slappin'," he muttered, thickly, as he staggered to his feet and stood swaying and holding to the table for support, "C'm on an' fight!" he challenged, acting his part to a nicety, glaring owlishly about, "I c'n lick y'all. Gi'me some water, I'm burnin' up." A dipper of water was thrust into his hands and he drained it in huge gulps, "What's goin' on here?" he asked, apparently revived a little by the water, "Gi'me some hooch!"

Claw laid a conciliating hand upon his arm: "Listen, Ace-In-The-Hole," he purred, "Not no more hooch right now. It's startin' to snow, an' you got to be hittin' fer camp. Look a here," he picked up a corked bottle and extended it to Brent, "Here's a bottle fer you. Wait till you git to camp, and then go to it. 'Twon't take you only a little while--but you got to git goin'. If she thicks up on you before you git to the mountains you'll be in a hell of a fix--but you got time to make it if the Siwash will shove the dogs along. Better let him ride the sled," he said, turning to Joe Pete, "You'll make better time."

Brent took the bottle and slipped it beneath his parka: "How much?" he asked, fumbling clumsily for his sack.

"That's all right," assured Claw, "Tain't nothin' 't all. It's a present from me an' Cap. Shows we know how to treat a friend. Come over an' see us agin, when the storm lets up. Yer welcome to anything we got."

"Much 'blige, Claw," mumbled Brent, blinking with solemn gravity, as he smothered an impulse to reach out and crush the man's wind-pipe in the grip of his hand, "Didn't know you was good fren' of mine. Know it--now--an' you, too, Cap--an' you, too, Snaggs."

"Scroggs," corrected the mate, "Asa Scroggs."

"Sure--Scroggs--'scuse me--mus' be little full. My name's Ace, too--Ace-In-The-Hole--pair of aces, haw, haw, haw! Pair to draw to, I'll say. Well, s'long. Tell you what," he said, as he turned to the door, leaning heavily upon Joe Pete, "You come on over to my camp, when the storm lets up. Right on the river--can't miss it--Bloody Falls--where Old Hearne's Injuns butchered the poor Eskimos--damn shame! Bring over plenty of hooch--I've got the dust to pay for it--bring dozen bottles--plenty dust back there in camp--an' it'll be my treat."

"We'll come," the Captain hastened to accept, "Might's well be good friends. Neighbors hain't none too thick in these parts. We'll come, won't we Claw--an' we'll bring the hooch."

Stumbling and mumbling, Brent negotiated the narrow ally and the steep flight of stairs in the wake of Joe Pete. At the head of the ladder that led down the ship's side, he managed to stumble and land harmlessly in a huge pile of snow that had been shoveled aside to make a path to the igloos, and amid the jibes of the two sailors who were cutting blubber, allowed Joe Pete to help him onto the sled.

The wind had risen to half a gale. Out of the northeast it roared, straight across the frozen gulf from the treeless, snow-buried wastes of Wollaston Land, driving before it flinty particles of snow that hissed earthward in long cutting slants.

Heading the dogs southward, Joe Pete struck into the back-trail and, running behind, with a firm grip on the tail-rope, urged them into a pace that carried the outfit swiftly over the level snow-covered ice.

Upon the sled Brent lay thinking. Now that the necessity for absolute muscle control no longer existed, the condition of cold hate into which he had forced himself gave place to a surge of rage that drove his nails into his palms, and curses from his lips, as he tried in his unreasoning fury to plan extermination of the two fiends who had plotted the soul-murder of his wonder woman. He would tear them to shreds with his two hands. He would shoot them down from ambush without a chance to protect themselves, as they searched for his camp among the rock-ridges of Bloody Falls.

Gradually the fume of fury cooled and he planned more sanely. He was conscious of a torturing thirst. The bottle of hooch pressed against his side, and carefully so as not to disturb the covering robe, he drew it from beneath his parka. He was cold sober, now. The shock of what he had heard in the cabin of the _Belva Lou_ had completely purged his brain of the effect of the strong liquor. But not so his body. Every nerve and fibre of him called for more liquor. There was a nauseating sickness in his stomach, a gnawing dryness in his throat, and a creeping coldness in his veins that called for the feel of the warm glow of liquor. Never in his life had the physical desire for drink been more acute--but his brain was cold sober.

Nothing of the heart-sickening remorse of his first moments of consciousness assailed him now. What was done was done. He knew that he had yielded to his desire for drink, had weakly succumbed to the first temptation, as he had always weakly succumbed--an act, in itself contemptible. But with an ironical smile he realized that his very weakness had placed him in a position to save from a fate a thousand times more horrible than death, the girl who had become dearer to him than life itself. But, with that realization, came also the realization that only by the merest accident, had the good been born of evil, that the natural and logical result of his act would have had its culmination at Bloody Falls when he and Joe Pete would have sunk down dead upon the snow at the moment he produced the gold to pay for more hooch. Claw had laid his plans along the logical sequence of events. "He played me for a drunkard, as he had a right to," muttered Brent. "And his scheme would have worked except for one little mistake. He forgot to figure that physically I'm a better man than I was back at Dawson. He thought he had me gauged right, and so he talked. But--he over-played his hand. An hour ago, I was a drunkard. Am I a drunkard now? It is the test," he muttered, "The war is on," and with a grim tightening of the lips, he thrust the bottle back under his parka.

Three times within the next two hours he withdrew the bottle. And three times he returned it to its place. He thought of tossing it into the snow--and a moment later, angrily dismissed the thought. "_She_ wouldn't ask odds of the hooch and I won't either! I'll keep this bottle right with me. I'll fight this fight like a man--like a Brent! And, by God, when I win, it won't be because I couldn't get the hooch! It will be because I wouldn't drink it when I had it!"

And, the next moment, to the utter astonishment of Joe Pete, he leaped perfectly sober from the sled, and took his place at the tail-rope with a laughing command to the Indian to take a rest on the robes.

An hour later, Brent halted the dogs and aroused Joe Pete. "We ought to have hit shore by this time," he said, "I'm afraid something's wrong."

The snow had thickened, entirely obliterating the trail, and forming an opaque wall through which the eye could penetrate but a short distance beyond the lead dog.

The Indian noted the course, and the direction of the wind. "Mebbe-so win' change," he opined, and even as he spoke the long sweeping lines of snow were broken into bewildering zig-zags. A puff of wind coming at a right angle from the direction of the driving gale was followed by another blustering puff from the opposite direction, and they came thick and fast from every direction, and seemingly from all directions at once. The snow became powder-fine and, in a confusion of battering blasts, the two men pushed uncertainly on.