Connie Morgan in the Fur Country Part 21

The Indian regarded him gravely. "Me--I ain' say, 'ain' no G.o.d 'cos I ain' see none'. I say, dat better I ain' mak' dat white man G.o.d mad.

But, jus' de same, I ain' goin' mak' no _tamahnawus_ mad, neider."

"All right," smiled Connie. "We won't make him mad, but I'm going to find out about that _tamahnawus_--you wait and see. I wonder who built that _cache_?"

"Dat Dog Rib _cache_," promptly answered the Indian.

"Probably the Injuns up at the village will know about it. They'll be back from Fort Norman in a few days, and I'll ask Pierre Bonnet Rouge."

Avoiding the rough sh.o.r.e, the two struck out for camp down the middle of the ice-locked lake where the wind-packed snow gave excellent footing.

The air was still and keen, the sky cloudless, and Connie watched the sun set in a blaze of gold behind the snow-capped ridge to the westward.

Suddenly both halted in their tracks and glanced into each other's faces. From far behind them, seemingly from the crest of the hill they had left, sounded a cry: "_Y-i-i-e-e-o-o-o!_" Long-drawn, thin, quavering, it cut the keen air with startling distinctness. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it ceased, and the two stood staring.

Swiftly Connie's glance sought the bald crest of the hill that showed distinctly above the topmost patches of timber, as it caught the last rays of the setting sun. But the hill showed only an unbroken sky-line, and in the dead silence of the barrens the boy waited tensely for a repet.i.tion of the wild cry. And as he waited he was conscious of an uncomfortable p.r.i.c.kling at the roots of his hair, for never had he heard the like of that peculiar wailing cry, a cry that the boy knew had issued from the throat of no wild animal--a wild cry and eerie in its loud-screamed beginning, but that sounded half-human as it trailed off in what seemed a moan of quavering despair.

The cry was not repeated and Connie glanced into the face of 'Merican Joe who stood with sagging jaw, the picture of abject fear. With an effort, the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that it would never do to let the Indian see that his own nerve had been momentarily shaken:

"Someone lost up in the hills, I guess. We'd better go hunt him up."

The Indian's eyes stared wide with terror, his lips moved stiffly and the words rasped huskily: "_Tamahnawus!_ She git dark. We git to camp.

Mak' de big fire. _Tamahnawus_ she no lak' de fire." And without waiting for a reply, he struck off down the lake as fast as his snowshoes would let him. And Connie followed, knowing that in the approaching darkness nothing could be done toward clearing up the mystery of that loud-drawn wail.

That night the boy slept fitfully, and each time he awoke it was to see 'Merican Joe seated close beside the huge fire which he kept blazing high all the night through. Breakfast was finished just as the first grey light of dawn showed the outlines of the ridge. 'Merican Joe watched in silence as Connie made the remaining grub into a pack. "Take down the fly," ordered the boy, and the Indian obeyed with alacrity.

Folding the fly, he added the blankets to the pack, fastened on his snowshoes and struck out toward the north-west.

"Here, where you going?" cried Connie.

The Indian paused. "Goin' back to de cabin, jus' so fas' lak I kin."

"No you ain't," laughed the boy. "You're going with me, and we're going to find out all about who, or what made that racket last night."

"No, no, no! I ain' got to fin' dat out! Me--_I know_!"

"You don't know a thing about it. Listen here. That sound came from that high hill, didn't it?"

The Indian glanced fearfully toward the hill, the outline of which was just visible at the head of the lake, and nodded.

"Well, we're going to circle that hill. There has been no fresh snow for ten days or two weeks, and if we circle the base of it we'll strike the trail of whoever is on the hill. Then we can follow the trail."

"I ain' want no trail! _Tamahnawus_ she don' mak' no trail. Dat hill she b'long to _tamahnawus_. I ain' want dat hill. Plent' mor' hill for me.

An' plent' mor' lak' to trap de fox. An' besides, we ain' got nuff grub.

We got to git back."

"We've got enough grub for today and tomorrow if we go light on it. It won't take us long when we strike the trail to follow it up on to the hill. Come on, buck up! There may be someone up there that needs help--maybe someone that is in the same fix you were when I found you back on Spur Mountain."

"Ain't no one up dere. I ain' hang roun' on Spur Mountain an' yell lak _tamahnawus_. Me--I'm too mooch dead."

"Come on. Are you going with me?"

The Indian hesitated. "If we go roun' de hill an' ain' fin' no track, den we hit for de cabin?" he asked, shrewdly.

"Yes," answered the boy, confident that they would strike the trail by circling the hill, "if we don't strike the trail of whoever or whatever made that sound, we'll hit back to the cabin."

"All right, me--I'm go 'long--but we ain' strike no trail. _Tamahnawus_ don' mak' no trail." Connie struck out with the Indian following, and as they reached the summit of the ridge that paralleled the sh.o.r.e of the lake, the sun showed his yellow rim over a distant spruce swamp, and at the same instant, far away--from the direction of the hill, came once more the long-drawn quavering yell. 'Merican Joe whirled at the sound and started out over the back trail, and it required a full fifteen minutes of persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, and threat before he reluctantly returned and fell in behind Connie.

At the base of the hill, the boy suggested that they separate and each follow its base in opposite directions, pointing out that much time could be saved, as the hill, which was of mountainous proportions, seemed likely to have a base contour of eight or ten miles. But 'Merican Joe flatly refused. He would accompany Connie, as he had agreed to, but not one foot would he go without the boy. All the way up the ridge, he had followed so closely that more than once he had stepped on the tails of Connie's snowshoes, and twice, when the boy had halted suddenly to catch some fancied sound, he had b.u.mped into him.

It was nearly sundown when the two stood at the intersection of their own trail after having made the complete circuit of the hill. Fox tracks they had found, also the tracks of wolves, and rabbits, and of an occasional _loup cervier_--and nothing more. Connie had examined every foot of the ground carefully, and at intervals had halted and yelled at the top of his lungs--had even persuaded 'Merican Joe to launch forth his own peculiarly penetrating call, but their only answer was the dead, sphinx-like silence of the barrens.

"Com' on," urged 'Merican Joe, with a furtive glance into a nearby thicket. "Me--I got nuff. I know we ain' goin' fin' no track.

_Tamahnawus_ don' mak' no track."

"_Tamahnawus_, nothing!" exclaimed Connie, impatiently. "I tell you there ain't any such thing. If we had grub enough I'd stay right here till I found out where that yell comes from. There's no sign of a camp on the hill, and no one has gone up or come down since this snow fell.

There's something funny about the whole business, and you bet I'm going to find out what it is."

"You say we no fin' de track, we go back to de cabin," reminded the Indian.

"Yes, and we will go back. And then we'll load up a sled-load of grub, and we'll hit right back here and stay till we get at the bottom of this. The sun will drop out of sight in a minute, and then I think we'll hear it again. We heard it last evening at sundown, and at sunrise this morning."

"I ain' wan' to hear it no mor'," 'Merican Joe announced uneasily. "Dat ain' no good to hear."

Extending upward clear to the crest of the hill, directly above where the two stood, was an area half a mile wide upon which no timber grew.

Here and there a jumbled outcropping of rock broke the long smooth sweep of snow upon which the last rays of the setting sun were reflected with dazzling brightness. As Connie waited expectantly he was conscious of a tenseness of nerves, that manifested itself in a clenching of his fists, and the tight-pressing of his lips. His eyes swept the long up-slanting spread of snow, and even as he looked he heard 'Merican Joe give a startled grunt, and there before them on the snow beside an outcropping of rocks not more than three hundred yards from them, a beautiful black fox stood clean-cut against the white background, and daintily sniffed the air. Connie's surprise was no less than the Indian's for he knew that scarcely a second had pa.s.sed since his eyes had swept that exact spot--and there had been no fox there.

The sunlight played only upon the upper third of the long slope now, and the fox lifted his delicately pointed muzzle upward as if to catch some fleeting scent upon the almost motionless air. Then came that awful cry, rising in a high thin scream, and trailing off as before in a quavering wail of despair.

As Connie stared in amazement at the black fox, there was a swift scratching of claws, and a shower of dry snow flew up, as Leloo like a great silver flash, launched himself up the slope. For a fraction of a second the boy's glance rested upon the flying grey shape and once more it sought the fox--but there was no fox there, only the low rock-ledge outcropping through the snow. Instantly the boy sprang after Leloo, disregarding the inarticulate protest of 'Merican Joe, who laboured heavily along in his wake, hesitating between two fears, the fear of being left alone, and the fear of visiting the spot at which had appeared the fox with the voice of a man.

As Connie reached the rock-ledge he stopped abruptly and stared in surprise at Leloo. The great wolf-dog's nose quivered, and his yellow eyes were fixed with a peculiar glare upon a small irregular hole beneath a projecting lip of rock--a hole just big enough to admit the body of the fox. Even as the boy looked, the long hairs of Leloo's great ruff stiffened, and stood quiveringly erect, a low growl rumbled deep in the dog's throat, and with a curious tense stiffness of movement, he began to back slowly from the hole. Never for an instant did the low throaty growl cease, nor did the fixed yellow eyes leave the black aperture. Not until he had backed a full twenty feet from the hole did the dog's tense muscles relax and then his huge brush of a tail drooped, the hair of his ruff flattened, and he turned and trotted down the back trail, pausing only once to cast a hang-dog glance up the slope.

Connie was conscious of a strange chill at the pit of his stomach. Why had Leloo, the very embodiment of savage courage, backed away from that hole with every muscle tense, and why had he hit the back trail displaying every evidence of abject terror? The boy had seen him run foxes to earth before, and he had never acted like that. He had always torn at the edges of the hole with fang and claw. A hundred times more terrifying than even the fox with the strange human cry, was the action of the wolf-dog. Without moving from his tracks, the boy examined the rock-ledge. It was probably twenty feet in length, and not more than four or five feet high, and he saw at a glance that the small irregular hole was the only aperture in the ma.s.s of solid rock. His eyes swept the surrounding hillside but with the exception of numerous fox tracks that led to and from the hole, the surface of the snow was unbroken.

The sunlight had disappeared from the crest of the hill. On the lower levels the fast deepening twilight was rendering objects indistinguishable, when Connie turned to 'Merican Joe, who presented a pitiable picture of terror. "Let's go," he said, shortly. "We'll have a moon tonight. We can travel till we get tired."

And 'Merican Joe without waiting for a second invitation struck off down the hill after Leloo, at a pace that Connie found hard to follow.

CHAPTER XVII

THE-LAKE-OF-THE-FOX-THAT-YELLS

Leaving 'Merican Joe to look after the line of marten and mink traps, Connie Morgan struck out from the little cabin and headed for the Indian village. Straight to the cabin of Pierre Bonnet Rouge he went and was welcomed by the Indian with the respect that only the real sourdough ever commands in the Indians of the North. For Pierre knew of his own knowledge of the boy's outwitting the _hooch_-runners, and he had listened in the evenings upon the trail to Fort Norman, while big Dan McKeever recounted to McTavish, as he never tired of doing, the adventures of Connie in the Mounted.

After supper, which the two ate in silence, while the squaw of Bonnet Rouge served them, they drew up their chairs to the stove. The boy asked questions as to the success of the trading, the news of the river country, and prospects for a good spring catch. Then the talk drifted to fox trapping, and Connie told the Indian that he and 'Merican Joe had set some traps on the lake a day's journey to the south-eastward. Pierre Bonnet listened attentively, but by not so much as the flicker of an eyelash did he betray the fact that he had ever heard of the lake.

Finally, the boy asked him, point-blank, if he had ever been there.

Connie knew something of Indians, and, had been quick to note that Pierre held him in regard. Had this not been so, he would never have risked the direct question, for it is only by devious and round-about methods that one obtains desired information from his red brother.