Bindloss Harold
Blake's Burden

"Now," said Lane with mild approval, "I allow that's pretty fine."

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, while it looked as if their troubles were over. The dogs were obviously fit for travel, because 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 sledge, 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 further. After the hunger and nervous strain they had borne, they were blissfully satisfied with their present ease. There would be time enough by and by to consider the future.

At length 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 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, though the choice was limited, and spent the night in comfort, though Harding was once awakened by a dog that crept up to him for warmth.

CHAPTER XXVII
A STARTLING DISCOVERY

It was getting light 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, to lee of which 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 sledge.

"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 there was no shelter in the valley from the storm that had levelled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the wilds could hardly have escaped, and as he stumbled among the wreckage he 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, and 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 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. He was, however, called upon to help in dragging the sledge over an obstacle, and the difficulties of the way afterwards occupied his attention.

By and by they found clearer ground and made good progress until late in the afternoon when, 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, and when, as they neared the spur, the dogs swerved as if attracted by something, the half-breed struck the nearest beast 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've 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 rest made 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 grey. 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," said Emile, waving his hand towards a neighbouring hollow. Then moving a few paces forward he exclaimed: "Ah! les coquins!"

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

He left the camp with Emile and presently the others 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, and soon the body lay clear of the snow. The dim light fell on the frozen face and Blake started.

"It's Clarke!" he cried.

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

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

"Yes," Benson interposed, "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 before he added: "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 the latter afterwards 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 upon the others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body and the others 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," said the Sergeant drily, "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. Now one of you had better bring up the sledge. We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose rocks along the foot of the spur."

The sledge was brought and Clarke gently placed on it, wrapped in his fur coat, after which 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 sledge and for a time after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire where the light fell upon 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 he was keenly interested in and made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but it had ended in a tragic manner and, what made this more impressive, Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped his fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air, and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and dusky trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that daunted him.

Harding's reflections also centred on the dead man, and he had food for thought. There was a mystery to be explained, and 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 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," Blake replied. "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, who had a theory but was not prepared to communicate it to the police.

"It's certainly curious," he remarked.

"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 afterwards they went to sleep and rising an hour or two before daylight 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's party 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 and 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, after which he made Emile ask them if they knew Clarke. One of them said 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 replied.

"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 they were in the neighbourhood. 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 travelled 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. As he heard this Harding felt anxious. He saw where Lane's questions led, and 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 was, however, said of this, and by and by Lane asked —

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

The Indians began to talk to one another, and it was with some trouble Emile at length 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?" said Lane. "Where are the rest? These tepees would hold a good many people."

"They are hunting farther North," answered the man. "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 afterwards 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 told them. "I found him frozen some 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 turned to Benson. "You had better give me all the information you are able about the man."

Benson told him as much as he thought judicious, after which Lane sat silent for a time. Then he said, "There is no reason to doubt that he came to his death by misadventure. 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 agreed. "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 first thing to-morrow." He beckoned Walthew. "Now 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!" said Blake sharply. "You emptied the pockets?"

"I did; I allow my action was hardly justifiable, 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 flashpoint 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 include 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 than it burst into flame.

"As I thought!" said Harding. "I suspect the presence of one or two distillates that should be worth as much as the kerosene. We'll get the stuff analysed 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 as he concluded: "It's going to be well worth while; this is a big thing."

Blake did not feel much elation. His was not a mercenary nature, and 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 was 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, and I've already tried to show you that he'd something to gain by Benson's death." He turned to the latter. "I suspected when we took you away from him that you were running a risk."

"I was running a bigger one before that, if you can call a thing a risk when the result's inevitable," Benson rejoined. "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 sombre face and knitted brows; and then resumed thoughtfully: "I believe you're right, Harding, 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. "It's possible, but I don't altogether see how he'd profit."

"First, let's look at what he did. As soon as he reached the village he heard that we had started from the Hudson's Bay post. It wouldn't be difficult to calculate how long the stores we could carry would last, and he'd see that the chances were in favour 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. Recollect that they owned to being puzzled because he was a good hunter. Then he cleared out by himself, but I believe that if there was any food left in the place he carefully hid it."

The others felt that their comrade was taking something for granted, but they believed his suspicions were correct. They, however, made no comment, and Harding went on, looking at Blake —

"Now I'll show you how he would have profited. I found this in his pocket."

He took out a letter which he gave to Blake, and the latter started as he recognized the writing. It was from Colonel Challoner to Clarke.

"You had better read the thing; it's justifiable," Benson remarked.

Blake read it aloud, holding the paper near the fire with the light upon his face, which looked very grim.

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

Then Blake folded the letter and put it into his pocket.

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

"Is that all?" Harding asked.

"Well," said Blake, "I believe it proves your conclusions 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 defence 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 never mean to question the story of the Indian affair?"

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

Harding laughed. "I believe I know the true one. 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 rejoined.

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