"It will yield with a hard push," said Menzies.

"Wait!" said I. "Let us first blow out the lantern."

This was done, and the three of us put our weight to the stone. It grated like rusty iron, gave way slowly, and went down with a crunching noise. Ah, the happiness of that moment—the joy of that first glimpse and breath of the air of freedom! It was all we could do to keep from shouting and cheering.

The tunnel had brought us out on a narrow ledge midway down the steep and wooded bluff that rose from the edge of the river. A canopy of trees sheltered us overhead, and below us, through the evergreen foliage, the frozen, snow-crusted river gleamed against the murky background of the night.

A short time before we had stared death in the face; now the hope of life and safety thrilled our hearts with gratitude for a merciful and wonderful Providence. All the circumstances seemed in our favor.

Off behind us the Indians were still holding mad revelry in the fort yard, little dreaming, as they screeched and bowled, of the trick that had been played upon them. Not a sound could be heard close by; there was reason to believe that all the savages were gathered inside of the inclosure. And the snow was falling so fast and thickly that it must cover our tracks almost as soon as made.

To put some miles between ourselves and our bloodthirsty foes was our first thought, and we did not lose an instant by delay. Creeping down to the foot of the bluff, we strapped our snowshoes to our feet, and fixed the four wounded men comfortably on the two empty sledges. As we started off—twenty-one of us in all—the factor's house seemed to be wrapped in flames, to judge from the increasing glare that shone around us. We traveled rapidly to the south, up the river's course, and closely skirted the timbered shore nearest the fort. Gradually the whooping of the Indians died away, and the reflection of the fire faded, until it was only a flickering glow on the dark and wintry horizon. In the excitement of leaving the fort we had given no thought to our future plans; but now, as we hurried along the frozen bed of the river, we discussed that all-important matter. It had been commonly understood in a vague way that we should strike direct for Fort York. However, on reflection, we abandoned that plan. If the Indians should discover our escape, as was only too likely, they would suspect that Fort York was our destination, and make a quick march to cut us off.

"We must look after the interests of the company as well as our own lives," said Menzies, "and I think I see a clear way to do both. The rising of the redskins and the Northwest people may be checked by prompt action; it is probably not yet known beyond Fort Royal, nor have there been attacks elsewhere. So I suggest that we split into two parties. I will command one, take the wounded with me, and push on to Fort Elk, which is about eighty miles to the southeast. You will command the other, Denzil, and strike for Fort Charter. It lies rather more than a hundred milts to the south, and your shortest route will be by way of old Fort Beaver. If we both succeed—and the chances are in our favor—two forts will be put on the alert, and couriers can be sent to other posts."

This plan commended itself to us all, and was ultimately decided upon. There was little danger of pursuit, or of meeting hostile Indians in the directions we proposed to go. We made a brief halt at a small island about five miles from Fort Royal, and separated our party into two. Menzies, having the shorter journey, insisted on taking less men, and I reluctantly yielded.

Including himself and wife, and the four wounded, his party numbered eleven. I had eight men in mine, as follows: Captain Rudstone, Christopher Burley, an Indian employee named Pemecan, two voyageurs, Baptiste and Carteret, and three old servants of the company, by name Duncan Forbes, Malcolm Cameron, and Luke Hutter. Flora, of course, went with me, and she had made me radiantly happy by a promise to become my wife at Fort Charter, if the ceremony could be arranged there. One of the sledges, with a quantity of supplies, was turned over to us.

It was a solemn parting, at the hour of midnight, by that little island on the frozen river. The women embraced and shed tears; the men clasped hands and hoarsely wished each other a safe journey. Then Menzies and his companions vanished in the forest on the right bank of the river, and through the driving snow I led my band of followers to the south. Flora was beside me, and I felt ready to surmount any peril for her sake.

It was well toward noon of the next day, and snow was still falling, when we ventured to halt in a desolate region near the headwaters of the Churchill. We rested a few hours, and then pushed on until night, camping in a deep forest and not daring to light a fire. Of what befell us after that I shall speak briefly. The weather cleared and grew colder, and for two days we marched to the south. We made rapid progress—Flora rode part of the time on the sledge—and saw no sign of Indians, or, indeed, of any human beings. We all wore heavy winter clothing, so suffered no hardships on that score; and the second night we built huge camp fires in a rocky gorge among the hills. But our stock of provisions was running short, and this fact caused us some uneasiness.

As the sun was setting that second day—it was the third day's journey in all—we glided from the depths of the virgin forest and saw what had been Fort Beaver on the further side of a shallow clearing. I had been thinking with strange emotions of the past since morning—since we began to draw near the neighborhood—and at sight of my old home, close to which both my father and mother were buried, my eyes grew dim and a choking lump rose in my throat.

"I have never been this way before," remarked Captain Rudstone, "but I know the place by repute. It was of importance in its day; now it is a mass of crumbling ruins."

"Is this really where you were born, Denzil?" Flora asked me.

"Yes," I replied; "here I spent my early years and happy ones they were."

"Ah, this is interesting," Christopher Burley said, thoughtfully. "And here your father, Bertrand Carew, lived from the time he left England until his death?"

"Until a treacherous Indian killed him, sir," I said. "And the murderer was never discovered. It is too late to go any further, men," I added, wishing to turn the subject. "We will put up here for the night, and enjoy resting between walls and beside a fireplace."

We crossed the clearing, and entered the stockade by the open gateway, which was half filled in with drifted snow. We went on, past crumbling outbuildings, to what had been the factor's residence. The house was in a fairly good state of preservation, and a push sent the door back on its hinges.

We were on the threshold of the main room, where I so well recalled my father sitting musingly by the great fireplace evening after evening smoking his pipe. Now the apartment was dreary and bare. Snow had filtered in at the windows, and the floor was rotting away. There were ashes in the fireplace, and near by lay a heap of dry wood—signs that some voyageur or trapper had spent a night here while journeying through the wilderness.

"This is like civilization again," said Christopher Burley, with a sigh.

"We are sure of a comfortable night, at all events," replied Captain Rudstone.

"The first thing will be supper," said I. "Baptiste, you and Carteret unpack the sledge. And do you build us a roaring fire, Pemecan."

I went into another room for a moment—it had been my own in times past—and when I returned the Indian had already started a cheerful blaze. As I walked toward the fireplace, intending to warm my hands, a loose slab of stone that was set in at the right of it was dislodged by the shaking of the floor. It toppled over with a crash, breaking into several fragments, and behind it, on the weatherworn stratum of plaster, I saw a number of hieroglyphics. On pulling down some more plaster I found more lines of them, and they were doubtless an inscription of some sort. The odd-looking characters were carved deeply into the wall, and I judged that they had been made years before.

"How strange!" cried Flora, coming to my side.

The rest also drew near, scrutinizing the mysterious discovery with eager eyes and exclamations of surprise.

"It looks like a cryptogram," said Captain Rudstone, and his voice seemed to tremble and grow hoarse as he spoke. "What do you make of it, Carew?"

"Nothing," said I. "You know as much as myself—I never saw it before."

"Was it put there in your father's time?"

"Perhaps," I answered, "but I am inclined to think that it belongs to a much earlier date."

The captain shook his head slowly. He stared at the hieroglyphics with a thoughtful face, with his brow knitted into tiny wrinkles over his half-closed eyes.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

We all, more or less, shared Captain Rudstone's curiosity. For a minute we gazed in silence at the strange marks—the company men stolidly, the two voyageurs with disdainful shrugs of the shoulders. Pemecan touched the spot with something like awe, and Christopher Burley followed his example.

"This is a very odd thing," he muttered. "I wish I could take the plaster just as it is back to London with me."

"I've seen nothing like it," declared Luke Hutter, "and I've lived in the wilderness, man and boy, for nigh onto fifty years."

Naturally Fort Beaver having been my home, the rest looked to me to throw some light on the mystery of the cryptogram—if such it was; but I was no wiser than they, and they questioned me in vain. I remembered the fireplace as being always in sound condition, and as my father had never spoken of the matter, I judged that the marks had been cut years before his time—perhaps during the youth of my maternal grandfather.

"It may be so, Mr. Carew," said Christopher Burley; "but to my mind the work is of more recent date. I should say the stone had been purposely removed, and then put back after the hieroglyphics were carved on the plaster. I would take a copy, but unfortunately I have no material at hand—"

"It would be a useless waste of time, sir, if you had," Captain Rudstone interrupted, almost fiercely. "The characters are meaningless. I'll warrant 'tis but a jest on the part of some crack-brained hunter or trapper, or possibly one of the laborers who built the fort. And surely we have more serious matters to think about!"

"Ay, that is true!" I assented, wondering meanwhile at the captain's earnestness. "Cryptogram or not, we'll leave it for wiser heads than ours! Come, reset the stone!"

Baptiste and Carteret lifted the fragments of the slab, and fitted them into place again. That done, I ceased to think of the mystery, and it was not subsequently referred to.

It was a great relief, after the hardships at the fort and the exposure of the long march, to have a shelter over us once more. The danger of pursuit was a specter that had faded behind us, and we counted on reaching Fort Charter at the end of another day's journey. We found some rickety stools and benches, and drawing them around the roaring fire, we ate our simple meal with thankful hearts. Flora sat beside me, and I watched her lovely face, now pensive, now radiant with happiness and love, as the flickering glow of the flames played upon it. I held myself a lucky man to have won such a treasure.

But we were devouring almost the last of our food; indeed, when supper was finished nothing remained but a sack of cornmeal and half a pound of dried fish. It was necessary to provide for the next day, since we would march but poorly on empty stomachs and so we arranged a plan that we had partly settled on that morning.

The suggestion was mine. About five miles to the east, in a hilly and timbered bit of country, a spring bubbled up, so cold and swift that it never froze near its source. The deer and other game knew it, and came to the place by day and night to drink, and there I proposed to guide one or two of my companions.

"We are certain to be back before midnight," I said, "for we can make the round trip in less than three hours. And I'll promise venison for breakfast—or perhaps moose meat."

"Will it be safe to use firearms?" asked Christopher Burley.

"I don't think there is any risk," I answered. "There are no Indian villages within many miles, and as for our old enemies, they are probably searching for us in the neighborhood of the trail to Fort York."

To this Carteret and some of the other men assented. They were all eager to go with me.

"I wish you would stay behind, Denzil," Flora said wistfully.

"But I alone know the exact spot where the deer drink," I answered. "Have no fear; I will return safely."

"At least let me sit up until you come," she pleaded.

"I am afraid I must say no," I replied. "You need sleep and rest too badly. And here, between these walls, you will be as safe as if you were in Fort Charter."

Flora yielded without further words, but there was an appealing, anxious look in her eyes that I remembered afterward. Twilight had turned to darkness, and no time was lost in preparing for the start. I chose to accompany me Carteret and Captain Rudstone; and I fancied the latter was ill pleased at his selection though he spoke otherwise. We donned coats and caps, strapped our snowshoes on our feet, and looked to the loading and priming of our muskets.

As a matter of precaution, I decided to set a watch outside the fort while we were gone—and indeed through the night—and Malcolm Cameron volunteered for the service. On pretense of showing Flora something I found an opportunity to snatch a kiss from her lips and to whisper a few foolish words into her ear. A little room to one side had been reserved for her, and a comfortable bed made of blankets. The rest were to sleep around the fireplace.

The moon was shining from a starry sky and the air was still and cold when the three of us started away. We waved our hands to Cameron, who was at the stockade gates, and plunged eastward into the forest. I led off, and Captain Rudstone and Carteret followed in single file.

At the first I was troubled by a vague premonition of coming disaster, which, in default of sound reason, I set down to Flora's ill-concealed solicitude for my safety. But when we had gone a mile or so this feeling wore off, and I enjoyed the exhilaration of striding on snowshoes over the frozen crust, through the silent solitudes of the wilderness, by rock and hill and moonlit glade. Never had the spell of the Great Lone Land thrilled me more deeply. Watchful and alert, we glided on from tree to tree, our shadows trailing behind us, and the evergreen recesses of the wood stretching on all sides like black pits. Birds and beasts were still; the only sound was the light crunch of our feet, the crackle now and then of a fallen twig.

Not a word was spoken until we came to a gap between two mighty hills, a short distance beyond which, on the verge of a flat of marshland, lay the spot we sought. Then I briefly explained to my companions what we must do.

We made a detour in a semicircle, working our way around to the right side of the wind, and so approached the spring. The cover of bushes and trees ended fifty yards short of it, and with the utmost caution we progressed that far. Crouching on the hard crust, scarcely daring to breathe, we peeped out.

I had expected to see several head of game, at the least, and I was disappointed. Only one was in sight—a fair-sized buck. He was drinking at the source of the spring, and the moonlight glistened on his pronged antlers and on the bubbling water.

"We have but a single chance," I said in a whisper. "We must run no risk of losing it. I take it you are a good shot, Captain Rudstone?"

"I have twice killed my man in a duel," was the curt reply.

"Then you and I will fire together," I continued, "when I count three. And do you reserve your ball, Carteret, if by any chance we both miss. Ready now!"

"All right," said the captain, as he took aim.

"One—two—three!" I whispered.

Bang! The two reports were simultaneous. Under the rising powder smoke the buck was seen to spring in air and then topple over in a quivering mass, dead beyond a doubt. The crashing echoes rolled away into the depths of the forest. We were on our feet instantly, ready to run forward with drawn knives; but before we could do so an unexpected thing checked us. Up the valley behind us, from a point no great distance off, rang a shrill, wavering call. As we listened, staring at one another with alarmed faces, we heard the sound again. And now it was a plain call for help.

"What man can be in this lonely spot?" exclaimed Carteret. "Our ears deceive us. It is the scream of a crafty panther we hear."

"No; it is a human voice," muttered the captain. "I'll swear to that. But I am afraid of a trick."

"If enemies were about they would have no need to lure us," I replied.

"Come, let us see what it means."

I started in the direction of the sound, and my companions followed me.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE TRAVELER FROM ALASKA.

Although the cries for help had now ceased, and were not repeated, our search was crowned with success in a brief time. Pushing up the valley for about five hundred yards, amid trees and thickets, we came suddenly upon a little camp. A lean-to of spruce boughs was rudely built against the base of the steep hill on the right, which towered upward above it to a dizzy and remote height, its alternate patches of timber and snow traced out by the moonlight.

The front of the lean-to was open, and inside, by the glow from a handful of smouldering embers, we saw a strange sight. In the far corner, apparently sleeping, lay an old man. On a small sledge near him were a powder horn, and bullet pouch, a musket and a few pelts.

There was no reply to our sharp greeting, and we ventured closer. Carteret found some bits of dry wood and threw them on the fire. He knelt down and blew them quickly into a blaze, which enabled us to see more distinctly. The old man was breathing heavily, and it needed but a glance to tell us that he was near to death from starvation or some illness. His head rested on a pillow of skins, and he was rolled partly in blankets, which were pushed off enough to show his tattered and travel-worn clothing. His cheeks were deeply sunken, his gray hair was long and matted, and his tangled beard reached nearly to his waist.

"There is not a sign of food," said I.

"It's a clear case of starvation," replied Captain Rudstone. "Poor old chap!"

Just then, roused from his stupor by our voices, or by the warmth of the fire, the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him wildly. He clawed at the air with skinny fingers, and tried to speak. I had a little rum with me, and I poured it between his lips. This brought a tinge of color to his cheeks and a brightness to his glazing eyes, but he was too weak to lift his head.

"Who are you?" he muttered faintly. "Friends? Ay, thank God! White faces once more—after all these months! I heard the shot, and judged that Indians or trappers were near. I called as loudly as I could, but—but —"

"The exertion was too much for you and you fainted," said I. "But we heard your cries, and found you. How long have you been here?"

"Three days," he answered—"three days and nights without food. I ate the last bite when I reached this spot, and a fortnight before I had fired my last charge of powder and ball. I was too ill to go further. I built this shelter to die in, and from time to time I crawled out for fuel to keep up the fire. But the end is close now. Don't leave me—let me die with white faces round me."

"Cheer up, my friend," said Captain Rudstone. "You are going to live."

"We have a deer yonder," I added. "We will make you a venison broth, and then take you to the fort, where the rest of our party await us."

But Carteret, who had the keener eye, shook his head gravely.

"It is no use," he whispered.

The old man heard him.

"Ay, you are right," he said. "I am past help. I feel death stealing over me. Months of privation have worn out my rugged frame—this frightful wilderness has drained my life blood. Comrades, I have journeyed on foot from the far province of Alaska."

Carteret shrugged his shoulders, and the captain and I exchanged incredulous glances. Doubtless the stranger's mind was wandering.

"You think me mad," he said hoarsely. "But no; I will prove otherwise. Listen to my story. It is the last service you can do me, and you will find it well worth hearing."

His manner was so earnest that we began to believe a little in spite of ourselves. We crouched on the blanket alongside of him, and in a voice that was barely audible—he was failing fast—the old man proceeded. The earlier part of his narrative, which was the least interesting, I will set down briefly in my own words.

His name was Hiram Buckhorn, and he was now sixty odd years of age. Half of his life had been passed in New York State and the Lower Canadas, and then he had gone across the continent to San Francisco. From that port he sailed with a dozen adventurous companions two years previously to explore the almost unknown territory of Alaska and prospect for gold. They sailed hundreds of miles up the mighty Yukon, and when their vessel was wrecked they journeyed some days inland on foot.

"And we found what we sought," he continued, with sparkling eyes—"riches such as were never dreamed of! Gold? Why, men, it was as plentiful as the sand and gravel! The streams were paved with nuggets; it was everywhere under the soil! Our camp was near a tributary of the Yukon, and within a square mile was gold enough to purchase a dozen empires; but many a year will pass before men lay hands on the treasure. It is a terrible country—almost impossible to reach, and there is scarcely any summer season. And then the savage Indians! They fell upon us suddenly and treacherously, and butchered every one of my comrades. For some reason they spared my life and held me a prisoner."

The old man paused a moment, breathing heavily. "After a month of captivity, during which my sufferings were terrible, I managed to escape," he went on, in a weaker voice. "I could not return through Alaska, so I headed to the southeast through the Hudson Bay Company's territory. I had musket and powder and ball—which I recovered from the Indians—and I built myself a rude sledge. This was thirteen months ago and since then I have been on the way. Ay, I have plodded more than fifteen hundred miles, through all seasons, over rivers, mountains, and plains. And to what end? To fill a grave in the wilderness! I had hoped to reach civilization, but the task was too great."

Such was Hiram Buckhorn's narrative, and when it was finished we looked silently at him with awe and amazement, with the deepest pity. His exploit had far surpassed anything in the annals of the pioneers of the Northwest. Fifteen hundred miles, on foot and alone, through an untrodden wilderness that even the Hudson Bay Company had never dreamed of tapping! It bore the stamp of truth, and yet it was so incredible a thing that we wavered between doubt and belief.

He noted this, and a grim smile flitted across his face.

"You shall see!" he whispered. "Reach under my head! Be quick!"

I gently thrust a hand beneath the pillow of skins, and drew out a small but heavy bag fashioned of rawhide. At his bidding I placed it beside the old man. With a hard effort, he loosed the mouth and turned the big upside down. Out fell on the fold of a blanket a mass of golden nuggets of the purest quality. There were not less than fifty, of large size, and they gleamed dull yellow in the rays of the fire. The sight almost took our breath, and we gazed with greedy, wondering eyes.

"Look! I spoke the truth," said Hiram Buckhorn. "There is the evidence! Millions like them are to be dug in the region of the Klondike! But put them back—their glitter is no longer for me!"

I hurriedly gathered the nuggets into the bag and thrust it deep under the skins again. The old man watched every movement and heaved a faint sigh.

"The gold is yours, my friend," he muttered. "Take it and divide it when you have put me beneath the snow. And one other favor I crave. Send word at the first opportunity to San Francisco, of the fate of those who sailed with me. They were trusty comrades! As for myself, I have no kith or kin—"

His voice suddenly dwindled to a whisper, and a spasm shook him from head to foot. His glassy eyes closed, he lifted one hand and dropped it, and then his heaving chest was still.

"Is he dead?" I exclaimed.

"Ay, that was his last breath," replied Carteret. "He went quickly."

"The excitement finished him," said Captain Rudstone. "But listen! What is that?"

We looked at one another with startled faces. Far, far above us we heard a roaring, grinding noise, increasing each second. And we knew only too well what it meant!

"A snowslide—an avalanche!" cried Captain Rudstone. "It has started at the top, and will carry everything before it down the hill."

"Ran for your lives!" shouted Carteret. "We're in the track, and will hardly escape as it is!"

In a trice we were out of the lean-to, panic-stricken and alarmed, thinking of nothing but our lives; for of all perils of the Great Lone Land, the snow slide, with its speed and destructive power, was the most to be dreaded. We forgot the dead man—the gold under his pillow. We sped down the valley as though on wings, not daring to look up the hillside, where the avalanche was cleaving its way with a deafening noise, with the crash of falling trees, the grind of dislodged bowlders, and the roar of tons and tons of loosened snow. And the monster seemed to be reaching for us!

Flora's dear face took shape before me in the frosty air, and I fancied I could hear her voice pleading with me to remain at the fort. Should I ever return to her arms again? The thought lent me speed, and I out distanced my companions. The next instant I tripped in a clump of bushes and fell headlong, and plump on top of me came Carteret and Captain Rudstone.

We were all three so tangled together that our efforts to extricate ourselves only led to worse confusion. We broke through the crust and floundered in soft and powdery snow. As we struggled hard—we had fled but a short distance—the avalanche struck the valley close behind us. There was first a mighty crash that made the ground tremble, next a long, deafening grind like a hundred thunderpeals in one, and then the hissing rush of a few belated rocks.

Silence followed, and we knew that we were saved. With grateful hearts and trembling limbs we scrambled out of our pit and regained the firm crust.

"Thank God!" I exclaimed.

"We had a close shave of it, comrades," Carteret said huskily, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

We turned back and were pulled up short within twenty feet. For in front of us, stretching two-thirds of the way across the valley, was a lofty barrier of snow, trees and bowlders; its track down the hillside was marked by a clean, wide swath, the beginning of which we could not see. And deep under the fallen mass, covered by tons and tons of compact debris, was the crushed body of Hiram Buckhorn.

"He could not have a better grave," said Captain Rudstone. "No men or beasts will ever despoil it."

"Peace to his bones!" replied Carteret, reverently taking off his cap. "He deserved to live, after what he did."

"But the gold!" I cried. "It is buried with him!"

"And there it will stay," Captain Rudstone said coolly. "Even when the snow melts in the spring, it will be covered deep by rocks and trees that no man could drag away."

The old voyageur appeared equally unconcerned. Money meant little to him, and I could understand the captain taking as easy a view of the loss. But with myself it way different, I confess. I looked forward to marriage, and for Flora's sake I longed for my share of the precious nuggets. But there was nothing to be done—nothing further to be said. With a heavy heart I turned and followed my companions down the valley. We quickly cut the deer apart, burdening ourselves with the choicest haunches, and then set off on our return to the fort.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A CONVIVIAL MORNING.

It must have been an hour past midnight when we broke from the forest into the clearing, and as we strode across toward the stockade we noted with relief that all was still and peaceful. Malcolm Cameron greeted us at the gate, and we passed on to receive a hearty welcome at the house. With the exception of Pemecan, our comrades were all awake, sprawled about a blazing tire, and at sight of the meat we carried they set up a great shout.

"Hush! you will rouse Miss Hatherton!" said I, for I saw that she had retired.

However, I doubt if she had slept a wink; and no sooner was there a lull in the conversation than she called from the little room adjoining, in a hesitating voice:

"Have you returned, Denzil?"

"Yes," I replied. "I am back, safe and sound, and with a fat deer for breakfast. But go to sleep at once; it is very late."

"I will," Flora answered. "Good-night, Denzil."

"Good-night," I responded, and then my face grew hot as I saw Captain Rudstone regarding me with half-veiled amusement.

"You are a lucky chap, Carew," he said; "but you have well earned your happiness."

I never quite knew how to take the captain's words, so I merely nodded in reply. We were all sleepy, and without delay we completed the preparations for the night. Two men were chosen for sentry duty at the gate—Luke Hutter and Baptiste, and the latter at once relieved Cameron and sent him in. Carteret and I had a look about the inclosure, and then, after putting a great beam on the fire, we rolled ourselves in our blankets and laid down beside our companions.

I must have fallen asleep as soon as my eyes closed, for I remembered nothing until I was roused by a hand on my shoulder. Luke Hutter was standing over me, and from head to foot he was thickly coated with snow. The gray light of dawn glimmered behind the frosted windows, and I heard a hoarse whistling noise. The fire was blazing cheerily, for Baptiste had replenished it when he came off duty. Several of the men were stirring; the others were sound asleep.

"A bad day to travel, Mr. Carew," said Hutter.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

For answer he led me to the door, and as he opened it a fine cloud of snow whirled into the room. I cried out with astonishment, for one of those rapid changes of weather so common in northern latitudes had taken place during the night. A storm of wind and snow, much like a blizzard, was raging violently. The cold was intense, and it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in front of one's face.

"It began several hours ago," said Hutter, "and it is good to last until night. If we set out for Fort Charter we shall lose our way, sir, and perhaps become exhausted and freeze to death."

I agreed with Hutter, and after some reflection I hit upon a plan that afforded me no little pleasure. My companions were by this time awake and up, and I called their attention to the storm. As to the danger and impossibility of proceeding on our journey, they were all of one mind.

"We need a rest," said I, "and here is a chance to take it, with a bit of recreation and enjoyment thrown in. There is not the slightest risk of an attack by Indians. We can spare a day, and we have snug quarters and enough to eat. The storm will doubtless abate by to-morrow morning, and then we will push on. What do you say, men?"

They assented readily, even with enthusiasm, and I saw that they entered fully into the spirit which had prompted me to make the proposal.

"I'm thinking it will be like old times," said Cameron. "It was a happy life at Fort Royal, on the whole, sir. There's one thing we'll be lacking for the day's pleasure—a stiff glass of grog all round."

"We'll manage to get along without it," I replied. "And now let's finish up the work; there is plenty to do."

First of all we made a kettleful of warm water by melting snow, and I handed a pannikin of it in to Flora, whom I had heard stirring for some time. She bade me a sweet good-morning, and showed me a glimpse of her pretty face round the corner of the door. Then some of us began to prepare breakfast—we had found an ample supply of dish ware in the fort—and others demolished a part of the stockade and brought the timbers in for fuel. Captain Rudstone and I busied ourselves by making the crevices of the door and windows secure against wind and sifting snow. For once we dispensed with sentry duty, thinking it to be unnecessary.

As breakfast was ready to be served, Flora tripped out of her little room looking radiantly beautiful. When she learned that we were to stop at the fort that day her eyes glowed with pleasure, and what I read in them set my heart beating fast. Seated about the fire on benches and rickety stools, we attacked the delicious slices of venison, the steaming coffee, and the crisp cakes of cornmeal. Then, the dishes washed and the room tidied a bit, we heaped the fire high and settled ourselves for a long morning. Outside the wind howled and the whirling snow darkened the air; inside was warmth and cheer and comfort.

Looking back to that day over the gulf of years, I can recall few occasions of keener enjoyment. The security and comfort were in such strong contrast to what we had lately suffered, that we abandoned ourselves wholly to the pleasure of the passing moment. We forgot the tragedies and sufferings that lay behind us, and gave no thought to what the uncertain future might hold in store. For me the horizon was unclouded. Flora was by my side, and I looked forward to soon calling her my wife.

Luckily, we had plenty of tobacco, and wreaths of fragrant smoke curled from blackened pipes. Baptiste and Carteret sang the dialect songs of the wilderness; Duncan Forbes amused us with what he called a Highland fling, and Pemecan, to the accompaniment of outlandish chanting, danced an Indian war-dance. Captain Rudstone and Christopher Burley, who were rarely anything but quiet and reserved, showed us sides of their characters that we had not suspected before; they clapped their hands and joined in the laughter and merriment. And in Flora's unfeigned happiness and light spirits I took my greatest enjoyment.

"Comrade, it's your turn," said Forbes, addressing old Malcolm Cameron. "Maybe you'll be giving us your imitation of the skirl of the bagpipes."

"Man, it's too dry work," Cameron replied. "If I had a wee drop of liquor—But it's no use asking for that."

"By the way, Carew," said Captain Rudstone, "as I was overhauling that heap of rubbish in the cellar this morning, I pulled out a small cask. Could it contain anything drinkable?"

I was on my feet like a shot.

"Come; we'll see!" I cried. "Lead the way!"

I followed the captain to the cellar and we found the cask. I quickly broached it, and to my delight it, contained what I had scarcely ventured to hope for—a fine old port wine.

"Where did it come from?" asked the captain, smacking his lips.

"My father used to have it sent to him from England," I replied, "and this cask must have been mislaid and covered up."

"Your father?" muttered the captain: and he gave me one of those strange looks that had so mystified me in the past.

"Yes, he was a judge of wine, I believe," I answered. "Come, we'll go up. Cameron can wet his whistle now, and we'll all be the better for a little sound port."

When we returned to our companions with the cask, and told them what it held, they gave us an eager and noisy welcome. We rummaged about until we found a sufficient number of cracked glasses and cups, and then we filled them with the fragrant, ruddy beverage.

"Miss Hatherton shall drink first," said I, as I sat down beside her and handed her a glass.

My own I held up with a little nod, and she partly understood me. Such a roguish look twinkled in her eyes that I carried out my purpose.

"Attention!" I cried, standing up. "A toast, comrades! to my promised wife!"

With an earnestness that I liked, the men drank, one and all, and Flora smiled very prettily through her confusion and blushes.

"Ah, she's a bonnie lady," old Malcolm Cameron said bluntly.

"And with the spirit of a man," added Luke Hutter.

I acknowledged these compliments with a bow as I sat down. Most of the drinking vessels were emptied and passed to Carteret to be filled. That done, at a sign from me he carried the cask to a closet at the other side of the room. Some of the men were bibulously inclined, and for Flora's sake I had to be cautious.

Of a sudden Captain Rudstone rose, his handsome, stern face almost transformed by an expression of genial good will.

"Mr. Carew," he began, "on such an occasion as this I feel that I must say a word. Indeed you have won a prize. 'Tis an old proverb that a man married is a man marred, but in you I see an exception. Were I a few years younger I should have ventured to enter the lists against you. I have knocked about the world, and I can pay Miss Hatherton no higher compliment than to say that she is equally fitted to be queen of a London drawing room or mistress of a factor's humble house. But enough. I wish you every prosperity and happiness, and a long career in the service of the company."

The captain was evidently sincere, and I had never liked him so well as now, though I must confess that I felt a spark of jealousy when Flora made him a smiling courtesy.

He was no sooner down in his seat than Christopher Burley stood up. The law clerk's face was flushed, and his eyes had an unwonted sparkle. He had drunk but two glasses of port, yet he was a different man to look at.

"Mr. Carew and Miss Hatherton, my compliments," he said. "I shall think of this convivial gathering when I am back in London—in that crowded, bustling heart of the world, and I hope some day to have the pleasure of seeing you there—of seeing all of you, my friends. I will take you to my favorite haunt, the Cheshire Cheese, in Fleet Street, where the great and learned Dr. Johnson was wont to foregather. But I have much to do before I can return to England. The task that brought me to this barbarous country—this land of snow and ice—is of a most peculiar and difficult nature. I will take the present opportunity to inquire—"

"Enough!" suddenly interrupted Captain Rudstone in a harsh voice. "Your tongue is rambling sir. I am doing you a service by requesting you to sit down."

"Sir, do you mean to insinuate—" began Christopher Burley.

But at that instant voices were heard outside and the door was thrown open.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

ON THE WAY.

A visitor of any sort was the last thing we could have expected, and the reader can imagine what a surprise and scare the interruption gave us. We leaped to our feet with such haste that several of the benches wore knocked over, and Christopher Burley, who was in the act of sitting down at the time, landed on the floor with a heavy crash. But there was no occasion for alarm—no need to rush frantically for our muskets. The intruder was not an Indian, not an enemy. In the open doorway, framed against the whiteness of the storm, stood a big, bearded man clad in the winter uniform of the Hudson Bay Company.

And the moment I saw him I recognized an old acquaintance—a hunter who had of late years served at Fort Charter.

"Tom Arnold!" I cried gladly, as I hurried forward to greet him.

"By Jupiter, if it ain't Carew!" he shouted, clasping my hand. Turning round, he called loudly: "Come in, boys, it's all right!"

At the bidding five more men stamped noisily into the house, shaking the snow from their clothing, and dragging a well-laden sledge behind them.

"I left these chaps outside, not knowing who might be in the fort," Tom explained; "but when I listened a bit I reckoned it was safe to enter. I heard a couple of voices that sounded kind of familiar. And no mistake either! We're in luck to find friends and shelter at one stroke. What a snug place you've got here!"

A scene of merriment and excitement followed, and hands were clasped all round; for the most of our party and of the new arrivals were acquainted with one another, even Captain Rudstone finding a friend or two.

After a generous glass of wine, Tom Arnold lit his pipe, stretched his feet to the blazing logs, and volunteered explanations, which we had been waiting anxiously to hear. He and his party, it seemed, had left Fort Charter on a hunting trip three days before. On the previous night they had chosen a poor camping-place—it afforded little shelter against the storm, and so, in the morning, they determined to try to reach old Fort Beaver.

"That's my yarn," Tom concluded, "and now let's have yours, Carew. What are you doing in this part of the country, and with a pretty girl in tow?"

As briefly as possible I related all that had happened, from the swift beginning of trouble at Fort Royal to the night when we escaped by the secret passage. Every word of it was new to Tom and his companions, and they listened with breathless interest and dilated eyes, with hoarse exclamations of rage and grief. And when the narrative was finished a gloom fell upon all of us.

"So the country is quiet down your way?" asked Captain Rudstone.

"Yes, as far as Fort Garry and the Red River," Tom replied. "We had dispatches within a week, and though they mentioned bad feeling and a few rows in which men were killed on both sides, there has been no general outbreak. As for the trouble up north, we hadn't an inkling of it."

"Apparently, then," said the captain, "the attack on Fort Royal was a private grudge—an act of revenge instigated solely by Cuthbert Mackenzie, who stirred up the redskins to help him. There was motive enough, you know, for a man of his nature."

"It's likely as you say," Tom answered, "but at the same time I'm afraid the Northwest Company knew what was on foot, and will declare open war as soon as they hear of the fall of Fort Royal. The Indians may have gone north to attack other forts on the bay, or possibly they will march to Fort Charter next. We must lose no time in getting back and giving the alarm. This is the worst of news."

"I am sure there is no danger," I said hurriedly, noticing that. Flora looked disturbed and anxious. "The Indians must have gone toward Fort York to cut us off; if they had come this way you would have heard of them long ago."

"Yes, that's right," assented Captain Rudstone. "It will be time enough to start in the morning, when the storm will likely be over. If you set off now, you have ten chances to one of perishing in the snow. You can't do better than share our cozy quarters."

"I'll think about it," Arnold answered doubtfully. "At all events, we'll have a jolly good feed together, and then we'll see what the weather promises. I ought to be back at the fort long before to-morrow morning."

By this time the dinner was ready. Carteret had found a packet of cornmeal that had been overlooked before, and our visitors contributed freely from their own ample store of food. So our spirits brightened a little, and while we ate and drank we chatted of more pleasing things than Indians and warfare. But Christopher Burley was in a sullen mood and showed a very curt manner to Captain Rudstone. Why the latter had cut the law clerk's speech short so brusquely, and why he had been disturbed by it, were mysteries to which I could find no solution. Indeed, I felt keenly disappointed, for I knew that Burley had been on the point of explaining the task that had brought him out to the Canadas.

The meal over, a surprise was in store for us. We observed that more light shone through the frosted window panes, and Tom Arnold rose and opened the door. He gave a shout that drew most of us after him, and we were amazed to see the change that had taken place in so short a time. Of the howling storm there was not a trace, save the fresh snowdrifts. It was still blowing a little, but no snow was falling, and through the clear air the clouds gave signs of breaking.

"Hurray! We can start now!" cried Tom.

"Yes, if the calm lasts," added Captain Rudstone.

"What do you think of it?" I asked of Carteret, who was considered an authority on the weather.

The old voyageur sniffed the air for a moment.

"It's hard to tell in this case, sir," he replied. "The clouds may break and clear away for good; and then ag'in, the storm may come on as bad as ever, within the hour. But it's worth risking the chance."

Some held Carteret's opinion, and others were in favor of waiting till morning. But in the end the latter were won over, and we decided to start at once. For a little while there was bustle and commotion as the men repacked the sledges, donned their furred coats and snowshoes, and looked to the priming of their muskets.

In less than ten minutes we were ready, and with a last lingering look at the room which had sheltered us so well, we left the house. I saw Captain Rudstone glance keenly at the spot where the cryptogram was hidden, and he muttered something under his breath as he turned away. We passed across the inclosure, out at the ruined gates, and struck off in the direction of Fort Charter. We were soon in a heavy forest, where it was necessary to march two or three abreast. Tom Arnold, Captain Rudstone and another led the way. I was in the next file of three, with a couple of Fort Charter men for company. Flora was a little distance in the rear, strapped to our half-empty sledge, which Baptiste and Carteret were drawing. From time to time I glanced back for a sight of her pretty face looking out from a dainty headdress of fur.

The storm did not recommence, though the clouds, instead of breaking, hung low and heavy over us. We marched as rapidly as possible through the wilderness, gliding over the drifts and dislodging miniature avalanches of snow from the drooping limbs of the trees.

At about three o'clock in the afternoon, when we had covered some six or seven miles, we were filing along a deep and narrow valley, over the bed of a frozen stream. The snow covered the undergrowth and rocks, making a fairly good road. On both sides of us rose mighty hills, densely covered with timber, and seared with granite crags. Of a sudden, from a point slightly ahead on the left, rang the dull report of a musket.

"I'm shot!" cried Tom Arnold, clapping a hand to his arm.



CHAPTER XXXV.

RETRIBUTION.

Our first thought was that we had blundered into an ambuscade and that the bluffs to right and left of us swarmed with redskins. Our little column stopped short, confused and panic-stricken, and for a brief instant we stood huddled in the narrow valley like sheep. Our muskets were lifted, but no foes were insight; we expected a withering fusillade to be poured into our ranks.

"They've got us, boys!" cried Tom Arnold, who was staring in all directions while he held his wounded arm.

But the silence remained unbroken—and I began to hope that our alarm was groundless—at least, so far as an ambuscade was concerned. Just where the shot had been fired from I could not tell, for the wind had quickly drifted the smoke away; but as I watched alertly I detected a slight movement in the evergreen-clad face of the hill on the left, at a point some distance ahead, and about twenty feet from the ground.

"There is only one redskin," was my instant reflection, "and he is loading for another shot."

My gun was at mid-shoulder, and I did not hesitate a second. Taking swift aim at the spot, I pulled the trigger. The loud report was followed by a screech; then the bushes parted, and an Indian pitched out headforemost, landing with a thud in the soft snow.

"Good shot!" cried Arnold. "One red devil the less! But what can the others be about?"

"It's doubtful if there are any more," said I.

"By Heavens, Carew I believe you are right!" shouted Captain Rudstone. "We've had a scare for nothing. This follow was certainly alone, or his comrades would have blazed away at us before this. I fancied I saw him stir just now—if he's not dead, we may get some information out of him."

With that the captain started toward the fallen Indian, keeping his musket ready and darting keen glances right and left. I would have followed him, but at sight of Arnold's pale face I changed my mind. His left arm was bleeding profusely below the shoulder, and three or four of his men were standing about him.

"Is the bone hit?" I inquired anxiously.

"No; it's only a flesh wound," Arnold replied. "But I can't afford to lose much more blood. Fix me up, some of you fellows."

Just then Christopher Burley pushed in among us, his countenance agitated and frightened.

"Is the danger over?" he cried.

"Are there no more Indians in the hills?"

Before I could answer him I was tapped on the shoulder, and turning round I saw Flora; she had left the sledge, and her eyes looked into mine calmly and fearlessly.

"Do not be alarmed," I said. "It seems there was but one Indian."

"I was afraid we were going to be attacked," she answered; "but I am not a bit frightened now. See, my hand is steady. Let me bandage this poor man's wound, Denzil."

The plucky girl did not wait for permission, but took a knife from one of the men and began to cut away Arnold's shirt sleeve. I had a large handkerchief in my pocket, which I produced and gave to her. Meanwhile I glanced forward to Captain Rudstone, who was kneeling beside the Indian, with his back turned to us. I saw him look quickly and furtively over his shoulder, and his hands seemed to be actively engaged. I noted this, as I say, but at the time I thought nothing of the incident.

A moment later the captain rose to his feet and turned round. He met my eyes, and his own dropped; for a passing second he looked slightly confused.

"Here's a queer go, Carew," he called. "You've killed your man, and I fancy there is something on him that will be of personal interest to you."

I hurried to the spot, in company with half a dozen others. The Indian lay dead on his side—an elderly, wrinkled savage with a feathered scalp-lock, dressed in buffalo robe, leggings and beaded moccasins. His musket was clutched in his hand, and blood was oozing from a wound in the region of the heart.

"What do you mean, Rudstone?" I asked.

He pointed silently to the redskin's throat and bending closer, I saw a necklace of the teeth and claws of wild beasts. Something else was strung with it—a tiny locket of smooth gold—and the sight of it made my heart leap. With a single jerk, I tore the necklace loose, and the locket fell in the snow. I picked it up, looked at it sharply, and suspicion became a certainty.

"This is the working of Providence!" I cried hoarsely, "I have committed an act of just retribution. Look: the Indian killed my father nearly six years ago, and now he has died by my hand."

"I suspected as much," said Captain Rudstone. "I remembered your speaking of a locket that your father always carried, and that was missing from his body."

"This is the locket," I replied. "I know it well! And here lies the murderer! Thank Heaven, I have avenged my father's death!"

"There is doubtless something in it," suggested the captain. "Most likely a miniature portrait."

He looked me straight in the eyes as he spoke, and with an expression of calm curiosity.

"It is the use to which such trinkets are usually put," he added. "I am glad you have recovered it, Carew. It is a memento to be prized and treasured."

By this time all of the party were gathered around me; Arnold's wound had been tightly and deftly bandaged, and the flow of blood checked. A whisper of my strange discovery ran from mouth to mouth, and Flora pressed my arm in silent sympathy. There was a solemn hush, and every eye was on me as I fingered the locket in search of a spring, for I knew it opened that way. I must have touched the spot by accident, for of a sudden the trinket flew open. But the inside was quite empty. I could not repress a little cry of disappointment.

"Strange!" muttered Captain Rudstone "I was sure the locket held something! You say you never knew what your father kept in it, Carew?"

"No, he never spoke of it," I replied. "It was rarely I caught a glimpse of it, though I knew that he always wore it."

"Have you reason to believe that he kept anything in it?" asked Christopher Burley.

"To tell the truth, sir, I have not," I answered.

"Ah, that lets light on the matter," said the captain. "The trinket is probably treasured for itself—for the sake of some old association connected with it."

"That is very likely," I assented. "At all events, it is empty now."

Christopher Burley begged to be allowed to examine the locket, and after a close scrutiny he handed it back to me.

"This is a very curious case, Mr. Carew," he said, speaking in dry and legal tones. "It resolves itself into two issues. In the first place, the locket may have been empty when your father wore it. In the second place it may have contained something. But if we take the latter for granted, what became of the contents? It is extremely unlikely that the Indian could have found the spring, or, indeed, suspected that the bit of gold was hollow."

"Which goes to prove," put in Captain Rudstone, "that the trinket has been restored to Mr. Carew in the same condition in which it was torn from his father's body. The redskin prized it merely as a glittering adornment to his barbaric necklace."

"I agree with you," said I, "and I think it is time we closed so trivial a discussion. Justice has been done and I am satisfied."

With that I thrust the locket deep into my pocket.

"There is another thing," said Captain Rudstone; "why did the Indian fire on us? He may have been scouting in advance of a hostile force."

"I do not think we are in any danger," I replied. "Indeed, I can offer a solution to the mystery. After my father's death the murderer was sought for, but his own tribe spirited him away, and I believe he fled to the far West. His relatives declared at the time that he had gone crazy on account of a blow on the head, and believed he had a mission to kill white men. This was likely true. And now, after a lapse of five years, the fellow wandered back to this neighborhood and fired on us at sight."

Such was my earnest conviction, and for the most part the rest agreed with me. But Tom Arnold was inclined to be skeptical, and shook his head gravely.

"You may be right, my boy," he said, "but I'm a cautious man, and I don't think overmuch of your argument. Leastways, the chances are even that your dead Indian belonged to the party who took Fort Royal, and that the whole body is marching on Fort Charter. So off we go for a rapid march, and let every man put his best foot forward."

"Under any circumstances," I replied, "whether we are in danger or not, we ought to reach the fort as soon as possible, and at the best we can't make it before midnight."

So a little later we were traveling south again, surmounting by the aid of snowshoes, all the rugged difficulties of the wintry wilderness. Flora was strapped on the sledge as before, and we had left the dead Indian—for whose fate I felt not the least compunction—lying where he had fallen.

We marched on for two hours, and then our fear of the weather proved to be well founded. A furious snowstorm came on suddenly, and a violent wind whirled the flakes into our faces; the cold grew intense, and we could not see a yard ahead of us. A more terrific blizzard we had none of us known in the past.

For a little while we floundered on resolutely, blinded and half-frozen, becoming more exhausted each minute. The storm seemed to be getting worse, and we encountered great drifts. There was not a sign by which we could steer in the right direction, and we could not be sure that we were not traveling in a circle.

"Hold on, boys; this won't do!" Tom Arnold cried at last. "We can't go any farther. We must find shelter and lie close until the morning, or until the weather takes a turn."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

A PAINFUL MYSTERY.

But how and where should we seek shelter? Each man, I am sure, asked himself that question uneasily, and the quest grew more hopeless as we groped our way on for a quarter of an hour, our faces set against the stinging cold wind and the biting snowflakes. Arnold was leading, and I was some distance back, trudging alongside of Flora, and trying to keep up her spirits.

But good fortune befell us when we least expected it. Exhausted and half-blinded, we suddenly emerged from the tangled forest on a bit of an open space. Before us was the bed of a frozen stream, now filled up with drifted snow, and from the farther side of it a hill towered steeply, affording almost complete protection from the violence of the wind. A short distance on our left, nestled at the base of another hill, was a little Indian village, long since deserted—a dozen tepees half-buried in the snow, a couple of canoe frames protruding from a drift, and some worn-out snowshoes hanging from a tree.

"By Jupiter! I know the spot," cried Tom Arnold, in a tone of consternation and astonishment. "I remember the village and the stream! Why, men, we are away out of our reckoning—on the wrong tack altogether. This shows how easily a fellow can get lost in a blizzard, no matter how old a hand he is."

"We're in luck, anyway," said I. "Here is decent shelter, and the hills keep off the worst of the storm. We are safe for the night."

"And Fort Charter twenty miles away!" grumbled Arnold. "We've got to reach it to-morrow, come good weather or bad. All hands to work," he added sharply. "We'll make things as snug as possible."

We set to with a will and the exercise soon warmed our sluggish blood. Some dug out the canoe frames and broke them up for fuel; others cleared the loose snow from half a dozen of the huts, and we were delighted to find them dry inside, and in sound condition. We did not hesitate to build a roaring fire, for we knew that the light could not be seen at any distance, and that if any hostile Indians were in the vicinity the storm would have driven them to camp.

Twilight was falling when we found the abandoned village, and the evening was well advanced by the time our preparations were completed. We cooked and ate supper, and then sat smoking for awhile about the fire. The best of the tepees had been assigned to Flora, and she retired immediately after the meal. The storm was still raging and the snow falling thickly, but our camp was so sheltered by the two great hills that we were almost as comfortable as we had been at Fort Beaver. Yet only a short distance away, to right and left, we could hear the wind shrieking and howling through the open wilderness.

"We had better be turning in, so we can make an early start," Tom Arnold said finally. "My arm is stiff and sore, and I can't sit up any longer. How about sentry duty?"

"We mustn't neglect that," replied Captain Rudstone. "I volunteer for the first watch."

The matter was quickly settled. There were to be three watches, Carteret following the captain, and a Fort Charter man named Humphrey taking the last turn. The orders were to pace a short distance right and left of the camp at intervals, and to keep up the fire; each sentry was to rouse the next man at the proper time.

We smoked a last pipe, and turned in leaving Captain Rudstone on guard. We were divided into batches of four, and those who shared my tepee with me were Christopher Burley, Luke Hutter and Duncan Forbes. We huddled close together, wrapped in blankets, and I for one was so tired out that I fell asleep instantly.

I remember nothing more until I was roused, after what seemed a short interval, by a husky shout and a spluttering of angry words. The noise was enough to waken the whole camp, and indeed it did so with amazing rapidity. I rushed outside in alarm, followed by my companions. The gray dawn was breaking, and the air was free of snow. The rest of the men were pouring from the tepees, rubbing their drowsy eyes and fumbling with their muskets. I saw Flora's face, flushed and frightened, peeping from the little doorway of her hut. We all gathered round Tom Arnold, who was pointing to a heap of dead ashes—what was left of the fire.

"We might have been murdered in our sleep!" he cried savagely. "Who's to blame for this cursed carelessness? I turned out a minute ago, and look what I find! Nobody on guard, and the fire burned to ashes! Humphrey, you scoundrel, you had the last watch! What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I—I wasn't roused, sir," stammered Humphrey. "It was Carteret's place to do that."

"How could I do it when I wasn't wakened myself?" exclaimed Carteret. "Naturally I slept sound, thinking I would be called in time."

"Just my case," added Humphrey in an aggrieved tone.

"Then Captain Rudstone is the man!" cried Arnold. "Where is he?"

Where indeed? We suddenly became aware that the captain was not among us. We shouted and called his name, but no answer came back. We looked into all the tepees, and found them empty. It was a deep mystery, and our alarm and wonder increased. We glanced at one another with startled and anxious faces. None could throw light on the matter; we had all slept soundly through the night. I questioned Flora, but she was no wiser than the rest of us.

"It's the queerest thing I ever heard of," said Arnold. "The man can't have been spirited away."

"Perhaps an Indian crept up and tomahawked him," suggested Malcolm Cameron, "and he's lying yonder under the snow."

"No; that is out of the question," said I. "Captain Rudstone could not have been caught off his guard."

"It's my opinion," declared Arnold, "that he heard some noise in the forest and went to see what it was. He wandered farther from camp than he intended, and got lost in the storm—you can see by the depth of the snow that the blizzard didn't hold up till near morning—and ten to one he's lying stiff and dead under a drift. We'll search for him till the middle of the morning, and if we don't find him by then, we must be off to the fort while the weather permits."

Arnold's reasoning was not very sound, but no one could offer a more plausible solution to the mystery. While breakfast was preparing some of us fruitlessly explored the vicinity of the camp, and a little later, having fortified ourselves with food and hot coffee, we set off on a more extended search. Christopher Burley and three other men stayed behind with Flora; the rest, divided into four parties, went in as many different directions.

To cut a long tale short, our efforts proved of no avail. One after another the search parties returned—the last one arriving an hour before noon—and all had the same story to tell. The ground had been carefully gone over within a radius of several miles from camp, but Captain Rudstone had disappeared without leaving a trace behind him. That Arnold's theory was correct—that the unfortunate man lay dead under one of the mighty drifts that had formed while the storm raged in the night—we all believed. That he could have voluntarily deserted us was out of the question.

"It would be no use to hunt any longer," said Arnold, "even if we had the time to spare. Perhaps next spring, when the snow melts, some trapper or hunter will find the body and give it decent burial."

So, after a sad and hurried dinner, we packed up and resumed our journey. The weather held good, and about midnight we arrived safely at Fort Charter.

I will make but brief mention of our stop at the fort, where we were received and treated with the utmost kindness. As for Captain Rudstone, I need only say that I had grown sincerely attached to him, and felt his loss deeply. Not a scrap of news was waiting for us on our arrival. No couriers had come in, and what was taking place in the North, or whether Andrew Menzies and his party had reached Fort Elk, were matters of conjecture. One keen disappointment I had. Contrary to expectation, there was no priest at Fort Charter, so my marriage with Flora had to be put off indefinitely, as I feared at the time.

But something happened shortly to raise my spirits. The factor of the fort decided to send word down to Fort Garry of the Indian rising and the loss of Fort Royal, and I gladly consented to be his messenger. Moreover, since an attack was far from improbable, and the post was weak, two of the officers seized this opportunity to dispatch their wives to the South, believing from the reports they had heard that the country was safe in that direction.

Preparations were pushed forward, and just three days after our arrival we started on our long march of five hundred miles to Fort Garry through the dead of winter. We numbered fifteen in all, including Flora, and two other women. Christopher Burley, Baptiste and Carteret, and Luke Hutter were of the party. We were well provided with all that was needful—sledges and dogs, provisions and firearms.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

REST AND HAPPINESS.

Rat, tat, tat! Thump, thump! Bang!

So noisy and persistent an assault on my door roused me at length from a delicious slumber. I sat up, rubbing my blinking eyes.

"Who's there?" I called in a drowsy tone.

"It's nine o'clock, sir," responded the voice of Baptiste. "I thought you would wish to know it," he added, and with that he went shuffling down the corridor.

Nine o'clock! And I had slept several hours over my usual time of rising! This was the result of sitting up so late the night before. I was wide awake instantly. I sprang out of bed, broke the thin crust of ice on my basin, and plunged hands and face into the bitter cold water. A brisk rubbing with a towel put me all aglow, and I felt what a good thing it was to be alive. The past, with its perils and hardships, was behind me like a dim dream, and the future was rose-colored in spite of the grim spectre of war that it held over us in those days.

This was to be an eventful morning, in a way, for I had a happy piece of news to impart to Flora; I thought of it constantly as I dressed—an operation to which of late I devoted much care and attention. From regions downstairs—I was in the factor's house—came the rattle of dishes and a murmur of voices. Out of doors the frosty air was filled with the hum of busy human life.

But I forget that I owe the reader an explanation. The day of which I write was the 9th of January, 1847, and just one week after we entered Fort Garry and exchanged the harsh monotony of travel for the comforts of this nourishing post in the western wilderness.

I need dwell but briefly on the interval. The journey from Fort Charter had been severe and trying, protracted by furious storms that held us in camp for days at a time. But we were not attacked on the way—indeed, we saw no signs of Indians—and every one of our little band had come safely down from the North, through the heart of the Great Lone Land. It had been a disappointment to spend Christmas in the wilderness, but our trials were forgotten when we reached the fort.

But of these matters enough for the present. I must return to where I left off, and continue the narrative. When I had finished dressing that morning I went downstairs to the factor's living room, meeting no one on the way except Christopher Burley, who was too absorbed in thought to return my greeting.

I opened the door softly, and beheld an attractive picture. The sunlight shone on rugs and easy-chairs, on walls hung with tastefully chosen prints, on a table spread for two, with snowy linen and white china. To my relief, the room had but one occupant, and that was Flora. She was standing by the window, and as I entered she turned round quickly. She looked radiantly beautiful in a frock of some pink material with her rich hair coiled in a new and becoming fashion.

"Denzil, how late you are!" she cried, with a roguish pout. "They have all finished breakfast long ago. But I waited for you, sir, and am nearly famished. You do not deserve—"

She got no further, for by this time I was at her side, and had stopped her pretty lips with a kiss—nay, a shower of them.

"Darling, I have news for you," I said, a moment later.

"Well, what is it?" she asked, blushing as she spoke.

"I had a long talk with Mr. Macdonald last night," I replied. "A better fellow never lived. I told him all, and—and he is anxious to have a wedding at Fort Garry."

"Is he?"

"Yes, that's what he said. It will sort of cheer up things, you know, and—"

"But he has one wife already."

"Don't be stupid," said I. "Listen: he is going to send a man off to-day for the priest, who is visiting a little settlement fifty miles to the south. In a week, if you are willing, we can be married."

"In a week!" she cried, with mock consternation.

"I am serious," I replied. "Do not play with me. Think how long I have waited. Say that you will be my wife in a week's time."

"You foolish boy!" She nestled closer to me, adding, in a different and tremulous voice: "I am yours, dearest. I will marry you whenever you wish."

Our lips met, and then I held her at arm's length, looking into her big, purple eyes, soft and shining with the light of love.

"I am the happiest man in the world," I said hoarsely.

"You deserve it," Flora answered.

"And I am glad to feel that we are carrying out the wishes of Griffith Hawke. Poor fellow! he was a true friend; and so was Captain Rudstone. I often think of his sad fate."

"I never liked Captain Rudstone," said Flora. "I feared and mistrusted him. And I have seen him looking at you so queerly sometimes, Denzil."

"Have you?" I replied. "I have noticed the same thing myself. But I can't believe—"

"Hush! we won't talk of the past," Flora interrupted. "But the future worries me, dearest. I am afraid of war breaking out—"

"The cloud will likely blow over," said I; "but if trouble does come the Northwest Company will quickly get the worst of it. And I forgot to tell you, darling, that Mr. Macdonald has promised me a good post here at Fort Garry."

"How lovely," exclaimed Flora. "I don't want to return to the North, with its bitter memories."

Just then footsteps were heard approaching, and we drew apart in some confusion. The next instant the door opened and the factor himself appeared, nourishing a paper in one hand.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

GOOD NEWS.

Colin Macdonald, I have omitted to state, was rather more than sixty years of age; a stalwart, bearded, well-preserved Scotchman, who had grown gray in the service of the Hudson Bay Company. He was an old friend of mine, as I had visited Fort Garry on previous occasions.

"Good-morning, Carew," he began. "Overslept yourself—eh? Miss Hatherton would insist on waiting for you—lucky dog that you are! But here is something that will interest you."

"Dispatches?" I exclaimed eagerly.

"Right you are."

"From Quebec, I presume?"

"No; from the North. But sit down and have breakfast, man. You must be half-starved."

Curbing my impatience, I seated myself at the table. Flora sat on the left and poured out the coffee. The factor remained standing.

"I must be off directly," he said. "I knew you would want to hear the news. A special courier came in at daybreak—splendid fellow!—all the way from Fort Charter—left three weeks after your party."

"From Fort Charter?" I cried. "And what is the news?"

"I hope it is good news," said Flora.

"Well, yes, what there is of it is good," replied Macdonald, "and that's not so much after all. The dispatches come from Fort Charter, and contain information received there from Fort York and other northern posts. For one thing, my prediction was right. The Indians, instead of continuing on the war-path, have disbanded as mysteriously and swiftly as they assembled. A small force, collected from the different forts, has started out to pursue the scattered parties of the enemy."

"I hope they will succeed," said I. "Anything about Cuthbert Mackenzie?"

"Yes. That infernal ruffian was the leader, according to Indian spies who arrived at Fort York. But there is little hope of catching him. He is supposed to have fled south with a few followers. By Heaven, sir, if he comes back to the Red River, I'll arrest him at once! The whole North West Company shan't hinder me!"

"I'm sorry he escaped!" exclaimed Flora, with flashing eyes. "But tell me, Mr. Macdonald, is there any word of Mr. Menzies and his party?"

"They are all right," replied the factor. "They reached Fort Elk in safety, and then went on to Fort York. So you see that the North is quiet again."

"But that won't avenge the burning of Fort Royal," I said bitterly, "or the death of so many brave men."

"The work of retribution will come later," declared Macdonald; "be assured of that. The governor will leave no stone unturned to seek out and punish the murderers. I wish Lord Selkirk were here; he is the very bones and sinews of the company. I understand that he contemplates an early visit to the Canadas, and this outrage may hasten his arrival. And now I must be going, Carew. When you have finished your breakfast—"

"One moment, sir," I interrupted. "I suppose there is no news of Captain Rudstone? It is foolish to ask—"

"Oh, but there is! Bless me, I quite forgot to speak of it. Let me see; there was a reference to the matter in the dispatch from Fort Charter. What did he say? Wait—I have it!"

Running his finger down the page of thick yellow paper, covered with scrawly writing, he read as follows:

"... and tell Mr. Carew that we made a further search the next week for his friend Captain Myles Rudstone. A party set out under Tom Arnold and were gone three days. But they found no trace of the unfortunate man, and there can be no doubt that he perished in the storm, and is buried deep under a drift."

"Poor fellow!" said I. "I hoped he might turn up, but there is no chance of it now."

"It is a strange case," replied Macdonald. "I was familiar with Captain Rudstone's name, but I can't recall every having met him."

With that the factor looked at his watch, gathered up his papers, and hurried from the room. Left to ourselves, Flora and I discussed the welcome tidings we had just heard, as well as some matters of a more personal nature. Then, breakfast finished, I reluctantly departed to my day's work, and a few moments later I was seated at a desk in the clerk's quarters, with ink, quill, and paper before me; for I was writing a detailed account of the siege and capture of Fort Royal, which to be forwarded to the officials of the company at Quebec.

* * * * *

The breakfast room again; the time nine o'clock that same night. After laborious toil with brain and hand, I was enjoying a well-earned rest. Supper was over long since, and the ladies had retired a few minutes before. A snugger, more cozy place could scarcely have been found in Quebec itself. Two lamps shed a soft light, and a mighty fire roared in the huge stove.

Macdonald and I sat in easy-chairs at opposite sides of a table that was littered with books and papers, glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and a canister of tobacco. He was smoking a long churchwarden, I a stubby and blackened short one. At a small table at the other end of the room three officers of the fort were playing cards with the silence and attention of old-world gamesters.

"Nearly done with your report?" asked the factor.

"I think another day will finish it," said I.

"It's a trying task, no doubt."

"I would rather be fighting Indians," I replied. "The work is better fitted for Mr. Burley."

"Quite so," assented Macdonald. "By the bye, where is your legal friend to-night?"

"I'll warrant he's in the men's quarters, as usual," I answered, "on the hunt for information."

"He's a queer chap, but sound-headed," said the factor. "He spoke to me of the matter that brought him to the Canadas, but I couldn't give him any assistance; I never heard the name of Osmund Maiden."

I'm afraid it's a useless search—so many years have passed since the man disappeared.

"I agree with you," I replied. "But he is a plucky fellow, and sticks on in spite of failure. He deserves to win. I don't suppose he told you what he wants with the man?"

"No; he was close-mouthed about that, Carew. Fill up your glass again. That rare old Scotch I get straight from Edinburgh, and the tobacco is the best crop of the Virginias. You see, we try to live up to the mark here in the wilderness."

"Royally," said I. "I have tasted no such tobacco or whisky since I was in Quebec last."

We smoked for awhile in silence, and then Macdonald suddenly blurted out:

"If the Northwest people make trouble, my supplies will be cut off."

"Any news to-day?" I asked.

"A little," he replied. "It may mean nothing—or much. Certainly our enemies are growing bolder. Last night a lot of half-breeds marched through our colony, making murderous threats and singing war songs."

"And a week ago two swivel guns and a howitzer were stolen," said I; "and a week before that there was a brawl up at Isle-a-la-Crosse, in which a man was killed on either side. Mr. Macdonald, the situation is becoming intolerable. How will it end?"

The factor brought his fist heavily down on the table. "In a general fight—perhaps in a war spread over the whole territory," he declared. "By Heaven! sir, if I had authority from Governor Semple, I would take stern measures at once—I would make the Northwest people show their hand, and then attack and crush them. We have borne insults and affronts too long."

"I hoped that I was done with fighting," I replied.

"Ay, you have had more than your share of it. I am sorry for you, Carew. I will hurry on your marriage—I sent for the priest this morning—and then I would advise you to send your wife to Quebec. We shall win in the end, and uphold the supremacy of the company, but not without a struggle, I fear."

The thought of parting from Flora—of sending her hundreds of miles away from me—made me feel very blue; and the factor's keen eyes observed this:

"Cheer up," he said. "We are discussing events that may never occur. Come, what do you say to a little diversion—to a hand at cards?"

"With all my heart," I assented gladly.

But just then the door slowly opened, and Mr. Christopher Burley slowly entered the room. He was neatly attired in black, and after looking about him he made a low bow.

"I trust I am not intruding," he said in a dry, precise voice. "I desire to see you particularly, Mr. Macdonald. I have been conversing with some of the older employees of the fort, and I find that through ignorance I overlooked a most important matter during the interview you granted me several days ago."

"Indeed!" replied Macdonald. "And to what do you refer? Go on; you may speak freely in front of Mr. Carew."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

A MESSAGE.

I think Mr. Burley would have preferred a private audience with the factor, but he made no verbal objection to my presence. He looked rather glum, however, as he came near and seated himself. He first took a pinch of snuff from an enameled box, and blew his nose vigorously; then, stretching his long legs under the table and resting an elbow on each arm of the chair, he interlocked his lean fingers.

"If I remember rightly, Mr. Macdonald," he began, "you informed me that you had been a resident of this fort, in various capacities, for the space of thirty-two years?"

"That is quite true, sir."

"And during that period—indeed for some years prior to it," continued the law clerk, "I understand that travelers stopping at Fort Garry on their way to the far north were in the habit of leaving their trunks and other luggage behind them here for safe keeping."

"Certainly—certainly! You have not been misinformed, Mr. Burley."

"And some of these travelers never came back—never returned to claim their belongings?"

"Alas! too many of them," replied Macdonald. He shook his head sadly as he filled the bowl of his pipe. "You have stirred up a host of buried and half-forgotten memories," he went on, in a reminiscent tone, puffing out clouds of smoke. "I recall dozens of poor fellows—hunters, trappers, and explorers—who set out with hopeful hearts to conquer the perils of the wilderness, and have not been heard of to this day. Their trunks and boxes are still in the fort—their bones are scattered in the solitudes of the Great Lone Land. Of course a greater number turned up again, and it is quite likely that some of the missing ones are alive. You see, their property may not have been worth sending for."

I began to see the drift of Mr. Barley's questioning.

"You knew these men?" he asked.

"Yes; at the time."

"And you have no recollection of Osmund Maiden? He would have been a young man of about twenty—handsome and spirited, well educated."

"I have told you before, sir," replied the factor, "that the name is strange to me. I should probably recall him if he had passed through the fort, for I have a very keen memory."

"Twenty-nine years is a long time—long enough for much to slip the mind," said Mr. Burley. "I have been in the Canadas for the better part of a year, sir, and I have made not the slightest advancement in the matter that brought me from England. It is strange that a man should vanish with leaving a clew behind him, and I will not confess that I am beaten. My task, gentlemen, is to find Osmund Maiden alive, or to discover clear proof of his death. And it occurred to me to-night that he may have been one of those luckless travelers who passed through Fort Garry to tempt fortune in the wilderness."

"It is not impossible," replied Macdonald. "I could not swear to the contrary."

"It seems like enough," said I. "At that period few went to the far north except by way of Fort Garry."

Mr. Burley gave me a grateful glance, and regaled himself with a second pinch of snuff.

"I will come to the point, Mr. Macdonald," he resumed. "These unclaimed trunks and boxes—you say they are in the fort?"

"Yes; they are stored in an upper room of this very house—at least, the greater part of them. All that were deposited here during the last five or six years are in another building."

Mr. Burley's relief and satisfaction were visible on his face.

"I presume that a record was kept of such deposits?" he asked.

"Yes, from the first," the factor answered. "It was done in a business-like way. Every man who left a trunk or a box here was given a receipt. Then his name was entered in a book and numbered, and his number was marked on his property."

"And that book?"

"A new one was started a few years ago," replied Macdonald. "The first one went to pieces with age, and had to be put aside."

"And what became of it?" the law clerk cried eagerly. "It was not lost?"

"Lost? Of course not, sir. I have it stored away in some place."

"Ah, that is fortunate! I beg you to produce it, Mr. Macdonald. It will be very easy to ascertain if I am right or wrong. If Osmund Maiden passed through Fort Garry, and left any luggage behind him, his name will appear in the record."

"Quite true," assented the factor; "but I am sorry that I can't—"

He stopped suddenly, and put his head to one side.

"I fancy I heard a shout yonder—off by the gates," he added. "Did you hear anything, Carew?"

"No." I replied; "it must have been the wind."

Macdonald turned to the law clerk.

"I was about to remark," he continued, "that I can't put my hands on the record-book to-night. But I will search for it to-morrow morning, and give you the satisfaction of examining the entries."

"You are very kind, sir," replied Christopher Burley. "And I trust I shall find——"

He was interrupted by a quick, imperative rap on the door.

"Come in!" cried Macdonald.

At the summons a clerk entered, holding a sealed envelope in his hand.

"From the settlement," he said. "Very urgent, sir! It came by messenger a moment ago."

The factor silently opened the envelope, drew out a letter and glanced over it briefly. Then his deep-sunken eyes flashed with rage.

"The daring scoundrels!" he cried. "Listen! This is from Walker, my right-hand man in the colony," and in a hoarse voice he read aloud as follows:

"I have just learned, through a trusted Indian spy, that some Northwest men captured a traveler twenty miles up the river this morning. The prisoner is said to be a Hudson Bay Company courier, bound for Fort Garry with important dispatches from the north. He is held on a trumped-up charge of some sort, and before daylight to-morrow he is to be hurried round the fort and the settlement and conveyed down the river to the Northwest Company's main post. His captors number seven, and to-night they are putting up at Lagarde's store. This is reliable, and I have kept it quiet so far. I wait your commands, and will execute them promptly."

Having finished, the factor crumpled the letter into a ball, and poured some whisky with a steady hand. I sprang to my feet, heated by excitement and indignation. The three officers had been listening; they dropped their cards, and hastened across the room to us.

"Can this be true?" I cried.

"I believe it," said Macdonald. "It's bad news, and I only hope it won't be the spark to fire the blaze. But my duty is clear all the same, and I intend to act promptly. Not through Walker and the colonists, though; we must strike direct from the fort. Let me see; Lagarde's store is eight miles from here—six north of the settlement. There is no time to lose, for it is past midnight. The messenger has not gone, Stirling?"

"No, sir; he is waiting," replied the clerk.

"Start him back at once," directed the factor. "Bid him tell Walker to do nothing in the matter—that I have taken it into my hands. And he is to be careful that not a word of the affair gets out. I don't want anything known until it is all over. I can't trust the colonists; they are too hot headed and reckless."

"Very good, sir."

"You may go. Be quick."

The clerk hurried off, and Macdonald turned to the officers.

"Lieutenant Boyd, I am going to put this mission into your hand," he said, "and I hope you understand its delicate nature. Take twenty men armed and mounted. Follow the road that swings off to the left of the settlement, and then ride straight on to Lagarde's; the night is dark, and the crust is in fine condition for horses. These are your orders: First make sure that the ruffians have a prisoner; then compel them to deliver him up. But let there be no fighting or bloodshed, if possible. Don't fire a shot unless you are fired on yourselves."

"I understand, sir," replied the officer. "I will do my best. With your permission I will take McKay and Nicoll"—pointing to his fellow-officers. "And perhaps Mr. Carew would like to come?"

"With all my heart!" I exclaimed eagerly; for the adventure promised to be to my taste.

A moment later, Macdonald, having added a few words of instruction, we were out of the house and hastening toward the men's quarters.



CHAPTER XL.

A STARTLING CHANGE.

We found a few men up, but most of them had turned in, and thus some little time was lost in selecting and rousing them. As quietly as possible—for we did not want to alarm the whole fort—the horses were led out and saddled. Then the twenty of us mounted, filed through the gates and rode off to the north. Among those chosen—it was my suggestion—were Luke Hutter and Carteret. I was up in front, with Lieutenant Boyd and his fellow officers.

Our destination, Lagarde's store, was a stoutly-built log house standing quite by itself, and near a lonely trail that led into the wilderness. It had been erected a few years before, and served the Northwest people for a small trading post until they constructed larger ones. Then it was turned over to Pierre Lagarde, one of their own men, who ran it as a combined supply store and lodging house for passing voyageurs and hunters. It was a rough place in these times of ill feeling, and was avoided by Hudson Bay Company men. I knew a good bit about it myself, and what more there was to know Lieutenant Boyd vouchsafed as we rode along.

"It was natural that the ruffians should break their journey there," he concluded. "They will probably be sleeping, and I don't anticipate any trouble in getting the prisoner into our hands. As for Lagarde, he is a blustering fellow, but a coward at heart."

"They won't show light if they are seven to twenty," said I. "But do you really believe they have dared to capture one of our couriers?"

"They would dare anything, these Northwest Company scoundrels," replied the lieutenant. "And Walker's information, I assure you, is always accurate."

By this time we had left Port Garry a couple of miles behind us, and far off to our right a couple of twinkling lights on the horizon marked the little settlement. On we went at a rattling pace, the hoofs of our horses ringing on the hard, frozen snow. The night was dark and bitterly cold; the stars shone in the steely vault of the sky, but there was no moon.

Presently we dipped into a heavy forest, which made the road gleam whiter by contrast. When we had come within a mile of our goal, we settled down to a trot, and a little later the word to halt and dismount was passed along the line in a whisper.

"I don't want to give the rascals any warning," the lieutenant explained. "It will be far the wisest plan to take them by surprise, before they can show fight. We are less than a quarter of a mile from the store now."

The men were quickly out of the saddle, and three of them were told off to guard the horses, which we tethered to saplings by the side of the road. Then the rest of us—seventeen in number—looked to our muskets and started forward on foot. We moved as silently as possible, and soon reached the edge of the forest, where we halted in the deep shadow of the trees.

Before us was a spacious clearing, fifty yards across which stood Lagarde's store. Smoke was pouring from the chimney and a ray of light was visible under one of the shuttered windows; but not a sound could be heard, and not a moving object could be seen on the white snow crust.

"It's all right," said Boyd. "They have turned in for the night, and I don't suppose they have set a watch; Lagarde keeps no dog."

"We had better make sure," suggested Nicoll. "I'm light on my feet—if you say the word I'll have a closer look about."

I offered to accompany him—I was keenly curious about the prisoner—and the lieutenant consented.

"Go on, then," he said, "but don't let them catch you spying, and get back as fast as you can. It's too cold to wait about long."

So off we went, Nicoll and I, and we crept across the clearing with scarcely more noise than a cat would have made. A hum of voices grew on our ears as we approached, proving that Boyd's surmise was wrong.

The conversation, and the light under the windows, came from the room in the nearest angle of the house. But there were no crevices between the logs, and the shutters fitted so tightly that we could see nothing.

We heard little more. A number of men were talking in low tones, and after listening a minute we gathered that they had a prisoner and intended taking him down to the Northwest Company's fort in the morning. We made a circuit of the house finding the other rooms dark and silent, and then safely rejoined our party and communicated our discoveries to the lieutenant.

"Up and awake, are they?" he muttered. "And it's a sure thing about the prisoner! Well, they won't have him long. I'll surround the house and induce them to open the door by craft. If that don't work—?"

"Look here," interrupted Nicoll. "I didn't tell you that I recognized the voice of one of those fellows in the room."

"Ah! Who was it?"

"Ruthven!"

"Are you sure, man?"

"Yes; positive!"

"Then there is all the more reason for acting with promptness and decision," the lieutenant said emphatically. "Ruthven is a dangerous man," he added to me. "He is an official of the Northwest Company, and is said to have stirred up the half-breeds against us. But I'll get the upper hand of him this time."

A moment later, Boyd having given the force sharp and precise instructions, we sallied out from the woods and across the clearing. As stealthily as panthers we gained the house, and a dozen of our men quickly surrounded it. Five posted themselves before the door—the lieutenant, Nicoll and McKay, Carteret and myself. We held our weapons ready for use.

"If they don't let us in at once," Boyd whispered, "we'll force an entrance. It's not a case for parleying."

With that he rapped on the door—by no means lightly. There was a sudden hush inside, then a cautious approach of booted feet, and then a gruff voice demanded:

"Who's there?"

"A friend," answered the lieutenant.

"What do you want?"

"I have an important message for Jim Ruthven."

"From the fort?"

"Yes, from the fort. Open, Pierre!"

An instant of hesitation. Creak, creak! Bolts were being withdrawn. Next the door swung open, and we dimly saw the bearded, rum-bloated face of Pierre Lagarde. The lieutenant's ruse had thoroughly deceived him, and at sight of us he was struck dumb. Before he could give an alarm we had jammed him back between the door and the wall, and dashed past him into the room.

"Don't stir!" cried Boyd in a ringing voice. "The first one of you that moves, or reaches for a weapon, I'll shoot like a dog!"

And he leveled a pistol in each hand.

It was the neatest piece of work I had ever seen done. We had surprised the enemy at a moment when they believed themselves in perfect security, and they were powerless to offer any resistance. Seven men surrounded a table littered with cups and bottles, all hunters or voyageurs save one—a better-dressed, crafty-featured man, whom I took for Ruthven. They sat staring at us with savage faces and flashing eyes, trembling with rage, muttering deep curses. Their muskets were stacked on the wall behind them, and they dared not reach for knives or pistols.

"I've got you trapped," the lieutenant added. "You can't help yourselves. Three times your number are outside. But I mean you no harm. My business can be settled without bloodshed—"

"Do you think you are acting in your rights, sir," Ruthven broke in defiantly, "when you invade the property of the Northwest Company and threaten its servants?"

"You scoundrel!" cried Boyd, "were you acting in your rights when you waylaid and captured a courier of the Hudson Bay Company?"

"It's a lie!"

"Come, we know better," said I. "The prisoner is in this house and we want him at once."

"And who are you, my young cock-of-the-walk?" snarled Ruthven.

"Denzil Carew," I replied, on the spur of the moment, "formerly of Fort Royal."

By the sudden pallor of the man's face I knew that the shot had struck home—that he knew all about the burning of the fort, and his companions looked no less disconcerted and alarmed. He changed the subject instantly.

"Lieutenant Boyd, I command you to leave," he said hoarsely. "You forget there is such a thing as law in the Canadas."

"It is you who forget that, sir," retorted the lieutenant, "as you will learn to your cost before many days. But to business! Produce the prisoner."

"I admit that I have one," said Ruthven, "but my claim to him overrides yours. He is a murderer; he has killed a Northwest Company man in cold blood."

"Who?"

"Cuthbert Mackenzie!"

I could scarcely believe that I had heard aright. I exchanged significant and wondering glances with my companion. Could it be possible that Cuthbert Mackenzie had paid the last penalty for his crimes?

"It's a good job, if it's true!" muttered Carteret.



CHAPTER XLI.

BACK FROM THE DEAD.

Lieutenant Boyd was silent for an instant, and I saw that he was a little staggered by the bold daring of the accusation. Then, looking Ruthven straight in the eyes, he said, in a curt and significant tone of voice:

"I am glad to have found some one who can give information concerning Cuthbert Mackenzie, and I will remember you when certain investigations now pending are taken up by the Hudson Bay Company. Shall I make my meaning clearer?"

"As you please," muttered Ruthven, with an air of forced calmness.

"It is needless; I think we understand each other," the lieutenant continued. "As for the prisoner, and the charge you have made against him, I won't enter into that matter at present. Did you arrest him with a warrant?"

"No."

"Then you can't hold him. Set him at liberty, and I will guarantee that you will find him at Fort Garry when you are ready to serve the proper papers on him."