into a smile. Then the smile died out suddenly and he turned to the north and made a long ‘soo-o-o-sh’ with rising intonation, signifying the rising wind. “Him very bad. White-man sleep–sleep. Wake–no.” And he finished up with a shake of the head.
Then his arm dropped to his side, and he waited for Grey to speak. For a moment the Customs officer remained silent. Chillingwood waited anxiously. Both men understood the Indian’s meaning. Chillingwood believed the man to be right about the trail. As to the coming storm, and the probable consequences if they were caught in it, that was patent to all three.
But Grey, with characteristic pig-headedness, gave no heed to the superior intelligence of the Indian where matters of direction in a wild country were concerned. He knew he was on the right trail. That was sufficient for him. But he surveyed the surrounding mountains well before he spoke. They had halted in a sort of cup-like hollow, with towering sides surmounted by huge glaciers down which the wind was now whistling with vicious force. There were only two exits from this vast arena. The one by which the travellers had entered it, and the other directly ahead of them; the latter was only to be approached by a wide ledge which skirted one of the mountains and inclined sharply upwards. Higher up the mountain slope was a belt of pinewoods, close to which was a stubbly growth of low bush. This was curiously black in contrast with the white surroundings, for no snow was upon its weedy branches and shrivelled, discoloured leaves. Suddenly, while Grey was looking out beyond the dog-train, he observed the impress of snow-shoes in the snow. He pointed to them and drew his companion’s attention.
“You see,” he said triumphantly, “there has been some one passing this way just ahead of us. Look here, neche, you just get right on and don’t let me have any more nonsense about the trail.”
The Indian shook his head.
“Ow,” he grunted. “This little–just little.” Then he pointed ahead. “Big, white–all white. No, no; white-man no come dis way. Bimeby neche so,” and Rainy-Moon made a motion of lying down and sleeping. He meant that they would get lost and die in the snow.
Grey became angry.
“Get on,” he shouted. And Rainy-Moon reluctantly turned and started his dogs afresh.
The little party ascended the sloping path. The whipping snow lashed their faces as the wind rushed it up from the ground in rapidly thickening clouds. The fierce gusts were concentrating into a steady shrieking blast. A grey cloud of snow, thin as yet, but plainly perceptible, was in the air. The threat it conveyed was no idle one. The terror of the blizzard was well known to those people. And they knew that in a short space they would have to seek what shelter they might chance to find upon these almost barren mountains.
The white-men tightened the woollen scarves about the storm-collars of their coats, and occasionally beat their mitted hands against their sides. The gathering wind was intensifying the cold.
“If this goes on we shall have to make that belt of pinewoods for shelter,” observed Robb Chillingwood practically. “It won’t do to take chances of losing the dogs–and their load–in the storm. What say?”
They had rounded a bend and Grey was watchfully gazing ahead. He did not seem to hear his companion’s question. Suddenly he pointed directly along the path towards a point where it seemed to vanish between two vast crags.
“Smoke,” he said. And his tone conveyed that he wished his companion to understand that he, Grey, had been right about the trail, and that Robb had been wrong. “That’s Dougal’s store,” he went on, after a slight pause.
Chillingwood looked as directed. He saw the rush of smoke which, in the rising storm, was ruthlessly swept from the mouth of a piece of upright stove-pipe, which in the now grey surroundings could just be distinguished.
“But I thought there was a broad, open trail at Dougal’s,” he said, at last, after gazing for some moments at the tiny smoke-stack.
“Maybe the road opens out here,” answered Grey weakly.
But it didn’t. Instead it narrowed. And as they ascended the slope it became more and more precipitous. The storm was now beating up, seemingly from every direction, and it was with difficulty that the five great huskies hauled their burden in the face of it. However, Rainy-Moon urged them to their task with no light hand, and just as the storm settled down to its work in right good earnest they drew up abreast of a small dugout. The path had narrowed down to barely six feet in width, bordered on the left hand by a sharp slope upwards towards the pinewood belt above, and on the right by a sheer precipice; whilst fifty feet further on there was no more path–just space. As this became apparent to him, Robb Chillingwood could not help wondering what their fate might have been had the storm overtaken them earlier, and they had not come upon the dugout. However, he had no time for much speculation on the subject, for, as the dogs came to a stand, the door of the dugout was thrown back and a tall, cadaverous-looking man stood framed in the opening.
“Kind o’ struck it lucky,” he observed, without any great show of enthusiasm. “Come right in. The neche can take the dogs round the side there,” pointing to the left of the dugout. “There’s a weatherproof shack there where I keep my kindling. Guess he can fix up in that till this d–d breeze has blown itself out. You’ve missed the trail, I take it. Come right in.”
Half-an-hour later the two Customs officers were seated with their host round the camp-stove which stood hissing and spluttering in the centre of the hut. The dogs and Rainy-Moon were housed in the woodshed.
Now that the travellers were divested of their heavy furs, their appearance was less picturesque but more presentable. Robb Chillingwood was about twenty-five; his whole countenance indexed a sturdy honesty of thought and a merry disposition. There was considerable strength too about brow and jaw. Leslie Grey was shorter than his companion. A man of dapper, sturdy figure, and with a face good-looking, obstinate, and displaying as much sense of humour as a barbed-wire fence post. He was fully thirty years of age.
Their host possessed a long, attenuated, but powerful figure, and a face chiefly remarkable for its cadaverous hollows and a pair of hungry eyes and a dark chin-whisker.
“Yes, sir,” this individual was saying, “she’s goin’ to howl good and hard for the next forty-eight hours, or I don’t know these parts. Maybe you’re from the valley?”
Chillingwood shook his head.
“No. Fort Cudahy way,” he said. “My name’s Chillingwood–Robb Chillingwood. This is Mr. Leslie Grey, Customs officer. I am his assistant.”
The long man glanced slowly at his guests. His great eyes seemed to take in the details of each man’s appearance with solemn curiosity. Then he twisted slowly upon the upturned box on which he was seated and crossed his legs.
“I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen. It’s lonely in these parts–lonely.” He shuddered as though with cold. “I’ve been trapping in these latitudes for a considerable period, and it’s–lonely. My name is Zachary Smith.”
As the trapper pronounced his name he glanced keenly from one to the other of the two men beside him. His look was suggestive of doubt. He seemed to be trying to re-assure himself that he had never before crossed the paths of these chance guests of his. After a moment of apprehensive silence he went on slowly, like one groping in darkness. His confidence was not fully established.
“You can make up your minds to a couple of days in this shanty–anyhow. I mostly live on ‘sour-belly’ and ‘hard tack.’ Don’t sound inviting, eh?”
Chillingwood laughed pleasantly.
“We’re Government officials,” he said with meaning.
“Yes,” put in Grey. “But we’ve got plenty of canned truck in our baggage. I’m thinking you may find our supplies a pleasant change.”
“No doubt–no doubt whatever. Cat’s meat would be a delicacy after–months of tallowy pork.”
This slow-spoken trapper surveyed his guests thoughtfully. The travellers were enjoying the comforting shelter and warmth. Neither of them seemed particularly talkative.
Presently