The Lady of North Star

They might be roving Indians. The use of arrows suggested that, but one had a rifle – Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his eyes staring widely, as another possibility flashed through his mind.

“Adrian Rayner!”

He was appalled at the thought, but the more he dwelt upon it, the stronger his suspicion grew. Adrian Rayner was in the North and he had two Indians with him, “bad men,” as Chief Louis had said. The corporal was morally certain that Rayner was the man who had made the attempt on Dick Bracknell at North Star; and if he knew that he were still alive, what more likely than that he should make a second attempt? There was nothing surprising about that, but the attack on Joy Gargrave’s party was something that passed his comprehension altogether. Try as he would he could find no sufficient explanation for that, the one possibility that presented itself to his mind being that Adrian Rayner was for some reason anxious to make Joy dependent upon himself, and so had deliberately set out to destroy her escort. Then the thought suggested itself to him that after all he might be building on a false assumption. The man responsible for the death of George, and for the attack on the cabin, might not be Rayner at all.

Restlessly his mind groped among the possibilities which the mystery suggested, and not once during the four hours that he had decreed for rest did his eyes shut. At the end of that time he wakened Sibou, and, impatient to get away himself, helped in the preparation for making a start, allowing the boy Jim to sleep until the last available moment, and when at last they took the trail he was conscious of relief. It was at least something to feel that he was on his way to the help of Joy.

They travelled six hours and then made a halt for a brief rest and a meal, afterwards resuming their way. As noon approached they found the hard crust of the snow softening, and the going becoming harder, but there was no slackening of effort, and late in the afternoon they arrived at a point opposite the creek on the far side of the river. There in the shadow of the woods they waited till darkness fell, and then leaving the boy in charge of the dogs, the corporal and Sibou crossed the river, and made a detour which would bring them out at the head of the creek where the cabin was located.

They reached the neighbourhood of their objective in about an hour’s time, and then moved forward with extreme caution, looking for the camp which the boy had described as being opposite the cabin. But no glow of blazing logs met their gaze, and the edge of the forest presented a front of unbroken shadow. Sibou sniffed the air thoughtfully.

“There is no smell of fire,” he whispered.

“No!” answered the corporal, his anxiety suddenly trebled by the thought that he had arrived too late.

They still crept forward, and then unexpectedly Sibou stopped, and pointed to the ground. Roger Bracknell looked down and saw a blackened circle in the snow where a fire had been lit.

“Here was the camp,” said the Indian, and then stopped and put his hand on the ashes. “The fire is cold,” he said, as he stood upright again. “It has been out for some time.”

For a moment they stood looking at each other, and then instinctively both turned to look for the cabin. It stood like a shadow against the deeper shadow of the woods behind it, silent, and with no sign of occupation about it.

“Perhaps the men we seek are in the cabin,” whispered the corporal.

Again the Indian sniffed the air and then shook his head.

“No! They are not there. There is no fire. But we will go and find out.”

Carelessly, in his assurance, Sibou led the way across the creek, and to the front of the cabin. The door was closed, and he hammered on it with his rifle butt. There was no answer, and, feeling for the latch string, he thrust a shoulder against the door. It did not yield.

“The door is barred,” he said aloud. “But there is no one within, or if there is they be dead.”

“The window!” ejaculated the corporal, and began to run round the cabin.

Reaching the window, and observing the empty framework he felt for his matches, and then hoisting himself up, with head and shoulders inside the cabin, he struck a light and looked hastily round. The cabin was empty. With something like a groan of despair he slipped back to the ground, and looked at Sibou.

“There is no one here,” he said. “They are gone!”

The Indian nodded and stared at the empty frame thoughtfully, then after a little time he spoke.

“The men of the camp are gone; and those who were in the hut are gone – whither we know not; but those who were in the hut went out not by the door, for the door is barred within. How did they leave the cabin, then?” he jerked a hand upwards towards the window. “This way! And wherefore? Because the men in the camp were watching the door, and had left the window unguarded.”

“By Jove, yes,” cried the corporal, seized by new hope. “That does seem more than likely.”

“Then the men in the camp discover that those whom they watch have flown, and the cabin is empty. They want them badly, and they follow, therefore we find the camp empty like the cabin.”

“Yes! Yes! But where have they gone? Which way in this God-forsaken wilderness?”

“That we shall know when daylight comes. The snow will carry their trail, and we can follow. Till then it were better to rest, for the night withholds the knowledge.”

Corporal Bracknell recognized the wisdom of the Indian’s words, and condemned to inaction until daylight, decided to make the best of it.

“Then there is nothing for it but to camp. And we may as well use the cabin. Slip through the window, Sibou, and unbar the door, whilst I go across for Jim and the dogs.”

Half an hour later a fire was roaring in the improvised stove, and by its light Roger Bracknell wandered round the cabin, searching for anything that would give him a clue to the mystery. He found nothing. The hut, save for a couple of rifles reposing in the corner, and some odds and ends of no importance, was quite empty. He looked at the rifles and addressed himself to Sibou.

“Evidently the ammunition was exhausted.”

“Yes! Therefore the rifles were left. But the food was taken. Behold!”

The Indian pointed to a roughly made shelf, which corresponded to the ordinary larder of a Klondyke cabin. There was nothing there but a coffee-sack and an empty syrup-tin.

“They run from the men in the camp, and leave the rifles because they are useless, but they take the food, and they have a start – one hour – two hours – who can tell? But we follow in the morning and we find both. That so?”

“Please God, yes!” answered the corporal earnestly.

Tired out with the labours of the day, Roger Bracknell slept long and well, and woke a little after dawn with the smell of frying bacon in his nostrils. The boy Jim was preparing breakfast, but Sibou was nowhere to be seen. Questioning Jim, he learned that the Indian had gone outside an hour before and had not yet returned. Hastily throwing on his furs, the corporal passed outside, and as he did so, Sibou appeared at the edge of the woods at the back of the cabin. There was an impassive look on his mask-like face, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Well?” asked the corporal eagerly.

The Indian swept a hand towards the woods.

“That way have they gone. The double trail is there. Also there is a dead man there!”

“A dead man?” cried the white man in sudden fear.

“An Indian! I know him not!”

“Take me to him,” said the corporal imperatively. Without a word Sibou turned and led the way into the wood, and after a few minutes’ walk Roger Bracknell found himself near the mouth of the creek, looking down into the face of a dead man. He recognized him instantly.

“He is known to you?” asked Sibou.

“Yes, he is known to me. He was the servant of the white man who lived in the cabin.”

“He was shot in the back with an arrow.” explained Sibou. “He must have been looking down at the trail when he died.”

Roger Bracknell looked at the dead Indian for a little time without speaking, then fear for what was to come shook him.

“Sibou,” he said, “we must make haste. There is not a moment to waste. Those men in the camp are very desperate men. Two men already have died at their hands, and they are now on the trail of the man who was in the hut and of the ladies whom we seek. We must follow hard!”

“Yes, hard!” answered Sibou simply. “It is a trail of death!”

Half an hour later they were on the way once more. A south wind was blowing, and they travelled with furs opened, for the day was comparatively warm, and there were many signs that spring was at hand. The trail they followed led through the forest for most of the time, but towards the end of the day followed a tributary river, and here it suddenly gathered itself together in a space of trampled snow, which spoke of many pairs of feet. The corporal looked at it in perplexity and watched Sibou, who circled round and round, seeking a solution of the enigma the trampled snow presented.

“What do you make of it, Sibou?”

“I am not sure,” answered the Indian slowly. “Something strange has happened. There has been a meeting here, for there are many footmarks, and there is a trail which goes up the river, and the trail of the ladies is not part of it.”

“But where are they? They certainly came here!”