CHAPTER II
CONNIE JOINS THE MOUNTED
Supper over, Sergeant McKeever and Rip Wade lighted their pipes and the three drew close about the little camp-fire. In the daytime the air was soft with the feel of spring, but the nights were cold and the warmth of the flaring fire was grateful.
The dogs wolfed down their evening meal and, finding the snow frozen to a hard crust into which they could not burrow, returned to the scow to nestle among the canvas-covered packs that littered its floor.
“So you come from over Ten Bow way, kid?” asked the Sergeant.
“Yes, we’ve got a claim over there—my pardner and I have. He’s Waseche Bill—maybe you know him.”
“Waseche Bill! Well, I guess I do know him! Heard a while back he'd struck it rich over in the hills. He’s a good man—Waseche is. Prospected with him way back before the big stampede. Then he drifted across the boundary an’ I joined the Mounted. How is old Waseche, anyhow?”
“He’s just the finest man that ever swung a pick!” exclaimed the boy with eyes alight. “But just now he’s gone outside.”
“Outside! Waseche Bill! What in thunder does he want outside? Why, he’s be’n in the big country goin’ on fifteen year!”
“It’s this way: Waseche busted his leg last winter and it didn’t knit right. The doc down at the fort told him if he didn’t have it ’tended to right away he’d be lame all his life. He gave him the name of some great surgeon in the States. Waseche didn’t want to go—but I made him.”
McKeever grinned: “How long is he goin’ to be gone? An’ what will you do in the meantime?”
“About a year, the doc said—maybe more. I’ll just wait around. He wanted me to go, too. But, someway, I’d rather stay in the North. You see, my dad, he loved the North—and—well, it seems like everyone up here was his friend, and I—I kind of feel at home.”
The Sergeant laid a big hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Yes, son,” he said. “Your dad had plenty of friends in the North. There’s many a man’s a better man for knowin’ Sam Morgan. He never made no big hurrah, Sam didn’t. Jest went ahead an’ done the thing he thought ort to be done—an’ he smiled when he done it.”
“Ye said a mouthful then, Sarg,” acquiesced Rip Wade. “Me—I know!”
“An’ when we head off this here Squigg, you’re goin’ back to Ten Bow?” asked McKeever.
“Why, yes—I suppose so. It will be awful lonesome without Waseche, but”
“It sure will!” interrupted the officer. “Why not join the Mounted?”
“Join the Mounted!” exclaimed the boy. “Why, I’m too young, and too little.”
“Wait a bit! ’Course, you couldn’t ’list regular—that’s a five-year job, an’ you are too young. But there’s Special Constables, an’ they’re appointed. I’ll speak to the Superintendent, onct we get to Dawson. You might be young—an’ little, too—but, By Thunder! The Mounted needs ’em like you! Brains an’ nerve is worth more than beef in the service. That hair-trigger stunt you pulled up river this mornin’ meant jest the difference between life an’ death to me—an’ Dan McKeever ain’t the one to ferget it! An’ a kid that can set tight an’ jam down through twenty miles of floatin’ ice, with his eyes open an’ his mouth shut—he’s good enough for us. You’re alone, now—till Waseche gets back—an’, in the Service you’ll get a whole lot of experience that’s worth havin’, an’ you’ll see a lot of country that’s worth seein’, an’ you’ll be in with a good bunch of boys—if I do say it myself. We ain’t no Holy Moseses, us men of the Mounted—but we run straight! You ain’t got no folks on the outside. Your dad loved the North, an’ you love it. Here’s a chanct to know the North. You ain’t no chechako—no tin horn. This is your country—an’ whether it’s in the Yukon, or over acrost the boundary, sometime the North’ll need you.” The officer stopped abruptly. It was a long speech for Dan McKeever, who was a man not much given to words. Beyond the fire Rip Wade slowly nodded.
“He spoke a mouthful, kid,” he said, “Me—I know,” And the boy believed that Rip Wade did know. A small, strong hand extended toward Sergeant McKeever.
“Shake,” the boy said, “I’m with you.” And the big man shook, and so did Rip Wade. And the three crawled between their blankets and slept.
“Hey! Wake up! Wake up, Dan! The scow’s gone!” Rip Wade rushed up from the bank of the river to the little camp where he had already kindled the fire. At the first sound of the voice, Sergeant McKeever and Connie Morgan threw back their blankets and fumbled at their boots.
“Gone?” asked McKeever, gazing sleepily toward the river. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Why, gone! Stole! Wha’ d’ye think I mean?”
The two followed Wade to the river and stared at the spot where, the previous evening, they had drawn the scow up on the bank and secured it to a snaggy tree-stub.
“Squigg,” grunted McKeever. “He cert’nly had his nerve! Ain’t be’n gone so long, neither,” he added, as he stooped to examine the tracks at the water’s edge. “He sure has put us in a hole, but—come on, le’s eat.”
“Ye don’t seem to be in no great hurry,” grumbled Rip. Sergeant McKeever grinned.
“The Dawson trail ain’t so far back,” he answered, “an’ the telegraph line—an’ here’s a little trick that’ll send word faster’n what he c’n travel.” The Sergeant fumbled in his pack and drew forth a small brass instrument about which were carefully coiled two lengths of insulated wire. It was a lineman’s “test set.” “They’ll be a Constable waitin’ for Squigg an’ his pardner at Dawson,” he grinned.
Twenty minutes later they proceeded to the trail and Sergeant McKeever climbed a pole and made the connection. He slid to the ground and opened his key—the result was the dull click of a dead wire. The Sergeant whistled. “Wire’s cut,” he growled, after another attempt. “He’s a slick one!” And, indeed, the full extent of Squigg’s “slickness” was soon manifest, for he had cut the wires where the telegraph line crosses Indian River, and the loose ends trailed in the swollen torrent beyond any hope of recovery. With a deep scowl, McKeever headed toward the Yukon and at the mouth of Indian River came to a small shack built close against the bank. A tousle-headed half-breed threw open the door in answer to McKeever’s peremptory knock, and blinked stupidly at his visitors.
“Come alive, Pierre! Where’s your boat?” The Sergeant spoke sharply, and the half-breed stepped from the filthy interior.
“She bre’k oop. I got no boat.”
“No boat! Not even a canoe?”
“Canoe! Oui, canoe no good. She too mooch ice.”
“Never mind the ice—that’s our lookout! Show us where the canoe is, and hustle some paddles out here! Quick, now—or off comes your hind legs!”
The man led the way to a cache where the canoe had lain throughout the winter, protected from the weather by a clever thatching of spruce boughs.
“She too mooch leak,” opined the half-breed, “I got no pitch.”
“Fetch a pail, then!” called McKeever, as the man returned to the shack for the paddles.
“Here, kid, you bail!” The Sergeant tossed Connie the pail. “We’ll show that shrimp he can’t slip anything over on us—if we have to swim for it!”
They had proceeded but a short distance down stream when it became plainly evident that the half-breed knew whereof he spoke when he said: “She too mooch leak.” Water seeped, and trickled, and spurted through the seams and cracks of the old canoe and, while the two men toiled at the paddles, Connie bailed for dear life.
The situation the three faced was anything but enviable. Between them and Dawson raged thirty miles of swirling, ice-choked flood. Their canoe was leaking like a sieve and each moment jagged ice-cakes threatened to rip away sides or bottom.
“They didn’t have no great start,” cheered McKeever, “an’ we’re travellin’ a heap faster’n what they are with that heavy scow. If we can only stay afloat we’ll catch ’em sure—an’ when we do, Squigg’ll wisht he never seen the Yukon!”
“Ye spoke a mouthful, Dan!” vociferated Rip Wade, as his eyes eagerly sought the river ahead.
Despite the utmost efforts of the men, ice-cakes occasionally rasped the sides of the rotten canoe, until at the end of an hour, although Connie redoubled his efforts, the water gained so fast that Sergeant McKeever was forced frequently to abandon his paddle and bail with his cap. To add to the peril of their position, a stiff breeze sprang up from the west, which caught them broadside and forced the floating ice to their side of the river. Waves broke over the gunwale of the loggy craft and the thickening ice-field seriously hampered its movement. It was high noon when the canoe rounded a rocky point which gave the toilers a glimpse of the low wooden buildings of Dawson—and a view, also, of a scow manned by two men, which laboured with the ice, scarcely a quarter of a mile away. The exclamations of satisfaction that sprang to the lips of the pursuers gave place to growls of disappointment as they noted the floating ice which had been driven by the wind into an almost solid pack, cutting them off from their quarry. True, the whole mass was drifting toward Dawson, but owing to the wind, which drove the pack against the bank, its progress was slow—so slow that McKeever estimated that Squigg and his confederate would be able to effect a landing fully a half-hour before the canoe could possibly reach the town.
“They see us!” cried Connie. “Maybe, now, they won’t dare stop to file the claim.”
“They’ll stop, all right,” growled McKeever.
“But they stole the scow. They know they’ll be arrested as soon as we land!”
“Sure they do. They won’t even try to dodge it. They’ll be convicted, too. But, if the claim’s any good, what’s six months, or a year?”
“But think of having to go to jail!”
“That don’t worry them kind—they’re reg’lar crooks. They figger on doin’ time every now in so often—charge it up to profit an’ loss, like a storekeeper.”
Rip Wade, who had been intently watching the efforts of the men in the scow, turned explosively toward Sergeant Dan:
“Why in blazes don’t ye pot ’em? Can’t ye see they’re a-goin’ to beat us to it?”
“In the Service we don’t shoot first,” answered the officer, “an’ we don’t shoot at all—if there’s any other way.”
“Well, they hain’t no other way, here—an’ I hain’t in the Service!” The man dropped his paddle and jerked a heavy revolver from its holster. “Ef I c’n wing one of ’em they can’t make no landin’.”
“Rip!” The single word—low spoken—yet with a peculiar hardness of tone, caused the man in the bow and the boy to glance swiftly into the officer’s face. They noted a slight narrowing of grey eyes and a perceptible hardening of the muscles of the jaw.
“Drop that gun!” The words sounded in the same quiet tone, yet in them was something of deadly import—the voice was the voice of authority. And, without a word, the man of the North returned the gun to its holster and picked up his paddle.
They redoubled their efforts, but try as they would, they found it impossible to gain on the scow which the men were already poling in toward the landing. It was plainly evident that unless something happened, and happened soon, Mr. Squigg would file his claim.
Suddenly Connie ceased bailing and gazed intently toward the scow. He jerked the sodden mitten from his hand, raised his fingers to his lips, and a loud, peculiar whistle shrilled across the ice-field. Seconds passed and then, amidships of the scow, heads appeared—tawny, grizzled heads, with long, sharp muzzles, and sharp ears cocked to catch the sound. Again the whistle sounded across the bobbing cakes and the commotion in the scow increased. Hairy forefeet appeared upon the gunwale of the scow and broad-chested bodies reared high as the great malamutes looked eagerly toward the black canoe from whence came the familiar whistle-sound. Loud, excited cries reached the ears of the pursuers as the men endeavoured to quiet the excited dogs, whose concerted rush to the side threatened momentarily to upset the scow. But the wolf-dogs paid no heed, and as the sound of the whistle again broke upon his ears, the huge leader threw back his head and gave voice to a long ululation—half wolf-cry, half dog—and instantly the cry was taken up by others of the pack, and the sound of the shouting voices was drowned.
Then it was that Squigg, himself, precipitated the disaster that made for his own undoing. Raising his spruce pole, he brought it crashing down upon the head of the howling leader—and the next moment the scow was filled with leaping, whirling bodies, and a pandemonium of growls and yelps, and frightened man-cries reached the ears of the three canoemen. The battle was short and decisive. Suddenly, with a wild yell, a man plunged overboard, and as the dogs, with one accord, surged toward the remaining man, he, too, stood not upon the order of his going, but leaped far out into the icy waters to escape the death of the flashing fangs. A few moments later, two dripping black objects crawled painfully onto a huge cake of drifting ice which swept on past the Dawson landing.
The rotten bark canoe was forced shoreward and three very stiff and very weary travellers stepped out upon firm ground, and as they stretched their aching muscles they glanced down the river where, a half-mile away, floated a scow full of angry malamutes, and two dejected-looking figures upon a cake of ice.
Connie Morgan and big Sergeant Dan McKeever turned from the recorder’s office and proceeded to the headquarters of B Division of the Royal North-west Mounted Police. In a terse, one-hundred word epic, Sergeant McKeever turned in the report of his long patrol. Ten minutes later, a swift motor-boat manned by two constables of the Mounted, swept out into the river and headed down stream, while Sergeant McKeever sought an interview with the Superintendent.
As the Sergeant advanced with military 
“A few moments later two dripping figures crawled painfully out upon a huge cake of ice.”
precision and saluted, the grey-haired official glanced inquiringly into the face of the small boy who stood erect and trim by the Sergeant’s side and returned his glance with an expression of frank interest.
“A prisoner, Sergeant?” questioned the Superintendent, with a smile.
“No, sir—a recruit.” And as the expression of surprise upon his superior’s face was followed by a nod, which meant. “Go ahead and explain,” the officer told the story of his rescue from the river, and of the events that followed. Much more, he told, also—and when he had finished, the Superintendent tugged thoughtfully at his dark moustache.
“So you want to join the Service, son?” he asked, in a kindly tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—it is a bit irregular, but Sergeant McKeever has vouched for you, and—you will do—you see, I knew Sam Morgan.”
Thus was Connie Morgan’s name entered upon the roster of the Mounted and he became Special Constable Morgan, Reg. No. 4524, B Div., Dawson. And as he accompanied his new-found friend toward toward the barracks, they met the special detail of Constables who were proceeding toward the jail, escorting between them two shivering prisoners—there was a rush of great tawny bodies, and the boy was nearly knocked from his feet as the ten huge malamutes leaped and crowded about their young master.