CHAPTER VII
ON THE TRAIL OF THE WAR BAND
Connie Morgan and Ick Far were on special patrol, the object of which was to thread certain rivers and creeks to their sources in hope of finding a pass between some tributary of upper Stewart River and a tributary of Wind River. The wilderness mail route between Dawson and far-off Fort McPherson, way up near the shore of the Arctic, was both devious and dangerous, and had already been responsible for one terrible tragedy of the wilds. Therefore, the department desired a more direct and a safer route; and Special Constable Connie Morgan and Ick Far, the weather-hardened Indian scout, after twenty days of fruitless search among the high-flung peaks of the continental backbone, stood at the head of a little valley and gazed at a rough mountain wall down which a tiny stream cascaded from ledge to ledge to plunge, almost at their feet, into a seething cauldron of white water.
"Go oop?" asked the scout.
Connie shook his head. "No," he replied, eyeing the precarious ascent, "it would be all we could do to make it even now, in the summer. How could a mail patrol climb it in the winter—with a dog outfit besides?"
"No kin do," opined the Indian, with a grin. "Mebbe-so we find um nudder pass." And, turning, he led the way over the back trail toward the point, ten miles below, where they had left their canoe at the head of birch-bark navigation.
The ascent of the creek had taken four days, its descent took two. And on the evening of the second day they grounded the canoe on a wide bar, where the creek flowed into a larger tributary of the Stewart.
Hardly had the two set foot upon shore before Ick Far's attention became riveted upon some marks in the gravel—marks that, in the twilight, were hardly discernible to Connie—being merely a displacement of pebbles here and there among the myriads of pebbles that formed the bar. To Connie these marks meant nothing. Game was plentiful along the creeks—some animal had probably crossed here. Besides, there was "Soapy" White's trading post a few miles below, and several outfits of prospectors. The boy was much surprised at Ick Par's evident concern. Forward and back, he walked, along the water line, leaning far over and examining minutely each foot of gravel. Finally he turned to Connie:
"Injun cross here," he reported.
"Well, what if he did?" asked the boy.
"Mooch Injun! Two—t'ree sun 'go, she camp on de woods. Come." He turned and, following the sign in the gravel, led the way into the thicket of scrub timber that fringed the bar. A few moments later they came upon the abandoned camp—the dead ashes of a dozen small fires over which the passing Indians had cooked a hurried meal. Figuring four or five Indians to the fire, Connie realized that a considerable party had been on the move.
"What do you make of it, Ick?" he asked. "What are they up to—hunting—fishing?"
The scout shook his head and busied himself with a minute inspection of the ground.
"Dem Mooseheads," he announced, holding in his hand a peculiarly shaped slate knife blade which he picked from the ashes at the edge of a fire. "On de black montaine," he explained, "de Moosehead, she git de stone for de knife."
"But—what are the Mooseheads doing way down here?"
"War ban'. Dem Moosehead, she kultus Injun. Some tam' she lak fight. Come down an' fight dem Brushwood, on Lansing Creek."
"The Brushwoods!" exclaimed Connie. "The Brushwoods won't fight!" Ick Far grinned:
"Da's w'y de Moosehead lak for fight um. De Brushwood run hide in de timbaire—in de rocks—on de montaine. Den de Moosehead she mak' de beeg yell. She shoot de gun. She bus' de cache. She steal de Brushwood feesh, an' de dog, an' all she kin car' 'way from de camp. She t'ink she heap skookum Injun. Den she gon' back home, she mak' de beeg fire on de black montaine, an' git de kloochmen all 'roun' an' mak' de beeg talk—heap fine fightin' mans—heap brave Injun—Skookum tumtum!" As the old Indian talked, Connie thought rapidly.
"How far is Lansing Creek?" he asked.
"'Bout forty—feefty mile."
"Can we run this river in the night? Five or six hours ought to put us at the mouth of the Lansing."
The Indian shook his head vigorously: "No! No! No! Too mooch—w'at y'u call, skookum chuck—too mooch rapids! Daylight we start—come Lansing Creek, nine 'clock—ten 'clock."
"Roll in, then. Tomorrow, we'll have a real job."
"Wat y'u goin' do?"
"Do! We're going to run those thieving Mooseheads back where they belong—that's what we're going to do!"
Ick Far nodded: "Mebbe-so not wan' for go back. Mebbe-so ain' 'fraid for leetle p'lice."
"Want to go back! Well, they're going whether they want to or not. I'll show 'em who's running this country! I guess they won't try to buck the Mounted!"
Ick Far refrained from comment; but in his eye smouldered the gloom of foreboding.
The trail of the Mooseheads led down stream in the direction of Lansing Creek. Having come overland along the ridges, the marauding band brought no canoes and their progress was slow, as the conformation of the valley necessitated frequent fording of the river to avoid impassable barriers. Again and again, as the canoe shot down stream, Connie and the scout saw signs of these crossings upon gravel bars and clay banks, and at each crossing the trail grew fresher.
Two weeks before, while ascending the river, the officers had passed the tepees of isolated families of Brushwoods, who had strayed to the larger river to fish. They had passed, also, three different outfits of prospectors and the post of "Soapy" White, a free-trader whose record in his dealings with the Indians of many tribes was described on the books of the Mounted as "shady."
The tepees of the Indians were missing, now. At each deserted camp the two landed, carefully examined the ground, and read signs of hurried flight and the abandonment of the poor effects of the campers—effects that the Mooseheads, not deeming of sufficient value to carry away, had ruthlessly destroyed, leaving only charred remnants of burned tepees and nets, and the broken fragments of utensils.
The white prospectors had fared no better. Their camps were deserted and their goods. carried away or burned, but, as yet, Ick Far had been unable to find any evidence of bloodshed.
"Dem all skeep oot. Brushwood, she skeep for Lansing. Mebbe-so we fin' dem white men. Tak' um' long. She be glad for git crack at dem Moosehead." And, in a short time, Ick's prophecy was fulfilled, for the canoe was greeted by a shout from a niche in the rocks of a narrow canyon, and two heads with bearded faces peered over the rim of a natural rock barrier. Ick Far shot the canoe shoreward and the men came out of their fortress—a short man, and a tall man.
"Come on!" cried Connie. "Bring your rifles and all the shells you've got, and we'll dig out after those Indians."
"Well, f'r th' love o' Pete!" exclaimed the short man. "It's a kid an' a Siwash! What d'ye mean, dig out after them Injuns? Great sufferin' cats! They's a milliun of 'em!"
"No, there aren't," contradicted Connie. "There are only fifty or sixty at the most—hurry up! I'm Special Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, and I'm going to round 'em up."
"What, you? The Mounted! Holy mackerel! I thought that unyform looked f'miliar, but, seein' it onto a kid, that-a-way, it th'ow'd me off complete. But, how in time y'u goin' to round up them here Injuns?"
"Come along and see. I need your help. We'll show 'em. Where are the other white men?"
"Got acrost th' ridge," answered the tall man, who glanced into his partner's face, and then dubiously at the two in the canoe.
"Shove off!" commanded Connie. "These specimens are afraid to tackle it, and we can't waste time." Ick Far placed the end of his paddle against the bank, but before he could bear his weight on it, the tall man stepped forward.
"Hold on, kid, we ain't afraid. Y'u got us wrong—dead wrong. We're peaceable parties when they's any chanst to be, but when a hull pack o' howlin' red-skins comes a-kihootin' down th' crick an' confisticates our outfit, an' trees us up a rock ledge, it's time sunthin' was did. We can't figger out how such a little shaver happens to be a-wearin' that unyform, but if y'u're good enough f'r th' Mounted y'u're good enough f'r we—eh, Toad?" The other emphatically assented and as they took their places the tall man further elucidated:
"I'm Tex Gordon, which my pardner, here, he's Toad Jones, owin* of him bein' short an' ugly, that-a-way, an' warty. Toad's hide's a reg'lar garden f'r warts—but inside, he's all to th' good. Wisht we had couple more paddles."
Once in the current, there was small need for paddles, and an hour later, riding straight and true through the rock-tossed waves of a white water rapid, the canoe, under the skilful guidance of Ick Par, shot into comparatively smooth water, and Connie's shoulders suddenly stiffened. There on the bank, unmolested by the marauding Indians, stood "Soapy" White's trading post.
"Land here!" cried the boy, sharply. And a moment later, the canoe grounded in front of the log building. Hardly had its nose touched the gravel before the boy leaped ashore and made straight for the door, closely followed by Ick Far and the two prospectors. Without ceremony, Connie pushed open the door and was met by the leering face of "Soapy" himself, who sat propped against a bale of blankets upon his counter. The man's blotched face and bleared eyes told that he had been drinking heavily, but, at the sight of the uniform he pulled himself together and favoured the newcomers with a thick-lipped, vacuous grin. Connie wasted no time:
"Where are those Indians?" he jerked out, sharply.
"Wot Injuns—yer mean them Brushwoods up ther crick?"
"You know what Indians! Come, I'm not here to fool with you! Speak up—or you'll wish you had!"
The smile left the man's face and he glanced uneasily from the trim figure in uniform to the two prospectors. Then his lips moved and he growled an answer: "Passed here at sun-up."
"What did they camp here for? Where are they heading for? And why did they leave you alone?" The questions came hard, and quick—like shots from an automatic.
The man answered in confusion: "Camped here to trade. Why shouldn't they leave me 'lone—wash y'u mean, leave 'lone, anyhow? They went Dn down the crick. They camped here to trade, wash y'u s'pose"
"Trade what?"
"Trade—wash y'u s'pose, trade? I got a tradin' license, ain't I?"
Connie's eyes swept the room. He pointed to a shelf: "Those shells, Ick— take 'em all!"
The scout walked over to a shelf and began to take down boxes of cartridges.
"You sold a lot of shells, didn't you?" flashed the boy. "When we went up the river you had about two hundred boxes, now you have about thirty."
"Well, wot if I did?"
Connie cut him short: "All right, boys, bring the shells and come on. How about grub? Pack what we need down to the canoe."
"Hey! Don't I git paid?" whined "Soapy," who watched as the three made up packs from the shelves.
"Requisitioned, " snapped Connie.
"Sign a requisition, then," demanded "Soapy," who had risen to his feet.
"I'll sign nothing!" exclaimed the boy, shaking his fist in the man's face. "And what's more, I'm coming back here and tend to your case—get out of my way!
"All aboard, boys—come alive!" he cried and, pushing past the swaying, blinking figure by the counter, made for the canoe.
On Lansing Creek, a mile above its mouth, the spur of a timbered ridge terminates abruptly in a high promontory around which the creek makes a sharp curve, forming a horseshoe bend. And upon this spur, whose timber formed some slight protection from the bitter winds of winter, a small band of the Brushwoods had set up their village of tepees. They are a peaceful people, lazy and self-satisfied, living upon game and fish, and the barter of fur. To supply their need for firewood, lodge-poles, and timber for sleds and caches, the Indians had cleared the trees from the ridge for a space of several hundred yards between the village on the extreme end of the spur and the mountains that towered upon the land side. And this was the village the Mooseheads had undertaken to plunder.
Long before Ick Far beached the canoe at the mouth of the Lansing, the sound of scattering shots reached the ears of its occupants.
They've run onto th' Brushwoods!" exclaimed Toad. "They's a-goin' to be some scrappin' along this here crick, an' if we aim to do any good we'd better dive into it—listen at that!" Even as the man spoke, the shots suddenly burst into a furious fusilade. Volley after volley came rattling down the creek, and at the sound a strange sense of elation possessed Connie Morgan, his heart felt light and his small hands gripped tightly his carbine as he curbed a desire to dash madly into the thick of the fray. Just one short mile away a real battle was raging—a battle that was his to command, and that he must win against fearful odds. The thought steadied his nerves and his jaw clamped firm. The canoe was drawn from the water and cached in the thicket.
"They're a-wastin' shells!" exclaimed Tex Gordon.
"Dem droonk—'Soapy' White, she trade um de firewater," explained Ick Far.
Connie nodded: "I knew it," he said, quietly. "That's why I told him I would tend to his case later." He dug the butt of his carbine viciously into the gravel. "I'll fix his clock! I'll take him down to Dawson and he'll stand trial, not only for boot-legging, but for murder—and I'll see to it that he gets a separate trial for every person—white or red, that's killed or wounded in this fight! We've been after him for a long time, and I guess what we've got on him now will hold him for a while."
A short council was held and the four decided to slip through the bush to a point opposite the spur, from whence the scout assured them he could gain access to the village by means of an obscure foot trail that zigzagged up the face of the cliff.
The three found it no easy task to follow Ick Far through the scrub, dodging silently from bush to bush, making swift, low dashes across open spaces, or flattening themselves among the rocks of the creek bank. Nearly an hour was consumed in traversing the distance that brought them to the crest of a low hill which commanded a view of the village—or rather of the timber-crowned ridge where the village had been. For no tepees were visible, evidently having been pulled down to render a less conspicuous target for the bullets of the enemy, or because the lodge-poles were needed to strengthen the barricade that was being erected across the base of the horseshoe at the edge of the clearing, upon the opposite edge of which the attacking party had massed and was firing volley after volley with the evident intention of intimidating the Brushwoods. The four onlookers noted with satisfaction that the besieged Indians were not returning the fire, but were working like beavers in the strengthening of their barricade. So precipitous were the escarpments of the ridge upon the three sides bounded by the creek that any attack from this quarter was out of the question; and Ick Far pointed out the narrow foot trail that showed as a faint tracery upon the face of the rock wall.
"Me go oop. Tell de Brushwood we com'. You stay here. I wave um blanket, you com' oop.
Connie nodded: "Go ahead—and hurry. Before the Mooseheads find out there is a path on this side."
Swift and silent as a shadow, the Indian scout made his way to the creek, forded it, and began the ascent of the foot trail, while from their position among the rocks of the hilltop, the three watched his movements with breathless interest. Looks like a fly a-crawlin' up a wall," whispered Toad Jones.
"P-s-s-s-s-t," the sound hissed sharply between Tex Gordon's clenched teeth, and his hand pressed Toad closer behind his rock. And not a moment too soon, for there, not twenty yards distant, also intently watching Ick Far's ascent, crouched two half-naked, paint-smeared Mooseheads. Even as those on the hilltop looked, the savages, rifles in hand, slipped noiselessly into the shelter of another rock and shortened their range on the climbing scout by five yards. As Connie drew back the hammer of his carbine, he noted the scowling faces
There, close at hand, "crouched two half-naked, paint-smeared Mooseheads."
and the ugly, painted bodies—noted, too, the swift, gliding movements that would carry them within easy range long before Ick Far could possibly gain the top of the ridge. There was a soft movement beside him, and two muffled "clicks" told him that the prospectors also had cocked their rifles.
"Wait," whispered the boy, "don't shoot till you have to. I'm going to give them a chance to surrender." He stood upright, carbine in hand and, although the backs of the two Indians were, by this time, almost directly toward him, both whirled on the instant. At the same time, behind their rocks, the eyes of Tex Gordon and Toad Jones squinted along the barrels of their rifles until the sights found the exact centre of the great yellow circle that adorned the breast of each Indian. For a moment the two bucks stared in astonishment at the slight, uniformed figure that had seemingly sprung from the earth itself, then, without warning, both rifles flew up—two reports sounded as one, and two thin puffs of smoke dissolved into the air—from the muzzles of the prospectors' rifles. One Indian pitched forward and crashed heavily to the ground, where he lay without a sound, but the other, dropping his rifle, clutched frantically at his shoulder and staggered backward among the rocks.
Better le'me finish him," pleaded Toad Jones. "A doggone skeeter lit plumb on th' notch o' my hine sight jest as I pulled, er they'd a be'n another good Injun—you bet!" But Connie shook his head.
We'll take him with us. I want some information, and I guess Ick Far can make him talk."
"Ye're th' doctor," the man replied, with reluctance, as they approached the wounded Indian, who had sagged against an upstanding rock.
"We won't need to tie that hand," grinned Toad, pointing to the Indian's right arm which dangled loosely from the shoulder. "Come along ye murderin' houn'!" he cried jerking the savage to his feet. "An' no foolin', neither." As he talked, he produced a stout caribou hide thong, which he knotted skilfully about the Indian's good wrist, and deftly inserted a short stick into the knot. "Guess this here little persuader'll break ye to lead all right," he remarked, as the captive flinched under the pain of a tentative twist of the stick. "Hullo! There's our frien' with his blanket!"
"Let's hike, then," urged Connie, stooping to recover the cartridges from the body of the dead Indian. "Bring the rifles," he ordered. "We may need 'em."
When the three reached the village with their prisoner, the Brushwoods could scarcely be re- strained from meting out swift vengeance upon him—five members of the tribe having been killed and a half-dozen wounded during the first attack. But Connie stood firm for the protection of his captive, whom he turned over to Ick Far for examination. Two hours later the scout reported:
"'Soapy' White, she ver' bad mans—hyas kultus. She sen' runner to de Moosehead. Say: 'De Brushwood got um plent' skin hol' over from las' weenter.' Say: 'Com' an' tak' de skin an' run de Brushwood 'cross de montaine, an' tak' de village. Ver' mooch game—ver' mooch fur where de Brushwood hunt.' Say: 'She giv' de Moosehead plent 'firewater.'
"De Moosehead she hav' ver' bad year. Too mooch no rabbit—too mooch no feesh—too mooch no fur. Com' 'cross de montaine for run de Brushwood out an' keel heem. 'Soapy,' White, she giv' de Moosehead plent' firewater—plent' shell. He say de Brushwood don' trade wit' heem no more—go down Yukon, trade on de A. C. store—das w'y 'Soapy' White, she don' lak' de Brush-wood no more."
"I'll fix him!" exclaimed Connie, with blazing eyes. "But, first, let's see how we stand here."
A hurried inspection of the barricade showed that, properly manned, it would prove a very effective fort—constructed as it was, of poles, and rocks, and newly-fallen trees. The fighting force Connie counted to be nineteen, exclusive of the women, children, and old men.
The captured Indian said there had been fifty of his own tribe, but that several had been drowned in the river after drinking liberally of "Soapy" White's liquor, and several more killed and wounded in the first attack on the village.
"They've got us at least two to one," said Connie, "but we'll hold 'em off! We've got the fort!"
"Besides, an' accordin' to which," interrupted Toad Jones, "we got the best end of it—they's twict as many fer us to shoot at. Ye kin hit 'bout forty men a heap easier'n what ye kin twenty er nineteen."
"'Cordin' to how the grub holds out," said Tex Gordon. "I reckon we kin slip a man down the trail at night fer water. But, grub—that's the main thing!" The man's words were cut short by a loud cry from the front—a cry that brought the whole force of defenders to the barricade with a rush. And then—a wild chorus of yells and savage whoops from beyond the barrier — the crash and blaze of many rifles, and the nasty spat and thud of bullets striking close.
The Mooseheads were charging/!