IT WAS eleven o'clock in the morning when Tom O'Grady and I rode into a remote little Cree village some hundreds of miles northwest of Edmonton, Alberta.
We were both members of the Royal Canadian Northwest Mounted Police, (commonly called Mounties) and wore the scarlet jacket of that famous force. We had been detailed for special duty to find and bring back the slayers of a certain half-breed at Athabasca Landing. When last noticed the murderers had been headed in this direction, but since then two months had elapsed, and we had not obtained the faintest trace of their whereabouts.
It was, therefore, without much hope that we rode through the scattered lodges in search of the chief of the roving band. As we approached the center of the village our attention was attracted by a small crowd of Indians standing and squatting in a large semi-circle around a solitary white man seated on a soap box at the entrance to the chief's lodge. The man was sturdy and thickset, and gave one the impression of possessing great physical strength. His present attitude was one of calm and complete detachment, but as we approached he turned his head in our direction and called out:
"Hullo Gerald! hullo Tom! You're the very men I want to see."
It was the Dominion Government doctor on one of his periodical visits to the wandering tribes in that section of the Northwest Territories.
"What's up?" I asked, dismounting.
"I've found a dead white man in here," he answered, "and at the same time I've unearthed a mystery. Sit down and I'll show you."
As soon as we were seated he took a small match box from his pocket and handed it to me. Inside it there were ten small stones. I examined them carefully.
"They're diamonds," I said.
"Now look at this," and he took a rough, torn, piece of brown paper out of his pocketbook. On the paper, evidently part of a rough diary were the following disjointed notes:
entered the sunken land
S. lost.No tra
ip
Blue Clay Island
Lat. 60° 30’ Long. 127° 10
150 miles
B. very sick. Must ge
ack
One glance at this scrap of paper was enough to show me that we were on the trail of the murderers. S. could mean but one thing. Sam Elliott, one of the men we were after, and B. must be Bad Bill Blake.
"Now let's see the dead man. If it's the one I think it is we'll know where to find the others. Eh, Tom?"
We followed the doctor into the tee-pee. One look was enough. Pat Corbeau, the ring leader of the gang had committed his last crime. It was now up to us to gather in his accomplices, dead or alive.
"When do we start?" asked the doctor as we came out into the sunlight once more.
"We?" I said. "Are you coming with us, then?"
"Why not?" he answered, shortly.
"Don't get sore, Doc. We'll be tickled to death to have you but it's going to be one Hell of a boring trip."
"That's where you're wrong," said the doctor. "I've heard rumors of this sunken land, tho' I've never met a soul that's been there; but that there's something uncanny and altogether horrible about the place I fully believe. Take that scrap of diary for instance. Read it by what's left unsaid, and you'll see what I mean."
"Nice cheery document," I remarked as I glanced at it again. "We'll bury Pat this afternoon and start off on the trail tomorrow forenoon. How does that hit you, Doc?"
"Fine," said that laconic individual without turning, as he strode off towards his own tent on the outskirts of the encampment. "Now we eat." We followed him a few paces behind.
IT WAS two weeks later. The day was far advanced, and the sun, low on the distant horizon, was sinking into a bed of heavy black clouds. Away to the south a range of mountains stood sharply silhouetted against the sky.
We were preparing camp, quietly, steadily, methodically; for the spirit of the trail had taken hold of us and conversation was reduced to a minimum. The horses had been taken back by the Indians some four days previously, and we were now entirely upon our own resources. We stood on the threshold of the unknown. Up to that point our journey had been a commonplace of northern travel. Work, danger, monotony, they had all come in the day's run. We had crossed many rivers, we had traversed a mountain range, until one day we had descended to a vast plain which stretched northwest as far as the eye could reach. This plain was typical northern country, grass land alternating with stretches of stunted black spruce and white birch, and stretches there were too, where sand and glacial boulders predominated, but this was all past. In front of us straight into the sunset, lay a low range of undulating hills.
After supper we smoked in silence for a time; finally the Doctor pointed to the hills.
"If I'm not mistaken, the Sunken Land begins beyond that low range. What latitude and longitude did you make it at noon today, Gerald?"
I took out my note book.
"My observation gave us an approximate latitude of 61 degrees 50’ and a longitude of 126 degrees 40’. The sun was rather obscured so I can't be quite certain of my figures."
"That's near enough," said the Doctor. "We enter the Sunken Land tomorrow, and don't forget our agreement. Not one of us must ever, even for an instant, be separated from the other two. There's something queer about that country, and it's through getting separated that that other party came to grief; at least that's the way I have it figured. So let's keep together."
