CHAPTER XIII.

_A DASTARDLY DEED._

When Broom came to himself after rushing from the scene of his violence he discovered that he had returned instinctively to the Fort.

Finding the house in darkness he groped his way across the kitchen to the inner room, where, after a little, he succeeded in finding and lighting a lamp. As its rays fell upon his features they clearly disclosed the hateful effects of his debauch, the havoc his ungovernable paroxysms of violence and passion had worked upon him. The veins of his forehead were dark and swollen, his eyes inflamed and hollow, his look that of a worn-out demon. He was still agitated, and his blood-shot eyes swept the room fiercely like a wild beast still unsatisfied. His breathing was labored and his mood still that of half-suppressed fear and rage. Frowning and irresolute, he paused after lighting the lamp, then began to pace the floor unsteadily, his pace increasing in fretful rapidity as he continued his short, irregular perambulations. At last, as if wearying of this, he stopped short and leaned his weight against the pair of sleeping-bunks.

Just then the indistinct form of a man appeared noiselessly in the doorway.

Broom eyed it fearfully, while his face grew pale and moist with perspiration. He clutched at the sides of the bunks to support his trembling limbs. Then commanding his courage he demanded somewhat unsteadily:

“Who are you?—speak out—be you man or devil?”

The answer was a wordless mumble. The dim form slipped forward into the light and the broad figure and grinning face of Ocpic stood revealed, and Broom’s courage was greatly restored. He heaved a long sigh of relief and made a ghastly attempt at jocularity.

“Well, you imp of Satan,” he cried, “what do you want here?”

“_Ik-ki mai_” (It is very cold), declared the Eskimo with an accompanying expressive shiver. Then, entirely unsolicited, he lit the fire, which had gone out during Broom’s absence.

Broom paid no further attention to the native. With short, jerky steps he recommenced his restless walk, pausing now and again with a nervous start as the wood in the stove cracked sharply, like so many reports of a pistol. He was in an impatient fury. His deliberations were far from pleasant, for he felt that however much Roy might be inclined to overlook the offence of breaking into the liquor chest, he had, by his unpardonable assault upon Kasba, followed by his brutal attack on David, put himself outside the pale of forgiveness. He knew by experience that the trader would show him no mercy for this second insult to the girl, and he dreaded his return. Not that he was a coward—in the physical sense of the word; if corporal punishment could have atoned for his brutal conduct he would have taken his punishment—as he then felt—with the utmost satisfaction. But he recognized that in bringing this trouble upon himself he had betrayed the trader’s trust, and this, to his mind, was a far greater offence than his more criminal actions—even as cheating at cards or the like ungentlemanly action is popularly supposed to touch a man’s honor more closely than the committal of any offence in the criminal calendar. He paced the floor impatiently, out of humor with himself and things else, and cursing with bitter oaths his folly and the circumstances which led to it. Moreover, the craving for strong drink was again upon him, lashing him into a fury.

He had just succeeded in working himself into an ungovernable passion when the kitchen door was thrown violently open and Sahanderry burst into the room. The Indian gibbered wildly and seemed about to precipitate himself upon Broom.

“What for you do?” he cried excitedly, pausing in the doorway and spreading out his hands with a gesture of interrogation.

Broom stopped short in his walk and stared at the speaker with eyes that darted malignant hate. The appearance of Sahanderry was as a match to tinder, and Broom’s look was so venomous that it disconcerted the Indian and he halted irresolutely.

Sahanderry’s discomfiture tickled Broom. He laughed derisively, then abruptly resumed his tramp, his manner signifying his utter contempt for anything the enraged Indian might do.

Incensed by the man’s laughter, and drawing courage from his outraged feelings, Sahanderry approached his adversary with menacing gestures.

Broom halted, turned, and awaited his attack with a provoking smile.

Suddenly springing forward, the Indian seized him by the hair of his head with both hands, then paused to allow him to get a grip on his locks in turn—this being the tribal idea of the proper opening of affairs of honor, in which each man, having gotten a firm hold, tries to twist the neck of his antagonist by screwing his head into a position not in accordance with nature’s planning. But Broom, after permitting his opponent to take up the proper attitude, suddenly discarded all further recognized rules of Chipewyan combat and struck the vastly astonished Sahanderry such a violent blow on the chest that had not the Indian’s fingers been entangled in his adversary’s hair, it would have felled him to the ground. As it was he was able to regain his equilibrium in part before relaxing his hold, and staggering against the table, he stood for a moment panting and muttering curses upon the head of the sailor, then slowly, craftily, he shifted his position.

For, in coming in contact with the table, he had instinctively put out his hands to break the force of the collision and had touched an object that stood thereon, over which his fingers had instantly closed, and without pausing to consider what the missile might be or do, he, in great desperation and excitement, now hurled it with sudden strength, bred of his vindictive mood, at the head of the offending Broom.

The missile was the bottle stolen from the chest, and, hurled with all the force of Sahanderry’s arm, it struck Broom full on the cheek with a cruel thud, then fell to the ground and broke.

This unexpected attack found Broom quite unprepared. He staggered from the force of the blow, but suddenly straightening himself, laughed discordantly and pulled a revolver, which he cocked and levelled at the now shrinking Indian, who, at the sight of the weapon, dropped to the ground and vanished under the table, where he lay trembling and terror-stricken.

The Indian’s extreme fear filled Broom with fiendish glee. In sheer devilment he fired several times—apparently at haphazard, but with unerring aim, at various objects in the room. He was undoubtedly a dead shot, and, taking advantage of his skill, he tortured the poor distracted wretch until he moaned again. Fingering the revolver in an apparently careless fashion, he touched the trigger and the bullet passed in close proximity to Sahanderry’s body. Then throwing up the weapon to feign sudden alarm it went off as if by accident, the bullet grazing the Indian’s head. Then followed a display of fancy shooting, till, suddenly tiring of his amusement, Broom’s mood changed. His face became grim again and once more he levelled the revolver at the shrinking figure under the table. The Indian fairly shook with terror, and the sweat gathered upon his brow.

Sahanderry felt that his end had come. Broom’s ghastly face and glistening eyes seemed proof that he was no longer accountable for his reckless acts.

“You can say your prayers, you hypocritical imp of Satan, for I’m going to kill you,” hissed the madman. “In five minutes more you’ll be a dead man.”

And a dead man Sahanderry certainly would have been if Broom had been less elaborate in his system of torture. But during his shooting display Roy Thursby had arrived at the Fort, and hearing the report of the last shot had cautiously opened the door, crept noiselessly across the dark kitchen, and reached the room in time to hear Broom’s murderous threat. As his eyes took in the scene presented he started and raised his clenched hand.

“Now, you hell-hound,” continued Broom, “your time has come. I——” With a deadly intent he was sighting the weapon.

“Stop! You cowardly bully,” cried Roy furiously from the doorway. “If you wish to fight you can fight me, but leave that wretched, cowering Indian alone.” He spoke rapidly but calmly, and his tone of command had its effect upon Broom.

“What devil’s luck brought him here?” Broom muttered to himself as he unconsciously lowered the revolver and stood looking at Roy with darkened brows. But the next moment he laughed recklessly.

Roy started at the sound of this discordant laughter. He eyed Broom questioningly, apprehensively for some moments. From his strange agitated manner, the gray pallor of his countenance and the wild, shifty look in his eyes, Roy knew that he had to deal with a man who, if not actually insane, or acting a part, was on the verge of delirium, or could it be delirium tremens? But whatever the condition or cause, the man was in a state that might be dangerous to himself and to others, especially while in the possession of firearms. Roy resolved to propitiate him as far as was consistent with getting him under control.

“Fight you, my English bulldog; why, of course I’ll fight you,” cried the frenzied man, handling his revolver in a reckless manner. “But not in the low-bred manner of your countrymen, if you please. Hands are weapons for women; we’ll fight like men.” Again he flourished the dangerous weapon, then playfully presenting it at Roy, he shut an eye and took long, deliberate aim.

The trader glanced unflinchingly at the extended revolver. He fully realized that his life depended upon the whim of a lunatic, and God only knew what strange fantasy would next flash through Broom’s crazed brain; but he realized also it was only a bold presence that would save the situation. He therefore desisted from drawing his own weapon, and remained motionless, gazing unswervingly down the little blue muzzle before him.

There was silence for some moments, then Broom laughed uncomfortably, and, throwing up the revolver, he deliberately fired over Roy’s head. The bullet whistled desperately near his skull, but he stood immovable. This unperturbed demeanor appeared to have a quieting effect upon the delirious Broom, for he presently lowered his weapon.

Meanwhile a plan had flashed through Roy’s brain. He would induce Broom to discharge his revolver at some innocent object till he was assured its chamber was exhausted; then, with the help of Sahanderry, he would secure him.

But unfortunately for this plan Broom’s thoughts had returned to the proposed fight. Flourishing his own weapon recklessly, he called on Roy to “produce his gun!”

“Come on, my weak-blooded Englishman; surely you are not afraid,” he jeered.

The offensive tone and leering face provoked Roy almost beyond endurance. But believing the man to be for the moment little better than a maniac, he controlled himself, and drawing a revolver, the one he had displayed to Delgezie in the camp, he deliberately opened the breech, ostensibly to discover whether it was in order, but really to gain time.

“Don’t you think—,” he was saying in conciliating tones, when the other broke in with a shout of demoniacal laughter; then suddenly remembering Sahanderry his brows clouded again and he muttered viciously, “but first I’ll settle with this black trash,” and once more he covered the cowering creature beneath the table, causing him to shrink still farther under cover.

The white fury of Broom’s face and his deadly earnest manner startled Roy anew. He perceived that he must instantly distract the man’s attention if he wished to save the Indian’s life, and presenting his revolver at Broom, he called, in a tone of stern command:

“Drop your hand or I’ll——.” He spoke no further. By some unaccountable accident the weapon was discharged at the moment when Broom’s finger was actually pressing the trigger of his revolver to shoot Sahanderry. Hearing the bullet whiz past his ears and believing that Roy had wilfully shot at him, he turned with lightning quickness, diverted his aim and fired, as he thought, in self-defence.

Roy staggered, swayed and fell heavily.

Standing rigidly erect, Broom gazed stupidly at the still body. His face was livid. His legs trembled under him. His arm dropped to his side, his hand still clenching the murderous weapon.

Picking himself from the corner, where he had hidden when the trader suddenly appeared, Ocpic now crept cautiously to the side of the prostrate man. He dropped on one knee and closely scrutinized the upturned face. Then laughing wildly, he got to his feet.

“_To-koo-kuni! To-koo-kuni!_” (He is dead, he is dead), he gleefully cried.

The sound of the Eskimo’s voice brought Broom to himself. With a strong effort he withdrew his eyes from the senseless figure and gazed about the room like one suddenly awakened from an unpleasant dream, in doubt whether the horrible event had really taken place, or he had been the victim of some grotesque nightmare. But all doubt as to its reality ceased when his wandering gaze returned to the outstretched body of his victim. This ghastly proof was sufficient to convince him that the crime was no fantasy of a delirious brain. He sighed heavily. A slight convulsion passed over his features. Then, terror taking the form of defiance, he sprang forward and stood gazing down at Roy’s still figure.

A nervous grip was laid upon his shoulder and he swung fiercely round, his frightened gaze meeting the oblique eyes of the Eskimo, Ocpic, who stood pointing with extended arm; as Broom’s eyes followed its direction his attention was drawn once more to Sahanderry, who by this time was almost dead of fright.

At the sight of the shrinking figure he started violently; the catastrophe had happened so suddenly and had so confused and stupefied him that all knowledge of Sahanderry’s presence had been crowded from his mind. He now recalled it with fiendish satisfaction. Here was an object on which to vent his vicious rage, one who—as he wildly imagined—while under the secure protection of an all-powerful master had lost no opportunity to insult him covertly. But things were now changed; the exchange of shots had removed the protector, Sahanderry was masterless, and Broom resolved to take speedy and adequate vengeance. In his mood of ungovernable recklessness he hesitated no longer at the thought of crime, but paused to form a plan of torture sufficiently atrocious, and the vicious books that were his only reading supplied him with plots innumerable.

Soon a plan suitable for his diabolical purpose occurred to him. Smiling sardonically he advanced to the table, and, stooping, caught the half dead Sahanderry by the heels, and drew him into the centre of the room, then, snatching a piece of clapmatch line from Ocpic’s hand, he bound the distressed Indian in a secure fashion, the Indian making not the slightest struggle or even a murmur of dissent. The latter circumstance greatly amused Broom—a silent Sahanderry was a new experience. But his mood soon changed. He again eyed the poor, bound wretch with triumphant malignance, and, seating himself upon the edge of a bunk, he began his torture by elaborately unfolding his diabolical plot to the trembling prisoner.

Chuckling with fiendish glee he said:

“Now, Sahanderry, my friend, I am about to send you to your father, the devil, by means entirely original and devised by your humble servant. By the means I have in contemplation you will imitate the great and excellent prophet Elisha, insomuch as you will quit this world without encumbering the earth with your carcass.”

Broom paused to enjoy the effect of his words. Sahanderry’s face was