CHAPTER XII

LIVING TARGETS

Like a Windigo hoodie of the sub-Arctic on the trail of a craven Cree, Sergeant Seymour pushed through the white silence in pursuit of his fugitive. If the capture of Harry Karmack, embezzler, spurred him officially, the saving of Moira O'Malley from the fate that seemed in store for her lent wings to his snow-shoes. To himself he did not deny the fact that the personal interest was the most potent. There would be weeks and weeks, if required, to run down the dishonest trader. Didn't the Royal Mounted always get their man? But there were only hours, he sincerely believed, in which to spare the most beautiful feminine creature he had ever seen a lifetime of humiliation and grief.

This was no night for travel. All the rules of Northern trails forbade it. With the spirit thermometer down to sixty-five below, he should have been snugly in camp in some snow bank, wrapped in rabbit-skin robes or encased in a sleeping bag, with his malamutes snuggled around him. The spirit within that enabled him to defy the inexorable grip of the frost was the same that had not permitted him to delay pursuit's start an hour.

Frankly, he would not have gone out that night after Karmack had the rascal been escaping alone. Considering the factor's passenger, however, nothing could have kept him at the Armistice detachment post.

There action had been swift once he had the fell news from Luke Morrow. At quarters, he had turned over the post to Corporal Le Blanc. He was to keep the Arctic company's trade-room and furs under seal; to do no trading except that which the welfare of visiting Indians and Eskimos demanded. Hardship might be worked if the trusting natives came in to exchange their furs for supplies and found no mart. The two Eskimo murderers were to remain under open arrest unless they displayed signs of wanderlust after his departure. La Marr was to take no chances with his injured leg, the corporal to make such patrols as were absolutely necessary. Thus, like a good commander, he prepared for the all-too-many eventualities of winter travel.

Morrow had followed him to police quarters almost at once with an offer of the Mission House malamutes for the stern chase--stern in more than one sense of the word. Knowing that both the police teams were worn out--the one of the scarlet special and the other of mercy's errand--Seymour had accepted the mission's team, although he preferred always to drive his own dogs when they were in the least fit.

From Morrow, he had details of Karmack's morning visit which had resulted in Moira's unfortunate decision to attempt to go "Outside" under his escortage. Karmack had said he meant to take the shortest course to the Mackenzie on the frozen surface of which he expected to find a more or less traveled trail. He would be delighted to have Moira's company. She could drive her own team and would find it easy to follow his own huskies. They would have the Arctic's interpreter, a famous musher, to break trail and keep them on the right track. It would be an express trip, he had declared, and she would find herself with her friends before she knew it.

"Emma and I tried to dissuade her from taking the chance," the missionary had told Seymour with tears in his voice, "but the temptation was too much for the girl. We assured her she would be welcome to spend the rest of the winter, but she wanted to depart the scene of the tragedy."

At the moment, Seymour had wondered how much her ill-founded disappointment in him had affected her decision. And this thought kept recurring to him now as he followed the double sled trails. It clinched his determination to overtake them at the earliest possible moment.

Fortunately there was no wind to-night and he had nothing to contend against but the bitterness of the cold. He was traveling "light" with caribou pemmican, hardtack and tea as the major contents of his grub sack. The mission dogs were running as if out for an exercise jaunt; but the air was too frigid to permit much riding for their driver. Often he had to hold them back that he might not become absolutely winded.

Already he had proved one lie in Karmack's statement to the girl and the missionary, as reported with undoubted truthfulness by the latter. The fugitive was not headed directly for the Mackenzie River, the natural highway "Outside." That would have taken him by the Wolf Lake trading and mission station. Even in the night, the sergeant recognized the ridge they were following and that there had been a sharp veering to the south-west. The course would bring them to the river far from any outpost and doubtless Karmack, if he got away, would continue to avoid all such on the way up river until certain he had out-distanced any pursuit.

The possibility that already the girl regretted her hasty decision to leave the Morrows occurred to him as a possible reason for Karmack's change of course. If she had threatened to give up the attempt upon reaching Wolf Lake, the factor, naturally, would give the other missionaries a wide berth. But cheering as was the idea, he soon dismissed it. Moira O'Malley was not the sort to turn back on an endeavor, and it was improbable that there had been any alarming overtures from Karmack so early in the wild project. He was clever, was Handsome Harry, and, by his own boast, experienced with women. He would wait until he had completely won her by the countless services that would crop up on a trip of this sort. All the more reason, then, for Seymour to overtake and capture before they got beyond reach of return to Armistice. Again and again his goad of caribou hide snapped near the ears of his team. The panting animals flattened their bodies while he rode the sled in defiance of the frost.

Soon after break of day, belated in this latitude and season, came his reward. In the course of the night's sled run he had worked out of the bare tundra country of the foreshore into a region splotched here and there with brush. Now he saw rising from one of the clumps ahead a spiral of smoke marking someone's breakfast fire.

No difficulty was there in guessing whose fire--not in the Great Barrens! Evidently, from the distance covered, Karmack had driven far into the night, but, none the less, did not mean to be deprived of an early start on the second day of his dash for freedom.

Seymour dragged the mission dogs to a halt a mile away from the fugitive's camp. When rival teams meet on the snows, they dash at each others' throats with a chorus of yowls and all the strength of their respective masters is required to keep them apart. The sergeant expected to be engaged otherwise than clubbing malamutes when he got to that breakfast fire.

Accordingly, he untraced the team and chained them to the sled in such a way that any attempt to move that vehicle on the part of the animals leashed to one side would immediately meet with resistance of the dogs on the other side. Such an anchorage he had tried before and proved effective; in fact, it is about the only one possible in the open snow-fields.

Tossing each of the seven in the team a frozen fish, he removed his _parkee_, exposing to ready grasp the revolver at his hip. From its deer-hide case, he unlimbered his rifle as a precaution against being "potted" in case his approach was discovered at too great a distance for small-arm accuracy. Then he moved swiftly forward, the tails of his "webs" leaving a wake of flying snow.

Evidently, the three of the flight party were at breakfast, for he bore down on the temporary camp without alarm. Soon he was near enough to hear the dogs of their two teams snarling over the morning meal. Noting that they were tethered between him and his objective, he circled for a safer approach.

Almost was he upon the camp when he saw Karmack departing in the direction of the dogs. Easily could he have picked off the accused embezzler with his rifle. But----

"Never fire first!"

With the real slogan of the Royal Mounted he admonished himself under his breath.

Nearer over the crunching snow he crept on that clumsy-looking but most effective footgear which man may have adopted from the snow-shoe rabbit. Now he could make out the front of a pup tent, doubtless thrown up for the protection of the beauty of the party. Koplock, the Arctic's interpreter, could be seen packing utensils for the start. The girl was not in sight.

Two minutes more would have brought him into camp and everyone under cover of his rifle. Then, from out of the tent, came Moira, facing him!

He heard her cry out; could not determine whether from surprise at the unexpected appearance of a human stalking out of the white solitude or as a warning to her companions.

Of these, Karmack whirled at first alarm, but the native did not look up from his task. Evidently the factor recognized the unwelcome visitor, for he started back with a rush, drawing his automatic as he ran.

"Never fire first!" the voice of training whispered as the sergeant hurled himself toward his foe.

Karmack's pistol barked. A bullet whizzed past the policeman's ear, a narrow miss but as good as a mile.

Now came the King's turn. Upward to his shoulder swung the gun with which Seymour had won many a target match. In a second, it seemed, Karmack must bite the snow.

But the gun never was fired. Into direct range between the two men, Moira O'Malley had flung herself, a tall, fur-clad figure. The human target of the scoundrel momentarily was blanketed. What mattered it that the school girl of Ottawa was pointing an automatic as steadily as she had held it upon him in the trade room that time back in Armistice. Sergeant Scarlet could not fire upon an innocent woman.

He barely saw a whiff of smoke leave the mouth of her pistol, scarcely heard what seemed a double report, when a burning sensation along one temple and across the side of his scalp threw him backward to a fall on his side.

And as he toppled into the snow, to lie inert and helpless, it seemed to him that the glorious girl lunged forward to the same cold couch that was his.

Was it possible that, by some involuntary pressure on the trigger, he had fired at Moira O'Malley? In the paralytic clutch of the moment he could not answer the heart-burning question.

Consciousness must have fled Seymour's mind for just a moment. With its return, he realized that Karmack was shouting excited orders to Koplock, the interpreter. Haunted by that last glimpse of Moira tumbling forward into the snow, the sergeant tried to raise himself for another look over the tragic stage. Only his brain seemed awake; body muscles refused to respond to its demand. He could only lie there, staring into the dingy, low-hung sky, and listen.

"Very bad affair this one, boss," he heard.

The voice was Koplock's and the conversational tone, which carried through the frosty stillness plainly, indicated that the interpreter and the factor stood together.

"The red-coat killed her firing at me, you can see that and swear to it, can't you?" Karmack demanded.

"But no, Meestair Karmack," came from the native. "She is hit from the back. It was your bullet that lay her low. Koplock swear to nothing but the truth."

An imprecation sprang from the factor's lips, but scarcely registered with the listening sergeant. He was too filled with rejoicing that no involuntary shot of his had struck her down.

"It don't matter," he heard Karmack grumble. "Go have a look at the policeman. If only she killed him----"

Seymour heard the crunch of snow-shoes; knew that the native was coming toward him. What should he do? He was convinced that his wound was only a "crease"; hoped that the muscular numbness would pass. To feign death under the native's inspection was his first impulse.

But to that plan, several objections immediately presented themselves. The mission-schooled Eskimo would be hard to deceive with no more convincing evidence than a bullet graze. Again, there was no telling how long the paralysis that gripped him would continue. No one could lay out in to-day's temperature for any length of time without freezing.

He recalled that Koplock had always shown a dog-like devotion to him; undoubtedly was grateful for the fees which Seymour had paid for his services as interpreter for the government. Certainly the native was greatly disturbed by what had just happened. To throw himself on the Eskimo's mercy held some risk but more chance of ultimate safety than attempting to play 'possum.

In the moment of the bronze man's crossing, the sergeant had argued this out and come to a decision.

His eyes were closed when Koplock stood over him and touched his body with the toe of his muckluck. The native stooped for a close examination of the head wound. Seymour's eyes opened, his lips moved in a whisper.

"Stand by your king," he said. "Tell Karmack I'm dead, but don't go on with him."

Koplock assented with a wink and quickly straightened.

"Him passed out," Seymour heard him call to his employer. "Center shot."

"Not so bad," came the unfeeling response from the factor. "That's what he gets for edging into my affairs. Come here, you."

The sergeant heard the native shoeing back and then came the calloused instructions of a hard-pressed fugitive who could not afford to lose his head in such an emergency.

"I must mush on with my dogs," said Karmack. "Take the girl back to Armistice on her sled. Tell them--oh, make up any story you like; you'll do that anyhow. I'll be where they'll never get me."

"What do with him?" Koplock asked, pointing toward Seymour.

"The cop--let the wolves bury him."

Five minutes or so after Karmack's "Mush--mush on!" had signalled his continuation of flight, Koplock again was at the side of the sergeant.

"Him very bad mans, that Factor Karmack," he said as he began a vigorous massage of Seymour's limbs. For a moment he worked vigorously to restore circulation and the officer was able to reward him by twitching his fingers.

"Big joke, this on Karmack," went on the native, chuckling gutturally.

"Where's the joke with Miss O'Malley dead?" Seymour demanded, as the Eskimo turned him over to knead his spine. Koplock was too much engaged in his operations to reply readily, then:

"The most big joke him is Miss O'Malley she am not dead but just some hurt like you."

The effect upon Seymour was magical. Power returned to his muscles as suddenly as it had departed from them. Of his own will, he turned over and sat up in the snow. With the Eskimo's aid, he got to his feet. He glanced anxiously over the battle scene, but could see nothing of the beloved figure. His eyes put the question.

"Koplock carry her to tent," answered the native.

"Good boy, Koplock!"

Slowly, for his legs were numb, and with the native's grip to steady him, Seymour walked to the tent. There the girl lay wrapped in a rabbit-skin robe, gazing open-eyed at the roof, upon her flushed face an expression of surprise, as if she did not understand just what had befallen her.

"Thank heaven you're alive!" cried the Mountie, staring down at her, his eyes brimming with tears of rejoicing.

"You--you!" she murmured. "Where is Mr. Karmack?" She seemed afraid and her wide eyes accused him cruelly.

Seymour sat down beside her. "After nearly murdering you, _Mister_ Karmack has continued his flight," he said. "You and I will thrash this out once and for all, Moira. The wound of his shot in your back will have to wait until I've cleared your mind of certain apprehensions."

She turned from him, but he felt certain that she would listen. First he assured her of his great liking for her brother, a mutual regard, he believed. Then he recounted every pertinent detail of the brutal strangling with the Ugiuk-line, not forgetting the evidence of the two too-well-curried fox pelts. Frankly, he set forth Karmack's jealous motive in casting her suspicions upon himself. Her own misinterpretation of the scene she had interrupted in the trade room was contended with a convincing account of the entire struggle, ending with Karmack's attempt to shoot him. To prove the factor's real reason for flight, he read her the warrant which the "scarlet special" had brought from Ottawa.

"And to-day," he concluded, "while trying again to kill me, he shot you instead."

Slowly the girl turned her averted gaze. With a glad throbbing of heart, he saw she was convinced.

"And I believed--a thief," she mourned. "I started for the provinces with him that I might the sooner have the law on you. My heart told me--why, why didn't I listen--that it could not be you. Oh, Sergeant Scarlet, can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgiven already--and forgotten, all but Karmack's devilish part," he assured her.

Now, for the first time, the girl noticed the gash across his scalp. "But you--you're wounded. How----who?----"

"It's just a scratch," said he cheerfully. "Knocked me out for a bit, you know, but all right now. The how and who don't matter. Suppose we see how slightly you're hurt?"

Koplock stood in the tent door with a pan of boiling water, heated at Seymour's orders. The sergeant took this from him and sent him to bring in the police team. Then, with deft fingers, he set about an examination of what proved to be a shoulder wound.

To his great relief, he found that the bullet had gone entirely through, leaving a clean bore through the muscles, with no need for probing. The girl's coma, so like death as to deceive the excited factor, evidently had been from shock. Applying a first-aid dressing, he bundled the injured shoulder against the cold.

Koplock, with fingers none too gentle, looked after Seymour's own injury and bandaged it with material from the police emergency kit. Then they gathered brush from the thicket and built a rousing fire before the tent.

That they would make no attempt to move that day was Seymour's first decision. The girl, he felt, needed rest after the shock of her wounding more than immediate attention from one with more surgical experience than he possessed. Whether to take her back to Armistice or across country to Wolf Lake required more consideration. The fact that there was a missionary surgeon at the lake who had more skill than Luke Morrow finally decided him. Moreover, by going to the trading post, he would be much nearer the frozen highway of the Mackenzie over which his pursuit of Karmack must continue.

In the afternoon, as they lounged in the tent with the genial warmth of the brush fire playing upon them, Seymour broached one of the mysteries of the eventful winter.

"Mind telling me, Moira, what brought you on this wild, unseasonable dash into the North?" he asked her.

"It was fear, Sergeant Scarlet--fear for my brother."

He was surprised. "You mean that you had a premonition that something was going to happen to him?"

"Not that exactly," the girl amplified her first response. "There was a motion picture I chanced to see in Ottawa. It was a dreadful thing called 'The Perils of the North' or something like that. The young man in the picture, away from all of his own kind--well, you know what might happen. He became a--a squaw man. I got to thinking of Oliver. He had dashed off while I was on a visit in Montreal and hadn't even said good-bye. There was nothing really to keep me in the cities and I decided my place was with him. That was why I came and not in time----" she broke off with a sob.

Sergeant Seymour assured her that her apprehensions of her brother becoming a squaw-man were absolutely unfounded. A cleaner specimen of young Canadian, he declared, had never fared to the Arctic foreshore. But he did not tell her, then, the real reason behind Oliver O'Malley's ill-starred venture.