CHAPTER VII

WANTED--AN ESKIMO FOX

After the excitement attending his return from the North patrol, the short winter days and the far longer nights passed slowly for the O.C. of Armistice detachment, now reduced to commanding himself. One week--two weeks--part of a third had been crossed off the calendar without any word coming from his man-hunting constable. Seymour wasn't exactly worrying yet, but he was beginning to wish he had not been so generous about giving young La Marr this chance to redeem himself.

Above all else he desired the custody of Avic, the fox hunter. The body of the accused Eskimo would not satisfy him; no more would a report of his death. Nothing would do but Avic in the quick.

Often in the endless evenings, while intermittent blizzards raged about the shuttered windows, he would take out the black and silver pelts. From various angles he would argue their bearing on the case. More than ever was he assured that they were not of recent trapping. The fur was that of animals which had been through a long, easy winter--one when rabbits had been plentiful. This was not a rabbit winter on the arctic prairies east of the Mackenzie.

These particular foxes had been trapped in the early spring, or he was no judge of fur quality. That this spring had not been the previous one was shown by the seasoned state of the tanning. However, this tanning did not appear to be Eskimo work, but that of Indian squaws further south.

Every Eskimo has a flock of cousins. He had visited several in the immediate vicinity who claimed more or less of that relationship to the missing Avic. He had examined the work of their women on furs. A pronounced difference in process seemed evident to him.

The film of mystery brought into the O'Malley murder by his own knowledge of Eskimo strangling had been intensified into a shroud by his study of the exhibits he had secreted. Yet, speculate as he would, there was no other apparent line of suspicion than that of the native's guilt. He was at loss how to proceed until he had questioned the man for whom the warrant had been issued.

Each time he looked at the pelts, one outstanding fact came to mind:

No Eskimo ever held a pelt, after his woman had cured it, longer than it took to get to the handiest trader. It was against all rhyme and reason that two fox pelts, worth many times their weight in gold, would remain in the hands of a ne'er-do-well like Avic so long after they were marketable. How, then, had the native come by them?

Under ordinary circumstances--rather, under the amity of suffer-isolation-together which had existed prior to the tragedy, he might have gone to Harry Karmack with his problem. At least, the factor could have given him an expert's opinion as to when the skins had become pelts by virtue of trapping and tanning.

But a breach yawned between the two--one unwittingly caused by the fair addition to the limited population of Armistice. It wasn't an open one, so far, but both knew that it existed and bridging it was the last thought of either. They were unadmitted rivals for the favor of Moira O'Malley. Anyone who knew the man, could have read the sergeant's interest in his countenance. Contrary to winter practice of toilers of the trails, his face had been clean shaved from the morning after La Marr's departure. The trader, on his part, showed intensity of his heart-hurt by countless little attentions to the young woman.

The unfortunate brother had been laid away upon the highest knoll near the camp after a simple service conducted by Rev. Morrow. The girl had held up under her bereavement with a courage that commanded all their admiration. No hint of the real cause of Oliver's death had reached her, so guarded had been the four resident whites who knew. From the Eskimo, of course, she learned nothing. She had accepted the report of an "accident of the Arctic" and had asked no embarrassing questions as to details. The finality of death seemed to suffice; nothing else mattered.

A week after the funeral, a stranger would not have known from her manner that suddenly she had been deprived of one of her dearest relatives. She never spoke of having a philosophy of life, but something of the sort seemed to sustain her. Her whole behavior indicated that she was determined not to make others unhappy with her personal grief. They all had their lives to live in a location that made life difficult. Moira O'Malley would do her utmost to make the winter as happy as might be. She did not even ask if it were not possible to send her "Outside," now that the reason for her presence had been removed by Fate.

Harry Karmack, bearing a book to Mission House in the hope that gloomy thought might be diverted thereby, had been the first of the rivals to discover her mental attitude. He had been prompt to act on his important discovery. Besides the volume, he left an invitation to dinner for the girl and her hosts. Sergeant Russell Seymour, official head of the tiny community, was not among those present, having received no invitation.

Now, this was a breach of camp etiquette which could not be overlooked. Far worse than the cut direct, it was nearly as much an insult as a blow in the face. When a handful of whites are segregated in a bronze man's country, they naturally cling to each other as they do to the "alders." Everyone possibly within the pale is invited to everything that approaches a function. Even squaw-men are asked to attend if they retain a semblance of presentability.

There was no possible question that Factor Harry Karmack's dinner was a function. Although it had never been mentioned by Moira or the Morrows, the sergeant had all the details. These had been relayed by his native hostler who had them direct from the Arctic's interpreter, the latter having acted as butler for the all-important occasion. The meal had been served in courses, mind you, for the first time in the history of the camp. The factor's store of delicacies, even to the tinned plum pudding, intended for the Christmas feast, had been freely broached.

Seymour could not hope to equal such a spread from police rations, but he was not to be outdone in hospitality. Miss O'Malley and the Morrows had accepted his invitation to a sour-dough luncheon. The factor had not accepted for an excellent reason that you probably can imagine.

The three from Mission House were coming this very noon and the sergeant had been occupied part of the morning correcting the haphazard housekeeping of quarters. In fact, they had come, as was attested by the knocking upon the front door.

More lovely than ever Moira seemed to him as she returned a smile to his enthusiastic greetings. She was dressed to-day entirely in white, the first time he had ever seen her in anything but black.

"What a snow bird you are, Moira!" he exclaimed, almost forgetting to greet the missionaries.

"In that case, I'm relieved you're not packing a gun, Sergeant Scarlet."

"Not even side arms," he said, releasing his whimsical smile. "I'm the one that's wounded--fluttering. Put your wraps in the tent, all of you, and I'll put you to work."

For the first time they noticed the stage-setting he had created for his social bow. Every stick of furniture had been removed and the floor covered with reindeer moss, gray, soft and fragrant. Two reserve sleds, padded with outspread sleeping bags, were evidently intended to serve as seats. The "tent" to which he had referred them was a drape of canvas over the door leading into his own room. About the hearth were scattered pots, pans and dishes of tin. The fireplace glowed like a camp fire permitted to grow dim for culinary service.

"So this is what you meant by a sour-dough party," observed Mrs. Morrow, her voice betraying her enthusiasm over the idea.

"Wonder if I'm hard-bitten enough by now to get the idea?" Moira asked them.

"We're hitting the trail," explained the missionary. "We've just pitched camp and are about to make muck-muck. As Northwesterners never pack grub for idle hands to eat, we'd better strip off our coats and get into action."

Where the fire glowed the hottest, Seymour rigged an iron spit from which he suspended a shank of caribou on a wire as supple as a piece of string. Beneath, he placed a pan to catch the drippings. To Moira he entrusted a second wire so attached that an occasional pull kept the meat turning.

"There's nothing more delicious than roast caribou," he advised her, "and this is the very best way to roast it."

Luke Morrow was to attend the broiling of a dozen fool-hens--a variety of grouse--which the sergeant had shot that morning. To Mrs. Emma was assigned the task of picking over a mess of fiddle-head ferns which, by some magic, he had kept fresh since fall. He was certain that, when properly boiled, they would produce a dish of greens more delicate than spinach.

"And you, Russell?" queried the girl, for they soon had taken to first names, except that she sometimes called him "Sergeant Scarlet." "Because of your rank, I suppose you'll merely boss the job and eat twice as much as anyone else."

He did not answer, but fell to his knees beside the open mouth of a flour sack. With the aid of water and an occasional pinch of baking powder, he quickly mixed a wad of dough. Greasing a gold-pan with a length of bacon rind, he filled it with the dough and stood it up facing the fire.

"I'm baking bannock," he answered Moira's quizzical look. "When the outside is browned, I'll toss it like a pancake, and soon we'll have a better bread than mother ever made."

The primitive feast at last was ready and they fell upon it seated tailor-fashion upon the moss. The caribou was so tender, remarked Rev. Morrow in complimenting the fair spit attendant, that you could put your finger through it.

"Don't waste time putting anything through it but your teeth," remarked their host.

Later, when they had turned to moss berries and condensed "cow," provided as a typical desert, Moira expressed regret that Seymour's attractive young constable was not present to share the feast.

"Have you heard anything from La Marr, Seymour?" asked the missionary.

"Not a word."

Something in his tone startled the girl. "Has he gone on a dangerous mission?" she asked. "Are you worried about him?"

The sergeant shook his head. "He's one of the trail-boys and will find others to stand by if he's in trouble." And after a moment's silence, he quoted:

"The cord that ties the trail-boys has lashed Them heart to heart; No stage presents their joys, no actors Play their parts; Their struggles are seldom known, because Through wilds untrod These daring spirits roam where there is Naught but God."

The spell of silence that followed his pronouncement of the Deity was rudely broken by a hammering on the outer door. So peremptory was the summons that Seymour sprang to his feet, crossed the room and flung the door open, only to start back in amazement.

"Avic of the foxes, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed.

Framed in the doorway, his small eyes peering from a strained face out of the wolverine hood of his _parkee_, the fugitive Eskimo stood alone. Instead of handcuffs on his wrists, he held a rifle across his breast.