CHAPTER IX

THE SKEIN TANGLES

Partial explanation of Avic's queer behavior came next morning from the Eskimo himself. After breakfast, but before Moira had arrived to undertake her tour of nursing La Marr, Seymour brought the suspect out for examination. The Huskie beat him to the first question.

"When we go?"

Remembering that this identical inquiry had been last voiced by the native the previous afternoon, the sergeant surmised that it must have some significance.

"Go--go where?" he asked. "Where do you expect to go, Avic?"

The Eskimo made a sweeping gesture in a southerly direction. "Up big river," he mumbled gutturally. "See all world. Ride in smoke wagon on land, same like steamboat on water. Live in stone house, big as mountain. Good grub. Long sleeps. Warm like summer all time."

"And why should all that good luck come to you?" Seymour demanded. "Who's been putting such fool ideas into your head?"

Avic looked puzzled. There were words in the sergeant's questions that were new to him. The officer was about to simplify his query when the native blurted out the desired information, evidently sensing that some support was needed by his expectations.

"Nanatalmute boys, she kill white man. Red policeman take boys on long trip. Treat her fine, them boys. Stay away two, three freeze-up. Come back big mens."

Seymour groaned inwardly as he grasped the reference. The Nanatalmutes were the Eskimo who roam the Arctic foreshore to the west of the Mackenzie River. Some years ago an abusive trader had been killed by two youths of the tribe. The authorities of that day decided they should be taken "Outside" for trial. The court developed certain extenuating circumstances which resulted in penitentiary sentences for the pair. In prison, they learned to speak English and were given mechanical training. At term's end, they were returned to their band in this land of "midnight suns and noonday nights."

Theorists held that the two would spread a respect for the white man's greatness and power--that their tales of punishment would make the land safe for the interlopers of another race. The effect, Seymour well knew, had been different. The Nanatalmutes had reported that they had been royally treated. They described the wonders of provincial cities, the thrills of the railway travel, the surprising warmth, the palatial house in which they lived and countless other details that had impressed their childlike minds. Almost, did this mistake of the Law put a premium on white murder, so great was the envy of the two who had turned punishment into signal honor.

So this was Avic's motive for the murder of young O'Malley! Seymour had the native's word that he expected a trip "Outside." The only implication was practically an admission of guilt.

The sergeant knew that procedure had changed. Courts now were sent into the farthest North and trials held at or near the crime's locale. Conviction in Avic's case would more likely mean a hanging, with his fellows looking on, than a pleasure jaunt anywhere. But of this he did not speak. Even this practical admission from the native did not convince him that the Huskie alone was responsible for the killing. His own deductions from the situation in the hut were too well grounded and vivid.

"When we go?" Again came the query from the eager native, this repetition sharpened with impatience.

"Not soon," answered Seymour with a shrug; then suddenly turned the inquiry. "Where did you get those fox skins you show to the factor?"

"Avic trap foxes--black and silver," came the ready answer. "Avic fine hunter--ver' best."

"When did you take them from your traps?"

Seymour considered this question vital. He was convinced that the skins had been cured many months before. If the native lied about this, he would feel certain that his sense of mystery had not been misplaced; that there was more behind the murder than Avic's desire for a trip into the outside world.

The Eskimo did not answer at once. He seemed to be counting back. The sergeant gave him his time.

"Not count weeks and days," he said at last, "Avic trap 'em when the sun go away and the snow comes."

"You mean just after this winter began?" Seymour wished to guard against any misunderstanding.

"This same winter. Avic cousin wife fix 'em plenty. Avic bring 'em to post. Much travel better than trade-barter from store, so not sell. When we go?"

The sergeant did not press the inquiry at the moment. There was a long, long winter ahead of them in which he hoped the whole truth would out.

Several practical reasons decided his next move. He put both of the accused natives under open arrest. Cell room at police quarters was at a premium and food of the sort the natives required was difficult to prepare in a white man's kitchen. The health of the prisoners, which must be his concern until the court had passed on their guilt, was certain to be better if they lived under native conditions. Friends and relatives were more than ready to take them in for sustenance allowance he granted each. After making them understand that they were not to leave camp under penalty of his wrath, he turned them loose--a parole, it may be said here, that was not broken.

The happiest weeks in Russell Seymour's memory were those that immediately followed. With his lone constable bedfast, his presence at or near headquarters was required unless some dire emergency rose. For once, he thanked his lucky stars that nothing happened to break the joyous monotony.

For a week, Moira, in her role of nurse, spent most of her days at the post. While she was kindness itself to La Marr and anticipated most of his wants, there was no doubt that her real interest was in the sergeant. A close friendship sprang up as they found many interests in common and exchanged life stories with endless detail. At that, each had their mental reservations. Nothing the girl said, for instance, threw any light on her real reason for making her unseasonable and unexpected northward dash. And his lips never hinted that he was hopelessly in love.

In holding back, however, the girl had every advantage over the man. She did not need word of mouth to tell her the state of his feelings. Indeed, her worry was over the promptness of her own heart, as she confided to Emma Morrow. Was propinquity disturbing her judgment, and isolation distorting her viewpoint? She feared a mistake that might make them both unhappy in the future. With a tact that at times made her feel cruel both to him and herself, she held the situation level with the spirit of friendship.

Her attitude was made easy by the more active wooing of Harry Karmack. The handsome factor was not held back by any sense of poverty, which is felt perforce by anyone who had little but his police pay, a far from princely dole. Karmack was as persistent as circumstances and Moira would permit; quite too impetuous, in fact, for the comfort of one whose interests were divided.

For a time, the girl was put to it to keep the two apart. When they both "made" Mission House at the same time, she felt that she was spending the evening in a TNT factory. While the men never actually clashed physically, she felt certain that only Seymour's military discipline kept them apart. At last, she was forced to put them on schedule, giving each two evenings a week, but with understanding that they were not to come even on their assigned nights unless she previously sent them word. The need for such an expedient could scarcely arise "Outside," but she saw no other way out of the difficulty in Armistice, unless she was ready to undertake a "for-better-or-worse" decision. And out of this situation grew Russell Seymour's greatest despair.

The first of his evenings arrived, but no summons from the Irish beauty. The next afternoon, with Mrs. Morrow, she dropped in at police headquarters to cheer the convalescing constable. She chose a time when she must have known the sergeant was afield exercising the police team of malamutes. Also, according to La Marr, she had not been indisposed the previous evening.

A second of Seymour's scheduled visits passed into the discard of time with no word from her, and then a third. Being an exponent of direct action, Seymour decided to learn the reason for this sudden change which, to him, was unexplainable. He made certain she had not started on her daily snow-shoe sprint about the camp, an exercise of which she was fond and at which, for a girl, something of an expert. Mid-afternoon, he presented himself at Mission House. Luke Morrow admitted him; carried his request for an interview.

More anxious than he dared to admit, even to himself, the sergeant waited, his fingers crunching the fur of his cap as he paced the living room. Even before Morrow spoke on returning, he knew the beauty's thumbs were down. The missionary's expression was too sympathetic for any answer.

"Miss O'Malley asks that you'll excuse her, sergeant," was his formal report.

"Is she ill?"

"Not physically, I'm afraid."

Seymour was too dazed for his pride to come into action. To be turned away without a word didn't seem fair. What's more, it wasn't at all like Moira O'Malley. Surely he had the right to know his fault--his crime?

"Thunderin' icebergs, Luke Morrow! Tell me what I've done to be treated like this?" he demanded.

"I'm sure I can't imagine, Russell."

"Does Madame Emma know?"

The sky-pilot shook his head. "Moira has not mentioned your name to either of us since the last evening you spent here." He hesitated a moment. "She does know at last that her brother was murdered--that such was the accident of the Arctic we reported to her."

"Then she thinks I'm responsible for trying to soften that ordeal?" Even as he asked, however, he felt certain that there must be something more of a misunderstanding than that.

"I took full responsibility for our not telling her the full details," said Morrow. "You'll remember I first suggested----"

"Then Karmack must have----"

He did not finish, but flung himself out the door. Before the missionary could utter a word of caution or advise moderation, Sergeant Seymour was plowing the trail for the Arctic's establishment.