The Hound From The North. Cullum Ridgwell
be taking, gentlemen? Are you going to head through the mountains for the main trail, or are you going to double on your tracks?”
“We are going back,” said Grey, with unpleasant emphasis. Any allusion to his mistake of the road annoyed him.
Chillingwood turned his head away and hid a smile.
“I think you will do well,” replied the trapper largely. “I know these hills, and I should be inclined to hark back to where you missed the trail. I hope to cover twenty miles myself to-day.”
“Your traps will be buried, I should say,” suggested Robb.
“I’m used to that,” replied the tall man quietly. “Guess I shan’t have much difficulty with ’em.” He permitted himself the suspicion of a smile.
Grey drew out his pipe and leisurely loaded it. Robb followed suit. Mr. Zachary Smith pushed his tin pannikin away from before him and leaned back.
“Going to smoke?” he asked. “Guess I’ll join you. No, not your plug, thanks. I’m feeling pretty good. My weed’ll do me. You don’t fancy to try it?”
“T. and B.’s good enough for me,” said Grey, with a smile. “No, I won’t experiment.”
Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.
“Can I?”
Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.
“Guess not, thanks. What’s good enough for my chief is good enough for me.”
The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide pouch of native workmanship. He emptied out a little pile of greenish-brown flakes into the palm of his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff, suggestive of discoloured bran. This he poured into the bowl of a well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which he carefully and with accuracy adjusted into the corner of his mouth.
“If you ever chance to have the experience I have had in these mountains, gentlemen,” he then went on slowly, as gathering into the palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, “I think you’ll find the use of the weed which grows on this hillside,” with a jerk of his head upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, “has its advantages.”
“Maybe,” said Grey contemptuously.
“I doubt it,” said Robb, with a pleasant smile.
The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe and emitted a cloud of pungent smoke from between his lips. The others had lit up. But the odour of the trapper’s weed quickly dominated the atmosphere. He talked rapidly now.
“You folks who travel the main trails don’t see much of what is going on in the mountains–the real life of the mountains,” he said. “You have no conception of the real dangers which these hills contain. Yes, sir, they’re hidden from the public eye, and only get to be known outside by reason of the chance experience of the traveller who happens to lose his way, but is lucky enough to escape the pitfalls with which he finds himself surrounded. I could tell you some queer yarns of these hills.”
“Travellers’ tales,” suggested Grey, with a yawn and a disparaging smile. “I have heard some.”
“Yes,” said Robb, “there are queer tales afloat of adventures encountered by travellers journeying from the valley to the coast. But they’re chiefly confined to wayside robbery, and are of a very sordid, everyday kind. No doubt your experiences are less matter-of-fact and more romantic. By Jove, I feel jolly comfy. Not much like turning out.”
“That’s how it takes me,” said Smith quietly, but with a quick glance at the speaker. “But idleness won’t boil my pot. It’s a remarkable thing that I’ve felt wonderfully energetic these last few days, and now that I have to turn out I should prefer to stop where I am. I s’pose it’s human nature.”
He gazed upon his audience with a broad smile.
At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated the thick sides of the dugout. Rainy-Moon was preparing for the start. Doubtless the brilliant change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers of the north.
“That’s curious-smelling stuff you’re smoking,” said Grey, rousing himself with an effort after a moment’s dead silence. “What do you call it?”
“Can’t say–a weed,” said Zachary Smith, glancing down his nose towards the bowl of his pipe. “Not bad, is it? Smells of almonds–tastes like nutty sherry.”
Grey stifled a yawn.
“I feel sleepy, d–d sleepy. Wonder if Rainy-Moon has got the sleigh loaded.”
Smith emitted another dense cloud of smoke from between his pursed lips; he seemed wrapt in the luxurious enjoyment of his smoke. Robb Chillingwood’s eyelids were drooping, and his pipe had gone out. Quite suddenly the trapper’s eyes were turned on the face of Grey, and the smoke from his pipe was chiefly directed towards him.
“There’s time enough yet,” he said quietly. “Half-an-hour more or less won’t make much difference to you on the road. You were talking of travellers’ tales, and I reckon you were thinking of fairy yarns that some folks think it smart to spin. Well, maybe those same stories have some foundation in fact, and ain’t all works of imagination. Anyhow, my experience has taught me never to disbelieve until I’ve some good sound grounds for doing so.”
He paused and gazed with a far-off look at the opposite wall. Then a shadowy smile stole over his face, and he went on. His companions’ heads had drooped slowly forward, and their eyes were heavy with sleep. Grey was fighting against the drowsiness by jerking his head sharply upwards, but his eyes would close in spite of his efforts.
“Well, I never thought that I’d get caught napping,” continued Smith, with a chuckle. “I thought I knew these regions well enough, but I didn’t. I lost my way, too, and came near to losing my life–”
He broke off abruptly as Robb Chillingwood slowly rolled over on his side and began to snore loudly. Then Smith turned back to Leslie Grey, and leaning forward, so that his face was close to that of the officer, blew clouds of the pungent smoke right across the half-stupefied man’s mouth and nostrils.
“I lost other things,” he then went on meditatively, “but not my life. I lost that which was more precious to me. I lost gold–gold! I lost the result of many weary months of toil. I had hoarded it up that I might go down to the east and buy a nice little ranch, and settle down into a comfortable, respectable man of property. I didn’t even wait until the spring opened so that I could take the river route. No, that wasn’t my way, because I knew it would cost a lot of money and I wasn’t overburdened with wealth. I had just enough–”
He puffed vigorously at his pipe. Grey’s head was now hanging forward and his chin rested on his chest.
There came the sound of Rainy-Moon’s voice adjuring the dogs outside the door of the dugout. The trapper’s eyes flashed evilly in the direction of the unconscious Indian.
“–to do what I wanted,” he resumed. “No more–no less; and I set out on foot.” He was anxiously watching for Grey’s collapse. “Yes, I was going to tramp to the sea-coast through these mountains. I hit the wrong trail, decoyed by a false track carefully made by those who waited for me in these hills.”–Grey was swaying heavily and his breathing was stertorous.–“I met my fate and was robbed of my gold. I was drugged–as you poor fools are being drugged now. When it was too late I discovered how it was done, and determined to do the same thing by the first victim that fell into my clutches. I tried the weed and soon got used to its fumes. Then I waited–waited. I had set my decoy at the cross-roads, and you–you–came.”
As the trapper ceased speaking Grey slowly rolled over, insensible.
In a moment the watching man was upon his feet. His whole face was transfigured. Alertness was in every movement, in every flash of his great eyes. He moved quickly across the floor of the hut and took two shallow pannikins from the sack which lay upon the floor, dropped some of the flaky weed into the bottom of each one, and