Ghost Hills E-Book

Henry Bedford-Jones

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An old secret and a lovely woman and three men: Barr Radison, an American adventurer, searching for the mysterious source of black and silver fox pelts, Macferris Montenay, a ruthless giant of a man, trying to carve out his own kingdom in the wilderness, and Jean Nichemus, a halfbreed and Montenay’s henchman, harboring his own sinister plans. „Ghost Hills” is one of the adventure stories of a prolific H. Bedford-Jones who is rightly called the „King of Pulps”.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. MONTENAY'S LUCK

II. A CLUE OF MANY THREADS

III. ON THE TRAIL

IV. JEAN NICHEMUS

V. THE WHITE TOBACCO GIRL

VI. IN THE GHOST HILLS

VII. BEYOND THE LAW

VIII. ESCAPE

IX. THE CUNNING OF THE BREED

X. THE FLAT-SHOE TRACK

XI. THE BREAKING POINT

XII. HANDICAPPED

XIII. THE MAN OF PEACE

XIV. CRAZY BEAR TRAPPED

XV. SULVENT'S TALE

XVI. THE SILENT ONES

XVII. BESIEGED

XVIII. NICHEMUS PLAYS TRUMP

XIX. PURSUIT

XX. TRAIL'S END

I. MONTENAY’S LUCK

“DONE, Take-a-chance!”

“Huh?”

“Last letter’s done, and I’m ready.”

“Time you were. Been writing all afternoon. Come on.”

“What are all these breeds around for this morning? Isn’t that unusual this time of year? Anything doing?”

“Sure–lots. They weren’t breeds, but pure-bloods. That’s what I’ve been after you to break away for. Hold still, Rad–listen!”

The two figures paused in the shelter of the stockade, beside an ancient little cannon on its crumbling carriage near the flagstaff. Above them flared and danced the lights in uncouth streamers and bands from horizon to horizon, and around lay the clay-plastered log buildings of Fort Tenacity, silent on the snow.

Despite the huge furs that enveloped both figures, their faces stood out clear-cut against the sky, distinct in the weird shadow-light. The one was raw-boned, gaunt with the trail, strong hewed of brow and nose and mouth, for Tom Macklin, or “Take-a- chance Macklin,” as he was known from the Mackenzie to the bay, was a son of the lights by breed and birth and choice.

The other was finer-featured, save for his nose, which lent the suggestion of an eagle as he leaned forward, listening. But for the eyes, his face was not distinctive. The mouth was a trifle too firmly set, perhaps; the chin a trifle too short, but the level brown eyes blazed out with a strange intensity as if the owner sought something that lay far out of ken over the horizon.

Even so had Barr Radison sought, for the better part of his life. Blessed with money, he was cursed with the ancient curse of the wanderlust. Ever had he sought the thing undreamed of–the thing that had no name, and ever had he found that beyond the far skyline lay a new horizon, empty. The two men had met in Winnipeg ten weeks before, and Radison had looked Macklin in the eye for a long moment.

“Take me north, will you?” he had asked simply.

“Sure. I’ll take a chance on your looks. Stick around–something may turn up.”

The “something” had turned up. It had taken them north and northeast; it had drawn them west and then north again, until finally it had brought them to Fort Tenacity. And beyond Tenacity there was nothing.

Beyond Tenacity the breed trappers were not. Beyond Tenacity were Cree and Chipewa, with red snow between. Behind Tenacity lay white snow and the trail of the packet, traveled twice a year, for where the mail comes there must be no red snow.

In the north the mail is the law, relentless, irrevocable, unbreakable. Men are little things, and the mail is the greatest thing, for so the white man has ordained. But beyond Tenacity there was none to ordain.

“Hurry up–it’s blamed cold out here!” exclaimed the American after a moment. Both men were staring at a log building next the store, which gleamed dull light through its one window. It was the largest building in the post, where canoes and dog- sleds were stored at other times.

“Hold on,” rejoined Macklin stolidly. “Take a chance on hearing something–there he goes! Lord, what a man–stark drunk at that!”

From the building, which had a moment since echoed a raspy fiddle-squeak, rose a single resonant, liquor-charged bass voice. It was not singing; rather, it was intoning in a most monotonous and sing-song manner, as if it had been caught unawares by the stoppage of the Red River Jig.

...and he who will this toast deny: Down among the dead men, Down among the dead men, Down, down, down, down– Down among the dead men Let him lie!

Radison grunted as the voice died out. “Pity but he’d learn the tune–it’s a heap better than the words! By thunder, I’ll take a shy at it just to show him how!”

Without warning he raised his voice, unheeding the quickly protesting hand of Macklin. He lilted out the swinging chorus of the old buccaneer song in a rough but virile baritone that exactly suited the words and air, until the stockade walls echoed it back again.

As he swung down to the last low note there came a roar from the big shack ahead, the door was flung wide, and out into the yellow-lit space stumbled a giant figure that seemed to blink around in questioning.

“Darn your imperious nose!” growled Macklin. “Now you’ve done it. Come along and see if McShayne can quiet him.”

A moment later they stood within the area of light from the open door. Before them was a big man with flaring black beard and unkempt hair, opening and closing his huge fists as he swayed unsteadily. He glared at them, unmindful of the bitter cold, and a growl of words issued from the tangle of beard.

“An’ who may you be, spoilin’ my luck? D’ye know who King Mont–”

Another figure darkened the doorway and broke in with a keen, curt voice of authority.

“Montenay, come inside, you fool! Do you want to freeze? What cheer, Macklin! I’ve been looking for you. Hurry up, Montenay!”

Without a word of protest the giant turned and lurched inside. Radison guessed that he stood about six feet five, while his long, gorilla-like arms swung almost to his knees.

As Barr Radison and Macklin stepped inside, the man at the door slammed it shut, and they threw off their heavy furs. The Canadian, used to similar scenes all his life, kept an attentive eye on the mumbling giant; but the tall American was frankly interested in the people surrounding him.

This was the last day of a wedding. In the big shack donated by the factor for the purpose were crowded the families of the Cree couple, who had evidently come in from their winter grounds with this express object. Two days earlier the missionary had done his work, which was the least part of the wedding in Cree eyes.

After the feast had come the dance, kept up with ever fresh vigor by fiddle and ancient concertina with every variety of known tune, from the Saskatchewan Circle to the Reel of Eight and back again. The few whites who took part out of politeness had long since given up the struggle, but the Crees were tireless. Order was preserved by McShayne, an ex-corporal of the Mounted, now in the company’s service. In the corner beside him stood Montenay, glowering and growling.

Now there came a pause in the festivities, every one watching the newcomers, for Radison had got in only the night before, and had seen few about the post save the factor and McShayne.

In that first moment the tall American with the wide shoulders and prominent nose caused a whisper of “Moosewa!” and a laugh that rippled through the chunky squaws, but he did not hear this.

For him the squalid shack held only high romance, the lure of a strange land and a strange people, and as his keen, brown eyes met those of the Crees he smiled in sheer joy.

But there was etiquette to be observed, and Radison had small chance to stare around him. McShayne seized his arm and turned him toward the bearded giant, for where dark men are there white men come always first.

“Shake hands with Barr Radison, Macferris Montenay. Radison’s from the States, and came in last night with Macklin, here.”

The cool, incisive tones of McShayne seemed to strike the giant into an amazed civility. He stuck out one hairy paw, then Radison felt the black eyes fixed on him in a peculiar glare, whether of liking or hate it was hard to determine.

“Radisson?” growled Montenay with a nasal twang. “Radisson? Sure, I’m not as far gone as that! Was it Radisson you said?”

“No,” laughed Barr. “Radison–pure American, Montenay, and not French.”

A puzzled look swept into the giant’s face, and now Radison saw that he wore a belt that seemed made of bead-work, yet he had never seen such beads before. They were of a pure, lustrous white, interspersed with odd figures in red, lacked the usual backing of buckskin, and the whole affair was peculiar to Radison’s eyes.

“But, man, ye spoiled my luck!” Montenay was looking down at him, an evil flame dancing in the bloodshot eyes. Macklin broke in at this instant, however, Montenay seemed to forget his thought, and Radison dismissed the whole matter as a drunken vagary. McShayne introduced him to the company in general, and to the bride’s father in particular, and instantly all thought of Montenay dropped out of Radison’s mind.

Uchichak, or the Crane, was a man of strength. From the narrow, almost Mongolian eyes to the vigorous mouth and firm chin, every line of his face bespoke crafty virility and power. His blanket capote was thrown open, but Radison saw that it was richly decorated in bead and quill work. The wiry black hair fell in a tufted strand on either side of his brown, sinewy neck.

As the American shook hands and met the steady, keen gaze of the searching eyes he felt that Uchichak was one of the real Indians of days gone by, and to his surprise the chief spoke in almost flawless English.

“Welcome, man with strong eyes! You have brought gifts?”

To Radison’s relief Macklin pushed forward and held out packages of tea and tobacco. The Crane accepted them with stolid dignity, as befitted the tribute to his superior qualities from these white men.

“Nothing slow about him,” thought Radison with a chuckle. “He’s as different from most of these low-browed Crees as day is from night.”

Uchichak waved his hand at the waiting fiddler. Instantly the crowd broke into the “Drops of Brandy” with the enthusiasm of pent-up energy, while Radison and Macklin sought shelter in a corner. To his surprise, the American noted that Montenay was treated in a coldly polite manner by the Crees, as if he were a guest to be tolerated, but not to be encouraged or warmed up to.

“What did Montenay mean about his luck?” he asked the other. “And what’s that belt he wears? Looks funny to me.”

Take-a-chance grinned. “I guess he’s the problem we’re up against, Barr. At least, so the factor thinks. He’ll be in hot water with these Crees if he doesn’t watch out. Shut up and lay low for a while.”

Radison nodded, though he did not understand. He knew that for two months and more he and Macklin had been tracing silver fox and black fox pelts, and had finally brought the quest to Fort Tenacity.

When there are “white tobacco” posts scattered about in open competition with the great company, no one is very much concerned, for the Indians know only one Ookimow, or great master.

But when the free-traders begin to send down skins of black and silver fox with monotonous regularity, at the rate of two or three every six months, and when the company’s factor gets none in a year, then the company may be pardoned for desiring an explanation–and desiring it badly.

Such was the mission on which the two men had come; Macklin, because it lay in the line of duty, and Radison, because he had chanced upon the task and scented adventure. They had spent two months on the winter trail, going from post to post, from Indian village to lost hunters’ shacks in the wilderness, vainly. Always had come the same answer from stalwart Ojibway and cunning-eyed Cree.

“Kusketawukases? Sooneyowukases?Neither black nor silver skins have we seen, my brothers, for many winters. Of a surety, we would take them to the great master, for is not the company our father?”

Finally they had gained a clue from a drunken Chipewa down at Lake Doobaunt, and the clue had led them to Tenacity, on the edge of the Empty Places, where there was daylight the whole summer through–half-light that knew no change, save when the lights turned all things grotesque.

That first month had been torture for the American. Unused to the country, the life, or the food, Radison had been racked from head to foot. At night he had sunk down helpless, and at morning he had donned his outer moccasins with a groan; but that was all past now. Toughened by the long trail from Fort Resolution, he had experienced the inevitable reaction of clean, hard living, rugged fare, and more rugged work.

Well was it for him that this was so, for now the clue promised to lead even beyond Fort Tenacity–on into the empty places where the snow was red; where Cree and Chipewa had swept out the Esquimaux. Not far from Tenacity was an independent post where Murphy, a free-trader, played a lone hand against long odds.

The Empty Places were being filled. First the Crees had pushed up, with a party of wandering Saulteaux. Then had come more Crees, and the Saulteaux had disappeared, for Ojibway blood is full of the wanderlust.

Afterward had come the Chipewa rovers, bringing with them certain women of the Saulteaux, so that the fate of the latter was in no doubt. This had started the trouble, although there is age-old feud in the souls of Chipewa and Cree, ready to flame out instantly; and after Tenacity was built, the wanderers, outcast from their people to the south, had pushed on once more to north and east, and in their trail the snow was red. So said the gossip of the northland, and Radison had come to look forward to these Empty Places with keen anticipation.

He and Macklin had reached the fort the night before, half their dogs dead, and with them a half-crazed runner bearing the mail, whom they had found perishing of hunger.

Radison had slept late in luxurious repose, then had fallen to work writing letters to go out before their trail had been covered. His sole family tie was the brother back in Baltimore, and Radison had no mind to sever all connections with the past. So he had yet seen little of the post itself, and Montenay had been a complete surprise to him.

He watched the big, heavily bearded giant as the dance proceeded. More than one Cree flashed a glance of quiet hatred at this white man who forced the women to dance with him, but Montenay paid little heed to such things.

Watching him, Radison was moved to give grudging admiration to the splendid physique of the man; and there was something fascinating about the high brow, strong bearded jaws, and massive features, though the eyes gleamed with a drunken leer.

Montenay seemed upheld by a tremendous pride, an arrogant sense of authority, which the American could not understand.

Suddenly Uchichak rose from his seat and lifted a hand. Upon the instant the fiddle ceased and the dancers fell away. As quiet settled down over the shack only the harsh breathing of Montenay could be heard, and the Crane flashed a look of contempt at him. The American leaned forward, keenly interested.

“There are many trails awaiting us, my brothers. Our lodges are far. Our traps call us, lest we fail in our debt to the Great Master and our lodges be empty of food. White Berries!”

The bride came forward and knelt at his feet, about her head the shawl which had been given her by Factor Campbell. Uchichak waited to be sure that every eye was fixed on him, then leaned down and kissed her.

“For the last time. Kiss now your husband, and after that no other man.”

The groom, a stalwart young Cree, stepped forward, but another was ahead of him. Montenay, his eyes aflame, brushed him back with a drunken laugh.

“One first, Uchichak! Macferris Montenay owns this country, so, m’dear–”

A hoarse growl of rage quivered up from every throat; but even before the knife of the Crane whipped from its sheath, Montenay crashed down in his tracks. Over him stood Barr Radison, quivering with rage, and from his knuckles gathered a bright red drop that fell unheeded to the floor.

II. A CLUE OF MANY THREADS

WHILE the serious-minded Macklin leaned over the map with Factor Campbell, Barr stretched back in his chair and stared at the log ceiling.

The stove was red-hot in the back-room of the trading store, and looking through to the larger room, Radison could see McShayne surrounded by squaws, who filled the space inside the long U-shaped counter.

Behind, on racks, and hung from the rafters, was every conceivable object, from sowbelly and blankets to pain-killer and flintlock muskets.

Thinking over the events of the night before the American had almost concluded that a certain Macferris Montenay was not right in his head. It was peculiar, mused Radison, that after he had knocked Montenay down the giant had made no offensive move.

He had raised himself on one elbow, stared up at his assailant, whom he could have broken across one knee, with a queer, almost frightened expression and a mutter about his “luck.” Suddenly Barr realized that Macklin was speaking to him.

“Here, old man, the evidence is all in, and you’d better get the result of the inquest. Give him what you know about the pelts, factor.”

“I know nothing about ‘em,” Campbell grunted. “It’s all news to me, and if such furs are going out, then Murphy must get them from the Chipewas. None of the Crees go near the Ookimasis, or Small Master, as they call him, and he caters to the Chipewas; we get a good deal of the Chipewa trade, just the same.”

“Where does Montenay get his liquor?” shot out Take-a-chance. “Murphy?”

“No, nor from me,” returned Campbell sturdily. “Whatever he does, Murphy is clean in that respect. As for Montenay, he’s been up here for years. Where he came from no one knows; but he’s a big man among the Chipewas, though I doubt if he’s a squaw- man.

“Once in a while he blows in here with some common pelts, seems to have plenty of liquor, and is eternally chanting that fool song of his–calls it his ‘luck.’ The Crees hate him like poison, but I never could learn just why. They don’t talk much about what happens out yonder, you know.

“The missionary expects to get a church up this summer; but, Lord, the Crees don’t bother with religion since old Père Sulvent vanished! He was the boy could hand it to ’em!”

“Who’s he?” queried Radison. “What do you mean by vanished?”

“Same as the dictionary,” came the curt answer. “Sulvent was a Frenchman, with Irish blood. He went out on a trip six months ago, when the darkness had come; but he never came back. He’d handed it to Montenay pretty heavy just before, and that may have something to do with the Crees’ hatred; but I don’t know. Maybe it was frost got him; maybe a bullet.”

Macklin nodded, frowning, and Radison’s eyes glistened.

“Do you mean there’s actual war out there?”

“The Lord only knows what’s out there, Radison, and that’s the truth,” returned the factor wearily. “The Empty Places are hell; I’ve been out once or twice; but it’s too much for me. Montenay always strikes off to the northeast, and a man must have the fear of God or the devil in him to make that trip alone. Murphy lives there, on the edge of things, and he often comes over here with his daughter–”

“Daughter?” broke in Macklin. “Does the fool take a chance like that? Is she a breed?”

The factor shook his head sourly. “No–our kind. She’s lived there for a year, now; Père Sulvent got him to send her back to Quebec to school. That was years ago, before my time here; but I’ve heard that she was born up here, and her mother died, after Murphy started his God-forsaken post.

“It’s my idea that Montenay lords it over the Chipewas, for when he’s drunk he calls himself ‘King Montenay,’ and Murphy seems to know him pretty well.”

“What’s that belt of his, Campbell?” asked the American. Macklin grinned.

“That’s what we all want to know, Barr! The factor swears that it’s wampum–the original shell wampum like the old Injuns used to make down south. That’s all rot, though.”

“Don’t be too sure, Take-a-chance,” retorted Campbell. “Four months ago, with the first snow, a Chipewa came in to get credit with us. He carried a rifle, but besides that he had a flintlock pistol. Where did he get it?”

“Murphy, of course,” said Macklin. The factor grunted disgustedly.

“Murphy don’t trade pistols stamped with the Fleur-de- lisand the date 1704,” was his dry answer. The others stared at him.

“Do you mean to say that a two-hundred-year-old flintlock pistol can still be in use?” demanded the Canadian.

“Aye, perfect in every way. The Chipewa refused to trade it, and said he carried it as big medicine.

“Now, there’s something almighty queer out there, boys, and Macferris Montenay is behind it. He’s no fool, that man. Any one who can win the hatred and respect of these Crees about here, and still live to enjoy it, is going some.

“Where that wampum belt or that pistol came from, I don’t know; the old French and English traders were never up here, to my knowledge. But if all them black and silver pelts go out every year, I’d either say that somebody is a blamed liar or else Montenay has a fox farm–which don’t fit exactly.”

“No,” laughed Radison, “a fox farm doesn’t fit in with Montenay very well. I’m inclined to think the man is crazy, myself.”

“The Crees call him Crazy Bear to his face,” chuckled Campbell. “That suits him, all right. Well, that covers all I know. I’ve sent for Uchichak–hello! Here’s the chief now, to a dot!”

“What cheer!”

In the doorway appeared the Crane, his woolen capote slashed with red on arms and hips, a gay scarlet sash about his waist. He gravely shook hands with the three, then pulled out his pipe and sat down. Without preamble Macklin divulged his story for the benefit of the Cree, whom Campbell declared they could trust thoroughly.

Uchichak listened in silence. Several times Radison caught the beady eyes fixed on him, and remembered the wordless handclasp he had received after the affair of the previous night. The Crane was a man who spoke little, and when Macklin stated that Radison was with him there came a little gesture of inquiry.

“He is my friend,” replied Macklin. “He is an American, from the States; not of the company, but to be trusted. He is a man, my brother.”

The chief bowed his head gravely and Macklin went on. Suddenly the dark face flashed up and the deep, even voice broke in.

“Wait. Has my brother seen these pelts of which he speaks? Are they fresh, or are they old?”

“By thunder!” ejaculated the other quickly, “I clear forgot about that, factor! I saw one of them down at Winnipeg. It was hard, very dry, and creased pretty deep, as if it had been laid away for a long while. No, it wasn’t fresh at all, Uchichak, but it was in prime condition just the same.”

The chief puzzled over this inscrutably until his pipe and the story were concluded together. Campbell handed him a plug of tobacco, which he stowed away after whittling off another pipeful.

“It is well, my brothers. Do you wish to follow Crazy Bear when he departs?”

“That seems to be the only thing to do,” returned Macklin doubtfully. “How about dogs? What’s left of ours are all to the bad, and our sled is pretty well banged up.”

“Uchichak has the best dogs around here,” put in the factor. The dark eyes gleamed with pride and the Cree nodded.

“The Crane will go,” he decided quietly. “But my young men must follow us. We must take with us food and powder for a long time. The journey will be a very bad one; but not even Crazy Bear will dare to harm one of the company, and the others will fear. We must follow in secret while my young men are gathering. That will take time, my brothers, for they are on their fur-grounds now.”

“They shall not lose by it,” promised Macklin. “Their debt for this year shall be wiped off the books. Yes, we must follow in secret, and then come to him openly as if we were surveying for the company. If we can persuade him to throw those pelts to us, and perhaps find out where they come from, there will be more rewards for you and your men, Uchichak.”

“Miwasin!Good!” returned the chief, his eyes glittering. Campbell grunted, for such wholesale promises were not at all to his liking and promised to make wild confusion with his books. Still, orders were orders, and Macklin was to have a free hand in everything that he wished.

Radison knew that the Crane would be a powerful aid to them in their quest. In thus deciding to strike off on the trail of Montenay into the Empty Places they were attempting a desperate venture, and from what they could learn of these same Empty Places they were likely to run into trouble.

Neither man was of the stamp to hesitate on that account, however, and it was unbelievable that Montenay would dare offer violence to any men directly in the company’s service.

Such a thing was unheard of, even in these days when the north country is open to all traders alike; for, although the wastes have changed hands, it has not changed masters, and every “nichie” from Rupert to the Great Bear is fully aware of the fact.

Now, the Crane and Tom Macklin put their heads together, while Campbell made out the list they would require from his stores. The largest item, of course, was frozen whitefish for the dogs, the chief priding himself on his team and regarding them above all else, which was well, for three men’s lives might depend on those dogs ere Montenay was run down to his lair.

The Indian’s heart was made glad by the gift of the extra rifle which Macklin had brought. The company trade-guns are good weapons enough for hunting and fur-killing, but for such a trip as lay before them it was more fitting that the chief should carry a rifle. Also, as Campbell grunted, it was safer.

“Nonsense,” laughed Radison easily, rising and stretching himself. “We’re not leading any war-party, Campbell. There’s no harm in paying Montenay a visit, and I don’t mind saying that I’d like to have a look at that freetrader’s post.”

“Yes–her name is Noreen,” chuckled the factor. “The Injuns call her Minebegonequay–Girl-with-flowers-in-her- hair.”

“Get out of here, you old humbug!” added Macklin with a grin. “We have something else to think of if you haven’t. Take a chance on meeting your friend Montenay, and get along with you!”

Radison laughed easily and strolled into the outer room, where McShayne had got rid of the squaws and was bartering with one of the Crane’s men. To tell the truth, he had not had the free- trader’s daughter in mind when he spoke, but he carried the name out with him reflectively.

Noreen–it was not hard to guess at Trader Murphy’s mother country. As to the Indian title, Radison already knew enough about northern nomenclature to make a shrewd guess that Noreen Murphy was either red or golden-haired. Therefore, she must be pretty; and Murphy was a fool to keep her up here in the wastes.

Rather pleased with his own deductions, Barr filled his pipe from McShayne’s plug and put a question or two to him about the Empty Places. The ex-trooper watched the Cree go out, flung the pelts behind the counter, and emitted a growl.

“Wanted nothing but powder! That crazy fool Montenay will get a bullet in the back yet. Why, as to the Empty Places, every one talks and no one knows anything. I’ve heard say that the Spirit Dancers live out there in the hills.

“You don’t know what the Spirit Dancers are? Why, the northern lights–that’s what the nichies call the lights. Think they’re ghosts, I s’pose. Dunno’s I blame them much. Take ’em sometimes and they sure do look human-like, especially if a man’s on a lonesome trail and kind o’ off his head.”