The Trail of the Golden Horn E-Book

H. A. Cody

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The main character, Hugo, hated the river and always kept away from it. After all, the river is a clear evil. From which many people died. Hugo will have to overcome many obstacles in its path. Overcome your fears. But will he cope with this?

Leseprobe

Contents

1. The Smokeless Cabin

2. A Night Vision

3. The Tell-tale Lock

4. To be Continued

5. Face to Face

6. Zell

7. Terrors of the Night

8. Hugo to the Rescue

9. Stains on the Snow

10. Lost

11. Where Strength Counts

12. Confession

13. The Rush of Doom

14. Life for Life

15. The Truce of the Storm

16. The Man of The Gap

17. The Trapper Arrives

18. A Cowardly Deed

19. Anxious Waiting

20. United Forces

21. Helping Hands

22. The Messenger

23. Rejected

24. The Wages of Sin

25. Maintien le Droit

26. The Night Struggle

27. An Unfolded Record

28. Waiting

29. Good News

30. His Message of Farewell

31. Plans

CHAPTER 1

The Smokeless Cabin

“No smoke!”

Hugo, the trapper, rasped forth these words upon the stinging air as he paused abruptly upon the brow of a steep hill. He was puzzled, and he rubbed the frost from his eyelids with his mittened right hand. Perhaps he had not seen aright. But no, he had not been mistaken. There, close to the river, stood the little cabin, nestling amidst a grove of young firs and jack-pines. But no smoke poured from the pipe stuck up through the roof.

“Strange! strange!” Hugo muttered. “There should be smoke. Bill Haines hasn’t moved overnight, that’s certain. Something must be wrong.”

His eyes swept the landscape to right and left. Everywhere stretched the vast wilderness of glistening snow, dark forests, and towering mountains. That long white streak, winding like a serpent, was the river, now frozen from bank to bank. From a few open places where the current was exceptionally swift vapour rose like dense clouds of smoke. Near one of these stood the cabin, for running water was a luxury in the Yukon when winter gripped the land in its icy embrace.

Hugo hated the river, and always kept as far away as possible. To him it was a treacherous demon, and the great dark breathing-places seemed like yawning mouths ever open for new victims. That curling vapour appeared more sinister now than ever. He glanced again at the lonely cabin. Why was there no smoke rising above its squat roof? Had Bill Haines slipped while drawing water? Such a thing was not unlikely. But what about his wife? Surely she would keep the fire burning for the sake of herself and child. But had she gone, too, in attempting to rescue her husband?

For a few minutes Hugo stood there, his great form drawn to its full height. His long beard, covered with frost, swept his breast. His keen eyes peered out from beneath the big fur cap drawn well down over ears and forehead. He resembled a patriarch of Hebrew days who had stepped suddenly out upon one of nature’s mighty stages. The dark, sombre trees formed a fitting background to the lonely figure, while the valley below and the limitless region beyond made a magnificent audience-chamber. But none witnessed the silent form upon the hill save, perhaps, a few shy, furry creatures of the wild, and ghosts of miners, prospectors, trappers and Indians, who once roamed the land and made the Yukon River their chief highway of travel.

Hugo, however, thought nothing of all this. His mind was agitated by conflicting thoughts. He longed to be off and away upon the trail, headed for the log abode of which he alone knew. But that smokeless cabin down by the river fascinated him.

“It’s none of my business,” he growled. “Bill Haines is nothing to me, so why should I worry about him? And yet, I wonder–”

He ceased abruptly, unslung a rope from his right shoulder, and turned swiftly around. At his heels lay the small toboggan he had been drawing, loaded with a couple of blankets, food, rifle, and a large lynx he had taken from one of his snares. He looked at these thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then reached for his rifle. This he carefully examined to be sure that the magazine was full. Picking up the dropped rope, he threw it again over his shoulder, and with rifle in hand, he sped rapidly down to the valley below. The long narrow snow-shoes creaked beneath his powerful strides, and the light snow flew from their curved points like spray from a cutter’s bow.

Reaching the forest, he threaded his way among the trees and came out at length into the open space where stood the cabin. Here he stopped and looked carefully around. Seeing nothing, he once more advanced, and only slowed down when within a few yards from the building. He walked warily now, listening intently for any sound from within. Hearing nothing, he was about to place his ear close to the door when the faint wail of a child arrested his attention. Presently the cry subsided to a fretful whimper, and then all was still.

Feeling certain now that something was seriously wrong, Hugo glanced cautiously around. The snow near the cabin was beaten down hard, and a well-worn trail led to the river. He looked off to the place where the vapour was rising into the air, and shuddered. Why he did so he could not tell. Then he lifted the rude latch, pushed open the door and entered. The sun shining in through the window on the south side of the building brightened the room. Hugo recalled the last time he had been there, and the pleasant welcome he had received. How clean and cosy the place was then, notwithstanding the meagre furniture and the bare floor. But now what a change! Everything was in disorder, the table overturned, the few rough, home-made chairs battered to pieces, and broken dishes lying on all sides. What did it mean? He stared around, greatly puzzled.

“Mam-ma! Mam-ma!”

The call came from a corner on the right. Turning quickly toward a bunk against the wall, Hugo saw the movement of a gray four-point blanket. Stepping forward, he stooped and beheld the face of a little child, its cheeks wet with tears. Big blue eyes looked expectantly up, and two small dimpled hands reached eagerly out, while a gurgle of delight rippled from soft, rosy lips. Instantly it realized its mistake. An expression of fear leaped into its eyes, the outstretched hands dropped, and the happy gurgle gave place to a cry of fright. Hugo was in despair.

“Queer mess I’ve got into,” he muttered. “What am I to do with the kid? Pity it hadn’t gone with its parents. I wonder what has happened to them, anyway?”

He looked around and noted more carefully the sad havoc which had been wrought. He was sure now that a terrible tragedy had been enacted there, either during the night or early that morning. Again he shuddered, and realized for the first time how cold was the room. In a few minutes he had a good fire burning in the sheet-iron heater, which fortunately had escaped destruction. Then he searched for some suitable food for the child. But not a scrap could he find–every morsel had been taken from the house. Hugo uttered an angry oath and registered a solemn vow. Going outside he was about to draw his toboggan into the room when his eyes caught sight of peculiar marks upon the beaten snow. That they were blood stains he was certain, and there were others on the trail leading to the river.

Leaving the toboggan, and forgetting for a time the sobbing child, Hugo walked slowly along, keeping his eyes fixed upon the narrow path. At every step more stains appeared, which increased in number and vividness as he neared the shore. Out upon the ice he moved, and stopped only when close to the long, wide, yawning gulf. Here the river was exposed to view like a great artery from which the flesh has been torn. The water raced by like a mill-sluice, leaping forth from beneath its icy covering upstream to dash out of sight with a swish and a swirl half a mile or more farther down. Its murmur resembled the snarl of an angry beast when suddenly surprised or cheated of its prey. And yet Hugo felt certain that but a short time before it had been fed, when two victims had been enwrapped in its cold, merciless embrace. And one of them was a woman, whose little helpless child was now calling to her from the lonely cabin–and calling in vain!

And standing there, Hugo’s soul suddenly became charged with an intense anger. Mingled with his hatred of the river was an overwhelming revulsion at the foul crime which had been committed. And who were the perpetrators? What reason could anyone have for committing such a diabolical deed? Haines and his wife were quiet reserved people, given to hospitality, who never refused a meal or a lodging for the night to a passing traveller. During the summer Bill had rocked out gold from the river bars, and in winter had cut wood for steamers plying between Whitehorse and Dawson. That he made but a bare living Hugo was well aware, and he had often wondered why he was content to remain in such a lonely place.

Hugo turned these things over in his mind as he walked slowly away from the river. Reaching the cabin, he drew his toboggan into the building. The fire had been doing good work and the room was warm. The child, unable to cry more, was lying uncovered upon the blankets. It watched Hugo’s every movement with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, little chap,” the man said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m going to give you something to eat. Maybe that will make you friendly. I wonder how old it is, anyway,” he mused. “It can’t eat meat, that’s certain. Liquids and soft food are the only thing for babies. Now, what in time can I give it! Ah, I know. Just the thing.”

He turned and walked over to the toboggan. Throwing aside the blankets, he lifted a tin can, blackened from numerous campfires. This he placed upon the stove, removed the cover and looked in.

“Ptarmigan soup should be good for the little fellow,” he remarked. “It’s mighty lucky I didn’t eat it all for breakfast. My! it’s hot here.”

He raised his hand as if to remove his fur cap, but suddenly desisted. Then he stepped outside and looked carefully around. Seeing no one, he went back into the cabin, took off his cap, and hung it upon one of the legs of the overturned table. The head thus exposed was covered with a wealth of hair, thickly streaked with gray. The startling and outstanding feature, however, was one lock as white as snow, crowning the right temple. This was not due to age nor to any outward cause, but was evidently a family characteristic. Such a lock would have singled out the owner in any gathering for special and curious attention.

When the soup was warm enough, Hugo dipped out a portion into a tin cup which he carried over to where the child was lying.

“Come, little chap,” he began, “here’s something nice.”

Forced by hunger the lad scrambled quickly to its knees, and drank eagerly from the cup held to its lips.

“More,” he demanded when the last drop had been drained.

“Ho, ho, that’s good!” Hugo chuckled, as he went back to the stove and dipped out another helping. “There’s nothing like ptarmigan soup for an appetizer. I guess, my little man, you’re older than I thought.”

When the child had been fed to its satisfaction, Hugo sat down upon the edge of the bunk and gave himself up to serious thoughts. What was he to do with the boy? That was the question which agitated his mind. He could not keep him, that was certain. He must hand him over to someone who knew more about children than he did. But where could he take him? To whom could he turn for assistance? Swift Stream was out of the question. Besides being too far away it was the last place where he wanted to go. But what about Kynox? He did not want to go there, either. But it was nearer than Swift Stream, and less dangerous. Yes, it must be Kynox, and the sooner he got there the better.

He was staring straight before him as he thus made up his mind. His eyes were fixed upon the rough whip-sawn planks which formed the floor. But he did not see anything in particular there. His thoughts were far away, so the cabin and all that it contained were for the time forgotten.

At length he became partially aware of a peculiar glitter upon the floor. The sun shining through the little window struck for a few minutes upon the spot where his eyes were resting. Gradually his interest became aroused. Something was there which caused that intense sparkle. Perhaps it was only a portion of a broken dish which had caught the sun’s ray. But, no, it could not be. A piece of ordinary cup, saucer, or plate could not throw such a wonderful light. It was a sparkle such as he had once seen flashing from a jewelled finger of a woman of great wealth. He had never beheld the like since until now. Only one thing he knew could produce such a radiant effect.

Slipping from the bunk, he stepped quickly forward, dropped upon his knees, and peered keenly down. What he saw there caused him to reach swiftly out, seize and draw forth something wedged in a narrow crack between two of the floor planks. As he clutched this with the fingers of his trembling right hand, an exclamation of surprise burst from his lips.

It was a woman’s diamond ring!

CHAPTER 2

A Night-Vision

For several minutes Hugo knelt there holding the ring in his right hand. It was a delicate circlet, a fragile wisp of gold to contain such an exquisite gem. What fair finger had it adorned? What eyes, looking down upon it, had rivalled its sparkling beauty? What comely cheeks had flushed in the joy of its possession? He felt sure that Mrs. Haines had not worn it. What use would such an ornament have been to her in that rude cabin? At any rate, he had never seen it upon her finger. Her hands, he had noted, were rough and toil-worn. But had she once worn it? Was it a precious keepsake, a memento of other and happier days? Had it in any way figured in the terrible tragedy which had so recently taken place? Why was it wedged in the crack between those two planks? Why had it not been broken and crushed in the terrible struggle that had ensued?

These were some of the thoughts which surged through Hugo’s mind as he stared hard at the ring. The value of the diamond he did not know. That it was no ordinary stone he felt certain. How it gleamed and sparkled as he held it to the sun. He turned it over and over in his fingers. He was gradually becoming its slave. Its beauty was fascinating him; its radiance was dazzling him.

A sound from the bunk startled him. He glanced quickly and guiltily around like one caught in a criminal deed. But it was only the child, chuckling as it tried to grasp a narrow beam of sunshine which fell athwart the blankets. With lightning rapidity Hugo thrust the ring into an inside pocket of his jacket and sprang to his feet. He stepped swiftly to the side of the bunk and glared down upon the child. Then a harsh, mirthless laugh burst from his lips. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his forehead.

“Hugo, you’re a fool,” he growled. “What has come over you, anyway? No more such nonsense.”

He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The air cooled his hot brow. He felt better, and more like himself. He was anxious now to get away from that cabin. It was not good for him to be there–with the ring and the child. The place was polluted. Innocent blood had been shed in that room, and who could tell what might happen should he stay much longer? He had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts. But he did not wish to remain in that building overnight. He had a peculiar creeping sensation whenever he thought of it. He was not afraid of travellers who might call in passing. But he did have great respect for the Mounted Police, the redoubtable guardians of the north, the sleuth-hounds of the trails. Should they suddenly appear, he might find the situation most embarrassing. Alone with the child, and with the marks of a tragedy so evident, he might have difficulty in convincing them of his innocency in the affair. And should the ring be discovered upon his person, his position would be far from enviable.

Hugo’s greatest fear, however, was of himself. He could not explain the reason, but so long as he remained in that cabin he could not feel responsible for his acts. A subtle influence seemed to pervade the place which exerted upon him a magic effect. He had never experienced the like before. He must get away at once. Out upon the trail, battling against stern nature, he would surely regain his former self-mastery.

Hugo was not long in getting ready for his departure. He wrapped up the baby in a big fur-lined coat he found hanging on the wall. He hesitated when he realised that it was necessary to cast aside the lynx to make room for the lad upon the small toboggan. The pelt of the animal was valuable, but he could not afford to take the time to remove it. In fact, the lynx was of more use to him than the child. One he could sell for good money, while the other–well, he would be fortunate if he could give him away.

He thought of this as he tucked in the wee fellow, placing extra blankets about him to make sure that he would not be cold. According to the law of the country he was entitled to all the rights and privileges of the British Constitution. To take his life would be an indictable offense, and the punishment death if found out. But he could not be sold for money, and who would want him? Outside, someone might adopt him, or he could be placed in an Orphans’ Home. But here on the frontier of civilisation who would wish to be bothered with such a helpless waif? The life of the lynx, on the other hand, was worth nothing in the eyes of the law. Any one could take it with impunity. But the animal could be sold for a fair price. What a paradox! A dead lynx worth more than a priceless child!

Hugo sighed as he picked up his rifle and drew the cord of the toboggan over his shoulder. It was a problem too profound for him to solve. Others would have to attend to that, if they so desired, while he looked after the baby. Closing the cabin door, and turning his back upon the river, he headed for the uplands. Although he had no watch, yet he knew that it was past mid-day. The afternoon would be all too short, so he must make the most of it. Kynox was over thirty miles away, and a hard trail lay between. Under ordinary circumstances he could make the journey by a long day’s march. But now he would be forced to travel slower and more carefully, and to halt at times to feed the child.

Hugo made his way along the trail down which he had sped a few hours before. Reaching the brow of the hill, he paused and looked back upon the cabin. It had a new meaning to him now. How grim and desolate it seemed. It was a building stained with human blood. Never again would it breathe forth its warm and inviting welcome to weary travellers. Soon word of the tragedy would be noised abroad. It would pass from man to man. In towns and villages, in miners’ shacks, in Indian lodges, in wood-cutters’ cabins, and in most remote recesses it would penetrate, to be discussed with burning indignation and heart-thrilling interest. The Mounted Police would arouse to swift and terrible action. They would throw out their nets; they would scour the trails; they would compass the world, if necessary, to bring the criminals to justice. They had done it before; they would do it again. No one yet had escaped their long and overwhelming grip.

And what of the little cabin? It would be shunned, looked upon with dread, a haunted abode. Oh, yes, Hugo was well aware how it would be. He knew of several such places scattered over the country, once the centres of life and activity, but now abandoned by the foot of man, white and Indian alike.

As he stood and rested, thinking of these things, something upon the river attracted his attention. At first it appeared as a mere speck, but it was moving. With breathless interest he strained his eyes across the snowy waste. He knew what it was–a dog-team! Was it the Police patrol? He shrank instinctively back, and unconsciously raised his right hand as if to ward off some impending danger. A low growl, almost like a curse, rumbled in his throat, as he turned and once more continued his journey.

His course now led inland, and in a few minutes the river was lost to view. The trail for a time wound through a forest of young firs and jack-pines, whose slender branches reached out like welcoming hands. He felt at home here and breathed more freely. Then the way sloped to a valley, and up a long wild meadow.

It was a magnificent region through which he was travelling. To the right rose great mountains, terrace above terrace, and terminating in majestic summits far beyond the timber-line. These, however, were surpassed by one towering peak far away in the distance. For years it had been his special guide. Others might be lost to view, but not the Golden Horn. It formed the subject of considerable speculation among miners, prospectors, and trappers. Its summit had never been reached. But daring adventurers who had scaled beyond the timber-line, solemnly affirmed that it was the real Mount Ararat. Embedded in everlasting snow and ice they had seen the timbers of a vessel of huge size and marvellous design, which they declared to be the ruins of Noah’s ark.

Others believed that in that massive pile would be found a great mother-lode of precious gold. Its commanding peak, which from certain points of view resembled a gigantic horn, caught and reflected the brief winter sun in a glow of golden glory. To eager eyes and hopeful hearts this was surely an outward sign of vast treasures within. But so far it had only served as a landmark, a gleaming guide to hardy rovers of the trails.

With the Golden Horn ever before him, Hugo pressed steadily onward. At times he glanced anxiously back, especially after he had crossed a lake or a wild meadow where the view of the trail was unobstructed. Seeing no one following, he always breathed a sigh of relief, and hurried on his way.

Darkness had already settled over the land when Hugo drew up at a little shack crouching in a dense thicket of firs and pines. This was one of his stopping-places in the large circle of his trapping region. The single room contained a bunk, a sheet-iron heater, a rough table, a block of wood for a seat, and a few traps. This abode was far from the main line of travel, and no head but the owner’s had ever bent to pass its low portal.

Hugo paid careful attention to the child, looking after its welfare to the best of his knowledge. It had been remarkably good during the afternoon, and before it fell asleep upon the bunk it showed its friendliness to its rescuer by chuckling gleefully, holding out its hands, and kicking its feet in a lively manner.

For the first time in years Hugo’s stern face relaxed. His eyes, hard and defiant, assumed a softer expression. All unconsciously the helpless child was exerting upon him a subtle influence; it was casting about him a magic spell, and breathing into the coldness of his heart a warm, stimulating glow.

And when the little lad at length slept, Hugo sat by its side, gazing straight before him, silent and unseeing. Occasionally he aroused to replenish the fire, to snuff the single candle, to open the door to peer into the night, and to listen for sounds which did not come. He would then return to the bunk, to continue his watch and meditation.

About midnight he wrapped himself up in a thick blanket, stretched himself upon the floor near the heater, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. He awoke with a start, and sat bolt upright. He looked toward the bunk, and something there held him spellbound. The child, gently whimpering, was surrounded by a soft, peculiar light such as he had never seen before. Hugo wondered at this, for the candle was out and it was not yet daylight. As he stared, striving to comprehend the meaning, he saw the dim form of a woman bending tenderly over the child, her hands touching the little face. An involuntary gasp of surprise escaped his lips, and he rubbed his eyes to be sure that he was not dreaming. When he looked again all was in darkness. The vision had disappeared.

Rising quickly to his feet, Hugo struck a match and lighted the candle. His hands trembled as he did so, and his knees seemed unusually weak. He glanced furtively around the room as if expecting to see someone standing near. Then he went to the bunk and looked down upon the child. It was asleep! This was a surprise, for Hugo was certain that he had heard its whimper but a couple of minutes before. What did it all mean? Was it a dream from which he had been suddenly aroused: or had the mother really been bending over her child, and for a few fleeting seconds was revealed to mortal eyes? He had heard of such apparitions, but had always considered them as mere delusions, the fanciful imagination of overwrought brains. Now, however, it was different. He had seen with his own eyes that form bending over the bunk, surrounded by a halo of no earthly light. Was it the child’s mother? But perhaps it was an angel! At once there flashed into his mind the words of the Master over which he had often meditated.

“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

Little children, then, had angel guardians, so, perhaps, he had unwittingly surprised one this night in its ministry of love. Hugo was deeply impressed. A feeling such as he had not known for years stole into his heart. The room seemed suddenly transfigured. It was no longer a humble abode, but the dwelling-place of a celestial messenger. And the child was the cause of it all. For its sake the courts of heaven had been stirred, and swifter than light an angel had winged its way to that lone shack in the heart of the northern wilderness. It may have been hovering around that cabin near the river at the time of the tragedy. What part had it taken in protecting the child? It was wonderful, and Hugo’s heart beat fast as these thoughts swept through his mind. Had the angel guided his steps to that smokeless cabin? He recalled how he had been on the point of taking another route that morning, but had suddenly changed his mind and gone to the river instead. Why he did so he could not tell, as he had never done the like before. But now he understood. It was the angel which had altered his course!

Hugo’s mind dwelt continually upon this as he stirred up the fire and prepared his breakfast. He made the tea exceptionally strong to soothe his nerves. After he had eaten his meagre meal, he filled and lighted his pipe. He then smoked and watched as the slow-footed hours dragged wearily by. He was anxious to be away upon his journey, but he did not wish to awaken the child.

Once he thrust his right hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought forth the ring. The diamond still fascinated him, though not as formerly. He was master of himself now, and could examine the precious gem more calmly. Its possession gave him a thrill of pleasure, even though he knew that it was not his. What would he do with it? An idea flashed into his mind, which caused him to glance toward the child.

“No, not now,” he mused. “I must wait. It might get into wrong hands.”

This decision seemed to satisfy him, so he replaced the ring, and continued his watch.

The dawn of a new day was stealing slowly over the land as Hugo resumed his journey. At noon he halted to feed the child, and to eat his own meal. Then up and on again through the short afternoon. He thought much of what had occurred during the night, and the vision he had beheld inspired him. His step was firmer and more decided than on the previous day. The coldness did not seem so intense, and the Golden Horn appeared to take on a brighter glow. When darkness enshrouded the land he again halted to feed the baby. This took but a short time, and once more he sped forward. Kynox was not far away, and he wished to make it that night.

Hour after hour he moved onward, though slower now, for the trail was heavy and he was becoming very weary. No longer did the Golden Horn direct his course. But he had the north star to guide him. The Northern Lights were throwing out their long glittering streamers. They appeared like vast battalions marching and countermarching across the Arctic sky. Their banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing, twisting, curling, and flashing forth in matchless beauty all the colors of the rainbow. Yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and greenish-white, chasing one another, vieing with one another as the great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced.

Hugo saw all this, and it never failed to arouse in him a feeling of wonder and awe. He watched the stars, too. For years they had been his steady companions on many a weary trail, and he read them like an open book. He saw the belted Orion swinging in its usual place, and the Great Bear dipping close to the horizon. He knew the time by the figures on that vast dial overhead. He peered keenly forward now, and at length he was rewarded by several faint lights glimmering through the darkness. Kynox was just beyond. In a few minutes the outlines of a number of buildings could be dimly discerned. These increased in clearness as he advanced. Ere long one larger than the others loomed up before him. He knew it well, and toward it he eagerly made his way.

CHAPTER 3

The Tell-Tale Lock

The hour of midnight had just struck as Marion Brisbane opened a side door of the Kynox Hospital and entered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone with animation. It was her night off duty, and she had enjoyed herself at Mrs. Beck’s, the wife of the mining recorder. A few congenial friends had been invited, and most of the evening had been spent at bridge-whist. While refreshments were being served, Miss Risteen, the new teacher of the little school, had asked Marion why she had come so far north.

“For adventure, I suppose,” had been the smiling and evasive reply.

“Have you found it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What! in a small hospital?”

“Certainly. It is there that we see so much of the tragedy of this country. Numerous trails lead into Kynox from various mining camps. You have no idea how many patients we receive during the year, though now we have only a few.”

“But I mean adventure in the open,” Miss Risteen had explained.

“Not much yet. But I have gone several times to outlying creeks to administer first-aid to injured men during the doctor’s absence. He has been away for a week now, so I never know when an urgent call may come.”

“Do you always go yourself?”

“Yes, always.”

Marion had then abruptly changed the subject, as she did not wish to be questioned further. Her friends had more than once remonstrated with her about her readiness and eagerness to go whenever a call came. They had urged her to let the other nurses bear their share of the hardships which such trips involved. But Marion had merely smiled, saying that she was selfish and enjoyed going to the camps. Not even to her nearest friends would she reveal the deep secret of her heart.

That which gave her the greatest pleasure, however, was a letter which Mr. Beck had handed to her during the evening. It had been given to him by a miner that afternoon who had come in from the outer trails to record a claim. At the first glance Marion knew whom it was from, and it was this which caused the flush upon her face and the light of joy in her eyes as she entered the hospital. She was anxious to reach her own room where she could read the letter to her heart’s content.

She had just closed and locked the door, when the night nurses appeared.

“Oh, Miss Brisbane,” the latter began, “we have had a lively time since you left.”

“Nothing wrong, Miss Wade, I hope,” Marion somewhat anxiously replied.

“That remains to be seen. About ten o’clock an old man, with a great flowing beard, brought in a little child.”

“Sick?”

“No, nothing the matter with it.”

“Why did he bring it here, then?”

“For us to keep. He has given it to us.”

“Given it to us!” Marion stared at the nurse in surprise.

“That is what he said,” and Miss Wade smiled. “Why, he made himself at home here, and took possession at once.”

“Do you mean to tell me that he is here now?” Marion demanded.

“He certainly is, and with all of his belongings. He has taken up his abode in the kitchen, and is asleep on the floor, wrapped up in his blankets. He has his toboggan there, too. Just think of that!”

“But why didn’t you send him away?”

“He wouldn’t go. I told him we couldn’t keep him; that this was a hospital, and not a hotel. But it didn’t make any difference. He said that this was good enough for him.”

“What impudence! Why didn’t you send for me? Mr. Beck and the other men would have come over and put the man out.”

“Oh, I didn’t want to bother you. And besides, he seemed so harmless. He just wanted the kitchen, so I couldn’t very well object.”

“Where is the baby?” Marion asked.

“Asleep in my room. I gave it a bath, which it certainly needed, and something to eat. He is a dear little fellow, and I am fond of him already.”

“Who is the man, anyway? Did he tell you anything about himself, or where he came from?”

“He only said that he found the child in a cabin along the river about a mile from the C. D. Cut-Off. He would tell me nothing more.”

“Then the baby is not his,” Marion said. “It is strange that he should bring it here. I wonder why he didn’t take it to Swift Stream.”

“I asked him that,” Miss Wade replied, “but he told me he wasn’t travelling that way. He is certainly an odd man, a giant in stature, and with wonderful eyes which seem to look right through one. He kept his cap on all the time, pulled down over his ears, even though the kitchen was very warm. I believe he went to sleep with it on. Suppose you have a look at him.”

“Very well,” Marion agreed. “I am somewhat anxious to see our strange guest.”

Together they passed out of the room into the hallway, and made their way to the door leading into the kitchen. This was closed, but Miss Wade softly opened it and peeked in.

“There he is,” she whispered. “He’s sound asleep.”

A lamp, partly turned down, emitted sufficient light for Marion to see the covered form lying upon the floor, with the toboggan nearby.

“He’s got his cap on, all right,” Miss Wade again whispered, suppressing with difficulty a giggle of amusement. “Isn’t it funny? He must use it for a night-cap.”

Marion motioned her to be silent, as she closed the door and led the way back along the hallway. She, too, saw the humor of the situation, although as matron she had to maintain the dignity of her position.

After she had taken a look at the baby which was sleeping soundly, she went to her own room. Here she opened the letter she had been carrying in her hand, and ran her eyes rapidly over the contents.

“Dear Miss Brisbane,” it began.

“I am on my way to Lone Creek to bring in Scotty Ferguson, who met with an accident. Please have a room ready for him. Constable Rolfe is with me. We should reach Kynox at the end of this week. I am sending this note by Joe Dart, who is going to town to record a claim.

“Hoping to see you soon, “Very sincerely yours, “JOHN NORTH, “Sergeant, R. N. M. P.”

That was all the letter contained in mere words, yet to Marion it meant a great deal more. She saw the writer, the strong, manly sergeant, who had made such a deep impression upon her. She recalled the last time he had been at Kynox when he had brought in a sick miner from an outlying creek. She had heard much about John North, the great trailsman and the fearless defender of law and order. Many were the tales told of his prowess to which Marion always listened with keen interest and a quickening of the heart. To her he was the very embodiment of the ideal hero, and one with King Arthur’s Knights of the Table Round. He was ever moving from place to place, bringing relief to the afflicted and redressing human wrongs. What a difference between this man and many of the men she had met. He was not in the country for gain, but in the noble service of his King and country. Her mind suddenly turned to the strange, long-bearded man asleep on the kitchen floor. What a contrast between him and John North. Who was he? she wondered, and where had he found the child? She thought, too, of his oddity in wearing his cap all the time. Was there some reason for this? Did it cover some scar or other disfigurement?

As she asked herself these questions, an idea flashed into her mind which caused the blood to fade from her cheeks and her hands to tremble. She tried to banish the notion as she replaced the letter into its envelope and laid it upon a small table by her bed. But the idea would persist in returning until she could no longer resist its appeal.

For the space of a half-hour she debated with herself as to what she should do. Perhaps it would be better to wait until morning before seeing the man again. This, however, did not satisfy her. Several times she started to open the door, but each time drew back, uncertain and agitated. She was no coward, yet the thought of what might be revealed unnerved her. Nevertheless, she knew that the ordeal must be faced sooner or later. For that she had come north, and with one object in view she had visited numerous creeks and mining camps. But never before had such a nameless dread overwhelmed her. She had searched eagerly, and hopefully, studying with the closest scrutiny the one face which would reward all her efforts.

At length feeling that she could delay no longer, she left her room, and sped along the hallway. She felt guilty, almost like a thief, as she pushed open the kitchen door and looked in. The man was evidently sound asleep, for he was lying in the same position as when she first saw him. Creeping close to his side, she stooped and listened. Yes, he was asleep and breathing heavily. Reaching swiftly out, she lifted the peak of his cap, and at once the white lock of hair was exposed to view. Marion had seen enough. She turned and fled out of the kitchen, along the hall, and back to the shelter of her room. Here she stood, wide-eyed and panting like a hunted creature. She had reached the end of her quest. That for which she had been seeking she had found. But what a bitter disappointment! How she had looked forward to such a moment. It had arrived, passed, and she was left helpless, bewildered.

Sinking down upon the only chair the room contained, she endeavored to compose her mind that she might view the affair in as clear a light as possible. That the man lying in the kitchen was her father she had not the slightest doubt. That white lock of hair betrayed him, if nothing else. It was a family characteristic, and she alone of several generations had escaped the distinctive mark. How proud the Brisbanes had always been of their peculiar feature, and when no trace of it appeared in Marion’s luxuriant hair they had been greatly disappointed. The “Brisbane lock” was a common expression. It had its origin, so it was believed, in a great battle. A Brisbane in defending his King had received a sword cut on his forehead which left a gaping wound. When this healed, instead of an unsightly scar, the hair came out as white as snow. For years after that lock was a sign of royal favor, and a white lock formed the important feature of the family coat-of-arms. “Remember the Brisbane lock,” parents had admonished their children through many generations. It had always been to them a standard, a sign of almost divine favor. They had tried to live up to the ideal set by their worthy ancestor on the field of battle. Through all the years only one Brisbane had brought reproach upon the name and the lock. And that man had fled from home and justice, a wretched outcast.

Marion was but a girl of twelve at that time, and she loved her father with all the ardor of her passionate nature. Nothing could make her believe the charge of forgery which was preferred against him. There had been some mistake, she was certain, and he had been basely wronged. Some day he would be proven innocent, the guilty ones exposed, and the Brisbane name cleared of infamy. Her mother believed the same, and thus through the years the two waited in patient hope. But they waited in vain. The exile did not return, so his deed remained a part of the history of the little town, and a blot upon the family escutcheon.