Читать книгу Never Fire First - James French Dorrance - Страница 9

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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.