Black Cat Weekly #37

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2The “long portage” as they call it, between Caribou Lake and the Spirit River is a well-travelled route, and the two policemen were able to put up for the night at a stopping-house where it was not necessary to take any precautions against surprise. So energetically did they push their way that already on the afternoon of the second day they were riding down the long hill towards the settlement by the river. A feeling of excitement took possession of McNab. It was like the moment before the curtain rises.

However, the drama did not begin right away. The inhabitants of the half-dozen lop-sided shacks on the river bank greeted the redcoats with cries of welcome. Nothing sinister suggested itself.

“Brink,” said McNab, “are we to tell Anders what we’ve come for?”

“No.”

“But Anders is a good fellow.”

“Sure he is . . . But our mysterious artist friend had some reason for coming to us instead of to Anders, and we’d best find out what it is before we say anything.”

“How shall we account for our coming, then?”

“We don’t have to account for it. It’s just ‘orders.’ Every policeman respects his comrade’s orders.”

“Barracks” was no more pretentious than the other cabins. Anders, a fine looking young Viking, greeted them with an open brow. He could not but have wondered at this unexpected visitation from district headquarters, but he asked no questions; only set before his guests the best his larder afforded.

Neither did Brinklow question Anders though, as McNab saw, the wily old boy led the talk in the direction that he wished it to go. It soon became apparent that if there had been any crime at the Crossing Anders knew nothing about it. After supper they dropped in at the store to listen to the general talk. No hint of any tragedy. It was stated that nobody had died in the neighbourhood since the winter. McNab began to feel as if they were the victims of a hoax.

“Wait a bit,” said Brinklow when they turned in for the night.

“If there’s no more information forthcoming what can we do?” asked McNab.

“I’m counting on our guide to give us a fresh lead,” said Brinklow with a chuckle . . . “As soon as he catches up with us.”

“How do you know he’s behind us?”

“He wouldn’t leave Caribou until he made sure we were riding. He couldn’t overtake us because we have the best horses in the country.”

They spent the following day visiting a little community of farmers who made a precarious living by raising wheat on the river bottoms. They went from house to house letting the people talk. No word was dropped that gave them a clue. The only thing on the farmers’ minds was the danger of summer frosts. In the evening they headed back to barracks no wiser than they had set forth.

“Well, our friend must be here before this,” said Brinklow. “We can expect to see another example of his artistic talent.”

They did not have to wait until morning for it. Corporal Anders was away investigating a report that a breed living on the Great Smoky had gone mad. Consequently barracks was deserted, and when Brinklow and McNab reined up at the door they found a picture already drawn in the dust.

There was the river again with another line crossing it, and a little house pictured beside it. To the left of the river was a second house with several Indian tepees alongside, and an object that looked like a stuffed bag lying prone. The arrow now pointed to the south-west, that is, upstream.

“This is still the Spirit River,” said Brinklow, studying the picture. “Notice how true to its course he has drawn it, though he has never seen a map. Here’s the Big Smoky coming in at the right place, and the South Heart River. Here’s the big bend to the westward before you get to Cardigan. This little house stands for Cardigan. There’s a Company post there. The line shows we’re to cross back over the river at Cardigan. The other little house will be the post of the French outfit at Wehtigo Prairie. There’s an encampment of Beaver Indians at Wehtigo. Hence the tepees.”

“And what’s this other object?” asked McNab.

“That represents a sleeping man,” said Brinklow, “with his blanket pulled over his head in the native fashion. . . . But I’m hanged if I know what he’s there for.” He considered the picture for a moment or two. “I’ve got it!” he said. “That means we’re to sleep at Wehtigo and wait for instructions.”

McNab glanced over his shoulder uneasily. There was an uncanny suggestion in all this that made his blood run a little cold. “What’s his game?” he muttered. “The son of a gun is probably watching us now!”

“Sure!” said Brinklow.

“So our journey is just starting,” said McNab. “Why the hell couldn’t he have told us all this in the beginning?”

“I reckon there were two reasons,” said Brinklow, grinning. “Firstly, he couldn’t show all that in one picture, and secondly, he was afraid if he told us how far we had to go, we wouldn’t start at all.”

“We’re going on?” asked McNab.

“Sure!” said Brinklow. “I’m beginning to get real curious about this case.” He rubbed out the picture in the dust. “We’ll say nothing about it. Let it be a secret betwixt you and me and the old man.”

Travel beyond the Crossing was usually by boat up or down the river, but Brinklow knowing they would want their horses later, undertook to ride straight across the prairie for Cardigan. This vast country was uninhabited by either red man or white and McNab could not help but reflect that it would make a first-rate place for an ambush. At night they stood watch turn and turn, but saw nothing more dangerous than the usual coyotes and bears.

At the end of the fourth day they rode up to the pair of log shacks that comprised the trading post at Wehtigo Prairie. It was a pretty country, gently rolling and set out with clumps of graceful poplar trees like a park. There were no white men in this neighbourhood. The store was kept for the French outfit by a young breed named St. Pierre Fraser and the second house was occupied by a breed missionary to the Beavers, the Reverend Donald McDonald.

The policemen lodged for the night with the parson, and found him a first-rate fellow. His broad Scots speech seemed oddly inconsistent with his coppery skin. He set a good table too; the roasted haunch of moose with wild cranberry sauce, followed by raspberry tarts, was something to remember after the plain fare of the trail. Their host had no compunctions about asking them what they had come for.

“Just riding around to see if everything is all right,” said Brinklow. “Had no trouble around here, I suppose.”

“No more than usual,” said the Reverend McDonald dryly. “An epidemic of measles and a couple of cases of bigamy amongst the Beavers.”

Brinklow went to the door next morning while the worthy parson was still snoring. McNab was at his shoulder. There was the little picture etched on the caked earth. Evidently their unseen guide had been close behind them in arriving at this point.

It was a simpler picture this time; merely a few irregular lines which Brinklow said signified brûlé or burnt-over land, followed by a circle with a little house in it. The circle was a symbol for a stretch of prairie or open land. The arrow pointed west.

Brinklow opened his eyes at the sight of the house. “Didn’t know there was any white man living west of here,” he muttered. “Didn’t know there was anything west of here.” He rubbed out the picture with his foot.

In due course they sat down to breakfast with the Reverend McDonald. “Well, where do you go from here?” asked their host.

“West,” said Brinklow.

“Hm!” said the parson, “you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

“There’s a trail, isn’t there? It’s marked on the old maps.”

“There’s a trail all right, but the whole country was burned over twenty years ago, and the trail is so covered with down timber no white man has been through since.”

“Yet there’s a white man living out there,” said Brinklow at a venture.

“Yes. Adam Tasker. I’ve never seen him, but the Indians tell me about him. A hard man, they say.”

“What’s a white man doing in that God-forsaken spot?”

“Raises horses and cattle,” said the Reverend McDonald. “He’s located on what they call Pouce Longue Prairie. Said to be the richest land in the country. The Indians say snow never lies on the ground there on account of the Chinook winds. They say he has acquired title to a whole township and has grazing rights over the rest.”

“How is it nobody ever sees him?” asked Brinklow. “Where does he do his trading and all?”

“When this trail was blocked he blazed a new trail to the south. He goes out now by Jasper House and down the Athabasca river.”

“Does he live alone?”

“No. According to my information he has a white man working for him called Ned Chambers or Chamlee—the Indians can’t pronounce his name; also a light breed called Michel Dufranne besides other breeds that he brought in from the south. Tasker is married to Dufranne’s sister. The Indians describe her as a very pretty woman. They say he lives in a big house, a regular palace you’d think from their description. He bought in a small herd twenty-five years ago and now his cattle and horses cover the prairie, they say. He must be a rich man.”

“That is to say he would be if he could sell his stock,” suggested Brinklow.

“No sir, that’s the very point,” said McDonald. “Twenty-five years ago this Tasker figured out that the next trans-continental railway to be built would have to cross the mountains by the Spruce river pass, and he sat himself down in line with the pass. And last summer, by God, the first party of surveyors came through. The line is going through the pass and it has to cross Tasker’s land.”

“Sounds like quite a character,” said Brinklow. “We’ll ride over and pay him a call.”

When they started westward over the trail, Brinklow pointed out to McNab where two horses had gone that way only a short time before. One horse was travelling light.

“So our guide is now ahead of us,” said McNab.

“Yeah,” said Brinklow dryly. “He figures he’s got us coming now.”

McNab scowled with a healthy distrust of such mysteriousness. Danger he could face, but he dreaded being made a fool of. “We’ll look nice if it should all turn out to be a joke,” he muttered.

Brinklow said nothing at the moment, but later, as they were circling the edge of a muskeg, he pointed out the tracks of the same two horses in the dried mud, heading east. These tracks were over two weeks old, and at this time the second horse had carried a heavy pack.

“That bird has ridden six hundred miles to fetch us in,” he said in his off-hand way. “And alone at that. You nor me wouldn’t do it. He rode his hosses for every ounce they had, and he carried an outfit for the round trip so he wouldn’t have to show himself in any house or store . . . That’s no joke, if you’re asking me, my lad.”