"We are in your power right now; but perhaps before long the tables willbe turned," said Tom. "Take the skin that you stole, and----"
"Say no more, my young friend. You are wise beyond your years. Flem,"this to a squat-figured, evil-looking fellow with a shack of sandy hair,who was one of the trio whose arrival had caused our friends so muchtrouble, "Flem, hand me that black fox skin. I went to some trouble tosecure it. I propose to keep it."
"As long as you can, you ought to add," muttered Jack, under his breath.
As for Picquet, he, like Tom, remained silent. There was really nothingto be said. Without a word he booted the skins he had recovered from thefur robber's loot across the floor. One of the Wolf's men picked themup.
By this time it was almost dark within the tent. But from the red-hotstove there emanated quite a glow which showed up the evil countenancesof the boys' captors in striking relief. Except for their leader, theWolf, whose soft tones and retiring manners would have made anyone pickhim out for anything but what he was, they were a repulsive lookingcrew.
It was clear enough to Tom now that they were in the power of men whomade a regular business of fur robbing, and a thoroughly prosperous one,too. He felt an intense disgust for them. Knowing as he did thehardships of a trapper's life, the long tramps through the freezingsnows, the isolation and the loneliness of the existence, he thought,with angry contempt, of the meanness of men who would rob the rightfulowners of such hard-earned trophies.
"Feel pretty sore at me, don't you?" asked the Wolf, who had been eyingthe boy narrowly.
"Not so sore as disgusted," shot out Tom. "I've seen some mean wretchesin my time, but a man who will deliberately----"
"Be careful there, young fellow. Don't get too fresh," warned one of theWolf's men.
"I consider that you have got off pretty easily," rejoined the Wolf,seemingly unruffled. His tones were as calm and retiring as ever. "Imight have sent your dog team scurrying off into the wilderness withoutyou, and then left you to get back as best you could without provisionsor blankets. Instead of that, I'm going to do you a kindness. I shallset you free with your sled."
"And our rifles?" asked old Joe.
"I'm afraid I must keep them. You are altogether too capable to betrusted with such weapons."
"I know who I'd like to make a target of," muttered Jack.
"So I shall have to retain your rifles. They are fine weapons and I amglad to have them. And now, gentlemen, under those terms we shall bidyou good night."
"We'll see you again some time--Boosh!--an' when we do--nom d'un nomd'un chien!" exclaimed Joe, shaking his fist toward the heavens.
"I hardly think it likely that you will ever see me again," was thelittle gray man's rejoinder. "We have made enough to leave the Yukon forgood and all----"
"For the good of all, I guess you mean," muttered the sharp-tongued Jackunder his breath.
Luckily for him, perhaps, the other did not hear him, or appeared notto. Half an hour later, inwardly raging, but without the means to act ontheir impulses, the two boys and the old man were out on the snow crustharnessing up the dog-team.
Over them stood the Wolf's henchmen. As they "hit the trail" in the samedirection as that whence they had come, they heard a harsh laugh and ashouted good night.
Both sounds came from the Wolf's tent, the Wolf who had tricked andtrapped them as a climax to their long pursuit.
CHAPTER XXVII--FACING DEATH.
As the shades of night began to close in upon him, Sandy found himselfstill in the same position. From time to time one or another of the packwould hurl itself against the rocky islet in the snow waste, only to beremorselessly thrown back by the impact.
But for the most part the creatures sat silent and motionless, contentto watch and wait for the harvest that they seemed sure would come tothem in time.
After his fit of despair Sandy had once more rallied his energies anddevoted his really active and brave mind to devising some means ofpassing the night, that it now appeared certain he must spend on thegreat rock pile.
Above him, growing in a rift, were the remains of some stunted balsams,the seeds of which had probably blown thither from the woods whence thewolves had issued. He stared at the melancholy, twisted, dried-up stumpsof vegetation for some time before any idea concerning them came intohis head. Then all at once he realized that here at least was the meansfor fire and warmth.
But hardly had this idea occurred to him, when he recollected somethingthat made his heart sink to a lower level than before. He had nomatches. The little nickeled box that held them lay at the foot of therocks too well guarded by the wolves for him to make an effort to reachit. And yet he knew that he must have fire in the night or perish.
It was quite a while before a retentive memory helped him out. Then herecalled having heard some time before from an old trapper a method offire-making without matches. The operation was simplicity itself and yetSandy doubted if he could make it succeed.
The plan was simply this: to remove from a cartridge the bullet and partof the powder; then to place the cartridge in the gun as usual and fireinto a pile of dry kindling. The sparks and flame from the powder weresupposed to furnish the necessary start to the blaze, which could thenbe enlarged by blowing.
"At any rate, I might try it," thought Sandy. "If I don't make it go Istand a good chance of freezing. But if I do----"
He stopped short. While he had been turning these matters over in hismind he had climbed up to the ridge on which grew the withered, deadbalsams.
Now that he had gained it, he saw that beyond the gnarled, wind-twistedstumps was a considerable rift in the rocks. How far in it went he didnot, of course, know. But it appeared that it ought to make a snugrefuge from the rigors of the almost arctic cold.
Further exploration showed that the rift was quite a cave. It was notvery high, but appeared to run back a considerable distance. Sandyhailed its discovery with joy. If he could light a fire back within therift it would be practicable to keep it warm.
The thought of warmth, light and a good fire was comforting, even thoughfor the present it existed only in the imagination. Sandy set to work onthe withered balsams with his hunting knife. The wood was dry and deadand cut easily. Soon he had quite a pile of it dragged back into therift.
As he worked he almost forgot the perils of his situation. For thepresent the biting cold which, as the sun grew lower, was more and morepenetrating, turned his thoughts from his present miseries to thedelights to come of warmth and comfort.
Having collected his pile and stacked it till it almost reached the roofof the rift, Sandy thought it was time to see if there was any merit inthe old trapper's recipe for starting a fire in the wilderness withoutmatches. With his blade he stripped off patches of dry bark from thedead timber and shredded it until it was an easily inflammable mass,like excelsior.
Having done this, he collected his kindling and then piled the stickscrosswise in the form of a tower, so that when his fire was started hewould be sure of a good draft. Then, with his knife, he extracted abullet from a cartridge, poured a little of the powder upon the kindlingand then slipped the half emptied shell into his rifle.
When this much of his preparations had been completed he was ready forthe final test. He aimed the rifle carefully at his kindling pile,selecting a place where he had previously sprinkled the grains ofpowder. Then he pulled the trigger.
A muffled report and a shower of sparks from the muzzle followed, but tothe boy's disappointment, the kindling did not catch fire. The onlyresult of his experiment, so far, was a suffocating smell of gunpowder.
But Sandy did not come of a stock that gives in easily.
"I must try it again," he said to himself, thinking of his greatcountryman, Robert Bruce, and perhaps likening himself in the cavebesieged by his enemies to that national hero.
Only in Sandy's case there was no spider, as in the legend, to give himan example of perseverance. It was far too cold for spiders, a
s the boyreflected, with a rueful grin; and then he doubted if even Bruce's foeswere more remorseless or deadly than the ones awaiting him outside therock masses, piled in the snow desert like an island in a vast ocean ofwhite.
He prepared another cartridge, sprinkling more powder on his kindling.This time there arose a puff of flame and smoke from the pile as soon ashe fired the rifle. Casting his weapon aside, Sandy threw himself downon his knees by the fire.
He began puffing vigorously at the smoldering place where the burningpowder had landed.
A tiny flame crept up, licked at the kindling, grew brighter and seizedupon some of the larger sticks piled above.
Five minutes later Sandy was warming himself at a satisfying blaze. Asthe smoke rolled out of the rift and upward in the darkening gloom thepatient watchers outside set up a savage howl.
"Ah, howl away, you gloomeroons," muttered Sandy, in the cheerful glowinside the rift. "I've got you beaten for a time, anyhow. And noo let'shae a bite o' supper."
With a plucky grimace, as though to defy fate, Sandy spread out on therock floor his stock of food. It looked scanty, pitifully so, whenconsidered as the sole provision against starvation that the boy hadwith him in his rock prison--for such it might be fitly called.
"'Tis nae banquet," and the Scotch lad wagged his head solemnly. "Itwould make a grand feed for a canary bird."
He paused a minute, and then:
"But be glad you hae it, Sandy McTavish, you ungrateful carlin. You'relucky not to have to make a supper off scenery; and, after all, you arenae sae hungry as yon wolves, judging by their voices."
CHAPTER XXVIII--THE TRAP.
It was a dispirited enough party that, under the stars, retraced its wayfrom the camp of the little gray man, who at first, seeming so harmlessand helpless, had turned out to be so venomous and vindictive. Tom andJack had little to say.
The case was different with old Joe Picquet. He cried out aloud to thestars for vengeance on the Wolf. He abused his name in English, Frenchand every one of half a dozen Indian dialects.
"Oh, what's the use," said Tom at length, interrupting a diatribe. "Thefellow had the whip hand of us from the moment we let ourselves be takenin by believing he really was sick and helpless."
"Think of that wood we chopped," muttered Jack, with a groan.
Jack was not a lover of that form of exercise which is taken with theassistance of an axe. He felt like joining old Joe's lamentations as hethought of the vigor with which he had worked to relieve the seeminglysick man's necessities.
"It is a good lesson to us," went on Tom, "although it has been a mightycostly one. If we hadn't shilly-shallied about that tent we would havebeen well on our way with the stolen skins by this time."
"No use crying over spilt milk," counseled Jack. "It is done now andcan't be undone. Wonder if we will ever see those rascals again?"
"Impossible to say. If only we could get to a trading post or a stationwe might raise a posse and take after them. In this part of the countryit is a mighty bad offense to steal skins."
"What do they do with such fellows?" asked Jack.
"Hang dem!" burst out old Joe.
"Oh, not quite as bad as that!" exclaimed Tom.
"Boosh! To hang, it ees too good for dem."
They journeyed on for some time in silence. Then Joe told them that hewas building his hopes on finding some of his Indian friends, from whomthey could get meat of some kind. For they had no rifles and no means ofprocuring food, and their supply, except for flour and salt, was runninglow.
He hoped, he said, to make an Indian encampment, possibly the one wherethey had last stopped, before the next night. About midnight they pausednear one of the numerous, small, unnamed lakes that are frequent in thatpart of the country. At one place in it was a hole which the Indians hadchopped to spear fish. This was skimmed over with ice which, however,Joe surmised could be easily broken through.
The old trapper had in one of his numerous pockets the head of a fishspear. Cutting a stick, he soon fitted a handle to this head and Jack,with the lantern to act as a lure and make the fish rise, was despatchedto the ice hole to catch all he could. It was important that the dogsshould be fed without delay, for they were getting hungry, the fish atthe Wolf's camp having been sufficient only for his own mamelukes.
Spearing fish is work that calls for an adept hand. But the boys had hadplenty of practice at their own camp, for the silver foxes had not losttheir appetites with captivity and would greedily eat all that theycould get. This had kept the boys busy securing fish and they were allexperts at the work. Jack, especially, liked it, and was exceptionallygood at it.
After he had fished less than half an hour he had speared a good numberof fine fresh fish. The dogs, who appeared to guess what was goingforward, barked shrilly and appealingly as he started back toward thespot where the sled had been halted.
"Got any?" hailed Tom, as he saw the lantern Jack carried come bobbingtoward him.
"I should say I had."
"Good ones?"
"They'll stuff the dogs full and give us a meal besides."
"That's the stuff, the mamelukes are very hungry."
"So they are saying."
"We'll have to hurry up and feed them while Joe gets something to eat."
"I guess we are as famished as they are. I know I----"
Jack, who had been hurrying forward with his fish, uttered a sharp cryof pain and fell to the ground.
At the same time Tom heard a clicking sound not unlike the sliding backof a rifle magazine, only louder. He rushed forward to where Jack layupon the ground.
The boy was writhing with pain and Tom could not make out what hadhappened.
"Jack! Jack, old fellow, what is it?" he cried.
"I--I don't know. Something gripped my foot--as I was hurrying back."
"It's got hold of it now?"
"Yes." Jack's voice was very faint. It was apparent that he wassuffering great pain. But he tried to bear up manfully and steady hisvoice while Tom bent over him.
"Can't you move?"
"No, I'm caught fast."
"Let me look. Great Scott, no wonder!"
Tom's voice was vibrant with sympathy. The next instant he set up ashout.
"Joe! Oh, Joe!"
"Oui, mon garcon! What ees mattaire?" came Joe's voice.
"Come here, quick. It's Jack!"
"Wha's happen heem?" cried old Joe, dropping what he was doing andrunning through the snow toward the boys.
"His foot. It's--it's caught in an old trap, and--and, Joe, I'm afraidthat it has bitten to the bone!"
"Sacre nom!"
But of all this Jack heard nothing. He had fainted under theexcruciating pain of the pressure of the steel jaws that gripped himfast like a helpless animal.
CHAPTER XXIX--SANDY HAS A NIGHTMARE.
As the ruddy glow of the flames lighted up the rift in Sandy's rockcastle, the boy looked about him curiously before he began work on hisscant stock of food. The place was about forty feet in length and notmore than five in height, sloping down at each end like the roof in anold-fashioned farm bedroom.
He noted with some satisfaction that near the entrance there were massesof dead and dried up bushes, from which he thought he could contrive amattress later on. But for the present he devoted himself to his meal.
Luckily, he had brought along a pannikin, and in this, when he hadmelted some snow for water, he made tea, without a small package ofwhich the true adventurer of the northern wilds never travels. The hotliquid did him almost as much good as the food, and, as Sandy remarkedas he gulped it down, it was "main filling."
His supper disposed of, Sandy sat for some little time in front of thefire.
"Heaven be praised, there are no dishes to wash," he said to himself inhis whimsical way.
The time was a favorable one for thinking, and many thoughts ran throughSandy's mind as he sat watching the flames. His chums, what were theydoing? How lit
tle they imagined his predicament at that particularmoment. Sandy found himself wondering whether he would ever see themagain. The warmth of the fire circulated pleasantly through his veins. Adelightful glow crept over him.
He was just about dozing off when a noise near the cave mouth startledhim.
He looked up, but could see nothing. He thought, however, that in thedarkness he could detect the sound of a furtive footfall.
It was creeping away as if in fear of him.
Sandy came back into the warmth and fire-glow of the rift and lay downat full length in front of the blaze. How long he lay there before hewas again disturbed he had no means of knowing.
But suddenly he was attracted to the mouth of the rift once more by arecurrence of the noise. Once more he hastened to investigate, but withthe same results as before.
He began to grow nervous. Although he could see nothing, he was surethat he had heard some mysterious sounds out there in the darkness. Butwhen he got up to look nothing was to be seen. It was very perplexingand, considering his situation, not a little alarming. Lying down againby his fire, the boy made a determined effort to compose his nerves. Buttry as he would, he found his mind focused upon one subject, and oneonly: the wolves.
From time to time the night was tortured by their howls. It was as ifthey were trying to show the boy that although he was in hiding they hadnot forgotten him; that they would wait until he was forced to come offthe rocks and make a final dash for freedom before they devoured him.