Part 1

[Illustration: Long and steadily he started at the uniform--his own, of course!]

CODE OF THE MOUNTED

By Floria Howe Bruess

An amazing man-hunt in Arctic snows--and how Sergeant Hardy and Keith Morely played the game, each according to his own strict code.

“Halt!”

The curt command cut through the frost-bound silence. The Northern mail driver froze in his tracks.

He shot a glance at his companion, Sergeant Hardy, and saw the officer had whipped his .45 Colt from its holster.

“Quick on the draw, aren’t you? But I’ve got you both covered. Put that gun back in your holster before I count three, or this load of shot will blow your head off.”

The voice came from above. Intently the two men on the narrow defile below scanned the overhanging show-covered rocks, but no form was visible.

“One--” The relentless voice had begun to count.

“Two--”

Grimly Sergeant Hardy slipped his gun in its holster. “The winner of the opening hand does not always win the game,” he thought, dispassionately.

“I want the mail bag,” the unseen speaker went on. “Put the bag on that rock shelf on the right, and be quick.”

Intently the officer listened to that voice. So carefully did he memorize every inflection in it, he would recognize it immediately, anywhere.

“Keep cool, King. He has the advantage now.” Sergeant Hardy’s voice was low, reassuring, but his eyes, hard, vigilant swept the rocks above him carefully.

“Must I put the mail--”

“Yes, or he’ll blow both of our heads off. He has you covered now.”

“Hurry up there.” Impatiently the voice rang out. The man, in his eagerness, leaned over the jutting rock on which he lay. In that instant Hardy obtained a good look at the face of the man.

It was a young face. Not more than thirty or so, clean-shaven. The features were fine, regular, with well molded chin. The man drew back swiftly as his eyes met the officer’s.

Reluctantly the driver deposited the bag of mail on the designated shelf.

“Now, keep going. And, remember, the trail is straight ahead. I can see you both for a mile. Try to double back and I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Nevertheless I’ll see you--again.” Hardy’s voice was still cool, dispassionate. It was as though he said, “this is fine traveling weather.”

“Mush on, King,” Hardy urged in a low voice.

The trail lay clear. Not a dark spot broke its gleaming covering.

Repeatedly Hardy looked back. The fur-clad figure of the man stood motionless. He had descended from his rocky perch, and now stood on the trail watching the swiftly moving dogs, sled and men.

Eagerly he bent over the mail.

Hardy, in a swift backward glance, saw that stooping figure. Instantly he fell out of the dog train.

“Keep going. Notify district headquarters. I’m going back for my man.” The words came with shot-like swiftness.

Keith Morely straightened from the mail bags, gazed ahead. Surely there was but one man with the team! Yet the trail still led straight, unbroken by any dark object, save the one man, the dogs and sled.

Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes. A man could not vanish in thin air?

The mail driver plied the whip, the dogs raced. He would rather have stayed with the sergeant, fought the thing through, shoulder to shoulder. But the officer had spoken, and he was the law!

* * * * *

Half drowned in the drift into which he had plunged, Hardy lay motionless for a time.

Finally he cautiously raised his snow-covered hooded head. He saw the man standing motionless, then watched him turn, scale the slabs of rock until he reached the top, and disappear.

Lithe as a cat, Hardy scaled the overhanging rocks. Crouching like an Indian, his soft ankle-depth moccasins over his boots as noiseless as the footfall of a cougar, he sped after Keith Morely.

“Thank the powers for a fine day,” Hardy thought. The sun shone dazzlingly. The prisms of a million ice-drops on shrub and tree flashed like jewels, bewilderingly beautiful.

Warily, Hardy followed the moccasin imprints left on the crusted snow.

“He is heading directly away from the trail, and he knows exactly where he’s going. No hesitation in his stride. Ha, he has stopped here to put on his webs.”

The snow was crushed into a circular basin where the man had sat to don his snow shoes.

At a little distance ahead came the shrill scolding voices of a pair of chickadees. Hardy nodded in satisfaction. He knew some passing creature had startled the birds. It was their custom to give warning thus from their lofty perches.

The trail led from the rocky plateau through a narrow ravine to the open ground beyond. Keeping a sharp lookout, Hardy paused in this ravine to don his webs, then took up the trail.

“The man is a bird; he doesn’t web, he flies!” the officer muttered. “I’m pretty fast myself, but he is faster.”

For hours he followed. The sun was casting crimson shadows; the sparse woods grew denser; the short day became the short twilight.

Hardy was strangely tired, but he was not growing cold, though the air was sharpening. It became too dark to distinguish the faint imprint of the webs. Hardy paused, debating whether to build a fire, then walked on, seeking suitable site for night camp.

There appeared to be a clearing ahead. A dark snow-capped smudge sprang before his eyes. “A cabin,” he ejaculated. “I’ll spend the night there.”

For hours a strange lassitude, a sensation of heat; an increasing throbbing headache had been creeping on him.

“What’s the matter with me?” he thought irritably. “Somehow I’m glad to be under a roof to-night.”

There was no yellow winking eye of light in the one window of the squat cabin. The officer approached warily, keeping in the deepest shadows. Apparently the cabin was deserted.

With his finger on the trigger of his gun, he raised the latch on the heavy log-built door, kicked it in swiftly.

His eyes strained through the gloom of the cabin. One swift searching look revealed the tenantless interior.

Hardy stepped into the cold room and slammed the door behind him. He dropped into a chair, breathing heavily. A sudden sensation of suffocation seized him. He pushed the fur hood back from his head, loosened the belt of the parka covering his uniform.

“Haven’t been feeling really fit for the past three days,” he muttered. Pulling himself together with an effort, he came to his feet, investigated the one room and built-on woodshed adjoining. He struck a match to the candle fixed in a bottle, for the room was growing dark.

“Well stocked cabin,” he said as he gazed around.

Again he fell heavily in a chair, gazing before him with anxious eyes. After a time he kindled a fire on the big stone hearth.

Slowly the weather changed as the night wore on. The north wind came with a bellow and roar.

Half dozing, Hardy listened to the mingled voices of the wind and fire as he sat before a blazing log. His eyes were glittering with the fever that ran in his veins.

“Glad I came across this cabin,” he muttered, with thick tongue and dry, swollen lips. “Must be bilious. Be all right to-morrow. I must!”

* * * * *

The storm increased in fury. The blizzard howled and tore over the squat cabin. The snow piled up against its wall logs as though seeking the warmth within.

During the night came the crunch, crunch of webs. A white wraith-like figure came through the gloom, eager expectant eyes peered from frozen eyelashes at the light wavering from the cabin’s fire-lit frost glazed window.

Stiff hands fumbled at the latch, finally released it. The wind swept the door in with a crash.

Hardy raised heavy-lidded eyes and started to rise, but the effort was too much for him. He sank back like a sack of meal.

Keith Morely kicked the door shut.

Hardy’s nerveless hand reached for the gun in his holster, but it was strangely fumbling and uncertain. The two men stared at each other.

“So we both chanced across the same cabin. Put up your hands!” Hardy’s voice was thick. The gun wavered in his hand. It seemed intolerably heavy.

Morely stared curiously at that unsteady hand, at the swollen, flushed face of the officer. Despite a tremendous effort it was impossible for Hardy to hold that gun. It clattered to the floor.

Keith Morely’s increasing amazement turned slowly to conviction. He sprang swiftly to Hardy as the man’s head fell back. The room was filled with his gasping, shallow breathing.

Keith Morely lifted the officer in his powerful arms, carried him to the bunk.

“You’re a sick man,” he exclaimed. “Tell me quick, while you are still able to talk, have you been exposed to any disease?”

The words penetrated Hardy’s fast numbing consciousness.

“A few weeks ago, I laid over a night in an Indian’s cabin.”

“How long since you were vaccinated?” The question came quick and sharp.

Hardy heard the words, though they seemed to come from a great distance. He struggled to answer, but unconsciousness sealed his tongue.

Swiftly Keith Morely stripped the man, gazed with grave eyes at the all-revealing eruption on the broad chest and armpits.

“Smallpox!” he ejaculated. “There’s a lot of it in the north this winter.”

Turning to the officer’s pack, he opened it up and took out the medicine kit. It was a well stocked case, revealing the thoroughness of the equipment the northern patrol men carry.

“One thing is certain. The officer cannot make me prisoner now, and I can’t leave him here to die from neglect. When the owner of this cabin returns, I’ll go on. But not before,” Morely said grimly.

With peculiar expertness, he bathed the fevered body of Hardy at regular intervals. He administered medicine taken from the case, he applied an ointment to the rapidly increasing eruptions.

“What a freak of fate,” he muttered. “The hunter is laid low, and the hunted cares for him.” The man’s lips lifted in a mirthless smile, but his eyes were somber, haunted.

* * * * *

Slowly the days dragged their length. The snow beat back the sun, the country sank under an impenetrable shroud of white.

The owner of the cabin did not return. “Snowed under, some place,” Morely thought as grimly he battled for the life of the officer. No great physician could have shown more interest in the work of a difficult case than did Keith Morely. For hours he sat by the sick man’s side, listening to the disjointed delirium.

“He’s been through a lot. The men on the northern patrol have a tough time,” the listening man thought.

Occasionally, as the days passed, Morely went out with his rifle, returning with fresh meat.

The fever abated, the crisis passed. “Pulled him through,” Morely thought, a light of professional satisfaction in his eyes.

He closed the blue service book, belonging to Hardy. The book he had been studying and memorizing. While Hardy slept, his first deep natural sleep since his illness, Morely stripped off his own clothing.

“Fortunate thing we are the same height and build,” he thought as he donned Hardy’s uniform, which he had fumigated.

Completely garbed in Sergeant Hardy’s uniform, he was remarkably like the officer, in figure. Only the face was different, and that would be partly concealed by the fur parka hood.

“In this uniform I can get to Montreal, without pursuit. There, I can secure other clothing, draw funds from the bank, and get to the border. From now, until I reach Montreal, I’m Sergeant Porter Hardy!” The man’s shoulders straightened, his head went up.

“I am absolutely safe. It will be weeks before the officer can get out, renew pursuit. By that time, I’ll be in the States.”

He turned, walked to the bunk, stood staring down at the quietly sleeping man. “Glad I didn’t leave him to die like a dog,” he murmured. “Haven’t _that_ on my conscience.”

Hardy turned, opened his eyes with the light of returned reason in them. He stared at the uniformed figure beside him. A perplexed gaze was in his eyes, then slowly he looked around the cabin.

“Ha, I remember. Was taken sick!” He attempted to sit up, but fell back weakly. “I’ve had a siege,” he thought. “Glad to see another man of the service here. How long have I been ill? And what’s the matter with me?”

Morely stared down at him. Finally:

“You’ve had the smallpox. But you are right-o now. On the mend.”

Hardy drew a startled breath. That voice! No two voices in the world were identical.

Why was this officer before him speaking with the voice of the mail robber whom he was pursuing? He closed his eyes. Weakness, no doubt, had caused hallucination.

“You have been ill three weeks. You’ve been a very sick man, but you are on the highway now,” that tormenting voice went on. “I’ll stay with you until you are able to get out of bed, and help yourself, then--I’ll go on.”

Hallucination be damned! Hardy’s eyes jerked open. Long and steadily he stared at the uniform. His own, of course--there was that mended rent on the tunic sleeve, and that smudge of oil on the left trouser leg!

His eyes swung to the man’s face.

“I recognize you. And what are you doing here? Why didn’t you get away?” The voice was weak but steady.

“And leave you to die! I’m not that sort of a rotter,” Morely said scornfully.

“Then I owe--my recovery--to you?”

* * * * *

“You owe your life to me, to put it plainly. No one has been near the cabin, for I tacked a red rag over the door. A few Indians have passed. I hailed them from a distance. Smallpox is raging from the James Bay waters to the lake country of the Athabasca, they said.”

“My God!”

“Yes. And for the service I have rendered you, I am appropriating your uniform,” Morely went on coolly. “When you are well, you can wear my clothes.”

The men looked at each other silently.

He turned, strode to the hearth over which an iron kettle was suspended. Presently he returned.

“A cup of good strong caribou broth.” He tendered the cup, lifted and held Hardy while the officer ate.

“All you need now, is to recover your strength. Within a few days you’ll be able to hobble around, enough to keep up your fire. The wood house is filled. I have repaired my forage on it. There is a quantity of meat, and I’ll leave a big mess cooked, so you won’t have to cook for several days. By that time you’ll be strong enough--”

“You are singularly thoughtful--under the circumstances,” Hardy commented.

“Thoughtfulness be damned. I’m only doing the sporting thing--”

“Criminals usually do not consider that,” Hardy interrupted dryly.

Morely raised a startled head. Hardy who was watching him closely, saw the swift dilation of his eyes, noted the sharply drawn breath.

“Now you have talked enough. And by the bye your voice is remarkably strong. You will make a quick mend. No doubt you owe that to the constitution you men of the service have. Now go to sleep again. I want you to get strength quickly, for I’m anxious to be off.”

A few days later he left. The cabin seemed strangely lonely, strangely desolate to Hardy, as he lay on the bunk listening to the retreating crunch, crunch of webs, as Morely headed from the cabin onto the trail.

The following morning, before Morely had emerged from his sleeping bag, he heard the tinkle of bells.

An Indian coming from the opposite direction which he traveled, appeared on the trail. His dogs were lean and traveled slowly.

“How is the pest?” Morely asked in the Cree tongue.

The Indian paused. His figure drooped, his shoulders sagged.

“It spreads as does the bush fire. It has struck the Crees, on Woelaston Lake. It is wiping out the Chippewayans between Albany and the Churchill.”

The Indian spoke with impassive bronze face, but his eyes were deep with melancholy. Morely waited, a great fear in his heart.

“The Crees are wailing their death dirges as they seek the bones of their dead from beneath the charred cabins, for the white men are burning all cabins wherein the pest has been. Our dogs are howling mournfully for masters whose voices are still.

“I passed many trap-houses. They were unbaited; in some, the traps were sprung, yet the trappers came not to gather their catch. The snowshoe trails were many suns old.”

“Where do you come from? Have you passed Nichikun Lake post?”

“I came through there--”

“Are there many sick?” Morely interrupted quickly.

“Many are sick. The factor, his squaw and his clerk have answered the call of the Great Spirit.”

Morely’s face was white. “Who cares for the sick?”

“The priest whose hair is white as the new snow and whose step is slow with the weight of many suns.” He glanced at the motionless white man. “I have spoken.” His voice fell low, grave. The long line of dogs moved slowly down the trail.

“This is the worst epidemic the North has known,” Morely thought.

It was the year in which the north fought grimly the great cataclysm. The scourge took a thousand lives before it finally surrendered to the heroic efforts of a handful of white men and women.

“And Father du Bois, that gentle, kindly old saint, is fighting alone at the post. Living through the stench, the horror of it! And he is old, frail. I am young, strong, have knowledge and skill.” The man stared across the great waste.

“If I go back it means prison for me, for sooner or later I will be caught. When Hardy recovers, he will take up the trail. And yet, my God, to run like a coward! To leave suffering, dying humanity, when I can prevent many deaths, when I can help check the spread of this epidemic.

“McAndrews, his wife and the clerk gone! And Father du Bois, patiently, laboriously, is waging his lonely fight. He needs me, the North needs me. What a service I could render!”

He stared in the direction where lay Nichikun Post. Silently his battle went on. Finally he turned, got his pack together, without pausing to make his breakfast. The message of the throbbing Arctic sky had reached his soul. With grim lips and unwavering eyes he turned his face toward Nichikun Post.

* * * * *

“I am making poor time, afoot. If only I could raise a sled and dogs!” Morely muttered.

With the dawn came the snow. After a quick breakfast he moved on. The wind increased, drove the snow like millions of ice points through the gray atmosphere.

Toward noon Morely saw a cabin sitting like a squat black insect on a field of white. His pulses quickened as he saw the pillar of black smoke vomiting from its chimney and a team of five dogs and sled standing before the place. Head down against the wind that buffeted him at every step, he made his way. The dogs set up a chorus of howls at his approach. A door was flung open.

“Bad day,” a laconic voice remarked as he slipped off his webs and entered. The warmth of the room smote him gratefully. Morely passed his arms through the straps, set the pack outside the cabin. His lips were stiff with cold. For a moment it was impossible for him to speak, or to see in the bright firelight.

“Was just leaving, but I’ll wait awhile and hear the news. How’s the pest?”

As the man spoke another figure entered the little cabin, from the wood house.

“_Eh bien_, Jacques he ’ave more company?” a warm friendly voice shouted.

“I’m not staying long. In a hurry. I want those dogs of yours. Sent out on detail, must make haste,” Morely said quietly.

He removed his parka, shaking the snow from it, and stood revealed in the uniform he wore.

“Well met. What district are you from and your name? I’m Corporal English, out of Moose Factory.”

Morely wheeled. So blinded had he been by snow and wind, he had not seen the man’s uniform when he entered.

“Jacques, he ’ave an honor. Two men of ze Mounted under hees roof,” the French trapper murmured. His round black eyes gazed admiringly at the splendid proportions of the two men. Both of them standing six foot, deep chests, stalwart shoulders, slim waisted.

Regretfully he rubbed his hand over his rotund stomach.

“I’m Hardy, Lake St. John,” Morely said coolly, returning the other’s steady gaze.

He turned to Jacques. “I’ll have to commandeer your team.”

“You are Porter Hardy?” Corporal English asked.

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in Morely’s answer. He dared not hesitate!

“Wha’ can I do? M’sieu Eng-leesh ’ave bought my team and sled before you come.” Jacques spread his hand despairingly.

“And I’ll keep them. Put up your hands while you explain to me why you’re wearing a uniform of the service and passing yourself off as Sergeant Hardy! I know Hardy. Give an account of yourself. Who are you?”

* * * * *

The words came like a shot.

Morely gazed from a pair of inexorable eyes to the blue barrel of English’s gun.

With the motion of a cougar, so swift it was, Morely ducked, sprang at English. An upward thrust and the gun clattered to the floor.

Jacques, wide-eyed, moved to a corner, watching the two men as they grappled. He had not understood those few swift words of English’s.

The men, their arms gripped around each other, rolled over and over, each seeking an opening. Finally English tore an arm loose. His great hand went around Morely’s throat, shutting out the air.

But not for long. As they had rolled on the floor Morely had inch by inch controlled their movements, so that he lay near the fallen revolver.

Desperately stretching an arm and long fingers, he touched the butt of the gun. His chest was rising in shallow gasps, as he attempted to breathe. There was a roar in his eardrums, a fleck of blood dropped from his nostrils.

With one long finger he drew the butt of the gun nearer. His fingers closed around it.

Jacques in his corner watched with fascinated eyes. He saw that English’s face was turned away from that outflung arm, and so was unconscious of Morely’s action.

Suddenly English felt the barrel against his side. He turned his head, read the desperation in Morely’s eyes.

His grip relaxed. Morely drew in a breath of air that eased his tortured lungs.

Slowly English came to his feet. With a catlike bound Morely faced him, finger curled on trigger.

Without removing his eyes from the officer’s face, Morely addressed the fascinated Jacques.

“I must take your dogs, but do not fear. They will either be returned to you, or I will send payment. Write your name on a slip of paper. Then step outside. Put my pack in the sled. Have you any cooked meat on hand?”

“_Oui, m’sieu_” Jacques responded with glowing eyes. He had warmed instantly to this man.

“Put all you have in the sled. Also what fish you can spare, for the dogs.”

He addressed English, as Jacques sprang to do his bidding.

“If you darken that doorway until I am out of gunshot, I’ll shoot. And there’s no better shot in the north than myself.”

Slowly, he backed to the door, picked up his parka, backed across the threshold.

The door slammed to behind him.