Dick Kent with the Malemute Mail

A discouraged, dishevelled human figure crossed a narrow woodland to the west of a chain of hills, thence made his way slowly down to a sun-baked valley or depression, many miles in extent. The valley was rough, broken, repellent to the eye. For the most part unverdant, it ran in a northeasterly direction—bleak, uninviting, monotonous—here and there rutted with long gray drifts of silt and sand.

No trail of any sort traversed that sinister, malevolent wild. Except for an occasional poplar or charred, broken stump of spruce or jack-pine, there were few landmarks to relieve the discouraging prospect. However, at one end of the valley, scintillating like a silver coin in the bright rays of the sun, the traveller discerned a small lake, fringed with green.

In the center of the narrow green strip, on one side of the lake, stood the cabin of a prospector. The traveller regarded it impassively for a moment before he went on.

Still hours high, the sun struck its bright rays across the land: a glare of white in the somnolent valley, a sheen of mirrored brilliance where it radiated over the placid, blue waters of the lake. A deep hush had fallen over the earth. Below the wide, azure arch of the sky feathered voyagers of the air coasted silently to unknown haunts, apparently the only living things in the dead gray world around them.

The figure hurried on. The sight of the cabin had acted as a slight spur to his jaded body. He pushed forward steadily until he had made his way over the narrow strip of green and up the path to the house. He knocked listlessly at the door, then stood silently, as might a criminal awaiting the heavy hand of the law.

A half-breed admitted him, white teeth shining in an expansive welcoming grin.

“Come in, Meester Davis. By Gar!—et ees good. You!”

An old man hobbled excitedly across the room, his long white beard flaring out in the sudden breeze from the doorway. His palsied, rheumatic hands crept up slowly to the younger man’s shoulders and remained there for a moment in silence.

“Davis,” he declared simply, “you are welcome back.”

A wan smile parted the other’s lips.

“I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Harbinson.”

The old man motioned to a rough, worn bench. “Sit down, man, sit down. You must be tired.” He turned to the half-breed. “Baptiste, hurry something to eat for Mr. Davis.”

While the preparations for the meal were proceeding, the old man talked steadily. Presently Davis, unable longer to postpone the ordeal, face red with humiliation, blurted out:

“Mr. Harbinson, I did not succeed in my mission. I have failed.”

“Failed!” exclaimed the old man.

“Yes,” Davis rose from his seat, voice quavering, “yes, I can see no hope for us. The doctor was gone. I got nothing. Nothing!”

Gloomily he paced back and forth across the rough floor of the sparsely furnished room. The eyes of the white prospector and the half-breed followed him curiously.

“I was afraid of that,” Harbinson declared presently, “I knew you had a chance of missing him. It is a terrible thing!”

Davis stopped short in the middle of his nervous pacing and raised one arm in a hopeless gesture.

“Even if I’d seen him, it might have done us no good. The entire north country is undermined with the thing, especially among the Indians. It’s working gradually south. The missions are filled to overflowing.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. “It’s awful, Harbinson. Awful!”

The old man gazed dully at his partner through a long interval of silence. Davis spoke again:

“Since I left here two weeks ago, has there been any new development?” He looked searchingly at the other.

“Yes, it’s reached the village.”

“That’s only ten miles away,” Davis calculated roughly. “How did you find this out? Send Baptiste?”

“No. Pierre La Lond passed here two days ago and told us.”

“You didn’t let him in?”

Harbinson evaded the other’s eyes. Baptiste, advancing to the table with a steaming kettle swinging from one hand, stopped short and shot a questioning gaze at the two.

“Yes, I couldn’t stop him. We were busy at something. He opened the door and walked in. It was too late then.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Davis scowled. “He should have known better.”

“But what am I to do? Sooner or later, we’ll be exposed. We can’t always be isolated. Another thing, we’ll soon need more supplies. Our grubstake’s getting low.”

“There’s the post thirty miles south of here.”

“Closed up,” said Harbinson briefly. “La Lond told us that too. Won’t be able to get any supplies there.”

“We’ll live on a meat diet then,” Davis declared grimly.

“Scurvy!”

“That’s much better than the horror of this other thing.”

Harbinson did not reply. Stillness fell over the room again. Davis resumed his seat on the rough bench and sat with his head in his hands until Baptiste announced that the meal was ready. As he ate, the young prospector could hear Harbinson’s asthmatic breathing and the scraping of the half-breed’s moccasined feet across the floor.

Hungry though he had been, he had little taste for food. His mind was too much upset. The disappointing news he had brought back to his partner, he well knew had been a heavy blow indeed.

Later, the three men walked outside, seeking the warm sunshine that fell aslant across the land. The lake still shimmered under the bright glare. A few birds winged their way across the sky. Desolate at all times, the sleepy valley now held no trace of life anywhere. Off to the westward the hills and rocks formed a dun labyrinth, and from the crest of the nearest slope one looked down over heights and depths, broken ridges, crooked valleys—all pervaded, choked with an awful solitude.

“Well,” croaked the old prospector finally, “what’s to be done? We’ve not only ourselves to think about—but others. It’s late in the fall now. By spring there won’t be a single soul north of the Mackenzie.”

Davis studied the problem, as he had done almost continually since he had left Fort Garrison a week before.