TO
CARLOTTA
WHO IS WITH ME ANDTO
VIOLA
WHO FILLS FOR ME A DREAM OF THE FUTURE
I AFFECTIONATELYDEDICATE THIS BOOK
At Point Fullerton, one thousand miles straight north of civilization,Sergeant William MacVeigh wrote with the stub end of a pencil between hisfingers the last words of his semi-annual report to the Commissioner of theRoyal Northwest Mounted Police at Regina.
He concluded:
“I beg to say that I have made every effort to run down Scottie Deane, the murderer. I have not given up hope of finding him, but I believe that he has gone from my territory and is probably now somewhere within the limits of the Fort Churchill patrol. We have hunted the country for three hundred miles south along the shore of Hudson’s Bay to Eskimo Point, and as far north as Wagner Inlet. Within three months we have made three patrols west of the Bay, unraveling sixteen hundred miles without finding our man or word of him. I respectfully advise a close watch of the patrols south of the Barren Lands.”
“There!” said MacVeigh aloud, straightening his rounded shoulders with agroan of relief. “It’s done.”
From his bunk in a corner of the little wind and storm beaten cabin whichrepresented Law at the top end of the earth Private Pelliter lifted a headwearily from his sick bed and said: “I’m bloomin’ glad of it, Mac. Now mebbeyou’ll give me a drink of water and shoot that devilish huskie that keepshowling every now and then out there as though death was after me.”
“Nervous?” said MacVeigh, stretching his strong young frame with another sighof satisfaction. “What if you had to write this twice a year?” And hepointed at the report.
“It isn’t any longer than the letters you wrote to that girl of yours—”
Pelliter stopped short. There was a moment of embarrassing silence. Then headded, bluntly, and with a hand reaching out: “I beg your pardon, Mac. It’s thisfever. I forgot for a moment that— that you two— had broken.”
“That’s all right,” said MacVeigh, with a quiver in his voice, as he turnedfor the water.
“You see,” he added, returning with a tin cup, “this report is different.When you’re writing to the Big Mogul himself something gets on your nerves. Andit has been a bad year with us, Pelly. We fell down on Scottie, and let theraiders from that whaler get away from us. And— By Jo, I forgot to mention thewolves!”
“Put in a P. S.,” suggested Pelliter.
“A P. S. to his Royal Nibs!” cried MacVeigh, staring incredulously at hismate. “There’s no use of feeling your pulse any more, Pelly. The fever’s gotyou. You’re sure out of your head.”
He spoke cheerfully, trying to bring a smile to the other’s pale face.Pelliter dropped back with a sigh.
“No— there isn’t any use feeling my pulse,” he repeated. “It isn’t sickness,Bill— not sickness of the ordinary sort. It’s in my brain— that’s where it is.Think of it— nine months up here, and never a glimpse of a white man’s faceexcept yours. Nine months without the sound of a woman’s voice. Nine months ofjust that dead, gray world out there, with the northern lights hissing at usevery night like snakes and the black rocks staring at us as they’ve stared fora million centuries. There may be glory in it, but that’s all. We’re ’eroes allright, but there’s no one knows it but ourselves and the six hundred andforty-nine other men of the Royal Mounted. My God, what I’d give for the sightof a girl’s face, for just