William Shakespeare - "The Life of Timon of Athens"

George Barr McCutcheon - "Yollop"

Rutherford B. Hayes - "State of the Union Addresses of Rutherford B. Hayes"

Bruno Schulz - "Sklepy cynamonowe"

The Golden Snare

J >> James Oliver Curwood >> The Golden Snare




And then he heard Anderson's voice:

"They're behind the ridge. We got eight of them."

In half a dozen places Philip had seen where bullets had bored the
way through the cabin, and leaning his gun against the wall, he
sprang to Celie and almost carried her behind the bunk that was
built against the logs.

"You must stay here," he cried. "Do you understand! HERE!"

She nodded, and smiled. It was a wonderful smile--a flash of
tenderness telling him that she knew what he was saying, and that
she would obey him. She made no effort to detain him with her
hands, but in that moment--if life had been the forfeit--Philip
would have stolen the precious time in which to take her in his
arms. For a space he held her close to him, his lips crushed to
hers, and faced the wall again with the throb of her soft breast
still beating against his heart. He noticed Armin standing near
the door, his hand resting on a huge club which, in turn, rested
on the floor. Calmly he was waiting for the final rush. Olaf was
peering through the gun-hole again. And then came what he had
expected--a rattle of fire from the snow-ridge. The PIT-PIT-PIT of
bullets rained against the cabin in a dull tattoo. Through the
door came a bullet, sending a splinter close to Armin's face.
Almost in the same instant a second followed it, and a third came
through the crevice so close to Philip that he felt the hissing
breath of it in his face. One of the dogs emitted a wailing howl
and flopped among its comrades in uncanny convulsions.

Olaf staggered back, and faced Philip. There was no trace of the
fighting grin in his face now. It was set like an iron mask.

"GET DOWN!" he shouted. "Do you hear, GET DOWN!" He dropped on his
knees, crying out the warning to Armin in the other's language.
"They've got enough guns to make a sieve of this kennel if their
ammunition holds out--and the lower logs are heaviest. Flatten
yourself out until they stop firing, with your feet toward 'em,
like this," and he stretched himself out on the floor, parallel
with the direction of fire.

In place of following the Swede's example Philip ran to Celie.
Half way a bullet almost got him, flipping the collar of his
shirt. He dropped beside her and gathered her up completely in his
arms, with his own body between her and the fire. A moment later
he thanked God for the protection of the bunk. He heard the
ripping of a bullet through the saplings and caught distinctly the
thud of it as the spent lead dropped to the floor. Celie's head
was close on his breast, her eyes were on his face, her soft lips
so near he could feel their breath. He kissed her, unbelieving
even then that the end was near for her. It was monstrous--
impossible. Lead was finding its way into the cabin like
raindrops. He heard the Swede's voice again, crying thickly from
the floor:

"Hug below the lower log. You've got eight inches. If you rise
above that they'll get you." He repeated the warning to Armin.

As if to emphasize his words there came a howl of agony from
another of the dogs.

Still closer Philip held the girl to him. Her hands had crept
convulsively to his neck. He crushed his face down against hers,
and waited. It came to him suddenly that Blake must be reckoning
on this very protection which he was giving Celie. He was gambling
on the chance that while the male defenders of the cabin would be
wounded or killed Celie would be sheltered until the last moment
from their fire. If that was so, the firing would soon cease until
Blake learned results.

Scarcely had he made this guess when the fusillade ended. Instead
of rifle-fire there came a sudden strange howl of voices and Olaf
sprang to his feet. Philip had risen, when the Swede's voice came
to him in a choking cry. Prepared for the rush he had expected,
Olaf was making an observation through the gun-crevice. Suddenly,
without turning his head, he yelled back at them:

"Good God--it's Bram--Bram Johnson!"

Even Celie realized the thrilling import of the Swede's excited
words. BRAM JOHNSON! She was only a step behind Philip when he
reached the wall. With him she looked out. Out of that finger of
forest they were coming--Bram and his wolves! The pack was free,
spreading out fan-shape, coming like the wind! Behind them was
Bram--a wild and monstrous figure against the whiteness of the
plain, bearing in his hand a giant club. His yell came to them. It
rose above all other sound, like the cry of a great beast. The
wolves came faster, and then--

The truth fell upon those in the cabin with a suddenness that
stopped the beating of their hearts.

Bram Johnson and his wolves were attacking the Eskimos!

From the thrilling spectacle of the giant mad-man charging over
the plain behind his ravenous beasts Philip shifted his amazed
gaze to the Eskimos. They were no longer concealing themselves.
Palsied by a strange terror, they were staring at the onrushing
horde and the shrieking wolf-man. In those first appalling moments
of horror and stupefaction not a gun was raised or a shot fired.
Then there rose from the ranks of the Kogmollocks a strange and
terrible cry, and in another moment the plain between the forest
and the snow-ridge was alive with fleeing creatures in whose heavy
brains surged the monstrous thought that they were attacked not by
man and beast, but by devils. And in that same moment it seemed
that Bram Johnson and his wolves were among them. From man to man
the beasts leapt, driven on by the shrieking voice of their
master; and now Philip saw the giant mad-man overtake one after
another of the running figures, and saw the crushing force of his
club as it fell. Celie swayed back from the wall and stood with
her hands to her face. The Swede sprang past her, flung back the
bar to the door, and opened it. Philip was a step behind him. Prom
the front of the cabin they began firing, and man after man
crumpled down under their shots. If Bram and his wolves sensed the
shooting in the ferocity of their blood-lust they paid no more
attention to it than to the cries for mercy that rose chokingly
out of the throats of their enemies. In another sixty seconds the
visible part of it was over. The last of the Kogmollocks
disappeared into the edge of the forest. After them went the wolf-
man and his pack.

Philip faced his companion. His gun was hot--and empty. The old
grin was in Olaf's face. In spite of it he shuddered.

"We won't follow," he said. "Bram and his wolves will attend to
the trimmings, and he'll come back when the job is finished.
Meanwhile we'll get a little start for home, eh? I'm tired of this
cabin. Forty days and nights--UGH! it was HELL. Have you a spare
pipeful of tobacco, Phil? If you have--let's see, where did I
leave off in that story about Princess Celie and the Duke of
Rugni?"

"The--the--WHAT?"

"Your tobaeco, Phil!"

In a dazed fashion Philip handed his tobacco pouch to the Swede.

"You said--Princess Celie--the Duke of Rugni--"

Olaf nodded as he stuffed his pipe bowl.

"That's it. Armin is the Duke of Rugni, whatever Rugni is. He was
chased off to Siberia a good many years ago, when Celie was a kid,
that somebody else could get hold of the Dukedom. Understand?
Millions in it, I suppose. He says some of Rasputin's old friends
were behind it, and that for a long time he was kept in the
dungeons of the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, with the Neva
River running over his head. The friends he had, most of them in
exile or chased out of the country, thought he was dead, and some
of these friends were caring for Celie. Just after Rasputin was
killed, and before the Revolution broke out, they learned Armin
was alive and dying by inches somewhere up on the Siberian coast.
Celie's mother was Danish--died almost before Celie could
remember; but some of her relatives and a bunch of Russian exiles
in London framed up a scheme to get Armin back, chartered a ship,
sailed with Celie on board, and--"

Olaf paused to light his pipe.

"And they found the Duke," he added. "They escaped with him before
they learned of the Revolution, or Armin could have gone home with
the rest of the Siberian exiles and claimed his rights. For a lot
of reasons they put him aboard an American whaler, and the whaler
missed its plans by getting stuck in the ice for the winter up in
Coronation Gulf. After that they started out with dogs and sledge
and guides. There's a lot more, but that's the meat of it, Phil.
I'm going to leave it to you to learn Celie's language and get the
details first-hand from her. But she's a right enough princess,
old man. And her Dad's a duke. It's up to you to Americanize 'em.
Eh, what's that?"

Celie had come from the cabin and was standing at Philip's side,
looking up into his face, and the light which Olaf saw unhidden in
her eyes made him laugh softly:

"And you've got the job half done, Phil. The Duke may go back and
raise the devil with the people who put him in cold storage, but
Lady Celie is going to like America. Yessir, she's going to like
it better'n any other place on the face of the earth!"

It was late that afternoon, traveling slowly southward over the
trail of the Coppermine, when they heard far behind them the
wailing cry of Bram Johnson's wolves. The sound came only once,
like the swelling surge of a sudden sweep of wind, yet when they
camped at the beginning of darkness Philip was confident the
madman and his pack were close behind them. Utter exhaustion
blotted out the hours for Celie and himself, while Olaf, buried in
two heavy Eskimo coats he had foraged from the field of battle,
sat on guard through the night. Twice in the stillness of his long
vigil he heard strange cries. Once it was the cry of a beast. The
second time it was that of a man.

The second day, with dogs refreshed, they traveled faster, and it
was this night that they camped in the edge of timber and built a
huge fire. It was such a fire as illumined the space about them
for fifty paces or more, and it was into this light that Bram
Johnson stalked, so suddenly and so noiselessly that a sharp
little cry sprang from Celie's lips, and Olaf and Philip and the
Duke of Rugni stared in wide-eyed amazement. In his right hand the
wolf-man bore a strange object. It was an Eskimo coat, tied into
the form of a bag, and in the bottom of this improvision was a
lump half the size of a water pail. Bram seemed oblivious of all
presence but that of Celie. His eyes were on her alone as he
advanced and with a weird sound in his throat deposited the bundle
at her feet. In another moment he was gone. The Swede rose slowly
from where he was sitting, and speaking casually to Celie, took
the wolf-man's gift up in his hands. Philip observed the strange
look in his face as he turned his back to Celie in the firelight
and opened the bag sufficiently to get a look inside. Then he
walked out into the darkness, and a moment later returned without
the bundle, and with a laugh apologized to Celie for his action.

"No need of telling her what it was," he said to Philip then. "I
explained that it was foul meat Bram had brought in as a present.
As a matter of fact it was Blake's head. You know the Kogmollocks
have a pretty habit of pleasing a friend by presenting him with
the head of a dead enemy. Nice little package for her to have
opened, eh?"

After all, there are some very strange happenings in life, and the
adventurers of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police come upon their
share. The case of Bram Johnson, the mad wolf-man of the Upper
Country, happened to be one of them, and filed away in the
archives of the Department is a big envelope filled with official
and personal documents, signed and sworn to by various people.
There is, for instance, the brief and straightforward deposition
of Corporal Olaf Anderson, of the Fort Churchill Division, and
there is the longer and more detailed testimony of Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Raine and the Duke of Rugni; and attached to these
depositions is a copy of an official decision pardoning Bram
Johnson and making of him a ward of the great Dominion instead of
a criminal. He is no longer hunted. "Let Bram Johnson alone" is
the word that had gone forth to the man-hunters of the Service. It
is a wise and human judgment. Bram's country is big and wild. And
he and his wolves still hunt there under the light of the moon and
the stars.

THE END

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