Ghost Hills

H. Bedford-Jones

Description

Up in the frozen north of Canada … an old secret and a lovely woman … and three men: Barr Radison, an American adventurer, searching for the mysterious source of black and silver fox pelts, Macferris Montenay, a ruthless giant of a man, trying to carve out his own kingdom in the wilderness, and Jean Nichemus, a halfbreed and Montenay’s henchman, harboring his own sinister plans. Part of the uniform H. Bedford-Jones Library.

Sujets

• Adventure fiction
• Historical fiction
• Pulp Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Altus Press
• Date de parution: 16 décembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9788835346807
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Ghost Hills
by
H. Bedford-Jones

Altus Press • 2017
Copyright Information

© 2017 Altus Press

Publication History:
“Ghost Hills” originally appeared in the July 26–August 16, 1913 issues of The Cavalier magazine (Vol. 31, No. 2–Vol. 32, No. 1).

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by Matthew Moring/ Altus Press

Special Thanks to Gerd Pircher
Chapter I
Montenay’s Luck

“DONE, Take-a-chance!”
“Huh?”
“Last letter’s done, and I’m ready.”
“Time you were. Been writing all afternoon. Come on.”
“What are all these breeds around for this morning? Isn’t that unusual this time of year? Anything doing?”
“Sure—lots. They weren’t breeds, but pure-bloods. That’s what I’ve been after you to break away for. Hold still, Rad—listen!”
The two figures paused in the shelter of the stockade, beside an ancient little cannon on its crumbling carriage near the flagstaff. Above them flared and danced the lights in uncouth streamers and bands from horizon to horizon, and around lay the clay-plastered log buildings of Fort Tenacity, silent on the snow.
Despite the huge furs that enveloped both figures, their faces stood out clear-cut against the sky, distinct in the weird shadow-light. The one was raw-boned, gaunt with the trail, strong hewed of brow and nose and mouth, for Tom Macklin, or “Take-a-chance Macklin,” as he was known from the Mackenzie to the bay, was a son of the lights by breed and birth and choice.
The other was finer-featured, save for his nose, which lent the suggestion of an eagle as he leaned forward, listening. But for the eyes, his face was not distinctive. The mouth was a trifle too firmly set, perhaps; the chin a trifle too short, but the level brown eyes blazed out with a strange tensity as if the owner sought something that lay far out of ken over the horizon.
Even so had Barr Radison sought, for the better part of his life. Blessed with money, he was cursed with the ancient curse of the wanderlust. Ever had he sought the thing undreamed of—the thing that had no name, and ever had he found that beyond the far skyline lay a new horizon, empty. The two men had met in Winnipeg ten weeks before, and Radison had looked Macklin in the eye for a long moment.
“Take me north, will you?” he had asked simply.
“Sure. I’ll take a chance on your looks. Stick around—something may turn up.”
The “something” had turned up. It had taken them north and northeast; it had drawn them west and then north again, until finally it had brought them to Fort Tenacity. And beyond Tenacity there was nothing.
Beyond Tenacity the breed trappers were not. Beyond Tenacity were Cree and Chipewa, with red snow between. Behind Tenacity lay white snow and the trail of the packet, traveled twice a year, for where the mail comes there must be no red snow.
In the north the mail is the law, relentless, irrevocable, unbreakable. Men are little things, and the mail is the greatest thing, for so the white man has ordained. But beyond Tenacity there was none to ordain.
“Hurry up—it’s blamed cold out here!” exclaimed the American after a moment. Both men were staring at a log building next the store, which gleamed dull light through its one window. It was the largest building in the post, where canoes and dog-sleds were stored at other times.
“Hold on,” rejoined Macklin stolidly. “Take a chance on hearing something—there he goes! Lord, what a man—stark drunk at that!”
From the building, which had a moment since echoed a raspy fiddle-squeak, rose a single resonant, liquor-charged bass voice. It was not singing; rather, it was intoning in a most monotonous and sing-song manner, as if it had been caught unawares by the stoppage of the Red River Jig.
… and he who will this toast deny:
Down among the dead men,
Down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down—
Down among the dead men
Let him lie!
Radison grunted as the voice died out. “Pity but he’d learn the tune—it’s a heap better than the words! By thunder, I’ll take a shy at it just to show him how!”
Without warning he raised his voice, unheeding the quickly protesting hand of Macklin. He lilted out the swinging chorus of the old buccaneer song in a rough but virile barytone that exactly suited the words and air, until the stockade walls echoed it back again.
As he swung down to the last low note there came a roar from the big shack ahead, the door was flung wide, and out into the yellow-lit space stumbled a giant figure that seemed to blink around in questioning.
“Darn your imperious nose!” growled Macklin. “Now you’ve done it. Come along and see if McShayne can quiet him.”
A moment later they stood within the area of light from the open door. Before them was a big man with flaring black beard and unkempt hair, opening and closing his huge fists as he swayed unsteadily. He glared at them, unmindful of the bitter cold, and a growl of words issued from the tangle of beard.
“An’ who may you be, spoilin’ my luck? D’ye know who King Mont—”
Another figure darkened the doorway and broke in with a keen, curt voice of authority.
“Montenay, come inside, you fool! Do you want to freeze? What cheer, Macklin! I’ve been looking for you. Hurry up, Montenay!”
Without a word of protest the giant turned and lurched inside. Radison guessed that he stood about six feet five, while his long, gorillalike arms swung almost to his knees.
As Barr Radison and Macklin stepped inside, the man at the door slammed it shut, and they threw off their heavy furs. The Canadian, used to similar scenes all his life, kept an attentive eye on the mumbling giant; but the tall American was frankly interested in the people surrounding him.
This was the last day of a wedding. In the big shack donated by the factor for the purpose were crowded the families of the Cree couple, who had evidently come in from their winter grounds with this express object. Two days earlier the missionary had done his work, which was the least part of the wedding in Cree eyes.
After the feast had come the dance, kept up with ever fresh vigor by fiddle and ancient concertina with every variety of known tune, from the Saskatchewan Circle to the Reel of Eight and back again. The few whites who took part out of politeness had long since given up the struggle, but the Crees were tireless. Order was preserved by McShayne, an ex-corporal of the Mounted, now in the company’s service. In the corner beside him stood Montenay, glowering and growling.
Now there came a pause in the festivities, every one watching the newcomers, for Radison had got in only the night before, and had seen few about the post save the factor and McShayne.
In that first moment the tall American with the wide shoulders and prominent nose caused a whisper of “Moosewa!” and a laugh that rippled through the chunky squaws, but he did not hear this.
For him the squalid shack held only high romance, the lure of a strange land and a strange people, and as his keen, brown eyes met those of the Crees he smiled in sheer joy.
But there was etiquette to be observed, and Radison had small chance to stare around him. McShayne seized his arm and turned him toward the bearded giant, for where dark men are there white men come always first.
“Shake hands with Barr Radison, Macferris Montenay. Radison’s from the States, and came in last night with Macklin, here.”
The cool, incisive tones of McShayne seemed to strike the giant into an amazed civility. He stuck out one hairy paw, then Radison felt the black eyes fixed on him in a peculiar glare, whether of liking or hate it was hard to determine.
“Radisson?” growled Montenay with a nasal twang. “Radisson? Sure, I’m not as far gone as that! Was it Radisson you said?”
“No,” laughed Barr. “Radison—pure American, Montenay, and not French.”
A puzzled look swept into the giant’s face, and now Radison saw that he wore a belt that seemed made of bead-work, yet he had never seen such beads before. They were of a pure, lustrous white, interspersed with odd figures in red, lacked the usual backing of buckskin, and the whole affair was peculiar to Radison’s eyes.
“But, man, ye spoiled my luck!” Montenay was looking down at him, an evil flame dancing in the bloodshot eyes. Macklin broke in at this instant, however, Montenay seemed to forget his thought, and Radison dismissed the whole matter as a drunken vagary. McShayne introduced him to the company in general, and to the bride’s father in particular, and instantly all thought of Montenay dropped out of Radison’s mind.
Uchichak, or the Crane, was a man of strength. From the narrow, almost Mongolian eyes to the vigorous mouth and firm chin, every line of his face bespoke crafty virility and power. His blanket capote was thrown open, but Radison saw that it was richly decorated in bead and quill work. The wiry black hair fell in a tufted strand on either side of his brown, sinewy neck.
As the American shook hands and met the steady, keen gaze of the searching eyes he felt that Uchichak was one of the real Indians of days gone by, and to his surprise the chief spoke in almost flawless English.
“Welcome, man with strong eyes! You have brought gifts?”
To Radison’s relief Macklin pushed forward and held out packages of tea and tobacco. The Crane accepted them with stolid dignity, as befitted the tribute to his superior qualities from these white men.
“Nothing slow about him,” thought Radison with a chuckle. “He’s as different from most of these low-browed Crees as day is from night.”
Uchichak waved