# Connie Morgan with the Mounted/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
THE TEST
The late evening twilight deepened as Special Constable Connie Morgan, of the Royal North-west Mounted Police, paused upon the edge of a tiny clearing to reconnoitre. Before him a small cabin of mud-chinked logs perched precariously between the steep, rock-studded shoulder of a mountain and the high-water line of a nameless feeder to the upper Stewart River. For a mile the boy had followed a well-defined trail that led from a point on the main river where a crude flatboat lay upon the bank ready for launching. He had expected to find a cabin—but, a cabin with curtains! Three hundred miles from the Yukon, in the very heart of the high outlands! This, he most certainly had not expected to find.
His glance strayed from the cabin to a rude sluice box in the bed of the stream, and back again to the cabin with its single chintz-curtained win​dow. Smoke floated from the chimney, and Connie stepped boldly into the clearing. As he did so, the door opened and a little girl, a tiny tot of five, with bright golden hair, dashed laughing from the cabin, followed closely by a sturdy boy, perhaps a year her senior. Connie stared incredulously at the two children who had stopped short and were regarding him in wide-eyed wonder. He noticed that their eyes were blue and that neither showed the least sign of fear. "She's just like a picture," thought the boy, and smiled broadly at the two tots who stood before him.
"Hello, there!" he called, and then, remembering something long forgotten, he jerked the Stetson from his head and bowed. At the sound of his voice a woman appeared in the doorway. It came over Connie with a rush that she was quite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and that her eyes were blue, like the children's. His keen glance noted the look that came into the woman's eyes as they rested for a moment on his uniform—a look of extreme surprise—almost of fear. But the look passed, and the woman smiled.
Ever since he had ventured alone and friendless into the big North in search of his father, Connie ​Morgan's lot had been cast among men. He knew men—women he did not know. And now, as he looked over the heads of the children into the face of the woman with the blue eyes, he felt, somehow, uncomfortably prominent; his hands and his feet seemed suddenly to have become ungainly things, whose appearance and movements were clumsy and ridiculous. He turned red.
"He—hello! I mean—How are you?" he stammered. And, again remembering his long-forgotten manners, he reached for his Stetson, and was surprised to find that he still held it in his hand. So, in lieu of raising it from his head, he waggled it uncertainly, and tried again:
"Good evening!"
The woman was still smiling. "Good evening," she answered, in a low voice. "Won't you come in?"
"Yes—yes'm—if you don't mind," answered the boy in confusion. "I'm Connie Morgan—Special Constable Morgan, of the Mounted," he confided. The woman nodded and drew back from the door as the boy entered, closely followed by the two children who continued to stare mutely at the visitor.
​"Why, you're just a little boy!" exclaimed the woman when she had lighted the tin bracket-lamp. Again Connie flushed.
"Yes'm; that is, I'm not so awful old."
"And you are out here in these mountains all alone?"
Connie avoided a direct answer. "That's nothing for us fellows. We run the country, you know."
The woman laughed. "But you are such a little fellow! Aren't you afraid?"
"No'm. You've got pretty babies." He nodded shyly toward the golden-haired little girl. "She looks like a calendar."
"Like a what?"
"Like the picture on the calendar the A. C. Company gave out. Didn't you get one?" His glance swept the walls of the room. The woman shook her head.
"We trade on the other side," she said, and suddenly stopped.
"The other side!" exclaimed the boy. "Over on the Mackenzie?" But the woman was noisily rattling pots and pans about the stove and did not answer. The little girl and boy had drawn close. ​and Connie showed them his knife, his service revolver, and his belt of yellow cartridges.
"You don't live here alone, do you?" he asked, as the woman turned from the stove.
"No, my husband is a—a prospector. He will be home presently."
"There isn't much use fooling with a creek like this," the boy said earnestly. "The rock isn't right. He's just wasting his time. He's a chechako, isn't he?"
Again the woman smiled. "Yes," she answered, "he's a chechako. But he has done pretty well, so far."
"That's funny, 'cause the rock isn't right," answered Connie, and noticed that the woman shot him a keen glance as he played with the children.
A few minutes later the door opened and a man entered—and started in surprise as he saw a uniformed officer of the Mounted seated upon the floor industriously fashioning a toy wagon from a bit of board and some spools, while close against either knee, watching his every move, leaned the two children. Connie glanced up, and out of the tail of his eye saw the man and the woman exchange a peculiar glance. The woman spoke:
​"We have a visitor,'* she said. "He is Constable Morgan, of the Mounted; and he is having the best time with the children—he is only a boy himself."
Connie grinned and extended his hand. "Just dropped in to spend the evening," he said.
The man took the hand and nodded. "You're welcome," he answered gruffly. "Hank Dubro's my name—I'm a new settler in these parts."
"Supper is ready!" announced the woman, and Connie noticed that the man carefully lifted the children to their places and saw that his wife was seated before drawing up his own chair. Somehow, in spite of the man's gruffness, the boy liked him for that. When the meal was finished the man lifted the children down and then filled his pipe.
"Where you headin'?" he asked.
"Oh, just on special patrol," answered the boy. "Thought I'd cross over and have a look at the Indians on the head- waters of the Gravel River." Again he was conscious that a swift glance passed between the man and his wife.
"You headed up the wrong creek!" exclaimed the man. "You should have kept on up the Stewart till you struck Little Brown Bear. It's ​the—one—two—three—it's the fourth creek above here. The pass to the Gravel is at the head of it."
Connie nodded. "Thanks, " he said; "but I'm not so far out of my way, and I'm glad I came. It's worth a little extra work just to have a look at these kids."
The man laughed—a laugh of relief, the boy thought. "It sure is!" he agreed. "We just couldn't live without 'em, could we, Alice?"
"No, indeed!" the woman answered. "They're all the company I have when you are away."
"I prospect quite a bit, back in the hills," the man hastened to add. And again Connie nodded. He did not tell the man that he knew all about Little Brown Bear, nor that Sergeant Dan McKeever was even then pushing toward the pass, nor that officers of the Mounted were exploring each of the intervening creeks.
For word had come to B Division that a band of Athapascans who lived beyond the divide were being systematically supplied with liquor. And the fact that N Division was responsible for the Gravel River country but added zest to the work of the men of B.
Connie was not in the least surprised when he ​awoke the following morning to find that Hank Dubro was gone.
"He wanted to get an early start," explained the woman. "He is going away back in the hills."
After breakfast, Connie sauntered down and examined the sluice box. "I thought so," he muttered. "He is no prospector. This is just a blind—and a blamed clumsy one. He couldn't sluice a dump through that thing in a hundred years. There's no cache here, though. I guess I'll be on my way."
He returned to the cabin, thanked the woman for her hospitality, said good-bye to the children, who protested loud and lustily at thus losing their play-fellow, and started down the creek in the direction from which he had come. A few minutes later he crossed to the opposite side, and doubling back, came out on a faint trail well above the cabin. This trail, following the windings of the stream, grew rougher and steeper as it approached the divide. The keen eyes of the boy told him that some one had recently passed that way—and passed hurriedly. And he smiled as he saw, cached in a niche of rock, a light pick and a battered gold-pan—a pick and pan that he had noticed the ​night before reposing behind the door of the prospector's" cabin.
"It's too bad," Connie muttered, "that the woman and kids have got to be mixed up in this. He's a fool to think he can get away with it. We've got him—sure as shooting!" He remembered the peculiar look that had leaped into the woman's eyes at the sight of his uniform and the unguarded admission that they traded on the other side. Remembered, too, that she had said the man "had done pretty well, so far," when any one ought to know that the rock on that creek wasn't right for colour. And, at the thought of the man's sluice box, the boy grinned. "She knows what his game is, all right, and she's trying to shield him. … But, all the same, I wish I didn't know about those kids." He set his lips resolutely. "Duty is duty, though," he muttered, "and it's dirty business selling booze to the Indians." But, try as he would, the picture of a golden-haired little girl and a sturdy, blue-eyed boy kept recurring to his mind as he toiled up the steep trail.
The day was terrifically hot. The season had been an unusually dry one, and the August sun beat down mercilessly as the boy paused for breath ​on the ridge of a high shoulder. On three sides of him rolled a vast panorama of the hills. Jagged, rocky peaks reared their heads like icebergs above the timbered ridges that stretched in endless confusion, like the waves of a wind-tossed sea.
Connie's attention riveted upon a rising column of smoke, several miles to the southward. "A signal fire!" he cried, and then his brows drew together in a frown as a sudden shift in the wind whipped a dense cloud of heavy smoke around the spur of a high butte. "The timber's on fire!" And the next moment, along the lower edge of the smoke cloud, he caught the red glare of the high-flung flames! "The wind's changed! It's coming this way!" he cried. He was conscious of a low, dull roar. It was the angry voice of the fire-fiend! Instantly he cast about for a place of safety. Above him, a quarter of a mile away, a deep rock coulee reached upward, high above the timber-line. He turned and ran. Then suddenly he stopped in his tracks. Before his eyes rose the vision of a little girl with golden hair, and a sturdy, blue-eyed little boy, and the woman who had treated him kindly though she knew he was a police officer. Once more he glanced toward the fire, nearer, now, by ​two or three ridges. The smoke cloud had reached him and cut off his view of the lower hills. Swiftly his brain calculated the chances. He glanced at his watch. Two hours to climb up—I can make it down in half an hour." One glance, he gave, toward the rock coulee that meant safety; and one toward the leaping flames. The roar was loud, now, and incessant, and as he looked, a current of wind whirled the smoke pall upward, and he saw the long line of leaping flames that shot high above the timbered ridges.
A huge brown bear lumbered past, seeking the higher levels.
With set lips he sprang down the steep trail. The acrid smoke stung his eyes and bit into his throat and lungs as he breathed. The trail blurred, but he ran, as if by instinct, following its tortuous windings. In the narrow valley the smoke was not so thick and he breathed easier. It grew dark. He glanced upward. The sky was completely hidden by the dense smoke cloud that rolled and eddied above the ridges. The sun glared dull and red, like a splash of blood. A sickly, yellowish light filtered thinly into the valley, distorting outlines. Connie tore the pack from his shoulders and threw ​it into the bush as he ran. He fancied he could hear the crackle of flames above the hoarse roar of the fire. The smoke thickened until the air of the valley became almost unbreathable, like the air of the ridge he had left. He passed the place where the "prospector" had cached his pick and gold-pan. The cabin was not far, now. He dashed the smoke-stinging tears from his streaming eyes. His breath came in great sobs, and he coughed the smoke from his lungs. Suddenly a great wave of heat all but overpowered him. The mountain that formed the south wall of the valley was a solid mass of fire. The crackling of flames was real, now. It was everywhere. Great flaring sheets detached themselves, and hurtled through the air high above him. Pockets of gas exploded into red flame and tore great rifts in the writhing smoke cloud. The heat was intense. Gasping for air, Connie ran on, the sweat streaming from every pore. His blouse smoked, and he slapped at his shoulder. The flames had leaped the valley and already the north wall was ablaze. Even the scrub of the bottom was burning in places. The boy dashed into the clearing and crossed at a bound to the door of the cabin. ​It was empty! He called loudly. His voice cracked, and he coughed. He breathed more freely; the smoke had not yet penetrated to the interior of the cabin, and the roof sheltered him from the intense heat of the curtain of fire. Tearing a blanket from the bed, he dashed to the creek. It was shallow, and he rolled in the water and saturated his blanket. Then, holding it above his head, he sprang down the trail to the Stewart. The low timber of the valley was blazing on both sides of the trail and steam rose from his soaked clothing and blanket. He rounded a turn and caught a glimpse of the water of the river. The next instant the water was blotted out. A cloud of dense black smoke rolled upon him, and before him appeared the red flare of flames. He was trapped! He turned back. … The whole valley was a mass of fire!
He pulled the blanket close about his head, turned again, and dashed straight into the flames a,t the point where, a moment before, he had sighted the water of the river. The fire bit into his wrists and hands as he gripped tightly his blanket. Only a few more steps, and the boy knew that he must go down. His knees weakened, and he felt dizzy. ​"Not till I have to, though!" he gasped, as he staggered on. "I'll never lie down! When I'm done, I'll fall! And when they find me, they'll know I went the limit.... A man's got to die
Dimly, before him he could see the river. The woman tugged frantically at the heavy scow, and the little boy pushed and pulled in a vain effort to help his mother.
game!" And then—a cool current of air fanned his tortured wrists, he hurled the blazing blanket from his head, and pitched headlong onto the gravel. He was out of the bush! Dimly, before him, he could see the river. Puny and thin, after the mighty roar of the fire, sounded in his ears the cry of a child. Instantly the boy was on his feet, staggering across the gravel bar, upon the outer edge of which he could make out blurred forms. He forgot his own suffering—forgot the pain of his ​blistered wrists, his smarting eyes, his stinging throat and lungs. He knew vaguely that the woman was staring at him as she tugged frantically at the heavy scow—sobbing as she tugged. The little girl cried upon the gravel, and the little boy pushed and pulled, exerting his tiny strength to the utmost in a vain effort to help his mother.
Connie reached the boat and grasped the gun-wale. Instantly the woman gripped his shoulder.
"Your blouse is on fire!" she screamed, and pointed to the water. "Jump in!" And Connie did jump in, and when he came up out of the cold water he felt wonderfully revived.
"Where is he—my husband?" cried the woman, when the boy was again at her side.
"He's all right. He crossed the divide. He was a good three hours ahead of me, and I had almost reached the timber-line."
It was but the work of a few moments, with the aid of a pole lever, to launch the boat. They lifted the children in and pushed off—and just in time! For as the boat swung out into the current, Connie pointed toward the mouth of the creek, and as the woman looked she shuddered. The full force of the fire was roaring down the valley, and from its ​mouth flames shot across the gravel bar to its very edge. The valley had become a veritable furnace.
To the northward the fire roared and crackled, but toward the south-west, where the fast-floating scow was carrying them, nothing was visible upon the left bank but blackened stubs, and grey, smouldering ashes, with the smoke cloud drifting above them.