The Wilderness Trail. Francis William Sullivan

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      Francis William Sullivan

      The Wilderness Trail

      Published by

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      2017 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-2035-9

      Table of Contents

       Chapter I. Up for Judgment

       Chapter II. Ill Report

       Chapter III. A Mysterious Message

       Chapter IV. Into the Danger Zone

       Chapter V. Death Trail

       Chapter VI. The Last Stand

       Chapter VII. Jean Puts It Up to Her Father

       Chapter VIII. The Alarm

       Chapter IX. The Broken Pipe

       Chapter X. The Escape

       Chapter XI. A Hot Scent

       Chapter XII. Maria Takes Action

       Chapter XIII. A Rescue and a Surprise

       Chapter XIV. A Frigid Idyl

       Chapter XV. Prey of the Pack

       Chapter XVI. Fearful Disclosures

       Chapter XVII. The Companion of Many Trails

       Chapter XVIII. In New Clutches

       Chapter XIX. A Forced March

       Chapter XX. Awaiting the Hangman

       Chapter XXI. A Note and Its Answer

       Chapter XXII. Secreted Evidence

       Chapter XXIII. The Brothers

       Chapter XXIV. Nine Points of the Law

       Chapter XXV. Against Fearful Odds

       Chapter XXVI. Renunciation

      Chapter I.

       Up for Judgment

       Table of Contents

      “And you accuse me of that?”

      Donald McTavish glared down into the heavy, ugly face of his superior—a face that concealed behind its mask of dignity emotions as potent and lasting as the northland that bred them.

      “I accuse you of nothing.” Fitzpatrick pawed his white beard. “I only know that a great quantity of valuable furs, trapped in your district, have not been turned in to me here at the factory. It is to explain this discrepancy that I have called you down by dogs in the dead of winter. Where are those furs?” He looked up out of the great chair in which he was sitting, and regarded his inferior with cold insolence. For half an hour now, the interview had been in progress, half an hour of shame and dismay for McTavish, and the same amount of satisfaction for the factor.

      “I tell you I have no idea where they are,” returned the post captain. “So far as I know, the usual number of pelts have been traded for at the fort. If any have disappeared, it is a matter of the white trappers and the Indians, not my affair.”

      “Yes,” agreed the other suavely; “but who is in charge of Fort Dickey?”

      “I am.”

      “Then, how can you say it is not your affair when the Company is losing twenty thousand pounds a year from your district?”

      The young man ground his teeth helplessly, torn between the desire to throttle ugly old Fitzpatrick where he sat, or to turn on his heel, and walk out without another word. He did neither. Either would have been disastrous, as he well knew. He had not come up three years with the spring brigade from the Dickey and Lake Bolsover without knowing the autocratic, almost royal, rule of old Angus. Fitzpatrick, factor at Fort Severn for these two decades.

      So, now, he choked back his wrath, and walked quietly up and down, pondering what to do. The room was square, low, and heavily raftered. Donald had to duck his head for one particular beam at each passage back and forth. Beneath his feet were great bearskins in profusion; a moose's head decorated one end of the place. The furniture was heavy and home-made.

      At last, he turned upon the factor.

      “Look here!” he said simply. “What have you got against me? You know as well as I do that there isn't another man in your whole district you would call in from a winter post to accuse in this way. What have I done? How have I failed in my duty? Have I taken advantage of my position as the chief commissioner's son?”

      Fitzpatrick pawed his beard again, and shot a sharp, inquisitive glance at the young captain. That mention of his father's position was slightly untoward. In turn, he pondered a minute.

      “Up to this time,” he said at last, “you have done your work well. You know the business pretty thoroughly, and your Indians seem to be contented. I have nothing against you—”

      “No,” burst out McTavish, “you have nothing against me. That's just it. Virtues with you are always negative; never have I heard you grant a positive quality in all the time I have known you. And, to be frank, I think that you have something against me. But what it is I cannot find out.” He paused eloquently before the white-haired figure that seemed as immovable as a block of granite.

      “This is hardly the time for personalities, McTavish,” said the other, harshly. “What I want to know is, what