SETTING THE FOX TRAPS
After turning over the prisoner to Inspector McKeever, Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe accompanied the men from Fort Norman back to the Indian village where they found that the party of hunters had succeeded in locating the caribou herd and had made a big kill, so that it had been unnecessary for the men to use any of the cached meat.
Preparation was at once started by the entire population to accompany McTavish back to the post for the mid-winter trading. In the Indian's leisurely method of doing things these preparations would take three or four days, so Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who seemed to be a sort of chief among them, dispatched some of his young men to haul in all the meat that the two partners had cached. Meanwhile, leaving Mr. Squigg at the village in the care of McTavish, Connie piloted Inspector McKeever to the little cabin of the free traders. For McKeever had known Black Moran over on the Yukon, and had spent much time in trying to run him down in the days before his reported drowning, and he desired to make absolutely sure of his ground before turning in his report upon the death of so notorious a character.
Connie had placed the man's body in the cabin, and as the two pushed open the door Dan McKeever stepped forward and raised the blanket with which the boy had covered it. The big officer stooped and peered into the face of the dead man. Finally, he rose to his feet with a nod: "Yes, that's Black Moran, all right. But, gosh, son! If I'd know'd it was him that you was up against over here, I wouldn't have been so easy in my mind. You sure done a big thing for the North when you got him."
"I didn't get him, Dan. It was Leloo that got him—look there!"
McKeever stooped again and breaking back the blood-soaked clothing examined the long deep gash that extended from the man's lower ribs to the point of his hip. Then he turned and eyed Leloo who stood looking on with blazing eyes, his great silver ruff a-quiver. "Some dog!" he exclaimed. "Or is he a dog? Look at them eyes—part dog, part wolf, an' mostly devil, I'd say. Look out, son, if he ever goes wrong. Black Moran looks like he'd be'n gashed with a butcher's cleaver! But, at that, you can't lay all the credit on the dog. He done his share all right, but the head work—figurin' out jest what Black Moran would do, an' jest what the dog would do, an' throwin' that chunk at jest the right second to make 'em do it—that's where the brains an' the nerve comes in——"
"It was mostly luck," interrupted Connie.
The big officer grinned. "Uh-huh," he grunted, "but I've noticed that if there's about two hundred per cent brains kind of mixed in with the luck, a man's got a better show of winnin' out in the long run—an' that's what you do."
"What will we do with him?" asked the boy after McKeever had finished photographing the body, and the wolf-dog, and Connie, and such of the surroundings as should be of interest in connection with his report.
"Well, believe me," answered the officer, "I ain't goin' to dig no grave for him in this frozen ground. We'll jest throw a platform together in that clump of trees, an' stick him up Injun fashion. I'd cremate him, like he was goin' to do to you, but he was so doggone tough I don't believe nothin' would burn but his whiskers, an' besides I don't want to burn the cabin. It's got a stove, an' it might save some poor fellow's life sometime."