"And detail me to serve it?" La Marr's question had that breathless interrogation point of secret self-accusation.
To Seymour's thin lips came that whimsical smile which transformed his whole expression, despite its blanket of beard. To a student of expression, this would have shown the tenderness of a woman to be concealed beneath the life-hardened mask. His grimness melted like snow beneath the caress of a Chinook wind; yet warning remained that this gentleness was not open to imposition.
"Right-o, Charlie," he promised. "I've made mistakes in my day and been thankful for the chance to rectify them. You're nominated to bring in whoever is named in the warrant after the inquest. Let's go."
He put on a pea-jacket, on the sleeves of which the stripes of his rank stood out in deep yellow. On a thatch of towsled, brownish hair he settled the fur cap proscribed in the regulations for winter wear.
Outside they first attended the disposal of the sled. Without telling the post's native hostler the grim nature of their load, they saw it placed in a shed which had the temperature of a morgue.
Adjoining the police buildings on the south was the establishment of the Arctic Trading Company, Ltd. This was a low but substantially built structure of timber and stone, also facing the frozen river. The "Mounties" entered the storm door which gave upon the factor's quarters, with the intention of divorcing Harry Karmack from his book and pipe long enough to accompany them to the scene of the local crime.
"Dear eyes, but it's glad to see you home again, Serg.," was the trader's greeting, as he arose from his chair beside an "airtight burner" and extended his hand for a hearty grip. "Things have come to a pretty pass in the territories when the 'Skims get to biting the hands that are feeding them."
Seymour met this comment with a grave nod. Like others of the Force on Arctic detail, he was surprised at what approached an epidemic of murderous violence among their Eskimo charges, in general a kindly and docile people.
A prepossessing individual was Harry Karmack, not at all the typical trader. He was dark, from a strain of French blood in his Canadian make-up, with laughing eyes and a handsome mouth. As he seldom took the winter trail, he shaved daily "so as not to let the howling North get the better of me," as he liked to put it. His smooth cheeks contrasted sharply with the bearded ones of the officers, their growth cultivated for protection on the snow patrols. Generally Karmack wore tweeds over his powerful frame and a bright tie beneath the collar of his flannel shirt. At that, he was a seasoned sour-dough and a sharp trader, respected and feared by the natives.
"What do you think's got into the blood of the breed all of a sudden?" he asked.