“What name?” enquired the sergeant sharply.
“Name? That I do not know. We don’t bother with the names of our guests much,” said the factor.
The sergeant nodded. “Quite right, quite right, Mr. MacKinroy. But I am interested in this family. Fine young fellow that. And blind child, eh?”
“And what will you be after, Sergeant?” asked the factor, knowing his man.
“Not much, except that I may say to you, Mr. MacKinroy, that I am of the opinion that I have hit upon something that the commissioner has been asking us to dig up for the past six years.” The sergeant’s deliberate voice and manner were quite impressive.
“And what will you be meaning now, Sergeant?”
“Six years ago a family corresponding in numbers and personnel to your rescued party disappeared from the Windermere Valley, vanished into space, absolutely into thin air—quite unbelievable, but actually did, you know. Head’s all terribly up in the air about it. Reputation of force and all that, you know. Of course, they had a week’s start. Fellow refused to lay information.”
“Now then, Sergeant, if you will tell me what you are discoursing upon I will be obliged, but if not you may as well shut your gab,” said MacKinroy, athirst for news from the outside and annoyed at the sergeant’s scrappy and wholly unsatisfactory account of what offered mystery.
“Oh, I beg pardon, MacKinroy. Forgot you were out of it. The bones of it I’ll give you. Chap, Gaspard by name, rancher, artist, tangled up with Indian girl—Athabascan chief’s daughter—after his wife died went dippy, married Indian girl, brought her back to ranch with two children, both his, youngest blind girl—my clue, see?—neighbor rancher, Sleeman by name, bad lot, hanging round, monkeying round with Indian woman, Gaspard and his son, this young fellow here I fancy, came on the scene, found her fighting off Sleeman, jumped for his gun, the woman grabbed him to prevent murder, in the struggle Gaspard was shot, died; woman goes quite mad, moons round giving out signs of dementia, one night Sleeman’s house goes up in smoke, Sleeman himself pulled out of the fire by one of ours with an ugly knife wound in the ribs, at first charged Indian woman with crime, later refused to make any formal deposition; same night woman and whole bunch vamoose utterly, fade off the landscape, trail lost completely. Of course, every Indian in the North Country sets himself to mix that trail. For two years search actively carried on, then slacked off—Sleeman’s influence, I suspect—but all the same it will be kudos for the man that lands ’em, and I fancy that’s me.”
“Huh! It will be good for you to see Chambers,” said MacKinroy in a doubtful tone.