Rouletta laid a cold hand upon the shivering, distracted creature before her. Sternly she said:
"I believe you know who committed that murder. You act as if you did."
"I'm a g-good guesser, but—I can keep my mouth shut. I know when I'm well off. That's more than the Count knew."
"And you probably know something about his robbery, too. I mean that gold-sack—"
Laure cast off the hand that rested upon her; she looked up quickly. "If I did, d'you think I'd tell you? Well, hardly. But I don't. I don't know anything, except that—Pierce is a thief. He stole and gave me the money. He did that regularly, and that's more than he'd do for you. You may as well know the truth. Cavendish knows it. You think he's too good for me, don't you? Well, he isn't. And you're no better than I am, either, for that matter. You've got a nerve to put on airs. God! How I hate you and your superior ways."
"Never mind me. I want to know who killed Count Courteau."
"All right. Wait till Rock comes back and ask him. He thinks he'll find out, but—we'll see. Joe McCaskey'll be over the Line and away, thank Heaven! If anything happens and they should overtake him—well, he'll fight. He'll never come in alive, never." Turning, the speaker stumbled toward the lights of the saloon, and as she went Rouletta heard her mutter again: "He'll never come in alive, never. Thank God for that!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
From Dawson City the Yukon flows in a northwesterly direction toward the International Boundary, and although the camp is scarcely more than fifty miles due east of American territory, by the river it is ninety. Since the Yukon is the main artery of travel, both winter and summer—there being no roads or trails—it behooved those malefactors who fled the wrath of the Northwest Mounted Police to obtain a liberal start, for ninety miles of dead flat going is no easy run and the Police teams were fleet of foot. Time was when evil-doers had undertaken to escape up-river, or to lose themselves in the hills to the northward, but this was a desperate adventure at best and had issued in such uniform disaster as to discourage its practice. The Police had won the reputation of never leaving a trail, and, in consequence, none but madmen longer risked anything except a dash for American soil, and even then only with a substantial margin of time in their favor.
But the winter winds are moody, the temper of the Arctic is uncertain, hence luck played a large part in these enterprises. Both Rock and Doret were sufficiently familiar with the hazards and the disappointments of travel at this time of year to feel extremely doubtful of overhauling the two McCaskeys, and so they were by no means sanguine of success as they drove headlong into the night.