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Fur Pirates. A. M. Chisholm
Читать онлайн.Название Fur Pirates
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4064066422851
Автор произведения A. M. Chisholm
Жанр Документальная литература
Издательство Bookwire
"Ye may weel say that," McClintock nodded. "Siccan an enterprise was never undertaken before or since, to my knowledge. There are reasons why I shouldna tell ye the names of the posts. But they came in at the heel of the winter, overland, and held up one post after another, looted them of their best furs, and went on to the next. As luck would have it that winter's catch of fur was far above the ordinar' in quantity and quality. It was a good year—the best I remember. They took a fortune in skins from those posts, as prices went then. At present-day values the total would be something ye'd scarce credit.
"Now, at the last post they raided was that same factor, Black Donald Murdoch, that Nitche had shot on the Churchill. Nitche may have known that or he may not. They took the post, but they had to fight hard. In the fighting men were killed on either side, and among them was Murdoch. Nitche McNab scalped him."
"He must have been a good hater," Dunleath commented.
"Aye, I grant him that—an' it's na so bad a point," McClintock admitted grudgingly. "Weel, then, having taken this last post, they tried to get away with their plunder. But the men of the looted posts had combined and were after them. And that year, because of an early spring, the brigades came in earlier than usual. So that though the robbers had smashed all the canoes they could find except what they took for themselves, they found a force on their trail which was too large for them to fight. They were headed, and had to turn north, up the Reindeer and the Brulé, and heavily loaded with plunder as they were, they could not travel fast enough to escape."
"Do you mean they were captured?" Dunleath asked anxiously.
"I didna say that, young man. What I have told ye so far is fact. The rest is supposeetion and rumor. It is said that Nitche and his men quarreled. When they found themselves hard pressed, Nitche was for makin' one cache of the plunder, and the others wished to divide it, break up the party, and each take his chance. In the end Nitche had his way. They cached the furs, and broke up, some overland and some by canoe, so that it was like lookin' for needles in a haystack. Of the lot only two men were caught, and the tale of these is what I have told you."
"But did they tell where the cache was?"
"Oh, aye, they told where it was. I'll no' say they volunteered the information, but they yielded to persuasion. But the cache had been lifted. There was not much as a rat skin left. And from that day to this the company has never seen or heard of its stolen furs."
"What is the theory?" Dunleath asked.
"Naturally that some of the thieves doubled back and lifted it. Still, the company could never find that these skins had been offered for sale. Very strange that. But the result is the same so far as the company is concerned."
"And what became of Nitche McNab?"
"Nobody knows. Pairsonally I have little doubt that it was Nitche lifted the cache. He was like a fox for cunning, and he would know that if any of his men were captured the secret would not be safe. And, as I say, they had quarreled. He would not trust them. Takin' one thing with another, it seems likely that having lifted the cache he perished by some mischance, and the secret of the furs with him."
"So that the furs are still where he cached them?"
"Aye, pro-bably."
"Would they be worth anything now?"
"That'll depen'. Furs will keep indefinitely if dry and free from insects. It's like he would cache them well."
"And you say they were very valuable?"
"Accordin' to the men who bought them and the company's books. It was a rare year. The pack was like that of a hundred years gone, when the country was new. There were many black fox, and marten big and black as tomcats, and even sea otter traded in somehow from the far-coast Indians. Oh, aye, it was a verra serious loss to the company." And old McClintock shook his head sadly.
That night I dreamed of furs. In the morning, when McClintock had gone, sitting in state in his big canoe, with its six paddles, and the smoke from his clay pipe floating out astern like a steamer's, Jim Dunleath turned to Uncle Fred.
"I'm going after those furs," he said, "and I want Bob. Half of what we find belongs to him, of course. Can you spare him for the rest of the summer?"
"I guess so," my uncle replied. "But it's a long way to those lakes, and he can't guide you. You'd never get there yourselves. And if you did, and found the furs, you couldn't bring out more than a fraction of them."
"I know that," Dunleath replied. "I'm going to get a proper outfit of men and canoes. The deuce of it is"—he hesitated for a moment—"well, the cold fact is, I haven't got the money."
"Neither have I," said my uncle bluntly, "if that is what you mean."
"No, I didn't mean that. I can get the money, but it will take a little time. I'll have to go to Neepaw and wire, and I want to start to-morrow."
"Well," said my uncle, with a twinkle in his eye, "if you can coax Bob away from his work on the ranch he may go with you."
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