Page:The trail of the golden horn.djvu/24

20 looked after the baby. Closing the cabin door, and turning his back upon the river, he headed for the uplands. Although he had no watch, yet he knew that it was past mid-day. The afternoon would be all too short, so he must make the most of it. Kynox was over thirty miles away, and a hard trail lay between. Under ordinary circumstances he could make the journey by a long day’s march. But now he would be forced to travel slower and more carefully, and to halt at times to feed the child.

Hugo made his way along the trail down which he had sped a few hours before. Reaching the brow of the hill, he paused and looked back upon the cabin. It had a new meaning to him now. How grim and desolate it seemed. It was a building stained with human blood. Never again would it breathe forth its warm and inviting welcome to weary travellers. Soon word of the tragedy would be noised abroad. It would pass from man to man. In towns and villages, in miners’ shacks, in Indian lodges, in wood-cutters’ cabins, and in most remote recesses it would penetrate, to be discussed with burning indignation and heart-thrilling interest. The Mounted Police would arouse to swift and terrible action. They would throw out their nets; they would scour the trails; they would compass the world, if necessary, to bring the criminals to justice. They had done it before; they would do it again. No one yet had escaped their long and overwhelming grip.

And what of the little cabin? It would be shunned, looked upon with dread, a haunted abode. Oh, yes, Hugo was well aware how it would be. He knew of several such places scattered over the country, once the centres of life and activity, but now abandoned by the foot of man, white and Indian alike.