Philip Steel of the Royal Northwest mounted Police - James Oliver Curwood (13 inch ebook reader .txt) 📗

and the earth seem to meet in a cold gray rim about one; or it might have been a musk-ox or a caribou at a greater distance, but the longer he looked the more convinced he became that it was none of these--but a man. It moved slowly, disappeared for a few minutes in one of the dips of the plain, and came into view again much nearer. This time he made out a man, and behind, a sledge and dogs.
"It's Pierre," he shivered, closing the door and coming back to the stove. "I wonder what the deuce the breed will say when he finds a stranger here and his grub half gone."
After a little he heard the shrill creaking of a sledge on the crust outside and then a man's voice. The sounds stopped close to the cabin and were followed by a knock at the door.
"Come in!" cried Philip, and in the same breath it flashed upon him that it could not be the breed, and that it must be a mighty particular and unusual personage to knock at all.
The door opened and a man came in. He was a little man, and was bundled in a great beaver overcoat and a huge beaver cap that concealed all of his face but his eyes, the tip of his nose, and the frozen end of a beard which stuck out between the laps of his turned-up collar like a horn. For all the world he looked like a diminutive drum-major, and Philip rose speechless, his pipe still in his mouth, as his strange visitor closed the door behind him and approached.
"Beg pardon," said the stranger in a smothered voice, walking as though he were ice to the marrow and afraid of breaking himself. "It's so beastly cold that I have taken the liberty of dropping in to get warm."
"It is cold--beastly cold," replied Philip, emphasizing the word. "It was down to sixty last night. Take off your things."
"Devil of a country--this," shivered the man, unbuttoning his coat. "I'd rather roast of the fever than freeze to death." Philip limped forward to assist him, and the stranger eyed him sharply for a moment.
"Limp not natural," he said quickly, his voice freeing itself at last from the depths of his coat collar. "Bandage a little red, eyes feverish, lips too pale. Sick, or hurt?"
Philip laughed as the little man hopped to the stove and began rubbing his hands.
"Hurt," he said. "If you weren't four hundred miles from nowhere I'd say that you were a doctor."
"So I am," said the other. "Edward Wallace Boffin, M.D., 900 North Wabash Avenue, Chicago."


Chapter XIII. The Great Love Experiment
For a full half minute after the other's words Philip stared in astonishment. Then, with a joyful shout, he suddenly reached out his hand across the stove.
"By thunder," he cried, "you're from home!"
"Home!" exclaimed the other. There was a startled note in his voice. "You're--you're a Chicago man?" he asked, staring strangely at Philip and gripping his hand at the same time.
"Ever hear of Steele--Philip Egbert Steele? I'm his son."
"Good Heavens!" drawled the doctor, gazing still harder at him and pinching the ice from his beard, "what are you doing up here?"
"Prodigal son," grinned Philip. "Waiting for the calf to get good and fat. What are you doing?"
"Making a fool of myself," replied the doctor, looking at the top of the stove and rubbing his hands until his fingers snapped.
At the North Pole, if they had met there, Philip would have known him for a professional man. His heavy woolen suit was tailor made. He wore a collar and a fashionable tie. A lodge signet dangled at his watch chain. He was clean-shaven and his blond Van Dyke beard was immaculately trimmed. Everything about him, from the top of his head to the bottom of his laced boots, shouted profession, even in the Arctic snow. He might have gone farther and guessed that he was a physician--a surgeon, perhaps--from his hands, and from the supple manner in which he twisted his long white fingers about one another over the stove. He was a man of about forty, with a thin sensitive face, strong rather than handsome, and remarkable eyes. They were not large, nor far apart, but were like twin dynamos, reflecting the life of the man within. They were the sort of eyes which Philip had always associated with great mental power.
The doctor had now finished rubbing his hands, and, unbuttoning his under coat, he drew a small silver cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket.
"They're not poison," he smiled, opening it and offering the cigarettes to Philip. "I have them made especially for myself." A sound outside the door made him pause with a lighted match between his fingers. "How about dogs and Indian?" he asked. "May they come in?"
Philip began hobbling toward the door.
"So exciting to meet a man from home that I forgot all about 'em," he exclaimed.
With three or four quick steps the doctor overtook him and caught him by the arm.
"Just a moment," he said quickly. "How far is Fort Smith from here?"
"About sixty miles."
"Do you suppose I could get there without--his assistance?"
"If you're willing to bunk here for a few days--yes," said Philip. "I'm going on to Fort Smith myself as soon as I am able to walk."
An expression of deep relief came into the doctor's eyes.
"That's just what I want, Steele," he exclaimed, unfeignedly delighted at Philip's suggestion. "I'm not well, and I require a little rest. Call him in."
No sooner had the Indian entered than to Philip's astonishment the little doctor began talking rapidly to him in Cree. The guide's eyes lighted up intelligently, and at the end he replied with a single word, nodded, and grinned. Philip noticed that as he talked a slight flush gathered in the doctor's smooth cheeks, and that not only by his voice but by the use of his hands as well he seemed anxious to impress upon his listener the importance of what he was saying.
"He'll start back for Chippewayan this afternoon," he explained to Philip a moment later. "The dogs and sledge are mine, and he says that he can make it easily on snow-shoes." Then he lighted his cigarette and added suggestively, "He can't understand English."
The Indian had caught a glimpse of Philip's belt and holster, and now muttered a few low words, as though he were grumbling at the stove. The doctor poised his cigarette midway to his lips and looked quickly across at Philip.
"Possibly you belong to the Northwest Mounted Police," he suggested.
"Yes."
"Heavens," drawled the doctor again, "and you the son of a millionaire banker! What you doing it for?"
"Fun," answered Philip, half laughing. "And I'm not getting it in sugar-coated pellet form either. Doctor. I came up here to get a man, found him, and was gloriously walloped for my trouble. I'm not particularly sorry, either. Rather glad he got away."
"Why?" asked the doctor.
In spite of their short acquaintance Philip began to feel a sort of comradeship for the man opposite him.
"Well," he said hesitatingly, "you see, he was one of those criminals who are made criminals. Some one else was responsible--a case of one man suffering because of another man's sins."
If the doctor had received the thrust of a pin he could not have jumped from his chair with more startling suddenness than he did at Philip's words.
"That's it!" he cried excitedly, beginning to pace back and forth across the cabin floor. "It's more than a theory--it's a truth--that people suffer more because of other people than on account of themselves. We're born to it and we keep it up, inflicting a thousand pricks and a thousand sorrows to gain one selfish end and it isn't once in a hundred times that the boomerang comes home and strikes the right one down. But when it does--when it does, sir--"
As suddenly as he had begun, the doctor stopped, and he laughed a little unnaturally. "Bosh!" he exclaimed. "Let's see that head of yours, Steele. Speaking of pains and pricks reminds me that, being a surgeon, I may be of some assistance to you."
Philip knew that he had checked himself with an effort, and as his new acquaintance began to loosen the bandage he found himself wondering what mysterious mission could have sent a Chicago surgeon up to Fort Smith. The doctor interrupted his thoughts.
"Queer place for a blow," he said briskly. "Nothing serious--slight abrasion--trifle feverish. We'll set you to rights immediately." He bustled to his greatcoat and from one of the deep pockets drew forth a leather medicine case. "Queer place, queer place," he chuckled, returning with a vial in his hand. "Were you running when it happened?"
Philip laughed with him, and by the time the doctor had finished he had given him an account of his affair with DeBar. Not until hours later, when the Cree had left on his return trip and they sat smoking before a roaring fire after supper, did it occur to him how confidential he had become. Seldom had Philip met a man who impressed him as did the little surgeon. He liked him immensely. He felt that he had known him for years instead of hours, and chatted freely of his adventures and asked a thousand questions about home. He found that the doctor was even better acquainted with his home city than himself, and that he knew many people whom he knew, and lived in a fashionable quarter. He was puzzled even as they talked and laughed and smoked their cigarettes and pipes. The doctor said nothing about himself or his personal affairs, and cleverly changed the conversation whenever it threatened to drift in that direction.
It was late when Philip rose from his chair, suggesting that they go to bed. He laughed frankly across into the other's face.
"Boffin--Boffin--Boffin," he mused.
"Strange I've never heard of you down south, Doctor. Now what the deuce can you be doing up here?"
There was a point-blank challenge in his eyes. The doctor leaned a little toward him, as if about to speak, but caught himself. For several moments his keen eyes gazed squarely into Philip's, and when he broke the silence the same nervous flush that Philip had noticed before rose into his cheeks. to go roughing it down in South America. I believe you're honest--on the square."
Philip stared at him in amazement.
"If I didn't," he went on, rubbing his hands again over the stove, "I'd follow your suggestion, and go to bed. As it is, I'm going to tell you why I'm up here, on your word of honor to maintain secrecy. I've got a selfish end in view, for you may be able to assist me. But nothing must go beyond yourself. What do you say to the condition?"
"I will not break your confidence--unless you have murdered some one," laughed Philip, stooping to light a fresh pipe. "In that event you'd better keep quiet, as I'd have to haul you back to headquarters."
He did not see the deepening of the flush in the other's face.
"Good," said the doctor. "Sit down, Steele. I take it for granted that you will help me--if you can. First I suppose I ought to confess that my name is not Boffin, but McGill--Dudley McGill, professor of neurology and diseases of the brain--"
Philip almost dropped his pipe. "Great Scott, and it was you who wrote--" He stopped, staring in amazement.
"Yes, it was I who wrote Freda, if that's what you refer to," finished the doctor. "It caused a little sensation, as you may know, and nearly got me ousted from the college. But it sold