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CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN Outside
of the few passes in the area, the Richardson Mountains represent a
formidable obstacle ...
Suddenly the dogs began barking and howling, their smoking snouts pointing up the Rat. A team of haggard dogs was being flogged down the river in the moonlight. Quieting their own dogs, the posse gathered in the dark and the cold and waited for the sled to skid into the camp. "That man, he came!" the exhausted musher shouted. The musher was Pete Alexie, a Gwich'n hunter from La Pierre House on the Yukon-side of the mountains. He reported that a hunting party had seen strange snowshoe tracks descending from the mountains. They came within a few miles of the village's three cabins. Staring at the tracks by flashlight before they could be covered by the falling snow, the men of La Pierre House were convinced they matched the descriptions of Johnson's distinctive tracks. They immediately abandoned their traplines and, with their families, fled to the post. In just sixteen hours, Alexie had driven his team of dogs more than 90 miles up and over McDougall Pass and through the blizzard to report the news. Johnson had done the impossible. He'd crossed the highest peaks of the Richardson Mountains in the midst of the raging blizzard. Now he was heading for Alaska. The men were dumbstruck. They'd been pursuing Johnson for six weeks now. For the last thirty-two days Johnson had been living in the open, with the temperature averaging forty degrees below zero. He had no supplies other than what he could carry, no shelter, little or no occasion to shoot game or light fires to melt snow for water or dry his clothes. The whole time he'd been on the run, moving about the canyons and ridges to avoid his pursuers, traveling two miles for every one they managed. He had only his snowshoes, while the men chasing him had fast dogteams and some, such as Gardlund, even skis, not to mention Wop May's plane. It was awesome enough that Johnson had merely survived this long without dying of cold, hunger, thirst, or gunshot. Or that he hadn't simply surrendered. Or killed himself. But to have crossed the mountains, over the highest peaks, in the middle of a blizzard, and journeyed some ninety miles beyond … it was a truly superhuman feat. That next morning Wop May got the Bellanca back in the air. He flew Inspector Eames and Constable Carter, as well as two of the toughest and most devoted of the volunteers, Karl Gardlund and Frank Riddell, into Aklavik with the news. Constable Sid May, Special Constables John Moses and Lazarus Sittichinli, and a handful of volunteers loaded their sleds and raced north up the Rat for McDougall Pass. By the next afternoon, on February 13th, the entire posse was in the Yukon. While the men on the ground were forcing their way across the pass and down through the western-side of the Richardson Mountains, Wop May carried Eames and his party to La Pierre House, flying through the same pass. An ancient trading post, La Pierre House consisted of just three structures near the Bell River. It was so remote that it took four years for supplies and mail to arrive from the Outside. Now Eames found it crowded with fearful Indians. The Inspector immediately began organizing a new posse, borrowing dogs and sleds and guides. Meanwhile Wop May taxied his aircraft up and down the Bell River, plowing a runway through the snow so that he could get in the air again and search for tracks. May soon found Johnson's tracks further down the Bell River. He followed them for twenty miles, through the many twists and turns of the frozen river, until they reached the even-larger Eagle River. The tracks, however, disappeared here among those of a herd of caribou traveling along the same river. It was evident to the pilot that Johnson had taken off his snowshoes to mingle his tracks with those of the herd. May flew back to La Pierre House to report, and to suggest that Eames take a shortcut to reach the Eagle River. It would save them a day, or possibly two, in following Johnson. Eames and his men immediately set out on snowshoes and skis. There was no time to waste. If Johnson made it into Alaska, just a hundred miles away, he would be out of the R.C.M.P.'s jurisdiction. There were few if any radios for thousands of square miles in that direction. Even if Eames could get word to the United States authorities there, Johnson could still conceivably pass through the remote Alaskan villages, as the only Mountie who had seen his face and could describe him was the murdered Edgar Millen. It was possible that Johnson could even keep traveling west through the winter, maybe even crossing into Siberia. On February 14th and 15th it stormed again, grounding Wop May and the Bellanca. But Constable Sid May and the dogsled party finally arrived in La Pierre House. Despite their long, difficult journey over the pass, they instantly set out after Eames and the advance party, catching up with them near the Eagle River. The re-assembled posse continued following Johnson's tracks, and then those of the caribou herd, while combing the sides of the river for any sign that Johnson had veered off into the forest. Occasionally tracks were found. It was evident Johnson was finally tiring, as his prints seemed to weave about like those of a drunken man. They suspected he no longer had any food. For a month now he'd been living largely on the squirrels and other smalls animals he could snare, all the while burning somewhere around 10,000 calories a day traveling in the cold. Such a diet led to what the local Inuit called "rabbit starvation." The small animals provided protein but little or no fat, and fat was the fuel that kept one warm and moving at forty below. One could eat all the rabbits and squirrels in the world but would still die within a few weeks in the Arctic winter. A heavy ground fog continued to keep the Bellanca grounded on the 16th. Hoping for re-supply, but unwilling to turn back, the posse cut spruce boughs into arrows on the river for Wop May to follow. They believed they were close to Johnson now - within a day or two. The men of the village of Old Crow, near the Alaskan border, were contacted by radio. Another posse was formed and began patrolling far to the west. They were advised by an elderly shaman to stay in the village: "You no go look. One more sleep and he die." Far to the south, hundreds of miles away in Dawson City and Whitehorse, Mounties and volunteers headed out into the mid-winter cold in case Johnson tried to cut that way. On Febuary 17th the weather was much better, although the temperature was still forty degrees below zero. Johnson's tracks had again been found, still mingled with those of the caribou herd as the Eagle River wound westward through the Yukon. The tracks now appeared to be less than 24 hours old. At one point they could see where Johnson had stopped to climb a tree, endeavoring either to plan his route ahead or check behind for pursuers. The party was astounded that he still had the strength to climb a tree, and couldn't help but be quite aware that they could be rushing into an ambush. Yet the Inspector refused to slow their progress. He was too close to the killer, after far too long. He snowshoed ahead of the party despite only being armed with his service revolver. It was nearing noon when Earl Hersey - the young Signal Corps sergeant and former Olympian - and his team of seven huskies managed to pass Eames while following a good trail of Johnson's tracks. Running fast, the Hersey's team slid around a hair-pin curve in the river. Two hundred and fifty yards ahead a lone man was walking in the center of the broad river. The man was coming toward Hersey, stepping carefully in his own footprints. It was Johnson. There could be no doubt.
(Earl Hersey and his lead dog, Silver) Hersey instantly braked the sled and snatched up his .303 Lee Enfield rifle. At the same moment Johnson unslung his snowshoes from around his pack. The sergeant shouted for the man to surrender but Johnson began hurriedly lacing up his snowshoes. Hersey knelt in the snow, taking careful aim. He fired a single shot as the killer sprinted for the cover of the trees above the river's bank. The crack of the rifle was followed by a distant metallic ping and Johnson fell. Hersey guessed he'd hit a pan in Johnson's pack. Johnson staggered to his feet and took a few more steps. Hersey fired again. Another crack, another metallic ping, and again Johnson collapsed. But in an instant he was back on his feet. Hersey saw that the bank Johnson was heading for divided the hairpin turn in the river. If the killer reached the top of it not only would he be within the cover of the trees, he could also fire down at point-blank range on the men behind Hersey. Firing a third time, Hersey knocked him down again. This time when Johnson stood, he whirled toward Hersey, his own rifle now in his hands. He fired at Hersey without bothering to aim. The bullet's impact lifted Hersey off the ground and sent him sprawling into the snow. Johnson's single snap-shot had smashed through Hersey's elbow and knee, then pierced his chest.
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