Kitabı oku: «Blake's Burden», sayfa 7

CHAPTER XII
THE MUSKEG

It was a fortnight later when the party entered a hollow between two low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and lay in horrible tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it, while as they plodded through the morass they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.

They were generally wet to the waist and their temper began to give way under the strain, while Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed when he lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake shivering, for hours. He had, however, suffered from malarial fever in India without having it badly, and supposed that it had again attacked him now that he was feeling the hardships of the march. Saying nothing to his companions, he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of a depressing weakness; and the ground grew softer as they proceeded. The creek no longer kept within its banks but spread in shallow pools, the rotting trees were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The valley had turned into a very wet muskeg, but, after making one or two attempts, they failed to find a better road among the hills that shut it in. The rocky sides of the knolls were seamed by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was very difficult to force a passage. Then one day, Blake, who felt his head reel, staggered and sat down heavily.

"I'm sorry I can't keep on my feet," he said. "Think it's malaria I've got."

For a moment or two his companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and moving feebly he sank further down with his back against a stone. He looked seriously ill, but Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled himself together.

"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on yonder hummock and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can stand up and lean on us we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few minutes."

When Blake had shakily risen they unstrapped his pack and afterwards with much trouble helped him to reach a small, stony knoll, where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to lie on.

"Thanks," he said in a listless voice. "I found it hard to keep my eyes open all morning and now I think I'll go to sleep. I'll no doubt feel better to-morrow."

By and by he fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, grey afternoon with a cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet muskegs which they could not cross with a sick companion shut them off from all help; their provisions were not plentiful, and the rigorous winter would soon set in.

They scarcely spoke to one another as the afternoon wore away, but when supper time came Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank into restless sleep again, and his companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled drearily, and they could hear the splash of the ripples on a neighbouring pool, It was all depressing, and as in turn they kept watch in the darkness their hearts sank.

Next morning Blake, who made an attempt to get up, was obviously worse, and though he insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a day or two the others felt dubious.

"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said. "You needn't look so glum."

"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man – "

"It's located in half a dozen different places," Blake rejoined. "You overdo the thing, and the way Benson grins at your threadbare jokes would worry me if I were well. Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria; I've had it several times, and it seldom bothers you much when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram – you've seen my cousin – was down with it a week at Sandymere; temperature very high, old fool of a family doctor looking serious and fussing. Then he got up all right one morning and rode to hounds next day. Very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father. If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me."

He paused and resumed with a vacant air: "Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back, but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."

Lying down, he turned away from them and they exchanged glances, for it looked as if their comrade's brain were getting clouded. Blake, who dozed part of the time, said nothing during the next few hours, and late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighbourhood. His tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said, quarrelsome people.

Harding looked interested when he heard this and made Benson ask exactly where the Stony village lay; and when he had been told he lighted his pipe and said nothing for the next half hour. Rain had begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place to nurse a fever patient in and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure and felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill and something must be done to save him, but for a time Harding could not see how help could be obtained. Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the locality. When they were answered he began to see his way, but he waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.

It was getting dark and raining hard; Blake was asleep, the Indian sitting silent, and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering light against the surrounding gloom.

"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding remarked.

"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him, though I can't blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.

"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that the fellow's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality further west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."

"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."

"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must allow it's curious that when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we could have got north with much less trouble had we headed further west."

"If that's true, it has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.

"Very well; I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase in value as the settlement grows, while sooner or later they'll bring a railroad in. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two if you keep steady and work hard, but while you were in his clutches that looked very far from probable."

"You might have put it more plainly – I was drinking myself to death." Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that this is what the fellow wished?"

"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his statements he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."

Benson started. "I believe he would stick at nothing; you may be right. But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"

"That," said Harding, "is not so clear."

He glanced at his companion searchingly and seeing that he suspected nothing, decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse upon his return to the settlement and betray the secret in his cups. Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history and had seen a chance of extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of wishing to ascertain whether the latter was willing to seek redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at his mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified. Harding, however, meant to make a determined effort to save his comrade.

"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.

"It's this – I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these muskegs where we'd have no chance of renewing our provisions, and misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach. Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble and now he has to help us out. The fellow is a doctor."

Benson looked up eagerly. "You're going to bring him here? It's a daring plan, because it will be difficult to make him come."

"He'll come if he values his life," said Harding drily. "The Indian will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I offer him enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies. I'll have to drop in upon the doctor late at night when none of his Indian friends are about."

"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."

"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his partner."

"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested, and added with feeling: "You know how I'm indebted to Blake."

"It's your place," said Harding. "Now you had better try to arrange the thing with the Indian."

It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone and hinted at some quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.

"That's fixed; we start at daybreak," said Harding. "I'll lie down now; it's your watch."

Five minutes later he was sound asleep and awoke, quietly determined and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the cities, bred to civilized life and had a just appreciation of the risks he ran, since he meant to abduct the doctor, who was dangerous to meddle with, from an Indian village where he was apparently held in some esteem. The Stonies, living far remote, had, so Harding understood, escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit from the patrols of the North-West Police. Moreover there was a possibility that Clarke might prove too clever for him. It was certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but he believed that Blake would perish unless help was obtained. He shook hands with Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and then, with the Indian leading, struck out through the muskeg towards the shadowy hills.

CHAPTER XIII
CLARKE'S SUMMONS

Harding, who knew there was no time to lose, had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint and the low ground streaked with haze as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upwards over banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where they were large and he stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and afterwards got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was laboured and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upwards without slackening his pace.

It was exhausting toil, and until he entered the North-West, he had undergone no physical training and seldom tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even playing any outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and comrade. There was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing, but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore he braced himself for the arduous task.

In the afternoon they reached a tableland where travelling was slightly easier, but when they camped without a fire among the rocks one of Harding's feet was bleeding and he was very weary. Walking was painful for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but by and by his galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly followed the Indian up and down deep ravines and over rough stony slopes. Then they reached stunted timber; thickly-massed, tangled pines, with many dead trees among them and a number which had fallen, barring the way. The Indian seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his muscles having been toughened into something different from ordinary flesh and blood. He was feeling distress, but for the present there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to march. He saw it clearly with his shrewd sense, and though his worn-out body revolted his resolution did not flinch.

They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks, passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted them as they crossed the height of land, but although Harding's side ached as well as his bleeding feet the march went on. Then just before dark he had a glimpse of a wide valley fading into the blue distance with water shining in its midst and grey blurs of willows here and there. The prospect, however, faded swiftly from his sight, and he found himself limping across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting mist. Half an hour afterwards he threw himself down exhausted beside a fire in a sheltered hollow.

Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched close up to it with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and the blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapour. The night was dark but still, and Harding thought a sound would carry some distance, but while he felt his heart beating there was nothing to be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther south and was horribly afraid of hearing a warning bark, but nothing broke the silence and he supposed that Clarke's friends were unable to find food enough for sledge-teams. This was reassuring, because the odds against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the Indian's sense of hearing is remarkably keen.

Feeling that his magazine pistol was loose, he signed to his guide and they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately clear and their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts of dry grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him alarming distinctness. Still nobody challenged them and reaching the centre of the village they stopped again. The nearest of the tepees was only thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into the mist, and as Harding stood listening with tingling nerves he clearly recognized the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there was nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied, and it was highly undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an Indian from his slumbers. Then it was possible that the man shared a tepee with some of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself at his mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and his Stony friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous habits. Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still, and he could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude. Pulling himself together with an effort, Harding went on.

Fortune favoured him, for as he made towards a tepee, without any particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart from the rest, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the curtain, This suggested that it was occupied by the white man, and it was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept forward with his heart beating painfully and stopped a moment just outside the entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but he could not tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, who had crept up behind him, dragged the doorway open and Harding, hastily stepping in, stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung up, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

The tent had an earth floor with a layer of reeds and grass thrown down on one side. It was frail and hinted at changing times and poverty, for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with the products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour bags and old sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles, which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not recognize it.

Harding could not tell whether he noted all this at once, or if it afterwards impressed itself upon him by degrees, because as he entered Clarke, who sat beside the case, looked up. It was, Harding thought, a good test of his nerve, but his face was imperturbable and he showed no surprise. There was silence for a moment or two while the Indian stood motionless with his axe shining as it caught the light, and Harding's lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke spoke —

"So you have turned back. You found the muskeg too difficult to cross, and I suppose this fellow showed you the way here?"

Harding, who was worn out, crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and sat down facing Clarke.

"We have come for you and must start at once. My partner is very sick – fever he thinks – and you'll have to cure him."

"You're presuming on my consent."

"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't be wise of you to refuse."

"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends, and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better understand that the North-West Police have never visited this place and nobody troubles about what goes on up here, while I believe I'm a person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide. "Then, though I don't know what he's doing in this neighbourhood, this fellow belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I think you have been very rash."

"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken some chances in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let that go. The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he gets proper treatment."

Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile. "It's a matter of indifference to me whether Blake dies or not."

"No," said Harding, "I allow it isn't quite so. On the whole, you would sooner he did die. He's in the way."

He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.

"If you're right, it's strange you should urge me to prescribe for him."

"There are some precautions I mean to take," said Harding drily. "However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't get through. My notion is that you expected us to be held up there until our stores ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would, no doubt, have moved on. Well, part of what you wished has happened, but the matter is taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us into difficulties and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay means danger – get ready to start."

Then the Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the tepee with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke, turning his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked at Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight. His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke broke into a faint smile.

"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you were in some danger."

Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy-minded man of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.

"Understand this," he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I staked my life on doing so, and since I guess you're not ready to go so far as that, I've a pretty strong pull on you. But I've said enough. You're coming with me – now – and if you make any attempt to rouse your friends, you'll have a chance of learning something about the other world at first hand a few seconds afterwards."

Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.

"I'm ready."

The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm and Harding, who took out his pistol, extinguished the lamp.

"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly reminded Clarke.

He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards distance. He could see the dark gap of the doorway and had a nervous fancy that eyes were following his movements, for now he had succeeded in the more difficult part of his errand he was conscious of strain. Indeed, he feared he was getting shaky and the danger was not yet over. They were not clear of the village and a noisy stumble would bring the Indians out. Unless they reached camp in the next few days he thought Blake would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one. Still, he was determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who had betrayed them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law and social conventions, but now he had suddenly become primitive under heavy stress.

They passed the tepee unnoticed, but the tension he felt did not slacken, because there was another they could not avoid. Nobody, however, called to them, and he felt easier as they drew away from the row of shadowy tents. Then, moving very cautiously, they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, and Harding, who found it hard to hold himself in hand, feared that he might grow limp with the reaction. Difficult as his task had looked, it had been successfully carried out.

"Get on," he said to Clarke and, walking faster, they plunged into the open waste.