"And you kept him waiting? That was a true Blake. But bring him here.
I want to know your friend."
They spent a pleasant evening; and the next afternoon Blake and Harding drove up the mountain with Mrs. Keith and one or two others. The city was unpleasantly hot and the breeze that swept its streets blew clouds of sand and cement about, for Montreal is subject to fits of feverish constructional activity and on every other block buildings were being torn down and replaced by larger ones of concrete and steel. Leaving its outskirts, the carriage climbed the road which winds in loops through the shade of overhanging trees. Wide views of blue hills and shining river opened up through gaps in the foliage; the air lost its humid warmth and grew fresh and invigorating.
Reaching the level summit, they found seats near the edge of a steep, wooded slope. The strip of tableland is not remarkably picturesque, but it is thickly covered with trees, and one can look out across a vast stretch of country traversed by the great river.
When the party scattered, Mrs. Keith was left with Harding. They were, in many ways, strangely assorted companions—the elderly English lady accustomed to the smoother side of life, and the young American who had struggled hard from boyhood—but they were sensible of a mutual liking. Mrs. Keith had a trace of the grand manner, which had its effect on Harding; he showed a naive frankness which she found attractive. Besides, his talk and conduct were marked by a labored correctness which amused and pleased her. She thought he had taken some trouble to acquire it.
"So you had to leave your wife at home," she said presently. "Wasn't that rather hard for both of you?"
"It was hard enough," he replied with feeling. "What made it worse was that I hadn't much money to leave with her; but I had to go. The man who will take no chances has to stay at the bottom."
"Then, if it's not an impertinence, your means are small?"
"Your interest is a compliment. We had two hundred dollars when we were married. You wouldn't consider that much to begin on?"
"No. Still, of course, it depends upon what one expects. After all, I think my poorest friends have been happiest."
"We had only one trouble—making the money go round," Harding told her with grave confidence. "It was worst in the hot weather, when other people could move out of town, and it hurt me to see Marianna looking white and tired. I used to wish I could send her to one of the farms up in the hills—though I guess she wouldn't have gone without me. She's brave, and when my chance came she saw that I must take it. She sent me off with smiles; but I knew what they cost."
"Courage to face a hard task is a great gift. So you consider this trip to the Northwest your opportunity? You must expect to sell a good deal of paint."
Harding looked up with a sudden twinkle.
"I'll admit to you, ma'am, that I expect to sell very little. The company will pay my commission on any orders I get at the settlements, but this is my venture, not theirs. I'm going up into the wilds to look for a valuable raw material."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Keith. "I suspected something like this. It's difficult to imagine Dick Blake's going into anything so sober and matter-of-fact as the paint business. Have you known him long?"
"I met him a year ago, and we spent two or three weeks together."
"But was that long enough to learn much about him? Do you know his history?"
Harding gave her a direct glance.
"Do you?"
"Yes," she said; "and I gather that he has taken you into his confidence."
"Now you set me free to talk. When I asked him to be my partner, he told me why he had left the army. That was the square thing, and it made me keen on getting him."
"Then you were not deterred by what you learned?"
"Not at all. I knew it was impossible that Blake should have done what he was charged with."
"I agree with you; but, then, I know him better than you do. What made you jump to the conclusion?"
"You shall judge whether I hadn't good reason. I was in one of our lake ports, collecting accounts, and Blake had come with me. It was late at night when I saw my last customer at his hotel, and I had a valise half-full of silver currency and bills. Going back along the waterfront where the second-rate saloons are, I thought that somebody was following me. The lights didn't run far along the street, I hadn't seen a patrol, and as I was passing a dark block a man jumped out. I got a blow on the shoulder that made me sore for a week, but the fellow had missed my head with the sandbag, and I slipped behind a telegraph post before he could strike again. Still, things looked ugly. The man who'd been following came into sight, and I was between the two. Then Blake ran up the street—and I was mighty glad to see him. He had two men to tackle, and one had a sandbag, while I guess the other had a pistol."
"But you were there. That made it equal."
"Oh, no; I'd been nearly knocked out with the sandbag and could hardly keep my feet. Besides, I had my employers' money in the valise, and it was my business to take care of it."
Mrs. Keith made a sign of agreement.
"I beg your pardon. You were right."
"Blake got after the first thief like a panther. He was so quick I didn't quite see what happened, but the man reeled half-way across the street before he fell, and when his partner saw Blake coming for him he ran. Then, when the trouble was over, a policeman came along, and he and Blake helped me back to my hotel. Knowing I had the money, he'd got uneasy when I was late." Harding paused and looked meaningly at his companion. "Later I was asked to believe that the man who went for those two toughs with no weapon but his fists ran away under fire. The thing didn't seem plausible."
"And so you trust Blake, in spite of his story?"
"The Northwest is a hard country in winter and I may find myself in a tight place before I've finished my search," Harding answered with grave quietness. "But if that happens, I'll have a partner I can trust my life to. What's more, Mrs. Harding feels I'm safe with him."
Mrs. Keith was moved; his respect for his wife's judgment and his faith in his comrade appealed to her.
"Tell me something about your journey," she said.
While they talked, Millicent and Blake sat in the sunshine on the slope of the hill. Beneath them a wide landscape stretched away toward the Ottawa valley, the road to the lonely North, and the girl felt a longing to see the trackless wilds. The distance drew her.
"Your way lies up yonder," she said. "I suppose you are thinking about it. Are you looking forward to the trip?"
"Not so much as Harding is," Blake replied. "He's a bit of an enthusiast; and I've been in the country before. It's a singularly rough one, and I anticipate our meeting with more hardships than money."
"Which doesn't seem to daunt you."
"No; not to a great extent. Hardship is not a novelty to me, and I don't think I'm avaricious. The fact is, I'm a good deal better at spending than gathering."
"It's undoubtedly easier," the girl laughed. "But, while I like Mr.
Harding, I shouldn't consider him a type of the romantic adventurer."
"You're right in one sense and wrong in another. Harding's out for money, and I believe he'll get it if it's to be had. He'll avoid adventures so far as he can, but if there's trouble to be faced, it won't stop him. Then, he has left a safe employment, broken up his home, and set off on this long journey, for the sake of a woman who is trying to hold out on a very few dollars in a couple of poor rooms until his return. He's taking risks which, I believe may be serious, in order that she may have a brighter and fuller life. Is there no romance in that?"
What Blake said about his comrade's devotion to his wife appealed to the girl, and she mused for a moment or two. She liked Blake and he improved upon acquaintance. He had a whimsical humor and a dash of reckless gallantry. He was supposed to be in disgrace, but she had cause to know that he was compassionate and chivalrous.
"You haven't been with us long," she said, "but we shall be duller when you have gone."
"That's nice to hear; but it's with mixed feelings that one leaves friends behind. I've lost some good ones."
"I can imagine your making others easily; but haven't you retained one or two? I think, for instance, you could count on Mrs. Keith."
"Ah! I owe a good deal to her. A little charity, such as she shows, goes a very long way."
Millicent did not answer, and he watched her as she sat looking out into the distance with grave brown eyes. Her face was gentle; he thought there was pity for him in it, and he felt strongly drawn to her; but he remembered that he was a man with a tainted name and must travel a lonely road.
Some of the others joined them, and soon afterward they walked down the winding road to the city. There Harding found some letters he had been waiting for, and there was now nothing to keep them in Montreal.
Mrs. Keith was gracious to Blake when he went to say good-by the next morning, but he felt a strong sense of disappointment at finding her alone. He looked around for Millicent, and then, as he was going out, he met her in the hall. She wore her hat, and the flush of color in her face indicated that she had been walking fast.
"I'm glad I didn't miss you," she said. "You are going now, by the
Vancouver express?"
"Yes," answered Blake, stopping beside a pillar; "and I was feeling rather gloomy until I saw you. Harding's at the station, and it's depressing to set off on a long journey feeling that nobody minds your going."
"Mrs. Keith will mind," smiled Millicent. "I'm sure you have her good wishes."
Blake looked at her keenly.
"I want yours."
"You have them," she said softly. "I haven't forgotten what happened one evening in London. I wish you a safe journey and every possible success!"
"Thank you! It will be something to remember that you have wished me well."
As his eyes rested upon her he forgot that he was a marked man. She looked very fresh and desirable; there was a hint of regret and pity in her face and a trace of shyness in her manner.
"I suppose I can't ask you to think of me now and then; it would be too much," he said, a little bitterly. "But I want you to know that these few days of your friendship have meant a great deal to me. I wish"—he hesitated a moment—"that I might have something of yours—some little memento—to take with me on my trip."
Millicent took a tiny bunch of flowers from the lace at the neck of her white dress, and handed them to him with a smile.
"Will these do? They won't last very long."
"They will last a long time, well taken care of. When I come back, I will show them to you."
"But I shall be in England then."
"England is not very far off; and I'm a wanderer, you know."
"Well," she said with faint confusion, "unless you hurry you will miss your train. Good-by, and good fortune!"
He took the hand she gave him and held it a moment.
"If your last wish is ever realized, I shall come to thank you, even in
England."
He turned and went out with hurried steps, wondering what had led him to break through the reserve he had prudently determined to maintain. What he had said might mean nothing, but it might mean much. He had seen Millicent Graham for a few minutes in her father's house, and afterward met her every day during the week spent in Montreal; but, brief as their friendship had been, he had yielded to her charm. Had he been free to seek her love, he would eagerly have done so; but he was not free. He was an outcast, engaged in a desperate attempt to repair his fortune. Miss Graham knew this. Perhaps she had taken his remarks as a piece of sentimental gallantry; but something in her manner suggested a doubt. Anyway, he had promised to show her the flowers again some day, and he carefully placed them in his pocketbook.
CHAPTER VI
THE PRAIRIE
A strong breeze swept the wide plain, blowing fine sand about and adding to Blake's discomfort as he plodded beside a jaded Indian pony and a small cart. The cart was loaded with preserved provisions, camp stores, and winter clothes; he had bought it and the pony because that seemed cheaper than paying for transport. The settlement for which he and Harding were bound stands near the northern edge of the great sweep of grass which stretches across central Canada. Since leaving the railroad they had spent four days upon the trail, which sometimes ran plain before them, marked by dints of wheels among the wiry grass, and sometimes died away, leaving them at a loss in a wilderness of sand and short poplar scrub.
It was now late in the afternoon and the men were tired of battling with the wind which buffeted their sunburned faces with sharp sand. They were crossing one of the high steppes of the middle prairie toward the belt of pines and muskegs which divides it from the barrens of the North. The broad stretch of fertile loam, where prosperous wooden towns are rising fast among the wheatfields, lay to the south of them, and the arid tract through which they journeyed had so far no attraction for even the adventurous homestead pre-emptor.
They found it a bleak and cheerless country, crossed by the ravines of a few sluggish creeks, the water of which was unpleasant to drink, and dotted at long intervals by ponds bitter with alkali. In places, stunted poplar bluffs cut against the sky, but, for the most part, there was only a rolling waste of dingy grass. The trail was heavy, the wheels sank deep in sand as they climbed a low rise, and, to make things worse, the rounded, white-edged clouds which had scudded across the sky since morning were gathering in threatening masses. This had happened every afternoon, but now and then the cloud ranks had broken, to pour out a furious deluge and a blaze of lightning. Harding anxiously studied the sky.
"I guess we're up against another thunderstorm," he said. "My opinion of the mid-continental climate is singularly mean, but I'd put this strip of Canada near the limit. Our Texan northers are fierce when they come along; but here it blows all the time."
"We'll make camp, if you like; I don't feel very fresh," Blake replied.
"Not here," snapped Harding. "Where I stop I sleep, and I'm not particularly enthusiastic about sheltering under the cart. Last time we tried it the pony stampeded and the wheel went over my foot. The tent's no good; you'd want a chain to stop its blowing away. We'll go on until we bring up to lee of a big, solid bluff."
"Very well," Blake agreed. "I dare say we ought to find one in the hollow we got a glimpse of from the last rise; but we haven't had to put up with much discomfort yet."
"That's a matter of opinion. You haven't limped forty miles on a bad foot; but I'm not complaining. It's a whole lot to feel that we have started; doing nothing takes the sand out of me."
Blake had once or twice suggested that his comrade should ride, but the pony was overburdened and Harding refused. He explained that they could not expect to sell it at the settlement if it were in a worn-out condition; but Blake suspected him of sympathy for the patient beast.
They crossed the ridge and, seeing a wavy line of trees in the wide hollow, quickened their pace. The soil was firmer, the scrub through which the wheels crushed was short, and the trail led smoothly down a slight descent. This was comforting, for half the sky was barred with leaden cloud and the parched grass gleamed beneath it lividly white, while the light that struck a ridge-top here and there had a sinister luridness. It was getting cold and the wind was dropping; and that was not a favorable sign.
Pushing the cart through the softer places, dragging the jaded pony by the head, they hurried on and at last plunged through a creek with the trees just beyond. A few minutes later they tethered the pony to lee of the cart, and set up their tent. While Blake was rummaging out provisions, and Harding searching the bluff for dry sticks, they heard a beat of hoofs and a man rode up, leading a second horse. He got down and hobbled the horses before he turned to Blake.
"From the south? You're for Sweetwater?" he asked.
"Yes. How much farther is it?"
"You ought to make it in a day and a half," the stranger said. "I'll ride in with you. My name's Gardner. I run a store and hotel at Sweetwater, but I feel that I want to get out on the prairie now and then, and as a horse was missing I went after him. A looker, isn't he?"
The man had a good-humored, sunburned face and an honest look, and he gladly acquiesced in Blake's suggestion that he join them instead of cooking a separate supper.
The prairie was now wrapped in inky gloom, and there was an impressive stillness except for the occasional rustle of a leaf; but the stillness was broken by a puff of icy wind which suddenly stirred the grass. The harsh rustle it made was followed by a deafening crash, and a jagged streak of lightning fell from the leaden clouds; then the air was filled with the roar of driving hail. It swept the woods, rending leaves and smashing twigs, while a constant blaze of lightning flickered about the grass. Then the thunder died away and the hail gave place to torrential rain, while the slender trees rocked in the blast and small branches drove past the tent, where the men crouched inside. After the rain ceased, suddenly, a fierce red light streamed along the saturated grass from the huge sinking sun.
Harding, with Gardner's help, brought his pile of wood out of the tent, and soon made a fire; and it was getting dark, though a band of transcendental green still burned upon the prairie's western edge, when they finished supper and, sitting round the fire, took out their pipes. The hobbled horses were quietly grazing near them.
"That's undoubtedly a fine animal," Blake observed. "Is it yours?"
"No; it belongs to Clarke's Englishman."
"Who's he? It's a curious way to speak of a fellow."
"It fits him," laughed Gardner. "Guess he's Clarke's, hide and bones—and that's all there'll be when the doctor gets through with him. He's a sucker the doctor taught farming and then sold land to."
"Then, who's the doctor?" Harding inquired.
"That's not so easy to answer; but he's a man you want to be friends with if you stay near the settlement. Teaches farming to tenderfoot young Englishmen and Americans; finds them land and stock to start with—and makes a mighty good thing out of it. Goes to Montreal now and then, but whether it's to look up fresh suckers is more than I know."
"We met a fellow named Clarke at the Windsor not long ago. What's he like?"
When Gardner described him, Harding frowned.
"That's the man," he said.
"Then I can't see what he was doing at the Windsor; an opium joint would have been more in his line."
"Does the fellow live at Sweetwater?" Blake asked.
"Has a farm—and runs it well—about three miles back; but he's away pretty often in the North, and at a settlement on the edge of the bush country. Don't know what he does there, and they're a curious crowd—Dubokars, Russians of sorts, I guess."
Blake had seen the Dubokars in other parts of Canada and had found them an industrious people, leading, from religious convictions, a remarkably primitive life. There were, however, fanatics among them, and he understood that these now and then led their followers into outbreaks of emotional extravagance.
"They make good settlers, as a rule," he commented. "But, as they don't speak English, how does the fellow get on with them?"
"Told me he was a philologist, when I asked him; then he allowed two or three of them were mystics, and he was something in that line. He was a doctor once and got fired out of England for something he shouldn't have done. Anyhow, the Dubokars are like the rest of us—good, bad, and pretty mixed—and the crowd back of Sweetwater belong to the last. At first, some of them didn't believe it was right to work horses, and made the women drag the plow; and they had one or two other habits that brought the police down on them. After that they've given no trouble, but they get on a jag of some kind now and then."
Blake nodded. He knew that the fanatic with untrained and unbalanced mind is liable under the influence of excitement to indulge in crude debauchery; but it was strange that a man of culture, such as Clarke appeared to be, should take part in these excesses. He had, however, no interest in the fellow; and he turned the talk on to other matters, until it got cold and they went to sleep.
Starting early the next morning, they reached Sweetwater after an uneventful journey, and found it by no means an attractive place. South of it, rolling prairie ran back, grayish white with withered grass, to the skyline; to the north, straggling poplar bluffs and scattered Jack-pines crowned the summits of the ridges. A lake gleamed in a hollow, a slow creek wound across the foreground in a deep ravine, and here and there in the distance was an outlying farm. A row of houses followed the crest of the ravine, some built of small logs, and some of shiplap lumber which had cracked with exposure to the sun, but all having a neglected and poverty-stricken air. The land was poor and the settlement was located too far from a market. With leaden thunderclouds hanging over it, the place looked as desolate as the sad-colored waste.
Following the deeply rutted street, which had a narrow, plank sidewalk, they reached the Imperial Hotel—a somewhat pretentious, double-storied building of unpainted wood, with a veranda across the front. Here Gardner took the pony from them and gave them a room which had no furniture except a chair and two rickety iron beds. Before he left them he indicated a printed list of the things they were not allowed to do. Harding studied it with a sardonic smile.
"I don't see much use in prohibiting people from washing their clothes in the bedrooms when they don't give you any water," he remarked. "This place must be about the limit in the way of cheap hotels."
"It isn't cheap," responded Blake; "I've seen the tariff."
They found their supper better than they had reason to expect, and afterward sat out on the veranda with the proprietor and one or two of the settlers who boarded at the hotel. The sun had set, and now and then a heavy shower beat upon the shingled roof, but the western sky was clear and flushed with vivid crimson, toward which the prairie rolled away in varying tones of blue. Lights shone in the windows behind the veranda, and from one which stood open a hoarse voice drifted out, singing in a maudlin fashion snatches of an old music-hall ditty.
"It's that fool Benson—Clarke's Englishman," Gardner explained. "Found he'd got into my bed with his boots on, after falling down in a muskeg. It's not the first time he's played that trick; when he gets worse than usual he makes straight for my room."
"Why do you give him the liquor?" Harding inquired.
"I don't. He's a pretty regular customer, but he never gets too much at this hotel."
"And there isn't another."
"That's so," Gardner assented, but he offered no explanation and Blake changed the subject.
"Unless you're fond of farming, life in these remote districts is trying," he remarked. "The loneliness and monotony are apt to break down men who are not used to it."
"Turns some of them crazy and kills off a few," said a farmer, who appeared to be well educated. "After all, worse things might happen to them."
"It's conceivable," agreed Blake. "But what particular things were you referring to?"
"I was thinking of men who go to the devil while they're alive. There's a fellow in this neighborhood who's doing something of the kind."
"Rot!" exclaimed a thick voice; and a man's figure appeared against the light at the open window. "Devil'sh a myth; allegorolical gentleman, everybody knowsh. Hard word that—allegorolical. Bad word too; reminds you of things in the rivers down in Florida. Must be some in the creek here; seen them, in my homestead."
"You go to bed!" said Gardner sternly.
"Nosh a bit," replied Benson. "Who you talking to?" He leaned forward, in danger of falling through the window. "Lemme out!"
"It's not all drink," Gardner explained. "He has something like shakes and ague now and then. Says he got it in India."
Benson disappeared, and a few moments afterward reeled out of the door and held himself upright by one of the veranda posts.
"Now I'm here, don't let me interrupt, gentlemen," he said. "Nice place if this post would keep still."
Warned by a sign from Gardner, the others ignored him; and Harding turned to the farmer.
"You hadn't finished what you were saying when he disturbed you."
"I don't know that it was of much importance; speaking of degenerates, weren't we? We have a curious example of the neurotic here: a fellow who makes a good deal of money by victimizing farmers who are forced to borrow when they lose a crop, as well as preying on young fools from England; and, by way of amusement, he studies modern magic and indulges in refined debauchery. It strikes me as a particularly unhallowed combination."
"No sensible man has any use for hoodoo tricks and the people who practise them," Harding said. "They're frauds from the start."
"Don't know what you're talking about!" Benson broke in. "Not all tricks. Seen funny things in the East; thingsh decent men better leave alone."
Letting go the post, he lurched forward; and as the light fell on his face Blake started. He had been puzzled by something familiar in the voice, and now he recognized the man, and had no wish to meet him. He was too late in hitching his chair back into the shadow, for Benson had seen him and stopped with an excited cry.
"Blake of the sappers! Want to cut your old friendsh? Whatsh you doing here?"
"It's a mutual surprise, Benson," Blake replied.
Benson, holding on by a chair back, smiled at him genially.
"Often wondered where you went to after you left Peshawur, old man. Though you got the sack for it, it wasn't your fault the ghazees broke our line that night. Said so to the Colonel—can see him now, sitting there, looking very sick and cut up, and Bolsover, acting adjutant, blinking like an owl."
"Be quiet!" Blake commanded in alarm, for the man had been a lieutenant of native infantry when they had met on the hill campaign.
Benson, however, was not to be deterred.
"This gentleman old friend of mine; never agreed with solemn old Colonel, but they wouldn't listen to me. Very black night in India; ghazees coming yelling up the hill; nothing would stop 'em. Rifles cracking, Nepalese comp'ny busy with the bayonet; and in the thick of it the bugle goes——"
Raising a hand to his mouth, he gave a shrill imitation of the call to cease firing, and then lost his balance and fell over the chair with a crash.
"Leave him to me," said Gardner, seizing the fallen man and with some difficulty lifting him to his feet. After he pushed him through the door there were sounds of a scuffle, and a few minutes later Gardner came back with a bruise on his face.
"He's quiet now, and the bartender will put him to bed," he said.
There was silence for the next few moments, for the group on the
veranda had been impressed by the scene; then a man came up the steps.
He was dressed in old brown overalls and carried a riding quirt, but
Harding recognized him as the man they had met at the hotel in Montreal.
"Have you got Benson here?" he asked.
"Sure," said Gardner. "He's left his mark on my cheek. Why don't you look after the fool? You must have come pretty quietly; I didn't hear you until you were half-way up the steps."
"Light boots," Clarke answered, smiling; "I bought them from you. I don't know that I need hold myself responsible for Benson, but I found he wasn't in when I rode past his place and it struck me that he might get into trouble if he got on a jag."
He turned and nodded to Blake.
"So you have come up here! I may see you tomorrow, but if Benson's all right I'm going home now."
He went into the hotel and soon afterward they heard him leave by another door. An hour later, when Harding and Blake were in their room, the keen young American brought his fist down on the bedpost with vehemence.
"I tell you," he said, "there's something queer about that fellow Clarke—something even Gardner don't know. I don't like that look that's behind his eyes, not in 'em; and the less we see of him, I reckon the better."
CHAPTER VII
THE OCCULT MAN
After breakfast the next morning, Blake and Harding sat on the veranda talking to the farmer. When they mentioned their first objective point, and asked if he could give them any directions for reaching it, he looked thoughtful.
"I only know that it's remarkably rough country; thick pine bush on rolling ground, with some bad muskegs and small lakes," he said. "You would find things easier if you could hire an Indian or two, and a canoe when you strike the river. The boys here seldom go up so far; but Clarke could help you if he liked. He knows that country like a book, and he knows the Indians."
"We're willing to pay him for any useful help," Harding said.
"Be careful," cautioned the farmer. "If you're on a prospecting trip, keep your secret close. There's another bit of advice I might give." He turned to Blake. "If you're a friend of Benson's, take him along with you."
"I suppose I am, in a way, though it's a long time since I met him.
But why do you suggest our taking him?"
"I hate to see a man go to pieces as Benson's doing. Clarke's ruining the fellow. He must have got two or three thousand dollars out of him, one way or another, and isn't satisfied with that. Lent him money on mortgage to start a foolish stock-raising speculation, and keeps him well supplied with drink. The fellow's weak, but he has his good points."
"But what's Clarke's object?"
"It isn't very clear. But a man who's seldom sober is easily robbed, and Benson's place is worth something; Clarke sees it's properly farmed. However, you must use your judgment about anything he tells you; I've given you warning."
The farmer rose as he spoke, and when he had left them, Blake sat silent for a while. Though he and Benson had never been intimate friends, it did not seem fitting to leave him in the clutches of a man who was ruining him in health and fortune. He would rather not have met the man at all; but, since they had met, there seemed to be only one thing to be done.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to
Harding.
The American looked doubtful.
"We could do with another white man; but I guess your friend isn't the kind we want. He may give us trouble; and you can't count on much help from a whisky-tank. However, if you wish it, you can bring him."
Soon afterward Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.
"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made any unfortunate allusions, you must overlook them. You must have seen that I wasn't altogether responsible."
"I did," Blake answered curtly. "If we are to remain friends, you'd better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the matter you talked about."
"Sorry," responded Benson, giving him a keen glance. "Though I don't think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."
"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to the northern bush."
"Thanks," said Benson, shaking hands with Harding. "I wonder what use you think I would be?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any use or not. The trip will brace you up, and you look as if you needed it."
Benson's face grew red.
"Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous and respectable people sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which degenerates like myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come too late."
"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being respectable," Blake answered with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to come with us."
Tilting back his chair, Benson looked heavily about.
"When I was new to the country, I often wished to go North," he said. "There are caribou and moose up yonder; great sights when the rivers break up in the spring; and a sled trip across the snow must be a thing to remember! The wilds draw me—but I'm afraid my nerve's not good enough. A man must be fit in every way to cross the timber belt."
"Why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the life and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"
"You hit hard, but I deserve it, and I'll try to explain."
Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness. Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity; but two or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room" painted on its dirty windows. All round, the rolling prairie stretched back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and gray. The prospect was dreary and depressing.
"This place," Benson said grimly, "hasn't much to offer one in the way of relaxation; and, for a man used to something different, life at a lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's apt to go to bits."
"Then, why don't you quit?" Harding asked.
"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't the means to follow is not of much use at home; and all my money is sunk in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned to Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster for which I wasn't responsible stopped my allowance, and I was in debt. Eventually, about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck; and I came here with that, feeling badly hipped. Perhaps that was one reason why I took to whisky; and Clarke, who engaged to teach me farming, saw that I got plenty of it. Now he has his hands on all that's mine; but he keeps me fairly supplied with cash, and it saves trouble to leave things to him."
When Benson stopped, Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He must have unflinching courage and stubbornness, and be able to dispense with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year he must toil unremittingly from dawn till dark, and depend upon his own resources through the long, bitter winter. For society, he may have a hired hand, and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement, which is often a day's ride away; and they are not, as a rule, men of culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body, it is nevertheless a healthful life; but Benson was not of sufficiently tough fiber.
"Now, see here," said Harding. "I'm out for money, and this is a business trip; but Blake wants to take you, and I'm agreeable. If you can stand for two or three months' hard work in the open, and very plain living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get back. Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like myself how you stand, if you'd rather not, I know something of business and might see a way out of your difficulties."
Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his troubles as a text for improving remarks, for he fully appreciated his failings. What he desired was a means for escaping their consequences; and the American seemed to offer it. He began an explanation and, with the help of a few leading questions, made his financial position fairly clear.
"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you; but I guess it's possible to shake him on. As things stand, however, it seems to me he has something to gain by your death."
"He couldn't count on that—to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so far; but there's some truth in what you say."
Benson looked disturbed and irresolute, but after a few moments he abruptly threw his cigar away and leaned forward with a decided air.
"If you'll have me, I'll go with you."
"You're wise," Harding said quietly.
Shortly afterward Benson left them, and Harding turned to Blake.
"Now you had better go along and see if you can learn anything from Clarke about our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't make him useful. If he can help us, pay him. But be careful what you say. Remember that he was watching you at the hotel in Montreal, and I've a suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs when Benson talked last night."
Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a well-kept, prosperous look. He found its owner in a small room furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western Provinces hung on one wall; and Clarke was seated at a handsome American desk. He wore old overalls, and the soil on his boots suggested that he had been engaged in fall plowing.
As Blake entered, Clarke looked up and the light fell on his face. It was deeply lined and of a curious dead color, but, while, it bore a sensual stamp and something in it hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake felt, the face of a clever and determined man.
"Ah!" said Clarke. "You have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you.
Have a cigar."
Blake took one and explained his errand. Clarke seemed to consider; then he took out a small hand-drawn map and passed it to his visitor.
"I won't ask why you are going north, as I dare say it's a secret. However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it to you, this will show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared one end of the desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of the country."
It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it carefully.
"I'll give you a few directions," Clarke went on, "and you had better take them down. You'll want a canoe and one or two Indians. I can enable you to get them, but I think the service is worth fifty dollars."
"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously. "It's possible that we might not find the Indians; and we might leave the water and strike overland."
"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions before you go. But there's another matter I want to talk about." He fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner?"
"I am; but I can't see what connection this has——"
Clarke stopped him.
"It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were a lieutenant of engineers and served in India, where you left the army."
"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."
"So I imagined," Clarke said dryly. "Still, I'd like to say that there is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You have my sympathy."
"Thank you. I must remind you, however, that I have given you no grounds for offering it."
"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"
"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know about the matter—or how it concerns you."
"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."
Blake's face set sternly.
"It's hard to understand how you arrived at that flattering conclusion."
"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke replied, watching him keenly. "One would imagine that the most important matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and were sent here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with your lot? Haven't you the courage to insist on being reinstated?"
"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.
"It would be at the expense of——"
Blake stopped him with a gesture. He would have left the house only that he was curious to learn where Clarke's suggestions led, and how much he knew.
There was a moment's silence, and then Clarke went on:
"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a choice of careers in England; and there's another point to be considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the question now."
"It will no doubt remain so," Blake replied, with the color creeping into his set face.
"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and added significantly: "In fact, I could show you a way in which the matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your confidence."
Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials; but he had no intention of changing it. This was an old resolve, but it was disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to meddle with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the possibility of putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake shrank from the suggestion; it was not to be thought of.
"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It must be dropped."
Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humoredly, after a keen glance at him.
"As you wish. However, that needn't prevent my giving you the directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are you taking him?"
Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed; but he admitted that Benson was going.
"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," Clarke said in a tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I tell you."
Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, a curious smile came over Clarke's face. Blake had firmly declined to be influenced by his hints; but Clarke had half expected that, and he had learned enough about the young man's character to clear the ground for a plan that had formed and grown in his clever mind.
CHAPTER VIII
TROUBLE
Darkness was settling down over the edge of the timber belt that cuts off the prairie from the desolate barrens. In the fading light the straggling wood wore a dreary, forbidding look. The spruces were gnarled and twisted by the wind, a number of them were dead, and many leaned unsymmetrically athwart each other.
Blake and Harding found no beauty in the scene as they wearily led two packhorses through the thin, scattered trees, with Benson lagging a short distance behind. They had spent some time crossing a wide stretch of rolling country dotted with clumps of poplar and birch, which was still sparsely inhabited; and now they were compelled to pick their way among fallen branches and patches of muskeg, for the ground was marshy and their feet sank among the withered needles.
Blake checked his pony and waited until Benson came up. The man moved with a slack heaviness, and his face was worn and tense. He was tired with the journey, for excess had weakened him, and now the lust for drink which he had stubbornly fought had grown overwhelming.
"I can go no faster. Push on and I'll follow your tracks," he said in a surly tone. "It takes time to get into condition, and I haven't walked much for several years."
"Neither have I," Harding answered cheerfully. "I'm more used to riding in elevators and streetcars, but this sort of thing soon makes you fit."
"You're not troubled with my complaint," Benson grumbled; and when
Blake started the pony, he deliberately dropped behind.
"He's in a black mood; we'll leave him to himself," Harding advised. "So far he's braced up better than I expected; when a man's been tanking steadily, it's pretty drastic to put him through the total deprivation cure."
"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by careless handling."
"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"
"Yes; but there's a difference between that and the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, so to speak, because we tried to get something in return—a rebel hill fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in breaking a horse, or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."
Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed, he was rather casual, as a rule; but Harding was shrewd, and he saw beneath the surface a love of order and a constructive ability.
"I guess you're right; but your speaking of India, reminds me of something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one. He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."
"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."
"Suppose the fellow goes to work without you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."
"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it won't stand for a moment after I deny it."
"True," agreed Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd have a free hand. As you wouldn't join him, you're a serious obstacle."
Blake laughed.
"I'm glad I am; and as I come of a healthy stock there's reason to believe I'll continue one."
Harding said nothing more, and they went on in silence through the gathering darkness. The spruces were losing shape and getting blacker, though through openings here and there a faint line of smoky red glowed on the horizon. A cold wind wailed among the branches, and the thud of the tired horses' feet rang dully among the shadowy trunks. Reaching a strip of higher ground, the men pitched camp and turned out the hobbled horses to graze among the swamp grass that lined a muskeg. After supper they sat beside their fire in silence for a while; and then Benson took his pipe from his mouth.
"I've had enough of this; and I'm only a drag on you," he said. "Give me grub enough to see me through, and I'll start back for the settlement the first thing in the morning."
"Don't be a fool!" Blake replied sharply. "You'll get harder and feel the march less every day. Are you willing to let Clarke get hold of you again?"
"Oh, I don't want to go; I'm driven—I can't help myself."
Blake felt sorry for him. He imagined that Benson had made a hard fight, but he was being beaten by his craving. Still, it seemed unwise to show any sympathy.
"You want to wallow like a hog for two or three days that you'll regret all your life," he said. "You have your chance for breaking free now. Be a man and take it. Hold out a little longer, and you'll find it easier."
Benson regarded him with a mocking smile.
"I'm inclined to think the jag you so feelingly allude to will last a week; that is, if I can raise money enough from Clarke to keep it up. You may not understand that I'm willing to barter all my future for it."
"Yes," said Harding grimly; "we understand, all right. Yours is not a singular case; the trouble is that it's too common. But we'll quit talking about it. You can't go."
He was in no mood to handle the subject delicately; they were alone in the wilds and the situation made for candor. There was only one way in which they could help the man, and he meant to take it.
Benson turned to him angrily.
"Your permission's not required; I'm a free man."
"Are you?" Harding asked. "It strikes me as a very curious boast. Improving the occasion's a riling thing, but there was never a slave in the world tighter bound than you."
"That's an impertinence!" Benson exclaimed with a flush, as unsatisfied longing drove him to fury. "What business is it of yours to preach to me? Confound you, who are you? I tell you, I won't have it! Give me food enough to last until I reach Sweetwater, and let me go!"
As he spoke, a haughty ring crept into his voice. Benson would not have used that tone in his normal state, but he belonged by right of birth to a ruling caste, and no doubt felt that he had been treated with indignity by a man of lower station. Harding, however, answered quietly.
"I am a paint factory drummer who has never had the opportunities you have enjoyed; but so long as we're up here in the wilds the only thing that counts is that we're men with the same weaknesses and feelings. Because that's so, and you're hard up against it, my partner and I mean to see you through."
"You can't unless I'm willing. Man, don't you realize that talking's of no use? The thing I'm driven by won't yield to words. What's more to the purpose, I didn't engage to go all the way with you. Now that I've had enough, I'm going back to the settlement."
"Very well. You were right in claiming that there was no engagement of any kind. So far, we have kept you in grub; but we're not bound to do so, and if you leave us, you must shift for yourself."
There was a tense silence for a moment or two. Benson, his face marked
with baffled desire and scarcely controlled fury, glared at the others.
Blake's expression was pitiful, but his lips were resolutely set; and
Harding's eyes were very keen and determined.
A curious look crept into Benson's face, and he made a sign of resignation.
"It looks as if I were beaten," he said quietly. "I may as well go to sleep."
He wrapped his blanket round him and lay down near the fire, and soon afterward Blake and Harding crept into the tent. Benson would be warm enough where he lay, and they felt it a relief to get away from him.
Day was breaking when Blake rose and threw fresh wood on the fire, and as a bright flame leaped up, driving back the shadows, he saw that Benson was missing. This, however, did not disturb him, for the man had been restless and they had now and then heard him moving about at night. When the fire had burned up and he had filled the kettle, without seeing anything of his friend, he began to grow anxious. He called loudly, but there was no answer, and he could hear no movement in the bush. The dark spruces had grown sharper in form; he could see some distance between the trunks, but everything was still.
"You had better see if the horses are there," Harding suggested, coming out of the tent.
Blake failed to find them near the muskeg, but as the light got clearer he saw tracks leading through the bush. Following these for a distance, he came upon the Indian pony, still hobbled, but the other, a powerful range horse, was missing. Mounting the pony, he rode back to camp, where he found Harding looking grave.
"The fellow's gone and taken some provisions with him," he said. "He left this for us."
It was a strip of paper, apparently torn from a notebook, with a few lines expressing Benson's regret at having to leave them in such an unceremonious fashion, and stating that he would leave the horse, hobbled, at a spot about two days' ride away.
"He seems to think he's showing us some consideration in not riding the beast down to the settlement," Blake remarked with a dubious smile, feeling strongly annoyed with himself for not taking more precautions. With the cunning which the lust for drink breeds in its victims Benson had outwitted him by feigning acquiescence. "Anyway," he added, "I'll have to go after him. We must have the horse, for one thing; but I suppose we'll lose four days. This is rough on you."
"Yes," agreed Harding, "you must go after him; but don't mind about me. The man's a friend of yours, and I like him; I wouldn't feel happy if we let him fall back into the clutches of that cunning brute. Now we'll get breakfast; you'll need it."
"If you don't mind waiting," Blake said, while they made a hasty meal,
"I'll follow him half-way to Sweetwater, if necessary. You see, I
haven't much expectation of overtaking him before he leaves the horse.
It's faster than the pony; and we don't know when he started."
"That's so. Still, you're tough; and I guess the first hard day's ride will be enough for your partner."
Five minutes later Blake was picking his way as fast as possible through the woods. It was a cool morning, and when he had gone a few miles the ground was fairly dear. By noon he was in more open country, where there were long stretches of grass, and after a short rest he pushed on fast. Bright sunshine flooded the waste that now stretched back to the south, sprinkled with clumps of bush that showed a shadowy blue in the distance. Near at hand, the birch and poplar leaves glowed in flecks of vivid lemon among the white stems; but Blake rode hard, his eyes turned steadily on the misty skyline. It was broken only by clusters of small trees; nothing moved on the wilderness of grass and sand ahead of him.
He felt tired when evening came, but he pressed on to find water before he camped. Benson was a weakling, who would no doubt give them further trouble; but they had taken him in hand, and Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon his failings.
It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he checked the jaded pony. Then he dismounted and, picketing the animal, moved cautiously around the edge of the woods. Passing a projecting tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting beside the fire. Blake stopped a moment to watch him. The man's face was weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led had unfitted him for a long, hard ride. He looked forlorn and dejected; but as Blake moved forward, he roused himself, and his eyes had an angry gleam.
"So you have overtaken me! I thought myself safe from you!" he exclaimed.
"You were wrong," Blake replied quietly. "If it had been needful, I'd have gone after you to Clarke's. But I'm hungry, and I'll cook my supper at your fire." He glanced at the provisions scattered about. "You haven't had much of a meal."
"It's a long drink I want," Benson growled.
Blake let this pass. He prepared his supper, and offered Benson a portion.
"Try some of that," he urged, indicating the light flapjacks fizzling among the pork in the frying-pan. "It strikes me as a good deal more tempting than the stuff you have been eating."
Benson thrust the food aside, and Blake ate in silence. Then he took out his pipe.
"Now," he said, "you can go to sleep when you wish. You're probably tired, and it's a long ride back to camp."
"You seem to count upon my going back with you," Benson replied mockingly.
"Of course!"
"Do you suppose it's likely, after I've ridden all this way?"
Blake laid down his pipe and leaned forward, where the firelight flickered on his face.
"Benson, you force me to take a strong line with you. Think a moment. You have land and stock worth a good deal of money which my partner believes can be saved from the rogue who's stealing it from you. You are a young man, and if you pull yourself together and pay off his claims, you can sell out and look for another opening wherever you like; but you know what will happen if you go on as you are doing a year or two longer. Have you no friends or relatives in England to whom you owe something? Is your life worth nothing, that you're willing to throw it away?"
"Oh, that's all true," Benson admitted irritably. "Do you think I can't see where I'm drifting? The trouble is that I've gone too far to stop."
"Try!" persisted Blake. "It's very well worth while."
Benson was silent for a few moments, and then he looked up with a curious expression.
"You're wasting time, Dick," he said. "I've sunk too far. Go back in the morning, and leave me to my fate."
"When I go back, you are coming with me."
Benson's nerves were on edge, and his self-control broke down.
"Confound you!" he cried. "Let me alone! You have reached the limit; once for all, I'll stand no more meddling!"
"Very well," Blake answered quietly. "You have left me only one recourse, and you can't blame me for taking it."
"What's that?"
"Superior strength. You're a heavier man than I am, and ought to be a match for me, but you have lost your nerve and grown soft and flabby with drink. It's your own doing; and now you have to take the consequences. If you compel me, I'll drag you back to camp with the pack lariat."
"Do you mean that?", Benson's face grew flushed and his eyes glittered.
"Try me and see."
Savage as he was, Benson realized that his companion was capable of making good his promise. The man looked hard and very muscular, and his expression was determined.
"This is insufferable!" he cried.
Blake coolly filled his pipe.
"There's no other remedy. Before I go to sleep, I'll picket the horses close beside me; and if you steal away on foot during the night, I'll ride you down a few hours after daybreak. I think you understand me. There's nothing more to be said."
He tried to talk about other matters, but found it hard, for Benson, tormented by his craving, made no response. Darkness wrapped them about and the prairie was lost in shadow. The leaves in the bluff rustled in a faint, cold wind, and the smoke of the fire drifted round the men. For a while Benson sat moodily watching his companion, and then, wrapping his blanket round him, he lay down and turned away his head. Blake sat smoking for a while, and then strolled toward the horses and chose a resting-place beside their pickets.
Waking in the cold of daybreak, he saw Benson asleep, and prepared breakfast before he called him. They ate in silence, and then Blake led up the pony.
"I think we'll make a start," he said, as cheerfully as he could.
For a moment or two Benson hesitated, standing with hands clenched and baffled desire in his face; but Blake looked coolly resolute, and he mounted.