"Have you heard anything from Mr. Blake since he left Montreal?"
"Nothing," said Challoner with a trace of grimness. "He does not correspond with me."
"Then I suppose you don't know where he is?"
"I heard that he had left a small settlement on the Western prairie and started for the North." He gave her a sharp glance. "Are you interested in my nephew?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "I don't know him very well, but on two occasions he came to my assistance when I needed it. He was very tactful and considerate."
"Then he's fortunate in gaining your good opinion. No doubt, you know something about his history?"
"I dare say my good opinion is not worth much, but I feel that he deserves it, in spite of what I've been told about him," she answered with a blush. "It is very sad that he should have to give up all he valued; and I thought there was something gallant in his cheerfulness—he was always ready with a jest."
"Have you met his companion? I understand that he is not a man of my nephew's stamp."
Millicent smiled.
"Hardly so, from your point of view."
"Does that mean that yours is not the same as mine?"
"I have had to earn my living; and that changes one's outlook—perhaps I'd better not say enlarges it. However, you shall judge. Mr. Harding is a traveler for an American paint factory, and had to begin work at an age when your nephew was at Eton; but I think him a very fine type. He's serious, courteous, and sanguine, and seems to have a strong confidence in his partner."
"Ah! That is not so strange. The Blakes have a way of inspiring trust and liking. It's a gift of theirs."
"Your nephew undoubtedly has it. He uses it unconsciously, but I think that those who trust him are not deceived."
Challoner regarded her with a curious expression. "After all," he said, "that may be true."
Mrs. Foster joined them, and when, soon afterward, she and her friends left, Challoner sat alone for a long time, while the pictures faded as dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities, with a stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that made its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought were vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a man should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition. Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing; and it had been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of his friends had even gone farther and hinted that Bertram should never have been a soldier; but Challoner could not agree with that conclusion. His lips set sternly as he went out in search of Greythorpe.
CHAPTER XIV
DEFEAT
A good fire burned on the hearth in the library at Sandymere, although the mild air of an early spring morning floated in through the open window. Challoner sat in a big leather chair, watching the flames and thinking of his nephew, when a servant entered and handed him a card.
Challoner glanced at it.
"Clarke? I don't know any one of that name—"
He stopped abruptly as he saw the word Sweetwater in small type at the bottom of the card. He knew that that was the name of the prairie town from which Blake had started on his quest into the wilderness.
"All right, Perkins," he said, rather eagerly; and a few minutes afterward Clarke entered the room, with an irritating air of assurance.
"Colonel Challoner, I presume?"
Challoner bowed.
"You have brought me some news of my nephew, Richard Blake?"
This disconcerted Clarke. He had not imagined that his object would be known, and he had counted upon Challoner's being surprised and thrown off his guard. It looked as if the Colonel had been making inquiries about Blake. Clarke wished that he could guess his reason, for it might affect the situation.
"That is correct," he said. "I have a good deal to tell you, and it may take some time."
Challoner motioned to him to be seated, and offered him a cigar; and
Clarke lighted it before he spoke.
"Your nephew," he began, "spent a week in the settlement where I live, preparing for a journey to the North. Though his object was secret, I believe he went in search of something to make varnish of, because he took with him a young American traveler for a paint factory, besides another man."
"I know all that," Challoner replied. "I heard about his American companion; who was the other?"
"We will come to him presently. There is still something which I think you do not know."
"Yes?" Challoner said.
He was suspicious, for his visitor's looks were not in his favor.
Clarke gave the Colonel a keen glance.
"It concerns your nephew's earlier history."
"That is of most importance to himself and me. It can't interest you."
"It interests me very much," Clarke returned, with an ironical smile.
"I must ask you to let me tell you what I know."
Challoner consented, and Clarke gave what the Colonel admitted was a very accurate account of the action on the Indian frontier.
"Well," he concluded, "the orders were to hold on—they could send for support if very hard pressed, but they mustn't yield a yard of ground. It was hot work in front of the trench upon the ridge—the natives pouring into it at one end—but the men held their ground, until—there was an order given—in a white man's voice—and the bugle called them off. Somebody had ventured to disobey instructions, and after that the hill was lost. The bugler was killed, so they could learn nothing from him."
Clarke paused a moment and narrowed his eyes. "Now," he said "it is of vital importance to you to know who gave that order to retreat."
"That question has been answered and settled," Challoner replied severely.
"I think incorrectly."
"Yes?" the Colonel queried again. "Perhaps you will let me have your theory as to what occurred."
That was the opportunity for which Clarke was waiting. His argument had been cleverly worked out, his points carefully arranged; and Challoner's heart sank, for the damaging inference could hardly be shirked.
"Your suggestions are plausible, but you can't seriously expect me to attach much weight to them," Challoner said. "Besides, you seem to have overlooked the important fact that at the regimental inquiry the verdict was that nobody in particular was to blame."
"Oh, no!" Clarke replied with a harsh laugh. "I merely question its validity. I imagine that reasons which would not be officially recognized led the court to take a lenient view. But what of that? Blake had to leave the army, a ruined man; and I've good reason for knowing what an acquittal like his is worth." He paused a moment. "I may as well tell you candidly, because it's probable that you'll make inquiries about me. Well, I'd won some reputation as a medical specialist when I became involved in a sensational police case—you may recollect it."
Challoner started.
"So you are the man! I think nothing was actually proved against you."
"No," said Clarke dryly; "there was only a fatal suspicion. As it happens, I was innocent; but I had to give up my profession, and my life was spoiled. There's no reason why you should be interested in this—I mention it merely because a similar misfortune has befallen Richard Blake. The point, of course, is that it has done so undeservedly. I think you must see who the real culprit is."
"You mean to infer that my son is a coward and gave the shameful order?" Challoner's eyes glittered, though his face was colorless. "It's unthinkable!"
"Nevertheless it's true. Why did he, without permission and abusing his authority over the guard, spend two hours late at night with Blake, who was under arrest? What had they to say that took so long, when there was a risk of Captain Challoner's being discovered? Why did Blake make no defense, unless it was because he knew that to clear himself would throw the blame upon his friend?"
"You press me hard," said Challoner in a hoarse voice. "But that my son should so have failed in his duty to his country and his cousin is impossible!"
"Yet you were willing to believe your nephew guilty. Had you any cause to doubt his courage?"
Challoner felt beaten by the man's remorseless reasoning; there was scarcely a point he could contest. A conviction that humbled him to the dust was being forced on him; but he would not let his rough visitor see him shrink as the truth seared him.
"I'll admit that you have told me a rather likely tale. As you don't speak of having been in India, may I ask who gave you the information?"
"Blake's companion, the man I've mentioned, a former Indian officer named Benson."
"His full name, please."
Clarke gave it to him, and Challoner, crossing the floor, took a book from a shelf and turned over the pages.
"Yes; he's here. What led him to talk of the thing to an outsider?"
"Drink. I'll confess to having taken advantage of the condition he was often in."
Challoner sat down and coolly lighted a cigar. His position seemed a weak one, but he had no thought of surrender.
"Well, you have given me some interesting information; but there's one thing you haven't mentioned, and that is your reason for doing so."
"Can't you guess?"
"I shouldn't have suspected you of being so diffident, but I dare say you thought this was a chance for earning some money easily."
"Yes," said Clarke. "For five thousand pounds, I'll undertake that no word of what I've told you will ever pass my lip's again."
"And do you suppose I'd pay five thousand pounds to see my nephew wronged?"
"I believe you might do so to save your son." Challoner controlled his anger, for he wished to lead the man on and learn something about his plans.
"Out of the question!" he said briefly.
"Then I'll make you an alternative offer—and it's worth considering. Take, or get your friends to subscribe for ten thousand pounds' worth of shares in a commercial syndicate I'm getting up. You'll never regret it. If you wish, I'll make you a director, so that you can satisfy yourself that the money will be wisely spent. You'll get it back several times over."
Challoner laughed.
"This is to salve my feelings; to make the thing look like a business transaction?"
"Oh, no!" Clarke declared, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. "It's a genuine offer. I'll ask your attention for a minute or two. Canada's an undeveloped country; we have scarcely begun to tap its natural resources, and there's wealth ready for exploitation all over it. We roughly know the extent of the farming land and the value of the timber, but the minerals still to a large extent await discovery, while perhaps the most readily and profitably handled product is oil. Now I know a belt of country where it's oozing from the soil; and with ten thousand pounds I'll engage to bore wells that will give a remarkable yield."
His manner was impressive, and though Challoner had no cause to trust him he thought the man sincere.
"One understands that in Canada all natural commodities belong to the State, and any person discovering them can work them on certain terms," Challoner said. "It seems to follow that if your knowledge of the locality is worth anything, it must belong to you alone. How is it that nobody else suspects the belt contains oil?"
"A shrewd objection, but easily answered. The country in question is one of the most rugged tracts in Canada—difficult to get through in summer; in winter the man who enters it runs a serious risk. I'll admit that what you know about me is not likely to prejudice you in my favor; but, on your promise to keep it secret, I'll give you information that must convince you."
"Why don't you make your offer to some company floater or stockjobber?"
Clarke smiled in a pointed manner.
"Because I've a damaging record and no friends to vouch for me. I came here because I felt that I had some claim on you."
"You were mistaken," said Challoner curtly.
"Hear me out; try to consider my proposition on its merits. For a number of years, I've known the existence of the oil and have tried to prospect the country. It was difficult; to transport enough food and tools meant a costly expedition and the attracting of undesirable attention. I went alone, living with primitive Russian settlers and afterward with the Indians. To gain a hold on them, I studied the occult sciences, and learned tricks that impose upon the credulous. To the white men I'm a crank, to the Indians something of a magician; but my search for the oil has gone on; and now, while I already know where boring would be commercially profitable, I'm on the brink of tapping a remarkable flow."
"What will you do if it comes up to your expectations?" Challoner asked, for he had grown interested in spite of his disbelief in the man.
"Turn it over to a company strong enough to exact good terms from the American producers or, failing that, to work the wells. Then I'd go back to London, where, with money and the standing it would buy me, I'd take up my old profession. I believe I've kept abreast of medical progress and could still make my mark and reinstate myself. It has been my steadfast object ever since I became an outcast; I've schemed and cheated to gain it, besides risking my life often in desolate muskegs and the arctic frost. Now, I ask you to make it possible—and you cannot refuse."
Challoner was silent for a minute or two, while Clarke smoked impassively. The Colonel knew that he had a determined man to deal with, and he believed, moreover, that he had spoken the truth. Still, the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice. There was something malignant in his face that testified against him; but, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the price of his connivance in a wrong.
"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.
"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable; but I can't say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money. If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."
Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way he knitted his brows.
"Have you gaged the consequences of your refusal?"
"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."
"Ah!" said Clarke, with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it?"
"You suggest Blake's innocence. You cannot prove it in the face of his own denial."
To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.
"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have an opportunity for denying it. He left for the North very badly equipped, and he has not come back yet. The country he meant to cross is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get, and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below." Then he rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I must try some other market. While I think you have made a grave mistake, that is your affair."
When Clarke had gone, Challoner left the house in a restless mood and paced slowly up and down among his shrubbery. He wished to be alone in the open air. Bright sunshine fell upon him, the massed evergreens cut off the wind, and in a sheltered border spear-like green points were pushing through the soil in promise of the spring. Challoner knew them all, the veined crocus blades, the tight-closed heads of the hyacinths, and the twin shoots of the daffodils, but, fond as he was of his garden, he gave them scanty attention.
Clarke's revelation had been a shock. With his sense of duty and family pride, the Colonel had, when the news of the frontier disaster first reached him, found it almost impossible to believe that his nephew had been guilty of shameful cowardice; and now it looked as if the disgrace might be brought still closer home. Bertram would presently take his place and, retiring from active service, rule the estate in accordance with Challoner traditions and perhaps exert some influence in politics. Clarke had, however, shown him that Bertram, from whom so much was expected, had proved himself a poltroon and, what was even worse, had allowed an innocent man to suffer for his baseness.
Challoner remembered that Bertram had shown timidity in his younger days—they had had some trouble in teaching him to ride—and there was no doubt that his was a highly strung and nervous temperament. He had not the calm which marked the Challoners in time of strain. On the other hand, Dick Blake was recklessly generous, and loved his cousin; it would be consistent with his character if he were willing to suffer in Bertram's stead. Moreover, there were reasons which might have had some effect in inducing Bertram to consent, because Challoner knew the affection his son bore him and that he would shrink from involving him in his disgrace. What Bertram would certainly not have done to secure his own escape he might have done for the sake of his father and the girl he was to marry.
Admitting all this, Challoner could not take his son's guilt for granted. There was room for doubt. Blake must be summoned home and forced to declare the truth.
Then Challoner's thoughts went back to the man whose tale had so disturbed him. There had been nothing forcible or obviously threatening in Clarke's last few remarks, but their effect was somehow sinister. Challoner wondered whether he had done well in suggesting that Blake's denial would prove the man's greatest difficulty. After all, he had a strong affection for his nephew, and he knew that the wilds of northern Canada might prove deadly to a weak party unprovided with proper sleds and provisions. Clarke had hinted that Blake's party was in danger. Surely, aid could reach them, even in that frozen land, by a well-equipped expedition.
Realizing what delay might mean to his nephew, Challoner hastened indoors and sent a cable-letter to a friend in Montreal, asking him to spare no effort to follow Blake's trail into the northern wilds.
CHAPTER XV
THE FROZEN NORTH
A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was arctic when Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western sky, and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke that the place looked very dreary.
He walked on, with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on his furs. On reaching the homestead, he went first to the stable—built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawed lumber—and, lighting a lantern, fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales and lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a successful farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals and implements led to economy; though it was said that he seldom paid the full market price for them. He had walked home because it was impossible to keep warm driving; and he now felt tired and morose. The man had passed his prime and was beginning to find the labor he had never shirked more irksome than it had been. He dispensed with a hired hand in winter, when there was less to be done, for Clarke neglected no opportunity to save a dollar.
When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house, which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London, where he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone. Walls and floor were uncovered and were roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber; the stove was rusty, and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs,
Clarke lighted his pipe and, drawing his seat as near the stove as possible, opened the English newspaper, which contained some news that interested him. A short paragraph stated that Captain Bertram Challoner, then stationed at Delhi, had received an appointment which would shortly necessitate his return from India. This, Clarke imagined, might be turned to good account; but the matter demanded thought, and for a long time he sat motionless, deeply pondering. His farming had prospered, though the bare and laborious life had tried him hard; and he had made some money by more questionable means, lending to unfortunate neighbors at extortionate interest and foreclosing on their possessions. No defaulter got any mercy at his hands, and shrewd sellers of seed and implements took precautions when they dealt with him.
His money, however, would not last him long if he returned to England and attempted to regain a footing in his profession, and he had daringly schemed to increase it. Glancing across the room, his eyes rested with a curious smile on one of the bookcases. It contained works on hypnotism, telepathy, and psychological speculations in general; he had studied some of them with ironical amusement and others with a quickening of his interest. Amid much that he thought of as sterile chaff he saw germs of truth; and once or twice he had been led to the brink of a startling discovery. There the elusive clue had failed him, though he felt that strange secrets might be revealed some day.
After all, the books had served his purpose, as well as kept him from brooding when he sat alone at nights while the icy wind howled round his dwelling. He passed for a sage and something of a prophet with the primitive Dubokars; his Indian friends regarded him as medicine-man; and both unknowingly had made easier his search for the petroleum. Then, contrary to his expectations he had found speculators in London willing to venture a few hundred pounds on his scheme; but the amount was insufficient and the terms were exacting. It would pay him better to get rid of his associates. He was growing old; it would be too late to return to his former life unless he could do so soon; but he must make a fair start with ample means. The man had no scruples and no illusions; money well employed would buy him standing and friends. People were charitable to a man who had something to offer them; and the blot on his name must be nearly forgotten.
First of all, however, the richest spot of the oil field must be found, and money enough raised to place him in a strong position when the venture was put on the market. He had failed to extort any from Challoner; but he might be more successful with his son. The man who was weak enough to allow his cousin to suffer for his fault would no doubt yield to judicious pressure. It was fortunate that Bertram Challoner was coming to England, where he could more easily be reached. This led Clarke to think of Blake, for he realized that Challoner was right in pointing out that the man was his greatest difficulty. If Blake maintained that the fault was his, nothing could be done; it was therefore desirable that he should be kept out of the way. There was another person to whom the same applied. Clarke had preyed on Benson's weakness; but if the fellow had overcome it and should return to farm industriously, his exploitation would no longer be possible. On the other hand, if he failed to pay off his debts, Clarke saw how he could with much advantage seize his possessions. Thus both Blake and Benson were obstacles; and now that they had ventured into the icy North it would be better if they did not reappear.
Clarke refilled his pipe, and his face wore a sinister look as he took down a rather sketchy map of the wilds beyond the prairie belt. After studying it keenly, he sank into an attitude of concentrated thought. The stove crackled, its pipe glowing red; driving snow lashed the shiplap walls; and the wind moaned drearily about the house. Its occupant, however, was oblivious to his surroundings. He sat very still in his chair, with pouches under his fixed eyes and his lips set tight. He looked malignant and dangerous. Perhaps his mental attitude was not quite normal; for close study and severe physical toil, coupled with free indulgence, had weakened him; there were drugs to which he was addicted; and he had long been possessed by one fixed idea. By degrees it had become a mania; and he would stick at nothing that might help him to carry out his purpose.
When at last he got up, with a shiver, to throw wood into the stove, he thought he saw how his object could be secured.
A month before Clarke spent the evening thinking about them, Blake and his comrades camped at sunset in a belt of small spruces near the edge of the open waste that runs back to the Polar Sea. They were worn and hungry, for the shortage of provisions had been a constant trouble, and such supplies as they obtained from Indians, who seldom had much to spare, soon ran out. Once or twice they had feasted royally after shooting a big bull moose, but the frozen meat they were able to carry did not last long, and again they were threatened with starvation.
It was a calm evening, with a coppery sunset flaring across the snow, but intensely cold; and though the men had wood enough and sat close beside a fire, with their ragged blankets wrapped round them, they could not keep warm. Harding and Benson were openly dejected, but Blake had somehow preserved his cheerful serenity. As usual after finishing their scanty supper, they began to talk, for during the day conversation was limited by the toil of the march.
"No good," Harding said, taking a few bits of resin out of a bag. "It's common fir gum, such as I could gather a carload of in the forests of Michigan. Guess there's something wrong with my theory about the effects of extreme cold." He took a larger lump from a neat leather case. "This is the genuine article, and it's certainly the product of a coniferous tree. The fellow I got it from said it was found in the coldest parts of North America. Seems to me we have tried all the varieties of the firs, but we're as far from finding what we want as when we started."
"Hard luck!" Benson remarked gloomily.
Harding broke off a fragment and lighted it.
"Notice the smell. It's characteristic."
"The fellow may have been right on one point," said Blake. "When I was in India I once got some incense which was brought down in small quantities from the Himalayas, and, I understood, came from near the snow-line. The smell was the same; one doesn't forget a curious scent."
"That's so. Talking about it reminds me that I was puzzled by a smell I thought I ought to know when I brought Clarke out of the tepee. I know now what it was; and the thing's significant. It was gasoline."
"They extract it from crude petroleum, don't they?"
"Yes; it's called petrol on your side. Clarke's out for coal-oil; and
I guess he's struck it."
"Then he's lucky; but his good fortune doesn't concern us, and we have other things to think about. What are you going to do, now that we don't seem able to find the gum?"
"It's a difficult question," Harding answered in a troubled voice. "I'd hate to go back, with nothing accomplished and all my money spent. Marianna's paying for this journey in many ways, and I haven't the grit to tell her we're poorer than when I left. She wouldn't complain; but when you have to live on a small commission that's hard to make, it's the woman who meets the bill."
Blake made a sign of sympathy. He had never shared Harding's confidence in the success of his search, and had joined in it from love of adventure and a warm liking for his comrade.
"Well," he said, "I have no means except a small allowance which is so tied up that it's difficult to borrow anything on it; but it's at your disposal, as far as it goes. Suppose we keep on with our prospecting."
"If Clarke's mortgage doesn't stop me, I might raise a few dollars on my farm," Benson volunteered. "I'll throw it in, with pleasure, because I'm pretty deep in your debt."
"Thanks," Harding responded. "I'm sorry I can't agree; but I wouldn't take your offer when you first made it, and I can't do so now that my plan's a failure. Anyway, we're doing some useless talking, because I don't see how we're to go on prospecting, or get south again, when we have only three or four days' food in hand."
He stated an unpleasant truth which the others had characteristically shirked, for Blake was often careless, and Benson had taken the risks of the journey with frank indifference. After nearly starving once or twice, they had succeeded in getting fresh supplies; but now their hearts sank: as they thought of the expanse of frozen wilderness that lay between them and the settlements.
"Well," said Blake, "there's a Hudson Bay factory somewhere to the east of us. I can't tell how far off it is, though it must be a long way, but if we could reach it, the agent might take us in."
"How are you going to find the place?"
"I don't know; but a Hudson Bay post is generally fixed where there are furs to be got. There will no doubt be Indians trapping in the neighborhood, and we must take our chances of hitting their tracks."
"But we can't make a long march without food," Benson objected.
"The trouble is that we can't stay here without it," Blake pointed out with a short laugh.
This was undeniable, and neither of his companions answered. They were unkempt, worn out, and ragged; and in the past week they had traveled a long way through fresh snow on short rations. Ahead of them lay a vast and almost untrodden desolation; behind them a rugged wilderness which there seemed no probability of their being able to cross. Lured by the hope of finding what they sought, they had pushed on from point to point; and now it was too late to return.
Presently Blake got up.
"Our best chance is to kill a caribou, and this is the kind of country they generally haunt. The sooner we look for one, the better; so I may as well start at once. There'll be a moon to-night."
He threw off his blanket and, picking up a Marlin rifle, which was their only weapon, strode out of camp; and as he was a good shot and tracker they let him go. It was getting dark when he left the shelter of the trees, and the cold in the open struck through him like a knife. The moon had not yet risen and the waste stretched away before him, its whiteness changed to a soft blue-gray. In the distance scattered bluffs rose in long dark smears; but there was nothing to indicate which way Blake should turn, and he had no reason to believe there was a caribou near the camp. As a matter of fact, they had found the larger deer remarkably scarce.
Blake was tired, after breaking the trail since sunrise, and the snow was loose beneath his big net shoes, but he plodded toward the farthest bluff, feeling that he was largely to blame for the party's difficulties. Knowing something of the country, he should have insisted on turning back when he found they could obtain no dog teams to transport their supplies. Occasionally Hudson Bay agents and patrols of the North-West Police made long journeys in arctic weather; but they were provided with proper sleds and sufficient preserved food. Indeed, Blake was astonished that he and his comrades had got so far. He had given way to Harding, who hardly knew the risks he ran, and now he supposed that he must take the consequences. This did not daunt him badly. After all, life had not much to offer an outcast; he had managed to extract some amusement from it, but he had nothing to look forward to. There was no prospect of his making money—his talents were not commercial—and the hardships he could bear now would press on him more heavily as he grew older.
These considerations, however, were too philosophical for him to dwell on. He was essentially a man of action, and was feeling unpleasantly hungry, and he quickened his pace, knowing that the chance of his getting a shot at a caribou in the open was small.
The moon had not risen when he reached the bluff, but the snow reflected a faint light and he noticed a row of small depressions on its surface. Kneeling down, he examined them, but there had been wind during the day and the marks were blurred. He felt for a match, but his fingers were too numbed to open the watertight case, and he proceeded to measure the distance between the footprints. This was an unreliable test, as a big deer's stride varies with its pace, but he thought the tracks indicated a caribou. Then he stopped, without rising, and looked about.
Near in front the trees rose in a shadowy wall against the clear blue sky; there was no wind, and it was oppressively still; the darkness of the woods was impenetrable and its silence daunting. The row of tracks was the only sign of life Blake had seen for days.
While he listened, a faint howl came out of the distance, and was followed by another. After the deep silence, the sound was startling. Blake recognized the cry of the timber wolves, and knew his danger. The big gray brutes would make short work of a lonely man. His flesh crept as he wondered whether, they were on his trail. On the whole, it did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him. Rising to his feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he set off at his highest speed.
The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound behind him; but that somehow increased his uneasiness, and now and then he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-gray shadow; and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with that the wolves were capable of making. At last, with keen satisfaction, he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of a bluff ahead, and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into camp.
"You haven't stayed out long," Benson observed. "I suppose you saw nothing?"
"I heard wolves," Blake answered dryly. "You had better gather wood enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up my trail. However, it's a promising sign."
"I guess we could do without it," Hording broke in. "I've no use for wolves."
"They must live on something," Blake said. "Since they're here, there are probably moose or caribou in the neighborhood. I'll have another try to-morrow."
"But the wolves!"
"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyway, it seems to me we must take some risks."
This was obvious; and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood,
Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.
CHAPTER XVI
THE TRAIL OF THE CARIBOU
When Blake was awakened by Harding, the cold was almost unendurable, and it cost him a determined effort to rise from the hollow he had scraped out of the snow and lined with spruce twigs close beside the fire. He had not been warm there, and it was significant that the snow was dry; but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort, and he had found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all; and then he lay down, leaving Blake on guard.
Blake sat with his back to a snowbank, which afforded a slight shelter. He imagined from his sensations that the temperature must be about fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit through him, stiffening his muscles until he felt that if vigorous movement were demanded of him he would be incapable of it. His brain was dulled; he could not reason clearly, though he had things to consider; and he looked about with heavy eyes, trying to forget his physical discomfort, while his mind wandered through a maze of confused thought.
There was a half-moon in the sky, which was pitilessly clear, for cloudiness might have made it warmer; when the firelight sank, the slender spruce trunks cut sharply against the silvery radiance and the hard glitter of the snow. Everything was tinted with blue and white, and the deathly cold coloring was depressing.
Blake began to consider their position, which was serious. They were worn out and half-fed; their furs were ragged; and shortage of money and the difficulty of transport had forced them to cut down their camp equipment. Indeed, looking back on the long march, Blake was surprised that they had escaped crippling frostbite; although both Benson and Harding were somewhat lame from the strain which the use of snowshoes puts on the muscles of the leg. There was, moreover, a risk of this becoming dangerous; and it was probably two hundred miles to the Hudson Bay post. The chances of their reaching it seemed very slight.
Just then a howl rang, harsh and ominous, through the frosty air. With a nervous start, Blake grabbed his rifle. The wolves had scented them. Turning his back to the light, he spent some minutes gazing fixedly at the glistening white patches among the straggling trees, but he could make out none of the stealthy, flitting shapes he had half expected to see. It was encouraging that the wolves had not overcome their timidity of the fire. Keen hunger would have driven them to an attack; and Blake had no illusions about the result of that. However, the fierce brutes were not starving; they must have found something to eat; and what a wolf could eat would feed men who were by no means fastidious.
Seeing nothing that alarmed him, Blake resumed his musing. Their search for the gum had proved useless. He pitied Harding, who had staked his future upon its success. The man had not complained much; but Blake knew what he must feel; and he thought with compassion of the lonely woman who had bravely sent her husband out and was now waiting for him in the mean discomfort of a cheap tenement. It was not difficult to imagine her anxiety and suspense.
Next he began to ponder his own affairs, which were not encouraging, though he did not think he really regretted the self-sacrificing course he had taken. His father had died involved in debt, and Blake suspected that it had cost Colonel Challoner something to redeem the share of his mother's property which brought him in a small income. That it had been carefully tied up was not, he thought, enough to guard it from the Blake extravagance and ingenuity in raising money. Afterward the Colonel had brought him up and sent him into the army, doing so with a generous affection which was very different from cold charity, and which demanded some return. Then, Bertram had never been jealous of the favor shown his cousin, but had given him warm friendship; and Blake, who was much the stronger, had now and then stood between the lad and harm. He had done so again in Bertram's greatest need, and now he must not grumble at the consequences.
Of late they had seemed heavier than formerly, for in tempting him Clarke had made a telling suggestion—suppose he married? This appeared improbable: for one thing, no girl that he was likely to care for would look with favor on a man with his reputation; but he had thought a good deal about Millicent Graham during the long, weary march. He imagined that she had inherited enough of her father's reckless character to make her willing to take a risk. She would not have a man betray his friend for an advantage that he might gain; she had a courage that would help her, for love's sake, to tread a difficult path. Still, there was no reason to believe that she had any love for him; or, indeed, that she thought of him except as a stranger to whom she had, perhaps, some reason to be grateful.
Resolutely breaking off this train of thought, he threw fresh wood on the fire, and sat shivering and making plans for the march to the factory, until Benson relieved him. When the gray dawn broke above the trees, he got up stiff with cold; and, after eating his share of a very frugal breakfast, he carefully examined his rifle. Though he kept it clean of superfluous grease, there was some risk of the striker and magazine-slide freezing; and a missfire might prove disastrous. Glancing up between the branches, he noticed the low, dingy sky; although he thought it was not quite so cold.
"I'm going to look for a caribou," he said. "I'll be back by dark."
"We'll have snow," Harding warned him. "If there's much, you'll find it hard to get home."
"I'd find it harder to do without breakfast and supper, which is what may happen very soon."
"Anyway, you had better take one of us along."
"With the ax?" Blake said, laughing. "It's bad enough to reach a caribou with a rifle. Benson's as poor a hand at stalking as I know, while a day's rest may save you from getting a snowshoe leg. As we haven't a sled, it would be awkward to carry you to the factory."
They let him go; but when he reached the open his face hardened. The sky had a threatening look, the snow was soft, and there were wolves about; but he was comparatively safe while daylight lasted, and food must be found. During the morning he saw wolf tracks, but no sign of a deer, and at noon he sat down for a few minutes in a sheltered hollow and managed to light the half-frozen pipe he kept in an inner pocket. He had brought nothing to eat, for they had decided that it would be prudent to dispense with a midday meal. Getting stiffly on his feet, after he had smoked a while, he plodded from bluff to bluff throughout the afternoon. For the most part, they were thin and the trees very small, while the country between them seemed to be covered with slabs of rocks and stones. It was utterly empty, with no sign of life in it, but Blake continued his search until the light began to fail, when he stopped to look about.
No snow had fallen, but the sky was very thick and a stinging wind had risen. He would have trouble in reaching camp if his trail got drifted up. He knew that he should have turned back earlier; but there was what seemed to be an extensive woods in front, and he could not face the thought of returning empty-handed to his half-starved companions. The gray trees were not far away; he might reach them and make a mile or two on the back trail before dark, though he was weary and hunger had given him a distressing pain in his left side.
Quickening his pace, he neared the bluff. It looked very black and shadowy against the snow, which now was fading to a curious, lifeless gray. The trees were stunted and scattered; that made it possible for him to get through, though there were half-covered, fallen branches which entangled his big snowshoes. He could see no tracks of any animal, and hardly expected to do so; but, in a savage mood, he held on, without much caution, until he entered a belt of broken ground strewn with rocky hillocks. Here he could not see where he was going, and it was almost dark in the hollows; but he had learned that chance sometimes favors the hunter as much as careful stalking. Stopping for breath a moment, halfway up a steep ascent, he started, for a shadowy object unexpectedly appeared on the summit. It was barely distinguishable against the background of trees, but Blake saw the broad-tined horns in an opening and knew it for a caribou.
There was no time to lose; the swift creature would take flight in an instant; and, almost as he caught sight of it, the rifle went up to his shoulder. For a moment the foresight wavered across the indistinct form, and then his numbed hands grew steady, and, trusting that nothing would check the frost-clogged action, he pressed the trigger. He felt the jar of the butt, a little smoke blew in his eyes, and he could make out nothing on the crest of the ridge. It seemed impossible, however, that he had missed, and the next moment he heard a heavy floundering in the snow among the rocks above. He went up the slope at a savage run, and plunged down a precipitous hollow, on the farther side of which a half-seen object was moving through the gloom of the trees. Stopping a moment, he threw up the rifle, and after the thin red flash the deer staggered and collapsed.
Running on in desperate haste, he fell upon it with his hunting knife; and then stopped, feeling strangely limp and breathless, with the long blade dripping in his hand. Now that the caribou lay dead before him, the strain of the last few minutes made itself felt. Surprised by a sudden and unexpected opportunity when he was exhausted and weak from want of food, he had forced upon himself sufficient steadiness to shoot. It had cost him an effort; the short, fierce chase had tried him hard; and now the reaction had set in. For all that, he was conscious of a savage, exultant excitement. Here was food, and food meant life!
His first impulse was to light a fire and feast, but as he grew calmer he began to think. He was a long way from camp, and he feared that if he rested he could not force himself to resume the march. Besides, there were the wolves to reckon with; and he could not escape if they followed him in the dark. Prudence suggested that he should cut off as much meat as possible, and after placing it out of reach in a tree, set off for camp at his best speed without taking any of the raw flesh to scent the air; but this was more than he could bring himself to do. His comrades were very hungry, and some animal might climb to the frozen meat. It was unthinkable that he should run any risk of losing the precious food. He decided to take as much as he could carry, and store the rest in a tree; and he set to work with the hunting knife in anxious haste.
It was now quite dark; he could not see what he was cutting, and if he gashed his hand, which was numbed and almost useless, the wound would not heal. Then the haft of the knife grew slippery, and tough skin and bone turned the wandering blade. It was an unpleasant business, but the man could not be fastidious, and he tore the flesh off with his fingers, knowing that he was in danger while he worked. There were wolves in the neighborhood, and their scent for blood was wonderfully keen; it was a question whether they would reach the spot before he had left it. When he stopped to clean the knife in the snow he cast a swift glance about.
He could see nothing farther off than a fallen trunk about a dozen yards away; beyond that the trees had faded into a somber mass. A biting wind wailed among them, causing the needles to rustle harshly; but except for this there was a daunting silence. Blake began to feel a horror of the lonely wood and a longing to escape into the open, though he would be no safer there. But to give way to this weakness would be dangerous; and, pulling himself together, he went to work more calmly.
It was difficult to reach the branches of the spruce he chose, and when he had placed the first load of meat in safety he was tempted to flight. Indeed, for some moments he stood irresolute, struggling to hold his fears in subjection; and then he went back for another supply. He climbed the tree three times before he was satisfied that he had stored enough, and afterward he gathered up as much of the flesh as he could conveniently carry. It would soon freeze, but not before it had left a scent that any wolf which might happen to be near could follow.
He left the woods with a steady stride, refraining from attempting a faster pace than he could keep up, but when he had gone a mile he felt distressed. His load, which included the rifle, was heavy, and he had been exerting himself since early morning. The wind was in his face, lashing it until the cold became intolerable; the dry snow was loose, and had drifted over his outward trail. Still, he was thankful that no more had fallen, and he thought that he knew the quarter he must make for. Now that he was in the open, he could see some distance, for the snow threw up a dim light. It stretched away before him, a sweep of glimmering gray, and the squeaking crunch it made beneath his shoes emphasized the overwhelming silence.
Skirting a bluff he did not remember, he stopped in alarm, until a taller clump of trees which he thought he knew caught his searching eyes. If he were right, he must incline farther to the east to strike the shortest line to camp; and he set off, breathing heavily and longing to fling away his load. Cold flakes stung his face, and a creeping haze obscured his view in the direction where he expected to find the next woods. He was within a hundred yards of the nearest trees when he saw them, and as he left the woods it was snowing hard. His heart sank as he launched out into the open, for he had now no guide, and having neither ax nor blanket he could not make a fire and camp in a bluff, even if he could find one. It looked as if he must perish should he fail to reach the camp.
He had only a hazy recollection of floundering on, passing a bluff he could not locate, and here and there a white rock, while the snow fell thicker and its surface got worse. Then, when he felt he could go no farther, he heard a howl behind him, and then another.
With the wolves on his trail, Blake quickened his speed to his utmost limit. As a last resort he could throw away the meat, and they would stop for that; but they were still some distance back of him and he held on grimly to his precious load. It meant life to him and to his starving companions. His feet sank into the soft snow; the wind blew him back cruelly; a cloud had come over the moon, obscuring what little light he had; but, worst of all, one of his snowshoes was loose. With the cry of the wolves behind him, he did not dare stop to tighten it, although it impeded his progress greatly. He struggled forward as the howls drew nearer; and then, when it seemed that he would have to give up, a faint glow of light broke out and he turned toward it with a hoarse cry. An answer reached him, the light grew brighter, and he was in among the trees.
Benson met him, and a minute later he flung himself down, exhausted, by the fire.
"I've brought you your supper, boys," he gasped, "but the wolves are on my trail!"
Harding grabbed the rifle, while Benson poked at the fire until a larger flame swept up, lighting clearly a radius of several yards; but the wolves, fearing the fire or scenting some other prey, had branched off to the right, and the men could hear their howls growing fainter in the distance.
"We'll have a feast to-night, boys," Benson said, hastily preparing the meal.
They ate with keen appetite, and afterward went to sleep; and when they reached the woods the next morning nothing was left of the caribou except the meat in the tree and a few clean-picked bones.
With a sufficient quantity of meat to stave off their anxiety regarding the question of food, the men spent two days enjoying a badly needed rest; and then they pushed on, making forced marches which severely taxed their strength. Part of their way, however, lay across open country, for they were near the northern edge of the timber belt, and the straggling trees, dwarfed and bent by the wind, ran east and west in a deeply indented line. In some places they boldly stretched out toward the Pole in long promontories; in others they fell back in wide bays which Blake, steering by compass, held straight across, afterward plunging again into the scrub. Three days were spent in struggling through the broadest tongue, but, as a rule, a few hours' arduous march brought them out into the open. Even there the ground was very rough and broken, and they were thankful for the numerous frozen creeks and lakes which provided an easier road.
Pushing on stubbornly, camping where they could find shelter and wood, for they could hardly have survived a night spent in the open without a fire, they made, by calculation, two hundred miles; and Blake believed that they must surely be near the Hudson Bay post.
CHAPTER XVII
A RESPITE
Light snow was driving across the waste before a savage wind when the party sat at breakfast one morning. Day had broken, but there was little light, and Blake, looking out from behind a slab of rock in the shelter of which a few junipers clung, thought that three or four miles would be the longest distance that he could see. This was peculiarly unfortunate, because an Indian trapper whom they had met two days before had told them that their course led across a wide untimbered stretch, on the opposite side of which one or two isolated bluffs would indicate the neighborhood of the factory. Disastrous consequences might follow the missing of these woods.
A pannikin of weak tea made from leaves which already had been twice infused stood among the embers; and Benson was leaning over a log, dividing the last of the meat. He held up a small piece.
"I had thought of saving this, but it hardly seems worth while," he said. "If we make the factory tonight, we'll get a good supper."
"You don't mention what will happen if we miss it," Harding commented with grim humor. "Anyway, that piece of meat won't make much difference. What do you think, Blake?"
Blake forced a cheerful laugh.
"Put it all in; we're going to make the post; as a matter of fact, we have to! How's the leg this morning?"
"I don't think it's worse than it was last night," Harding answered.
"If I'm careful how I go, it ought to stand another journey."
He made a grimace as he stretched out the limb. It was very sore, for during the last few days the strain the snowshoe threw on the muscles had nearly disabled him. Now, he knew it would be difficult to hold out for another journey; but he had grown accustomed to pain and weariness and hunger. They were, he imagined, the lot of all who braved the rigors of winter in the northern wilds.
"Well," said Benson, "there's no use in carrying anything that's not strictly needful, and the empty grub-bag may stay behind. Then here's a pair of worn-out moccasins I was keeping as a stand by. I should be able to get new ones at the factory."
"It's still some distance off," Harding reminded him.
"If we don't make it, the chances are that I won't need the things.
But what about your collection of gum?"
Nothing had been said on this point for some time, but Harding's face wore a curious look as he took up a bag which weighed three or four pounds.
"Some of the stuff might be used for low-grade varnish; but that's not what I'm out for. I've been trying to believe that a few of the specimens might prove better on analysis; but I guess it's a delusion."
With a quick, resolute movement, he threw the bag into the fire, and when the resin flared up with a thick brown smoke the others regarded him with silent sympathy. This was the end of the project from which he had expected so much; but it was obvious that he could meet failure with fortitude. Nothing that would serve any purpose could be said, and they quietly strapped on their blankets.
There was not much snow when they set off, and fortunately the wind blew behind them, but the white haze narrowed in the prospect and Blake, breaking the trail, kept his eyes on the compass. He was not at all sure of the right line, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was, at least, going straight.
After a few minutes, Harding glanced behind. Their camping place had vanished, they were out in an open waste, and he knew that he had started on the last march he was capable of making. Where it would lead him he could not tell, though the answer to the question was of vital importance. For a time he thought of his wife, and wondered with keen anxiety what would become of her if his strength gave way before they reached the post; but he drove these cares out of his mind. It was dangerous to harbor them, and it served no purpose; his part was to struggle on, swinging the net snowshoes while he grappled with the pain each step caused him. He shrank from contemplating the distance yet to be covered; it seemed vast to him in his weakness, and he felt himself a feeble, crippled thing. Soft snow and arctic cold opposed his advance with malignant force; but his worn-out body still obeyed the spur of his will, and he roused himself to fight for the life that had some value to another. He must march, dividing up the distance into short stages that had less effect upon the imagination; limping forward from the ice-glazed rock abreast of him to the white hillock which loomed up dimly where the snow blurred the horizon; then again he would look ahead from some patch of scrub to the most prominent elevation that he could see.
The marks he chose and passed seemed innumerable; but the wilderness still ran on, pitilessly empty. His leg was intensely painful; he knew that he must break down soon; and they had seen nothing of a stony rise for which they watched eagerly. To find it would simplify matters, for the Indian had made them understand that the bluffs about the post lay nearly east of it.
Noon passed, and they still pressed forward without a halt, for there was little more than three hours' daylight left, and it was unthinkable that they should spend the night without food or shelter. The horizon steadily narrowed as the snow thickened; there was a risk of their passing the guiding-marks, or even the factory.
It was nearly three o'clock when Harding stumbled and fell into the snow. He found himself unable to get up until Benson helped him, and in his attempt to rise he further strained his weakened leg. For a moment he leaned on his companion, his face contorted with pain.
"The fall seems to have hurt you," Benson said sympathetically.
"I'll have to go on," Harding gasped; and, setting his teeth, he strode forward; but he made only a few paces. The pain was severe; his head reeled; his strength gave way and he sank down on his knees.
Benson and Blake stopped in consternation.
"If I've kept the right line, we can't be far from the factory," Blake said encouragingly.
"I'm played out," Harding declared. "You'll have to leave me here. If you make the post, you can come back with a sled."
"No! How are we to find you with our trail drifting up? Besides, you'd be frozen in a few hours. If you can't walk, you'll have to be carried. Get hold of him, Benson!"
Benson lifted him to his feet, Blake seized his arm, and, both supporting him, they resumed the march. Leaning on them heavily, Harding was dragged along, and they silenced the feeble protests he made now and then.
"Stop talking that rot! We see this out together!" Blake told him roughly.
None of them had much doubt as to what the end would be, but they stubbornly held on. Nothing further was said. Blake and Benson themselves were nearly exhausted, and their pinched faces were set and stern, and Harding's was drawn up in a ghastly fashion by suffering. Still, their overtaxed muscles somehow obeyed the relentless call on them.
At last, when the light had almost gone, Benson stepped into a slight depression that slanted across their path.
"Hold on!" he cried hoarsely. "Look at this!"
Blake stooped, while Harding, swaying awkwardly with bent leg, held on to him. The hollow was small: a smooth groove of slightly lower level than the rest of the snow.
"A sledge trail!" he cried in an exultant voice. "Drifted up a bit, but they've been hauling lumber over it, and that means a good deal to us!" He indicated a shallow furrow a foot or two outside the groove. "That's been made by the butt of a trailing log. The Indian said there were bluffs near the post, and they wouldn't haul their cordwood farther than necessary!"
They stood silent for a few moments, overcome by relief. They had a guide to shelter and safety! When they had gathered breath, Blake steadied Harding, who found standing difficult.
"We must make a move and hustle all we can," he said eagerly. "It will be dark in half an hour, and the snow won't take long in filling up the trail."
The risk of missing the factory, which might be near at hand, was not to be faced, and they pulled themselves together for a last effort, Blake and Benson, breathing hard as they dragged Harding along. The light was rapidly going; now that they had changed their course the snow lashed their faces, making it difficult to see, and they plodded forward with lowered heads and eyes fixed on the guiding-line. It grew faint in places, and vanished altogether after a while. Then they stopped in dismay, and Blake went down on his knees, scraping with ragged mittens in the snow.
"I can't see which way it runs, but it certainly doesn't end here," he said. "Go ahead and look for it, Benson; but don't get out of call!"
Benson moved forward, and when he faded into the cloud of driving flakes those he left behind were conscious of a keen uneasiness. They could see only a few yards; it was blowing fresh and the wind might carry their voices away, and if this happened the chances were against their comrade's being able to rejoin them. After a few minutes Blake shouted, and the answer was reassuring. They waited a little longer, and then when they cried out a hail came back very faintly:
"Nothing yet!"
"Keep closer!" Blake shouted; but it seemed that Benson did not hear him, for there was no reply.
"Hadn't you better go after him?" Harding suggested.
"No!" Blake snapped. "It would make things worse to scatter." He raised his voice. "Come back, before your tracks fill up!"
The silence that followed filled them with alarm; but while they listened in strained suspense a faint call came out of the snow. The words were indistinguishable, but the voice had an exultant note in it.
"He has found the trail!" Blake exclaimed with deep relief.
It was difficult to see the print of Benson's shoes, and Harding could not move a step alone, but they called out at intervals as Blake slowly helped him along, and at last a shadowy object loomed in front of them. As they came up, Benson pointed to a slight depression.
"We can follow it if it gets no fainter; but there's no time to lose," he said. "It might be safer if I went first and kept my eye on the trail."
He shuffled forward with lowered head, while Blake came behind, helping Harding as best he could. All three long remembered the next half-hour. Once they lost the trail and were seized with despair, but, searching anxiously, they found it again.
At last a pale, elusive light appeared amid the snow ahead, and they watched it with keen satisfaction as it grew clearer. When it had changed to a strong yellow glow, they passed a broken white barrier which Blake supposed was a ruined stockade, and the hazy mass of a building showed against the snow. Then there was a loud barking of dogs, and while they sought for the door a stream of light suddenly shone out, with a man's dark figure in the midst of it.
The next minute they entered the house, and Harding, lurching forward across the floor of a large room, clutched at a table and then fell with a crash into a chair. After the extreme cold outside, the air was suffocatingly hot. Overcome by the change and pain, Harding leaned back with flushed face and half-closed eyes, while his companions stood still, with the snow glistening on their ragged furs.
The man shut the door before he turned to them.
"A rough night," he said calmly. "Ye might as weel sit down. Where do ye hail from?"
Blake laughed as he found a seat. He imagined that their appearance must have been somewhat startling, but he knew it takes a good deal to disturb the equanimity of a Hudson Bay Scot.
"From Sweetwater; but we have been up in the timber belt since winter set in. Now we have run out of provisions and my partner's lamed by snowshoe trouble."
"Ay," said the man; "I suspected something o' the kind. But maybe ye'll be wanting supper?"
"I believe, if we were put to it, we could eat half a caribou," Benson told him with a grin.
"It's no to be had," the Scot answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "I can give ye a good thick bannock and some whitefish. Our stores are no so plentiful the now."
They took off their furs and glanced about the place while their host was busy at the stove. The room was large, and its walls of narrow logs were chinked with clay and moss. Guns and steel traps hung upon them; the floor was made of uneven boards which had obviously been split in the nearest bluff; and the furniture was of the simplest and rudest description. The room had, however, an air of supreme comfort to the famishing newcomers, and after the first few minutes they found it delightfully warm. They ate ravenously the food given them, and afterward the agent brought Harding some warm water and examined his leg.
"Ye'll no walk far for a while, I'm thinking," he commented. "Rest it on the chair here and sit ye still."
Harding was glad to comply; and, lighting their pipes, the men began to talk. Their host, who told them his name was Robertson, was a rather hard-featured man of middle age.
"I'm all my lone; my clerk's away with the breeds at the Swan Lake," he said. "Where are ye making for?"
"For the south," Blake answered. "We came here for shelter, badly tired, and we want to hire a dog team and a half-breed guide, if possible, as soon as my partner's fit to travel. Then we want provisions."
"I'm afraid I cannot supply ye. Our stores are low—we got few fish and caribou the year, and we have not a team to spare."
"Well," said Benson, "I don't suppose you'll turn us out, and we'd be glad to pay for our accommodation. We have no wish to take the trail again without food or transport."
Robertson looked thoughtful.
"Ye might wait a week or two; and then we'll maybe see better what can be done."
He asked them a few questions about their journey, and then Harding took the piece of gum from its case.
"I guess you have seen nothing like this round here?"
"No," said Robertson, after examining it carefully. "I have made it my business to study the natural products o' the district, and it's my opinion ye'll find no gum of this kind in the northern timber belt."
"I suppose you're right. Leaving furs out, if the country's rich in anything, it's probably minerals."
"There's copper and some silver, but I've seen no ore that would pay for working when ye consider the transport."
"I don't suppose you're anxious to encourage prospecting," Benson suggested.