CHAPTER XVIITHE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
Kermode had been gone a fortnight when Prescott reached the camp and heard from Ferguson and others of his latest exploit. He smiled as he listened to their stories, but that he should find people willing to talk about the man did not surprise him. Kermode was not likely to pass unnoticed: his talents were of a kind that seized attention. Where he went there was laughter and sometimes strife; he had a trick of winning warm attachment, and even where his departure was not regretted he was remembered.
Ferguson insisted on taking Prescott in, for his comrade’s sake, and late one evening he sat talking with him beside the stove. His house was rudely put together, shingle-roofed and walled with shiplap boards that gave out strong resinous odors. The joints were not tight and stinging draughts crept in. Deep snow lay about the camp and the frost was keen.
“I can’t venture to predict Kermode’s movements,” said the clergyman. “It was his intention to make for a camp half-way to the coast, but he may change his mind long before he gets there.”
“Yes,” Prescott replied; “that’s the kind of man he is.”
Ferguson smiled.
“You and Kermode strike me as differing in many ways; yet you seem strongly attached to him.”
“That’s true,” Prescott assented. “I can’t see that I owe him anything, and he once led me into a piece of foolishness that nobody but himself could have thought of. I knew the thing was crazy, but I did it when he urged me, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Still, when I meet the fellow I expect I shan’t have a word of blame for him.”
“He’s a man I had a strong liking for, though on many matters our points of view were opposite. However, I dare say it’s something to be thankful for that we’re not all made alike.”
“Kermode’s unique,” Prescott explained. “I’m of the plodding kind and I find that consequences catch me up. Kermode’s different: he plunges into recklessness and the penalty falls on somebody else.”
“You don’t mean by his connivance?”
“Never! It’s the last thing I meant. Kermode never shirks. Bring a thing home to him and he’ll face it, but somehow he generally escapes. There’s the matter I mentioned—he and I played a fool trick, and while he rambles about the country, flinging a foreman down an embankment, assisting a lady in distress, posing as a temperance reformer, in his usual inconsequent way, I’m deep in trouble, and so are other people who don’t deserve it. So far I’ve always reached the scene of his latest exploit soon after he had left; but the man must be found.”
Ferguson laughed.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Follow him to the Pacific, if necessary. As the country isn’t opened up, he can’t get off the line.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have a very rough journey. The track’s surveyed and blazed; they’re working at it in sections, but there are big gaps where nothing has been done yet, and they have been withdrawing a largenumber of men. Crossing the mountains is a tough proposition in the winter.”
“Kermode didn’t seem afraid of it.”
“He started two weeks ago, when there had been less snow. You’ll find it difficult to get through the passes now.”
“Anyway,” declared Prescott, “I have to get through.”
Ferguson pondered the simple answer. It was, he thought, typical of the man, and the contrast between him and his friend became more forcible. Kermode exercised a curious charm. His gay, careless nature made him excellent company, and he had a strain of somewhat eccentric genius; but he was irresponsible and erratic, one could not depend on him. The Canadian was of different temperament: slower, less subject to impulse, but more stubborn and more consistent. When dealing with him one would know what to expect. He would reason out a purpose and then unwaveringly adhere to it.
“Well,” the clergyman said, “you may have to cross a big province; and though it’s warmer as you get down to the coast, the weather’s often nearly arctic among the ranges, while it’s only here and there that you’ll have a chance to find shelter. It’s a trip that’s not to be undertaken rashly. You’ll need a fur coat, among other things, and I think I can get you one. You had better take a couple of days’ rest so as to start fresh. And now it’s time for bed.”
Prescott spent the next day with him and left the camp at daybreak on the second morning. He wore a long coat, from which the fur had peeled in patches, and carried a heavy pack besides a small ax. His boots were dilapidated, but he had been unable to replace them.There was sharp frost and when he boarded a construction train he looked back at the camp with keen regret; he shrank from the grim wilds ahead. A haze of smoke hung over the clustering shacks, lights still blinked among them, and already the nipping air was filled with sounds of activity. Then the locomotive shrieked and he turned his face toward the lonely white hills as the cars moved forward with a jerk. It was bitterly cold, though he lay down out of the wind behind the load of rails, where hot cinders rattled about him and now and then stung his face.
At noon the train stopped. Alighting with cramped limbs, Prescott saw that the rails went no farther. A few shacks stood forlornly upon the hillside, a frozen river wound like a white riband through the gorge beneath, and ahead lay a sharply rising waste of rock and snow. His path led across it, and after a word or two with the men on the line he began his journey, breaking through the thin, frozen crust. The sounds behind him grew fainter and ceased; the trail of dingy smoke which had followed him melted away, and he was alone in the wilderness. His course was marked, however, by a pile of stones here, a blazed tree there, and he plodded on all day. When night came he found a hollow free from snow beneath a clump of juniper, and lay awake, shivering under his blankets. White peaks and snow-fields were wrapped in deathly silence: there was not even the howl of a prowling wolf or the splash of falling water.
Rising at dawn, almost too cold to move, he could find no dry wood to make a fire and had serious trouble in getting on his frozen boots; and after a hurried meal he set out again. It was some time before he felt moderately warm, but with a short rest at noon, he held onuntil evening was near, when he camped in a deep rift among the rocks filled with small firs. Here he found dry branches, and made his supper, sitting between a sheltering stone and a welcome fire. Soon afterward, he lay down and slept until the piercing cold awakened him near dawn. The fire had burned out to a few red embers; he had some trouble in stirring it into life, and it was bright daylight when he resumed his journey.
He was too tired and generally too cold to retain any clear impression of the next few days’ march. There were ranks of peaks above, glittering at times against an intensely blue sky, but more often veiled in leaden cloud, while rolling vapor hid their lower slopes. He skirted tremendous gorges, looked up great hollows filled with climbing trees, followed winding valleys, and at length limped into sight of a lonely camp at the foot of a crag. The light was fading when he reached it, though a lurid sunset glowed behind the black firs on the crest of a ridge, and the place had a desolate look. Most of the shacks were empty, there were rings of branches with a litter of old cans about them where tents had been pitched, but a few toiling figures were scattered about a strip of track. It was comforting to see them, but Prescott was too jaded to notice what they were doing.
Entering a shanty, roughly built of ties and galvanized iron, he found a stove burning, and a Chinaman who told him that supper would be ready soon. After a while the men came in and, asking very few questions, gave him a share of their meal; then he was shown a rude bed of fir branches and swamp hay and told he could sleep there. Prescott lay down and lighted his pipe and then looked about for a while. The place was dimly lighted and filled with rank tobacco smoke, through which hesaw the blurred figures of his new companions. Some of them were playing cards under a lamp, some were disputing in harsh voices, and now and then there was a burst of laughter. Once or twice a man went out and an icy draught swept through the shed, but except for that it was delightfully warm. Soon Prescott’s pipe dropped from his hand and, failing in a drowsy attempt to find it, he went to sleep.
At breakfast the next morning he learned that a man answering Kermode’s description had spent a night there eight or nine days ago. That showed that he was gaining, and he forced his pace all day. At sunset he made a fire beside a frozen lake, and after three or four days of arduous toil reached another camp. From the few men remaining there he learned that Kermode had left the spot a week earlier with a companion whose work had been interfered with by the frost. It was understood that they intended to examine a mineral vein the railroad hand had discovered in a valley some distance off, and when Prescott had ascertained where it lay he set off on their trail. The camp was well supplied with provisions and he bought a quantity.
He felt more cheerful now. It looked as if the end of his long search were near, since there was every reason to believe he would join the men before they could test the claim. On the second day he laboriously ascended a steep slope leading out of a valley he had followed, a broken line of footprints running upward in front of him. This seemed to indicate that the great ridge ahead could be crossed, though when he glanced at the ramparts of dark rock the task looked insuperable. Prescott knew nothing of mountaineering, but he judged that Kermode’s companion must be accustomed to the ranges.
The slope grew sharper, there seemed to be an unbroken wall of rock ahead; but, climbing higher, Prescott saw a small smooth track running up the barrier. It was obviously a gully filled with snow and its steepness suggested that the ascent of it might prove beyond his powers; but the footprints led on to where it began. After following them to the spot, Prescott sat down on a stone to gather breath. He looked upward with a sinking heart. The hollow was deep and narrow—a cleft in the vast ridge of rock, which was glazed with ice. In places it looked precipitous, but there seemed to be no way of working round the flank of the mountain. Then Prescott noticed that the snow was pitted with small holes, about two feet apart, from which he concluded that the prospectors had carried a grubhoe, a tool resembling a mountaineer’s ice-ax. He might get up by using these footholds.
Before starting he carefully adjusted his pack, and slung the ax where it seemed least likely to do him an injury. Then he found that by laying his mittened hands in the holes above he could steady himself while he found a fresh support for his feet, and for a while he made progress, though the labor of carrying up his load became intense. Coming to a fang of rock which offered a precarious seat, he stopped and wondered how he was to get up the rest of the way. It seemed a vast distance to the top, and he was already distressed by a form of exertion to which he was unaccustomed. Bright sunshine rested on the jagged ridge above, but the gully lay in shadow; and, growing cold, the man went on again. The next few minutes passed uneventfully, except that he made a dangerous slip; and then a stone rushed past him and he heard a sharp crash below. This was a riskhe had not counted on. Looking up anxiously, he saw some snow coming down. There was not much of it, but it was traveling ominously fast and he was right in its path. He dared not leave the steps to seek the shelter of the rocks. Driving in his feet to secure a better hold; he waited, wondering whether he would be swept away and hurled down to the bottom with broken bones.
The sliding snow was close upon him; he saw that it was spinning and of a flat round shape, not a ball as he had expected, and then, while he dug in his hands and stiffened every muscle to resist the shock, he received a heavy blow on his lowered shoulder and a wet mass was flung violently into his face. He held on, however, and without looking around, heard the snow rush on down the gully beneath him. After he had climbed a few yards, it seemed possible to reach a projecting spur of rock, and when he had carefully kicked out a hold for one foot he made the attempt. He had scarcely reached the shelter of the rock when there was a sharp crash above and a great stone leaped by.
Prescott found that he could maintain his position fairly comfortably and he lighted his pipe and sat still to rest and consider, while the downward rush of another stone gave him food for thought. He believed he was half-way up, and after the exertions he had made, it was unthinkable that he should go back and seek another route; besides, he doubted whether he could get down without slipping. It seemed quite as perilous to go on, until he reasoned from the state of the snow, which was not deeply scored, that the stones did not come down continuously. Perhaps the warmth of the sun, helped by a soft chinook wind that had set in had loosened them; but the light was fading off part of the ridge and if he waiteda while, the discharge might cease. The trouble was that he was getting very cold. He smoked another pipe, and as he heard no further crashes, he cautiously ventured out and regained the deepest part of the gully. His joints ached, his muscles felt sore, but there was a break in the rocks some distance higher up and he determined to climb to it.
The effort was severe, but he reached the spot, breathless, and carefully looked about. The sunshine had now vanished from the crest of the rocks and he supposed the stones would soon freeze fast again, but there would be only another hour or two of daylight and he must gain a place of safety before it grew dark. An incautious movement would precipitate him from his insecure refuge and he could not contemplate his remaining there through the night. Then he grew angry with Kermode.
It was difficult to believe this was the easiest way into the valley where the railroad man had made his discovery; the latter, being used to the ranges, had, no doubt, taken it to shorten the distance, and Kermode should have objected. Kermode, however, never paused to think; he cheerfully plunged into the first folly that appealed to him and left other people to bear the consequences. Then, having rested, Prescott saw that there were weak points in this reasoning, since the man he was following must have climbed the slope, and, what was more, that his irritation led to no result. He could consider such matters when he had reached the summit, and in order to do so, he must get on at once.
No more stones came down, but after Prescott had gone some distance a fresh difficulty confronted him. The gully was getting steeper, and the holes had disappeared; he supposed that the snow had softened inthe sunshine earlier in the day and slipping down had filled up the recesses. He had, however, discovered that one could kick through the hard crust and make a hole to stand in, provided it were done carefully, and he went up by this means, wondering whether his boots would hold out until he reached the top, and stopping every few yards for breath. It was exhausting work after a long march and he was heavily loaded, but it could not be shirked, and he crawled up, watching the distance shorten foot by foot. Once a step broke away and he slid back a yard before he brought up with hands buried deep in the snow and the perspiration streaming from him in his terror. Still, he was slowly mounting; and at last, worn out and breathless, he reached the narrow ridge of crag and looked down with keen relief or a long slope to a valley filled with forest.
In front there was a glorious vista of peaks that shone in the evening light, but Prescott was in no mood to think of them. He must get down to the trees, where he could camp in comfort, before darkness fell. Rising after a few minutes’ rest, he made the descent and, as dusk crept round him, lighted his fire among the sheltering trunks.
The next day he followed the valley through thick timber and withered underbrush which tore his clothes and delayed his march. There were fallen trunks with spreading branches to be scrambled over, and tangles of thorny canes, but he was cheered by signs that somebody had passed on ahead of him not long before. Later, the forest died out and the bottom of the hollow was strewn with sharp-edged stones, which threatened to tear his worn boots from his feet, and which added seriously to his toil. It was, however, impossible that the prospectors hadclimbed the crags that hemmed him in, and believing they could not be far in front of him, he held on until late in the afternoon.
At length he came to a wider stretch, out of which a ravine that looked accessible led, but he gave little thought to it. There were a few small trees about and one of them had recently been felled. He could see the white chips and the place where a fire had burned. A meat-can lay near-by and when Prescott picked it up he found the few fragments adhering to it quite fresh. The men he sought had camped there, but he began to grow anxious, for he could see no signs of them. Laying down his load, he made a hasty examination of the locality and found a spot where the face of a crag was marked by a streak of different material. It was rent in one place, heavy fragments were scattered about, and Prescott saw that they had been blown out with giant-powder.
For a few minutes he eagerly proceeded with his search, but he could find no blankets or provision cache, and when he saw footprints leading toward the ravine the truth dawned on him. The prospectors had left the spot and were not coming back; once more he had arrived too late. It was a cruel disappointment and he sat down in black dejection, looking heavily about. The high summits were wrapped in leaden cloud, the lower rocks towered above him, rugged and forbidding, and a mournful wind wailed through the gorge.
With an effort he forced himself to think. He had provisions for only a day or two; one of the prospectors was obviously an expert mountaineer, which led Prescott to believe that they would travel faster than he was capable of doing. It would be the height of rashness to push on farther into the wilds without a guide, and thefirst fall of snow would blot out any trail the others might have left. Reason warned him that he must turn back; but it was unthinkable that he should descend the gully. He determined to climb the ravine on the morrow.
Growing cold, he fell to work with the ax, and soon had a fire burning in a hollow among the rocks.
CHAPTER XVIIIDEFEAT
The next morning Prescott awakened in the dark and set to work, shivering, to rekindle his fire. Day broke with a transitory brightness while he had breakfast and soon afterward he entered the ravine. It was steep, and filled with ice in places, but freshly dislodged stones and scratches on the rocks showed him that the prospectors had gone that way. The ascent was difficult: it cost him a tense effort now and then to gain a slippery ledge or to scramble up a slab, and he had frequently to stop and consider how he could best force a passage.
He was tired and damp with perspiration when he reached the top and met an icy wind that swept across a tableland. The high plain was strewn with rocky fragments, the peaks above were lost in vapor, but he saw by a glance at the watery sun that it ran roughly west; and footprints led across it with an inclination toward the south. This was comforting, because the line of track ran to the south, and if he could strike that, it would serve as a guide; moreover it confirmed Prescott’s conclusion that Kermode, who had evidently found the mineral vein worthless, would hold on toward the sea. He was not the man to haunt familiar ground when a wide, newly opened country lay before him.
Then a few stinging flakes struck Prescott’s face, the pale sunshine was blotted out, and a savage blastdrove him back to the shelter of the ravine. For an hour he sat, shivering, among the rocks while the gorge was swept by snow. When it ceased he came out; but there was no sign of a footprint now and, to make things worse, the new snow was soft. But he plodded through it, heading southwest, so as to strike the track again, a little farther on.
He spent the day on the high ground; at times toilsomely picking a way across banks of stones buried in snow that hid the dangerous gaps between them. Now and then he sank through the treacherous covering and plunged into a hollow, at the risk of breaking his leg; but walking was easier between these tracts, and when evening came he reached a few large fallen rocks, among which he camped and lay awake, half frozen, without a fire. Starting as soon as day broke, he felt that he must make the surveyed line before dark. He was growing afraid of the white desolation and wanted to get into touch with something that would lead him to the haunts of men.
It was afternoon when he came to a great dip. A valley lay beneath him with a frozen river winding through its depths, and he felt convinced that it was one the track would follow. The trouble, however, was to get down, for the hillside fell away in a vast scarp, broken here and there by dark crags that showed through the snow. There was a belt of timber a long way down, but the slope was too steep for him to reach it, and he walked along the summit in search of a spot from which the descent could be made, until he came to a long declivity that looked a little less sharp. Then, strapping his fur coat on his pack, he kicked a step in the snow and began to climb down, facing inward toward the bank.
For a while, he made steady progress; and then the snow grew harder. Its surface had melted and frozen again, resulting in a crust that could scarcely be penetrated. He thought about his ax, but he could not see how he could use it in cutting steps beneath him without falling down, and this was not the place for hazardous experiments. He went on very cautiously, finding the work of kicking hollows for his feet extremely severe, until, when he supposed that half an hour had passed, he drove his toes in deep and lay down to rest. On looking up, he seemed to have come a very short distance, and when he glanced below he felt appalled at the length of the declivity he must still creep down. His limbs ached; his mittens were worn and his hands badly numbed; and one boot was coming to pieces.
The descent, however, must be continued, and he began to move again, very warily. Presently he found he could not break through the crust with his foot. Clinging hard to his handhold, he lowered himself to feel for a softer spot. His toe went in a little way; he ventured to trust to the slight support; but as he did so the treacherous snow broke beneath him. For a few tense moments his numbed fingers held him to the slope. He tried in terror to kick another hole; the attempt failed, his hands slipped away, and he began to slide downward, the snow driving up into his face. The pace grew rapidly faster; he could not keep himself straight, but slid on his side; then his pack caught something that turned him farther round so that his head was lowest. He could see nothing; his pace grew frightful, and he drove on, unable to make the least effort.
How long this continued he had no idea. It was aterrifying experience; but at length, to his dull astonishment, his speed slackened suddenly and he stopped. He found that he was whole in limb, and on getting up cautiously he was forced to the conclusion that he was little the worse for his rapid descent. His clothes were packed with snow, but it was easily shaken out. After recovering a little, he saw that he had brought up on a slope that fell less sharply and that it would be possible to walk down it without much trouble. The timber was close ahead, and he smiled as he remembered his horror; it looked as if he might have made the descent uninjured if he had calmly sat down and let himself go.
Moving downward among the trees, he had almost reached the bottom of the valley when he came upon a belt of rugged stones, and in picking a path across them slipped and fell. He was not much hurt, but when he went on again his foot felt sore and he was limping when he reached the river. One or two trees near it had been chopped, and a spur of rock lower down had its summit marked by a pole. He had reached the line of track, and he followed it west, having heard there was a camp farther on, though his informants did not know whether it was now occupied. It was, however, a relief to stop among a clump of spruce at dusk. When he had made a fire he examined his foot. There was no sign of injury except that ankle and instep were rather red, and he went to sleep reassured.
In the morning he was surprised to find that the foot was painful and that the back of his leg felt strained. He would have been tempted to remain in camp only that his provisions were nearly exhausted, and after a meager breakfast he resumed the march. The bottom of the valley was level, the timber thin, but there was agood deal of brush to be struggled through and before long he was forced to take to the winding river. By noon it cost him a determined effort to walk, for his foot was extremely painful and his leg getting sore. As he did not know how far off the camp was, it seemed prudent to save the food he had left, and he limped on, his lips tight-set.
The snow-covered ice was smooth, but the bends of the river increased the distance wofully; there was a keen wind, and the dark pines stretched on without a break as far as he could see. As he entered each fresh loop of the stream he looked eagerly for an opening or sign of life, but there were only rows of ragged spires, cutting sharply against the sky. He felt inexpressibly lonely and badly afraid; the desolation was growing appalling, and he could not keep on his feet much longer. He had food enough for two scanty meals, and then, if no help came, he must starve.
There was now a pain which grew rapidly worse in his left side; his shoulders ached beneath his load, and every joint was sore with the effort it cost him to save his injured foot. The sun sank lower, and the trees still ran on ahead. Indeed, they were growing thicker, and he could see only a short distance into the avenues between the great colonnades of trunks. The loops of the river doubled more closely; in spite of his exertion he was getting very little farther down the valley; but an attempt to push through the forest led him into such tangles of fallen trunks and branches that he was forced back to the ice.
At length he reached a spot where a fire had swept the bush. Branches and clustering needles had been burned away; the trees ran up in bare, charred columns, blackwhen looked at closely, in the distance a curious silvery gray. Prescott could see ahead between them, and he stopped with his heart beating rapidly, for on the white hillside some distance off stood a few shacks. This was the camp, and in spite of the pain it cost him he increased his pace, driven by keen suspense. He did not know if there were men yonder, and he could see no smoke. The doubt grew tormenting; leaving the stream farther on, he struck into unburned bush that hid the camp from him. There were thorny brakes and thickets of withered ferns, but though progress was excruciatingly painful he smashed through them furiously. He was hot and breathless; it was insufferable that he should be delayed among the timber in anxiety. Breaking out into the open, he sent up a hoarse cry, for a thin trail of vapor curled above one of the shacks. Then a man appeared in the doorway and waved a hand to him.
Prescott felt suddenly limp and nerveless; now that help was near at hand, he wanted to sit down; but he held on until he limped into the hut, where two men stood awaiting him. They were strong, weather-beaten fellows, dressed in quaintly patched garments, and they looked good-humored.
“Come right in,” said one. “Pull that box up to the fire and sit down.”
Prescott was glad to obey, and when he had taken off his pack he looked about the shack. It was substantially built: stones and soil had been used in its construction as well as boards and bark. It was warmed by a big open fire and contained a table, besides a few tubs and cases which served as seats. A bunk neatly made of split boards and filled with spruce twigs and swamp hay ran along one end.
“Can you take me in for a day or two?” he asked. “I’ve hurt my foot.”
“Sure,” said the second man. “I noticed you were walking lame. We’re well stocked in groceries and Steve got a deer a day or two ago.”
“How did you get your stores?”
“The contractor brought them up. There was quite a camp here; company putting in all the preliminary work that could be done with the shovel. They shut down when the frost came, but we figured we’d stay on, and took over part of the supplies. The boss had more truck than he could pack down to the other camps.”
“Then there’s nobody else about the place?”
“No, sir,” said the first man; “they’re all gone. It’s kind of lonely, but we’re doing some chopping for the road, and we’ll be right here with money saved when work begins in spring. Bought a piece of fruit land, part on mortgage, at a snap, and with good luck we’ll have it clear when we go back.”
The short explanation supplied a clue to the characters of the men, who with an eye to the future preferred to face the rigors of the north rather than to spend the winter hanging round the saloons on the warmer coast.
“Well,” inquired the other, “where did you come from?”
Prescott mentioned the last camp he had visited and gave them a few particulars about his journey.
“And so you came down the Long Bench—pretty tough proposition that! And kept the trail on short rations!” one of his hosts remarked. “Suppose you take a smoke, and I’ll get supper a little earlier.”
Before long he was given a share of a simple but abundant meal, and after it was over sat talking with hishosts. It was dark outside now, but although the men had run out of oil for the lamp, the fire gave them light, and pungent odors issued from the resinous logs. The room was warm and, by comparison with the frozen wilderness, supremely comfortable.
“What’s the matter with your foot?” one of the men asked when Prescott took off his boot.
Prescott described how it felt, though he explained that he could find no sign of injury, and the other nodded.
“Ricked it a bit; got one of the ligaments or something kinked,” he said. “Known that happen when there wasn’t much to show. You had better lie off for a while.”
It occurred to Prescott that he might be in much worse quarters, though he shrank from the delay a rest would entail.
“What took you up the gully and over the Bench, anyway?” the man went on.
Prescott explained and then asked: “Have you come across my partner or the other fellow, Hollin?”
“Never seen your partner.” The man looked at his comrade and laughed. “But we know Hollin, all right. Got an idea that he’s a boss prospector and froze on to the railroad job because it took him into the mountains. Been all round looking for minerals; got fired for it at one or two camps, and never struck anything worth speaking of. It’s a point on which he’s certainly a crank.”
It was characteristic of Kermode, Prescott thought, that he should be willing to accompany a man with a craze of the kind.
“I’d expected to find them here. I understood they didn’t mean to go back to the camp at Butler Ridge,” he said.
“We haven’t seen their tracks, and if they were heading west, they’d have to come down this valley; but I guess nobody could tell where Hollin would make for. Of course, you can’t prospect much in winter with everything frozen up and the snow about, but so long as he can trail through the mountains and find a few clean rocks the man will be happy; and I’ll allow that he’s smart at it. Knows how to fix a camp, and find a deer, if there’s one in the country. It’s a sure thing he’ll have to strike for a camp or store sooner or later; but it’s likely he has crossed the line south and is trying to make the Fraser and the settlements along the Canadian Pacific railroad.”
It was bad news to Prescott. He knew enough about the Pacific Province to realize that if his host’s suppositions were correct, he would have a vast area to search; a region of stony uplands, mountain chains, and rock-walled valleys.
“Would it be possible for me to get through?” he asked.
“No, sir! You don’t want to think of it. Guess your partner will be pretty safe with Hollin; but you’re a plainsman and you’d sure get lost in a day or two and starve when your grub ran out.”
“That’s right,” agreed the other man. “The thing can’t be done.”
Prescott fell in with his opinion. It would, he thought, require a number of expert mountaineers to trace the men he sought through the desolation of rock and forest to the south. Besides, British Columbia was well populated along the Canadian Pacific line, from which many avenues of communication opened up, and there would be a strong probability of his missing Kermode.
“Well,” he said reluctantly, “perhaps, I had betterstop round here in case they keep this track; and my foot’s too sore to let me move. Could you put me up for a week or two? I’ll try to make it worth your while.”
“Stop as long as you want,” Steve responded. “We’ll have to charge you for the grub, because we paid quite a pile for it, but we’ll only strike you for your share.”
“Thank you,” said Prescott, and the others began to talk of Hollin.
“If that man would let up on prospecting he’d get rich,” declared one. “When a survey outfit goes up into the bush, Hollin’s picked for the boss packer’s job, and when there’s a new wagon road to be staked out they generally put him on. A smart man at striking the easiest line through rough country.”
“That’s so,” agreed Steve. “Trouble is that he can’t stay with it. Soon as he collects some pay, he goes off on the prospecting trail, and then heads for Vancouver with a bag of specimens that aren’t worth anything. When the mineral men hear of a new Hollin discovery they smile. Guess he’s found most everything—gold, copper, zinc, and platinum—and never made fifty cents out of them, ’cept once when, so the boys say, a mining company fellow gave him five dollars to promise he wouldn’t worry him again. Now they’ve orders in all the offices that if Hollin comes round with any more specimens they’re not to let him in.”
Prescott laughed. The man he had heard described was Kermode’s companion, and he could imagine their wandering up and down the province, one as irresponsible as the other; meeting with strange experiences, stubbornly braving the perils of the wilds; making themselves a nuisance to business men in the cities. The matter had, however, a more serious aspect. Prescott had spentsome time on the useless search and he could not continue it throughout the winter. It would be futile to speculate on the movements of men so erratic as those he had followed. He could not neglect his farm, and he had a heavy crop to haul in and sell: this was a duty that must be attended to.
If he went back without Jernyngham, and Curtis still clung to his theory, the police might give him trouble; but he must run that risk. Though convinced of it, he had no means of proving that Jernyngham was wandering through British Columbia in company with a crazy prospector.
After a while he grew drowsy and got into the bunk, where he lay down, enjoying the warmth and softness of the spruce twigs until he went to sleep.
CHAPTER XIXPRESCOTT’S RETURN
It was Saturday evening, clear and cold, though the frost was not intense. A number of the farmers and their wives had driven in to Sebastian to meet their friends and make their weekly purchases. A row of light rigs stood outside the livery-stable, voices and laughter rose from the sidewalks; the town looked cheerful and almost picturesque with its roofs and tall elevator towers cutting against the soft night sky.
A full moon hung above them, but its silvery radiance was paled by other lights. Warm gleams shone out from the store windows upon the hard-trodden snow; a train of lighted cars stood at the station, and the intense white glare of the head-lamp mingled with the beam flung far across the prairie by a freight locomotive on a side-track. Groups of people strolled up and down the low platform, waiting to see the train go out, and their voices rang merrily on the frosty air. From one of the great shadowy elevators there came a whirr of wheels.
When the train rolled away into the wilderness, Muriel Hurst entered the hotel and went upstairs to the parlor where Colston and her sister were sitting. The room was furnished in defective taste, but it was warm and brightly lighted, and the girl had got accustomed to the smell of warm iron diffused by the stove and the odor of burning kerosene. Colston occupied an easy-chair, and when Muriel took off her furs he looked up with a smile,noticing the fine color the nipping air had brought into her face. She looked braced and vigorous, but it struck him that she wore a thoughtful expression.
“Did you buy all you wanted?” he asked.
“I got what I came for.” Muriel sat down and handed her sister a parcel. “I think that ought to match. Has Harry been lounging there since supper? Isn’t he the picture of comfortable laziness?”
Colston laughed. He was still very neatly dressed, but he looked harder than he had when he first reached the prairie and his face was brown.
“I’m content, and that’s a great thing,” he rejoined. “Indeed, I’ll confess that I could enjoy our stay here, except for the damping effect of our friends’ trouble. It’s astonishing how little one misses the comforts we insist on in England, and I’m coming to take an interest in the visits we pay among the ranches and our weekly trip to Sebastian. Then nobody could maintain that your sister looks any the worse for her experience. I’m beginning to think she might pass for a wheat-grower’s wife.”
“I heard Mrs. Johnson ask when you were going to take a farm,” Muriel retorted. “It would be difficult to imagine you tramping down a furrow behind a plow or driving one of those smelly gasoline tractors; but you’ll be able to pose before your constituents as an authority on colonial questions when you go home.”
“I’m afraid they’ll throw me over unless they see me soon; but there’s nothing else to take me back, and I’d feel we were deserting our friends in their distress.”
“We can’t leave them yet,” Mrs. Colston broke in. “The suspense is preying upon Jernyngham. He’s getting dangerously moody; I know Gertrude feels anxious about him.”
A curious expression crept into Muriel’s eyes.
“Believing what he does, it’s natural that he should clamor for justice, but he’s becoming possessed by a feverish cruelty. It’s mastering him, destroying his judgment.”
“You’re alluding to his suspicions of Prescott?”
Muriel’s eyes sparkled as she took up the challenge.
“You know as well as I do that they’re altogether wrong! It’s impossible that he should be guilty!”
“One would like to think so,” her sister responded with dry reserve. “But it’s a pity he ran away.”
Muriel could not deny this. She had retained her faith in Prescott, but his silence about the motive for an absence that must tell against him troubled her. It was strange that he had given her no hint, and she felt hurt.
“He may have gone because he could not bear to be distrusted,” she said. “You are both sorry for Jernyngham, but don’t you think the man he unjustly suspects deserves some pity?”
“Well,” said Colston, “I’ve tried to keep an open mind. Prejudice, of course, should not be pandered to; but one is as likely to be led astray by too strong a partiality for the suspected person.” He paused before he added: “However, I envy you your confidence; I liked the man.”
“The worst of it is that the matter may go dragging on until it wears Gertrude and her father out,” Mrs. Colston remarked. “It would be a relief in some ways to learn the truth, however bad it is.”
“Mr. Prescott has no reason to dread the truth’s coming out,” said Muriel staunchly.
Then a maid came in to announce that their team was ready, and, putting on her furs, Muriel went down in advanceof the others to see that her purchases had been placed together. After she had gone, Mrs. Colston looked at her husband.
“I think it would be advisable to mention Prescott as seldom as possible.”
“So do I,” Colston agreed. “I wonder whether you have noticed anything unusual in the relations between Muriel and Gertrude of late? They used to be good friends in England.”
“I have remarked some signs of strain. But it is not a matter you could be expected to take an interest in.”
“Of course,” Colston rejoined deprecatingly, and went down with his wife.
Leslie’s team and a smart sleigh, which Jernyngham had had sent out from Toronto, stood at the door, and after he had helped his wife and Muriel in, Colston took the reins. When they had jolted across the track, the snow was beaten smooth along the trail; the team was fresh after resting, and it was a brilliant night. They set off at an exhilarating speed, and though their faces tingled they kept warm beneath their furs and driving-robes. Far in front of them spread the prairie, gleaming white beneath the moon; no cloud stained the vault of soft deep blue, and the drumming of the hoofs rang out in merry rhythm. The crisp cold, which was less marked than usual, stirred the blood.
They passed a buggy, drawn by a good horse, and later a light wagon, for the snow does not, as a rule, lie deep on the western prairie and the farmers largely continue the use of wheels. After that for some time they were alone on the waste, until as they approached a tract of broken country a wagon appeared on the crest of a rise, with the double span of horses in front of it cutting sharply blackagainst the snow. It came on slowly, heavily loaded with bags of grain, and then the dark shape of a man who walked beside the team grew visible. As they came closer, Colston turned his horses out of the trail to let the wagon pass, and then started as the moonlight fell on the teamster’s face. It was Prescott.
For a moment he hesitated, and then pulled up, acknowledging the man’s greeting with a lifted hand. Mrs. Colston, however, said nothing, and Prescott stood quietly by his horses’ heads, until Muriel called him forward and gave him her hand.
“When did you get back?” she asked.
“Late last night. We broke the wheat bin this morning, and I’m taking the first load in.”
“But where were you?”
“In Alberta and British Columbia most of the time.”
He volunteered no further information and there was an awkward pause, for Prescott had noticed that Colston had been undecided whether to drive on or not. Mrs. Colston sat farthest from him, so that he could not see her, but she had not addressed him yet. It was clear that his appearance had affected them unpleasantly.
“When we next meet, you must tell us about your trip,” said Muriel.
“We should be interested to hear about it,” Colston added lamely, and Prescott forced a smile. Muriel was the only one who had treated him on the old friendly footing; and he could hardly visit the Leslie homestead, even if he were invited, while Jernyngham was there.
“I may see you some time, and I mustn’t keep you now,” he responded.
He started his team, and Colston turned to his companions.
“I’ll confess that I’ve had a great surprise.”
“Of course, you imagined that Mr. Prescott had gone for good!” said Muriel with scorn.
“I’m afraid I had some idea of that nature. He would hardly have come back if he were guilty.”
“Oh,” said Muriel mockingly, “you really can’t tell what an unscrupulous, bold man might do.”
“Spare me,” Colston begged with a laugh. “After all, it looks as if you have been right.” He turned to his wife. “What do you think?”
“Mr. Prescott’s guilt or innocence is a question I can’t decide; but in making us believe he was Cyril Jernyngham he did a very wrong and foolish thing. That Cyril may have urged him to do so is no excuse.”
“Leaving Mr. Prescott out, I think Cyril’s idea was a very generous one,” Muriel declared.
“How can you believe that?”
“He must have wished to save his father and sister pain, and he knew the trick would cost him a good deal. For one thing, it would prevent his going home to be reinstated, because of course if he had done so, we would have seen he was not the man we had met in Canada. He meant to stay here, refusing to benefit by the change in his affairs, out of consideration for his relatives.”
“And you approve his passing off this western farmer for a Jernyngham?” Mrs. Colston asked.
“Oh, that!” Muriel’s laugh was scornful. “You were satisfied with the man until you knew his name was Prescott. How was it that you didn’t miss the inherent superiority of the Jernynghams? Besides, I can’t think Cyril suffered by getting his friend to represent him. Though people won’t talk very freely, I’ve picked upsome information since I’ve been here, enough to show what kind of man Cyril was. He hadn’t much to boast of, and one must do him the justice to admit that he seems to have recognized it. You probably know, though you hid it from me, that on the evening he should have met us he was lying in the hotel after getting badly hurt in a drunken brawl among some riotous Orangemen.”
“I can’t have any reflections cast upon Orangemen,” Colston objected. “There are a large number in my constituency; most worthy people, for whom I’ve a strong respect.”
“You have a respect for their votes, you mean,” Muriel rejoined. “You know you’re really ritualistic High Church. If your constituents knew as much about St. Cuthbert’s as I do, they would turn you out.”
“I have never hid my convictions,” Colston declared. “Anyway, I have ascertained that the greater proportion of the Orangemen were sober.”
“Then,” retorted Muriel, “I’m sorry that Cyril was not. But there are more important points to consider.”
“That is very true,” said Mrs. Colston. “Will you tell Jernyngham that we have seen Prescott, Harry?”
Colston hesitated.
“No; I don’t think so. I’m afraid of the effect it may have on him; and he won’t be up when we get in. All the same, he’s bound to hear the news from somebody else very soon.”
Neither of the others answered, and they drove on in silence until the lights of the Leslie homestead blinked across the snow. The cheerfulness which had marked the party when they set out had gone; they felt a sense of constraint, and Muriel wondered uneasily whether she had spoken with too much freedom.
The next morning they were sitting with Jernyngham and Gertrude when a neighboring rancher came in.
“I thought Leslie might be here,” he explained. “Don’t mean to intrude.”
Colston knew the man and he asked him to sit down. Jernyngham glanced up from the Winnipeg paper he was reading. His face was worn and had set into a fixed, harsh expression, but his manner conveyed a hint of eagerness; of late it had suggested that he was continually expecting something.
“I drove over to give Leslie a message,” the newcomer continued. “I guess you have heard that Prescott’s back.”
Jernyngham started and dropped the paper.
“Prescott back? You must be mistaken!”
“No, sir! Spoke to him on the trail last night. He was hauling in a load to the settlement, and I was driving home half an hour after Mr. Colston.”
“There’s only one trail,” said Jernyngham, looking hard at Colston. “You must have met the fellow. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Colston showed confusion.
“To tell the truth, I was afraid the news might distress and excite you. You couldn’t do anything until Monday, and I thought it better to let you spend to-day in peace.”
“In peace!” Jernyngham laughed in a jarring manner. “Tormented as I am by suspense that grows beyond endurance!” His eyes glittered and the lines on his face deepened. “And I’m to be kept in ignorance while the villain who robbed and killed my son goes about his work undisturbed!”
There was an awkward silence for a few moments.Mrs. Colston looked distressed, and Gertrude regarded Muriel with a long searching glance. The girl felt that she was being suspected of abetting her brother-in-law for some ulterior purpose. She was of sanguine temperament and wayward temper, and her blood ran warm; but she held in check the anger that she burned to give expression to. Then their visitor, whom they had forgotten, broke in:
“Now, sir, you’re getting ahead too fast. There’s nothing proved against Prescott, and I and others know he never did the thing!” He paused and Muriel, regardless of her companions, flung him a grateful glance as he went on: “Even Curtis can’t bring it home to him!”
“Curtis,” said Jernyngham contemptuously, “is a cautious fool! I’ll communicate with his chiefs at Regina.” He got up with a decided air. “I’ll start for Sebastian at once. Where’s Leslie? I must see him about a team.”
“You stay where you are,” said the farmer, with rude sympathy. “I heard that one of the police bosses will be at the settlement to-morrow and you can see him then; Curtis took a room for him at the hotel. I’m telling you because the sooner all this muss is cleared up the better, and it won’t hurt Prescott.”
He went out and Jernyngham, without speaking to the others, picked up his paper. Muriel took a book from a shelf, but although she determinedly tried to fix her attention on it, she could make no sense of what she read. It was a dreary morning; Colston was soon driven out, and the others were oppressed by a feeling of constraint and tension. They were glad when Jernyngham and Gertrude started for Sebastian in the afternoon. After they had gone, Colston looked at his wife and sister-in-law dolefully.
“This kind of thing will tell upon your nerves; I’m beginning to feel it,” he said. “We must have a long drive to-morrow to get rid of the depression. Those people on the ranch by the bluff pressed us to come back again.”
“There are many excuses for our friends; you couldn’t expect them to be cheerful,” Mrs. Colston replied.
“That’s very true; one must try to remember it. It seems our duty to remain and comfort them as much as possible; but I can’t say that they’re always very grateful. Indeed, I have felt hurt by Gertrude’s reserve, though, considering how trying all this must be for her, one can’t take exception to it.”
“Gertrude knows her brother is alive!” said Muriel coldly.
Her sister cast a keen glance at her, while Colston, made a sign of expostulation.
“I scarcely think you have any right to say that; but I’ll confess that I’m wavering in my opinions—Prescott’s return has had its effect on me. In fact, the mystery’s getting deeper and more fascinating; I feel impelled to wait and see it unraveled.”
“That is hardly the way to regard it,” his wife rebuked him. “I would rather remember that the Jernynghams have a strong claim on our sympathy.”
“It’s the main consideration, of course. But we’ll decide on the drive to-morrow. It has been a depressing day.”