Jack was subsequently engaged as chief guide to Sir Bryson's party.
Days of strenuous preparation succeeded. For one thing the stores of
the expedition had to undergo a rigid weeding-out process; the
oil-stove, the bedsteads, the white flannels, and the parasols, etc.,
were left behind. There was a shortage of flour and bacon, which the
store at Fort Cheever was in poor shape to supply. Last winter's grub
was almost exhausted, and this winter's supply had not arrived. The
Indians, who are the store's only customers, live off the land during
the summer. Cranston stripped himself of what he had, and sent a
messenger down the river with an urgent order for more to be sent up by
the next boat.
Jack was hampered by a lack of support from his own party. Vassall and
Baldwin Ferrie were willing enough but incapable. Garrod blew hot and
cold, and altogether acted in a manner inexplicable to Jack. Only the
man's obvious suffering prevented the two from coming to an open
quarrel. Jack dismissed him with a contemptuous shrug. The little
governor issued and countermanded his orders bewilderingly and any
malcontent was always sure of a hearing from him. But Jean Paul
Ascota, from whom Jack had most reason to expect mischief-making, gave
him no trouble at all. This in itself might have warned him of danger,
but he had too many other things to think about.
It cannot be said that Jack bore all his hindrances with exemplary
patience. However, he had an effective weapon in his unconcern. When
matters came to a deadlock he laughed, and, retiring to his own little
camp, occupied himself with his banjo until some one came after him
with an olive branch. They were absolutely dependent on him.
On the eighth day they finally got away. Mounting his horse, Jack took
up a position on a little mound by the trail, and watched his company
file past. For himself he had neglected none of the stage-trappings
dear to the artistic sense of a young man. His horse was the best in
the company and the best accoutred.
He had secured a pair of shaggy bearskin chaps and from his belt hung a
gigantic .44 in a holster. He wore a dashing broad-brimmed "Stetson,"
and a gay silk handkerchief knotted loosely around his throat. The
sight of him sitting there, hand on hip, with his scornful air,
affected little Linda Trangmar like a slight stab. She bit her lip,
called herself a fool, and spurred ahead.
Jean Paul Ascota rode at the head of the procession. Jack had seen the
wisdom of propitiating him with this empty honour. The Indian had
likewise seen to it that he obtained a good horse, and he rode like a
careless Centaur. Passing Jack, his face was as blank as paper, but
out of Jack's range of vision the black eyes narrowed balefully, the
wide nostrils dilated, and the lips were tightly compressed.
Sir Bryson's party followed: the spruce little governor, an incongruous
figure on his sorry cayuse; the two ladies, Garrod, Vassall, and
Baldwin Ferrie. At the very start Sir Bryson objected to riding at the
tail of Jean Paul's horse, and Jack was obliged to explain to him that
there are certain rules of the trail which even a lieutenant-governor
may not override. The place at the head belongs to him who can best
follow or make a trail.
The two ladies wore khaki divided skirts that they had been obliged to
contrive for themselves, since side-saddles are unknown in the country.
In regard to Miss Trangmar and Mrs. Worsley, Jack had strongly urged
that they be left at Fort Cheever, and in this matter Garrod had almost
desperately supported him, volunteering to stay behind to look after
them. His activity booted him nothing with his little mistress. When
she heard of the suggestion she merely smiled and waited until she got
her father alone. As a result here they were.
There was one more white member of the expedition of whom some
explanation must be given: this was Thomas Jull, lately cook on the
steamboat, and now transferred to the position of camp cook. The whole
design of the journey had been threatened with extinction at Fort
Cheever by the discovery that a cook had been forgotten. There was of
course nothing of that kind to be obtained at the fort. Jull's cooking
had all been done on stoves, but Jack, promising to initiate him into
the mysteries of campfires, had tempted him to forsake his snug berth.
He was a fat, pale, and puffy creature of indeterminate age, who looked
as if his growth had been forced in a cellar, but he was of a simple,
willing nature, and he had conceived an enormous admiration for Jack,
who was so different from himself. He had already acquired a nickname
in the country from his habit of carrying his big head as if in
momentary expectation of a blow. Humpy Jull he was to be henceforth.
Four Indian lads completed the party. This was barely sufficient to
pack the horses and make camp, but as Jack had explained to Sir Bryson
the best he could get were a poor lot, totally unaccustomed to any
discipline, and a larger number of them would only have invited
trouble. They must be worked hard, and kept under close subjection to
the whites, he said. There were twenty laden horses, and five spare
animals.
They climbed the steep high hill behind Fort Cheever and Jack, watching
the train wind up before him, thrilled a little with satisfaction under
his mask of careless hardihood. Notwithstanding all his preliminary
difficulties, it was a businesslike-looking outfit. Besides, it is not
given to many young men in their twenties to command a
lieutenant-governor.
This was not really a hill, but the river-bank proper. From the top of
it the prairie stretched back as far as the eye could reach, green as
an emerald sea at this season, and starred with flowers. Here and
there in the broad expanse grew coverts of poplar saplings and
wolf-willow, making a parklike effect. The well-beaten trail mounted
the smooth billows, and dipped into the troughs of the grassy sea like
an endless brown ribbon spreading before them.
The progress of such a party is very slow. The laden pack-horses
cannot be induced to travel above a slow, slow walk. Twice a day they
must be unladen and turned out to forage; then caught and carefully
packed again. On the first day a good deal of confusion attended these
operations. Little by little Jack brought order out of chaos.
As the pack-train got under way after the first "spell" on the prairie,
Jack, not generally so observant of such things, was struck by the look
of weariness and pain in Garrod's white face. It was the face of a man
whose nerves have reached the point of snapping. Jack did not see as
far as that, but: "The old boy's in a bad way," he thought, with a
return of his old kindness. After all, as youths, these two had been
inseparable.
"I say, wait behind and ride with me," he said to Garrod. "We've
scarcely had a chance to say anything to each other."
Garrod's start and the wild roll of his black eyes suggested nothing
but terror at the idea, but there was no reasonable excuse he could
offer. They rode side by side in the grass at some distance behind the
last Indian.
"Do you know," said Jack, "I've never heard a word from home since the
night I cleared out five years ago. Tell me everything that's
happened."
"That's a large--a large order," stammered Garrod. "So many little
things. I forget them. Nothing important. I left Montreal myself
soon after you did."
"Why did you never answer my letter?" asked Jack. "You know I had no
one to write to but you."
"I never got a letter," said Garrod quickly.
"That's funny," said Jack. "Letters don't often go astray."
"Don't you believe me?" demanded Garrod sharply.
Jack stared. "Why, sure!" he said. "What's biting you? You're in a
rotten state of nerves," he went on. "Better chuck the life you're
leading, and stay up here for a year or two. What's the matter with
you?"
Garrod passed the back of his hand across his weary eyes. "Can't
sleep," he muttered.
"Never heard of a man up here that couldn't do his eight hours a
night," said Jack. "You'd better stay."
Garrod made no answer.
"You're not still hitting the old pace?" asked Jack.
Garrod shook his head.
"Gad! what a pair of young fools we were! Trying to cut a dash on
bank-clerks' salaries! That girl did me a mighty good turn without
meaning it when she chucked me for the millionaire. What's become of
her, Frank?"
"She married him," Garrod said; "ruined him, divorced him, and married
another millionaire."
Jack laughed carelessly. "Logical, eh? And that was what I broke my
young heart over! Remember the night I said good-bye to you in the
Bonaventure station, and blubbered like a kid? I said my life was
over, 'member?--and I wasn't twenty-one yet. You were damn decent to
me, Frank. You didn't laugh."
Garrod kept his head averted. His lips were very white.
"We went through quite a lot for a pair of kids," Jack went on. "We
always stood by each other, though we were such idiots in other
respects. What we needed was a good birching. It takes a year or two
of working up here to put an only son straight with himself. Life is
simple and natural up here; you're bound to see the right of things.
Better stay, and get your health back, old man."
Garrod merely shook his head again.
"My uncle is dead," Jack went on. "I saw it in a paper."
"Yes," said Garrod.
"And left his pile to a blooming hospital! That's what I lost for
clearing out, I suppose. Well, I don't regret it--much. That is, not
the money. But I'm sorry the old boy passed out with a grouch against
me. I thought he would understand. He had a square head. I've often
thought there must have been something else. You were quite a
favourite of his, Frank. Was there anything else?"
All this time Garrod had not looked at Jack. At the last question a
wild and impatient look flashed in his sick eyes as if some power of
endurance had snapped within him. He jerked his head toward the other
man with desperate speech on his lips. It was never uttered, for at
the same moment an exclamation broke from Jack, and clapping heels to
his horse, he sprang ahead. One of the packs had slipped, and the
animal that bore it was sitting in the trail like a dog.
After the pack had been readjusted, other things intervened, Garrod
regained his own place in the procession, and Jack for the time being
forgot that his question had not been answered.
Jack's dignity as the commander of the party often sat heavily upon
him, and he was fond of dropping far behind in the trail, where he
could loll in the saddle, and sing and whistle to his heart's ease.
His spirits always rose when he was on the move, and the sun was
shining.
Jack had a great store of old English ballads. On one such occasion he
was informing high heaven of the merits of "Fair Hebe," when upon
coming around a poplar bluff he was astonished to see Linda Trangmar
standing beside her horse, listening with a smile of pretty malice.
She had a bunch of pink flowers that she had gathered. Jack sharply
called in the song, and blushed to his ears.
"Don't stop," she said. "What did Reason tell you about Fair Hebe?"
Jack made believe not to hear. Our hero hated to be made fun of.
"It's dangerous to be left behind by the outfit," he said stiffly.
"I knew you were coming," she said coolly. "Besides, I got off to pick
these flowers, and I couldn't get on again without being helped." She
thrust the flowers in her belt. "Aren't they lovely? Like crushed
strawberries. What are they called?"
"Painter's brush," said Jack laconically.
He lifted her on her horse. She was very light. It was difficult to
believe that this pale and pretty little thing was a woman grown. She
had a directness of speech that was only saved from downright impudence
by her pretty childishness.
"Now we can talk," she said as they started their horses. "The truth
is, I stayed behind on purpose to talk to you. I wish to make friends."
Jack, not knowing exactly what to say, said nothing.
She darted an appraising look at him. "Mr. Vassall says it's dangerous
to ask a man questions about himself up here," she went on. "But I
want to ask you some questions. May I? Do you mind?"
This was accompanied by a dazzling smile. Jack slowly grew red again.
He hated himself for being put out of countenance by her impudence,
nevertheless it cast him up high and dry.
She took his assent for granted. "In the first place, about your
name," she chattered; "what am I to call you? Mr. Chanty would be
ridiculous, and without the Mister it's too familiar."
"You don't have to bother about a handle to my name," he said. "Call
me Jack, just as you speak to Jean Paul or Charlbogin, or any of the
men about camp."
"That's different," she said. "I do not call Mr. Garrod, Frank, nor
Captain Vassall, Sidney. You can make believe what you choose, but I
know you are my kind of person. If you are a Canadian, I'm sure we
know heaps and heaps of the same people."
Jack began to find himself. "If you insist on a respectable name call
me Mr. 'Awkins," he said lightly.
"Pshaw! Is that the best you can invent?" she said.
It was a long time since Jack had played conversational battledore and
shuttlecock. He found he liked it rather. "'Awkins is an honorable
name," he said. "There's Sir 'Awkeye 'Awkins of 'Awkwood 'All, not to
speak of 'Enery 'Awkins and Liza that everybody knows about. And over
on this side there's Happy Hawkins. All relatives of mine."
The girl approved him because he played the foolish game without
grinning foolishly, like most men. Indeed his lip still curled. "You
do not resemble the 'Awkinses I have known," she said.
It appeared from this that the little lady could flatter men as well as
queen it over them. Jack was sensible that he was being flattered, and
being human, he found it not unpleasant. At the same time he was
determined not to satisfy her curiosity.
"Sorry," he said. "For your sake I wish I would lay claim to
Montmorenci or Featherstonehaugh. But 'Awkins is my name and 'umble is
my station. I don't know any of the Vere de Veres, the Cholmondeleys
or the Silligers here in Canada, only the toughs."
She did not laugh. Abandoning the direct line, she asked: "What do you
do up here regularly?"
"Nothing regularly," he said with a smile. "A little of everything
irregularly. I have horses across the mountains, and I make my living
by packing freight to the trading posts, or for surveyors or private
parties, wherever horses are needed. When I get a little ahead of the
game like everybody else, I do a bit of prospecting. I have an eye on
one or two things----"
"Gold?" she said with shining eyes. "Where?"
"That would be telling," said Jack, flicking his pony.
"Do you know anybody in Toronto?" she asked suddenly.
He smiled at her abrupt return to the main issue, and shook his head.
"In Montreal?"
His face changed a little. After a moment he said slyly: "I met a
fellow across the mountains who was from Montreal."
"A gentleman?"
"More or less."
"What was his name?" she demanded.
"Malcolm Piers."
She looked at him with round eyes. "How exciting!" she cried.
"Exciting?" said Jack, very much taken aback.
"Why, yes," she said. "There can't be more than one by that name. It
must have been Malcolm Piers the absconder."
Her last word had much the effect of a bomb explosion under Jack's
horse. The animal reared violently, almost falling back on his rider.
Linda was not sufficiently experienced on horseback to see that Jack's
hand had spasmodically given the cruel Western bit a tremendous tug.
The horse plunged and violently shook his head to free himself of the
pain. When he finally came back to earth, the actions of the horse
seemed sufficient to account for the sudden grimness of Jack's
expression. His upper lip had disappeared, leaving only a thin, hard
line.
"Goodness!" said Linda nervously. "These horses are unexpected."
"What did you call him?" asked Jack quietly.
"Absconder," she said innocently. "Malcolm Piers was the boy who stole
five thousand dollars from the Bank of Canada, and was never heard of
afterward. He was only twenty."
He looked at her stupidly. "Five thousand dollars!" he repeated more
than once. "Why that's ridiculous!"
"Oh, no," she said eagerly. "Everybody knows the story. He
disappeared, and so did the money. I heard all the particulars at the
time, because my room-mate at Havergal was the sister of the girl they
said he did it for. She wasn't to blame, poor thing. She proved that
she had sent him about his business before it happened. She married a
millionaire afterward. She's had heaps of trouble."
Jack's horse fretted and danced, and no answer was required of him.
"Fancy your meeting him," she said excitingly. "Do tell me about him.
They said he was terribly good-looking. Was he?"
"Don't ask me," said Jack gruffly. "I'm no judge of a man's looks."
He scarcely knew what he was saying. The terrible word rang in his
head with a clangour as of blows on naked iron. "Absconder!"
"Do tell me about him," she repeated. "Criminals are so deadly
interesting! When they're gentlemen. I mean. And he was so young!"
"You said everybody knows what he did," said Jack dully. "I never
heard of it."
"I meant everybody in our world," she said. "It never got in the
newspapers of course. Malcolm Piers's uncle was a director in the
bank, and he made the shortage good. He died a year or so afterward,
leaving everything to a hospital. If Malcolm Piers had only waited a
little while he wouldn't have had to steal the money."
"Then he would have been a millionaire, too," said Jack, with a start
of harsh laughter.
She didn't understand the allusion. She favoured him with a sharp
glance. "Funny he should have told you his real name."
"Why not?" said Jack abstractedly. "He didn't consider that he had
done any wrong!"
How ardently Jack wished her away so that he could think it out by
himself. Little by little it was becoming clear to him, as if revealed
by the baleful light of a flame. So that was why his uncle had cut him
off? And Garrod had not answered his question. Garrod knew all about
it. Garrod was the only person in the world who knew in advance that
he had been going to clear out, never to return. Garrod was deep in
debt at the time. Garrod had access to the bank's vault. This
explained his strange, wild agitation at the time of their first
meeting, and his actions ever since.
"What's become of him now?" Linda desired to know. She had to ask
twice.
Jack heard her as from a great distance. He shrugged. "You can't keep
track of men up here."
"Did he tell you his story?"
He nodded. "It was different from yours," he said grimly.
"Tell me."
"It is true that he was infatuated with a certain girl----"
"Yes, Amy----"
"Oh, never mind her name! It was difficult for him to keep up the pace
she and her friends set, but she led him on. Finally she made up her
mind that an old man with money was a better gamble than a young one
with prospects only, and she coolly threw him over. It broke him all
up. He was fool enough to love her. Everything he had known up to
that time became hateful to him. So he lit out. But he took nothing
with him. Indeed, he stripped himself of every cent, sold even his
clothes to pay his debts around town before he went. He came West on
an emigrant car. Out here he rode for his grub, he sold goods behind a
counter, he even polished glasses behind a bar, until he got his head
above water."
This was a long speech for Jack, and in delivering it he was betrayed
into a dangerous heat. The girl watched him with a sparkle of
mischievous excitement.
"A likely story," she said, tossing her head. "I know that old Mr.
McInnes had to put up the money, and that he altered his will." She
smiled provokingly. "Besides, it's much more interesting to think that
Malcolm Piers took the money. Don't rob me of my favourite criminal."
Jack looked at her with his handsome brows drawn close together. Her
flippancy sounded incredible to him. He hated her at that moment.
A horseman dropped out of his place in the train ahead and came
trotting back toward them. It was Garrod. Seeing him, a deep, ugly
red suffused Jack's neck and face, and a vein on his forehead stood
out. But he screwed down the clamps of his self-control. Pride would
not allow him to betray the secrets of his heart to the light-headed
little girl who was angling for them. They were riding around another
little poplar wood.
"Look!" he said in as near his natural voice as he could contrive. "In
the shade the painter's brush grows yellow. Shall I get you some of
those?"
"No, thank you," she said inattentively. "I like the others best.
Tell me about Malcolm Piers----"
Garrod was now upon them. His harassed eye showed a new pain. He
looked at Linda Trangmar with a dog's anxiety, and from her to Jack.
Jack looked abroad over the prairie with his lips pursed up. His face
was very red.
"Oh, Mr. Garrod, what do you think!" cried the girl. "This man met
Malcolm Piers across the mountains. The boy who absconded from the
Bank of Canada, you know. You used to know him, didn't you?"
There was a pause, dreadful to the two men.
"Oh, the little fool! The little fool!" thought Jack. Out of sheer
mercifulness he kept his head averted from Garrod.
"What's the matter?" he heard her say sharply. "Help him!" she said to
Jack.
This was too much. Making sure only that Garrod was able to keep his
saddle, Jack muttered something about having to speak to Jean Paul, and
rode away. His anger was swallowed up a pitying disgust. His passing
glance into Garrod's face had revealed a depth of despair that it
seemed unfair, shameful, he--the man's enemy--should be allowed to see.