Two days passed at Camp Trangmar. There was little outward evidence of
the several storms that agitated the breasts of the company. The men
left Jack severely alone, and Jack for his own part took care to keep
out of Linda's way. He made it his business to watch Garrod, visiting
him night and day in Jean Paul's tent, careless of the owner. There
was no change in Garrod's condition. Jean Paul sheered off at Jack's
approach like the wary animal he was. Meanwhile Sir Bryson, Baldwin
Ferrie, and the Indians were busy staking out additional claims along
Tetrahedron creek.
On the third morning the camp was plunged into a fresh agitation. Jack
and Humpy Jull were breakfasting by the cook-fire, Jack looking like a
sulky young Olympian in the morning sunlight, and Humpy naïvely trying
to cheer him up.
"Gosh!" he said. "If I had your looks and figger I wouldn't care about
nothin'."
Jack, who disdained the false modesty that disclaims such tributes with
a simper, merely held out his plate for porridge.
Suddenly Vassall came quickly across the grass. His face was pale and
streaked from the effects of nervous emotion.
"Sir Bryson wants you," he said to Jack.
Jack continued to eat leisurely. "What about?" he asked, coolly.
"I've no mind to stand up and be abused again."
"Garrod is gone," said Vassall.
Jack's indifference vanished like sleight of hand. He sprang up.
"Gone!" he echoed.
He headed straight for the big tent, Vassall following, and Humpy Jull
looking after them both with round eyes.
The inside of the big tent presented evidences of confusion. Breakfast
was spread on the two little tables pushed together, and Linda, Mrs.
Worsley, and Baldwin Ferrie were seated, playing with their food. Sir
Bryson's chair was pushed back, and his napkin lay on the grass. The
little man was agitatedly walking up and down. Jean Paul stood by with
a deferential air.
This time Linda gave no sign at Jack's entrance except for an access of
self-consciousness.
"What do you know about this?" Sir Bryson immediately demanded.
"I know nothing," Jack said. "I have come to find out."
"Garrod has escaped," said Sir Bryson.
"Why not?" said Jack bitterly. "He ought to have been secured."
Jean Paul spoke up. "I get no order to tie him," he said smoothly.
"He all time ver' quiet. I mak' him sleep inside me, and I tie a
buckskin lace from him to me. If he move a little I wake. This
morning when I wake, the lace cut and him gone."
"Did you let him keep a knife, too?" asked Jack, sneering.
Jean Paul looked confused. "He got no knife w'en I look on him," he
said.
"It sounds fishy," said Jack scornfully.
"Do you mean to imply----" began Sir Bryson.
"Jean Paul sleeps like a cat," Jack went on. "If so much as a stick
turns in the fire he wakes and looks to see. Follow it out for
yourselves. He can't keep the man hypnotized forever. And once Garrod
comes to his senses, the truth comes out!"
"These are empty accusations," puffed Sir Bryson. "The poor fellow has
wandered away in his distraction."
"Or been carried," Jack amended.
"By whom?" said Sir Bryson. "We're all here."
"There are Sapi Indians a few miles west," said Jack. "Jean Paul is a
power in the tribe."
"Excuse me, your excellency," purred Jean Paul, "if I do this, I not
stay be'ind myself me, to get your punishment."
"Make you mind easy, Jean Paul," said Sir Bryson graciously. "This
fellow attempts to twist everything that happens, to his own advantage.
I commend your ingenuity, young sir," he added sarcastically.
"We're wasting time!" cried Jack with an impatient gesture. "He's got
to be found! Whatever you choose to think of me, you can safely leave
that in my hands. It means more to me than to any one else. It means
everything to me to find him."
"Jean Paul says the horses have strayed----" Sir Bryson began.
"The horses, too?" cried Jack. The half-breed's eyes quailed under the
fiery question that Jack's eyes bent on him. Without another word Jack
turned and ran out of the tent.
In half an hour he was back--with a grim face. The occupants of the
big tent were much as he had left them, but Jack sensed from the
increased agitation of their faces, and from Jean Paul's sleekness,
that the half-breed had not failed to improve the interval.
"It's true," said Jack shortly. "They've been driven off."
It had a terrifying sound to them. They looked at him with wide eyes.
"I found their tracks on the Fort Erskine trail," Jack went on. "They
were travelling at a dead run. The tracks were six hours old."
Sir Bryson stopped his pacing. "Driven off?" he said agitatedly. "Are
you sure? Couldn't they have run off by themselves?"
"They could," said Jack, "but they didn't. Five of the horses were
hobbled when we turned them out. The hobbles had been removed."
"Well, well," stammered Sir Bryson, "what are we to do?"
"Let me take ten days' grub from the store," said Jack. "I'll
undertake to bring Garrod back, and at least some of the horses."
"You'd follow on foot?" Linda burst out.
Jack answered to Sir Bryson. "They can't travel fast with their
families and baggage."
It was not Jack's safety that Sir Bryson was concerned about.
"But--but, leave us here without horses?" he faltered.
Jack smiled a little. "What good am I to you? I'm under arrest. Jean
Paul has your ear. Why won't he do?"
Sir Bryson gave no sign of hearing this. "We must return," he said
nervously. "We can't stay here--without horses."
Jack's heart sank. "What have the horses got to do with it?" he asked.
"You're safe here. You've grub enough for months."
Sir Bryson looked at the half-breed. "Jean Paul says perhaps it is the
Indians," he said. "He thinks they may have driven off the horses as a
preliminary to attacking us."
"I not say that, me," put in Jean Paul quickly. "I jus' say best to be
ready."
"So that's his game," cried Jack scornfully. "He's fooling you! It's
an old redskin trick to drive off the horses to prevent pursuit. But
as to standing up to white men--well, I'm willing to go and take my man
and my horses away from the whole village of them."
Sir Bryson violently shook his head. Jack saw that the fate of Garrod
had little weight with him. "We are quite defenceless!" he cried.
"And with the women to look after! It is my duty to start back!"
Jack's lip curled.
Sir Bryson's voice scaled up shrilly. "How will we ever get back?" he
cried.
"That's easy," said Jack. "Twelve miles walk over the portage to Fort
Geikie, then by raft down the river. We'll make it in two days."
"Can we start this morning?"
Jack flushed. "No!" he cried. "Abandon our outfit! That would be
disgraceful. It would be the joke of the country. I won't be a party
to it! We'll cache the stuff to-day, and you can start to-morrow."
"Very well," said Sir Bryson nervously. "In the meantime we must keep
a sharp lookout!"
Before Jack left him he made another appeal to be allowed to go after
Garrod. He might as well have saved his breath. Sir Bryson and those
with him, except perhaps Mrs. Worsley, were in the grip of panic. It
was futile to try to reassure those whose notions of Indians had been
gathered from the Wild West fiction of a preceding generation.
Jack came out of the tent sore all the way through. Taking them down
to the Fort would cost him five precious days. True, he could get
horses there, and perhaps assistance if he needed it, but the waste of
five days was maddening.
Jack thought for a moment of defying Sir Bryson, and going anyway. But
he put it from him. Any white man who abandoned a party that he had
bound himself to guide, no matter what the circumstances might be,
would be disgraced forever in the North. It is a situation which
simply does not admit of argument. This sense of guide-responsibility
is strong among white men, because the natives are without it. They
are prone to shuffle off disagreeable burdens on the slightest
provocation.
Jack set to work with a sullen will. He took out his soreness in hard
work and in making the Indian lads work. Hard and long-continued
exertion was a disagreeable novelty to them; before many hours had
passed they were sullen too.
An axe party was immediately dispatched into the bush, and by noon
enough stout poplar logs were cut and trimmed and drawn into camp to
make a small shack. By supper-time the walls were raised, and the roof
of poles laid and covered with thick sods. The remaining hours of
daylight were occupied in storing everything they possessed inside. It
was ten o'clock before they knocked off work. Meanwhile Sir Bryson, to
Jack's scornful amusement, had insisted on posting Vassall and Ferrie
as outposts against a surprise.
Next morning the governor was plunged into a fresh panic by the loss of
the four Indian lads. No one saw them go. They melted out of camp,
one by one, and were seen no more. Jack was not greatly surprised; he
had seen premonitory symptoms the day before. It was additional
evidence to him that the other Indians were still in the neighbourhood,
and he was more than ever chagrined to be obliged to retreat without
even an attempt to recover Garrod.
Jack kept out of Sir Bryson's way. In spite of themselves, however,
the white men leaned on Jack more and more. Their imaginary redskin
peril strengthened the race feeling, and Jack's energy and
resourcefulness were indispensable to them. They came to him
sheepishly for aid, but they came.
"What do you make of this desertion?" Vassall asked anxiously.
"Nothing serious," said Jack. "I don't think Jean Paul has a hand in
it, because it's his game to get us out as quickly as he can. They
probably vamoosed of their own accord. When we lost the horses, they
saw the end of their good times. They've been fed too high. It makes
'em beany, like horses."
"But what'll we do without them?" Vassall asked.
Jack guessed that the question came from Sir Bryson.
"Tell the old gentleman to keep his shirt on," he said. "They're no
great loss. It means that we'll all have to carry a little more across
the portage, that's all."
After breakfast the tents were taken down and stored with the last of
the camp impedimenta in the cache. When everything had been put
inside, the door was fastened with a hasp and staple removed from one
of the boxes, and Jack pocketed the key. The loads were then
apportioned and packed, a long job when six of the eight were totally
inexperienced. Sir Bryson was still looking over his shoulder
apprehensively. At eleven o'clock they finally set out.
It was a quaintly assorted little procession that wound in single file
along the firmly beaten brown trail through the willow scrub and among
the white-stemmed poplars. There was a lieutenant-governor carrying a
pack, and striving ineffectually to maintain his dignity under it; and
there was his daughter likewise with a blanket strapped on her
shoulders, and an olive-wood jewel-case in her hand, with a gold clasp.
Jack smiled a little grimly at the idea of a jewel-case being toted
through the bush.
Everybody carried a pack conformable to his strength. Since the two
women and Sir Bryson could take so little, the others were fairly well
laden. Jean Paul at the head, and Jack bringing up the rear, toted the
lion's share. Besides blankets, the outfit consisted of food
sufficient for five days, cooking and eating utensils, guns,
ammunition, and axes. Jack had a coil of light rope to aid in building
his raft.
Jack put Vassall next behind Jean Paul, with a word in his ear to watch
the half-breed. Jack felt, somehow, that no serious harm was likely to
befall Garrod so long as he had Jean Paul safely under his eye. After
Vassall the others strung along the trail, with Humpy Jull, the oddest
figure of all, marching in front of Jack, looking like an animated
tinware shop with his pots and pans hanging all over him.
They started in good enough spirits, for the sun was shining, and the
packs felt of no weight at all. But on the little hills their legs
inexplicably caved in; their breath failed them, and the burdens
suddenly increased enormously in weight. It was a long time since hard
labour had caused Sir Bryson to perspire, and the novel sensation
afforded him both discomfort and indignation. Two miles an hour was
the best they could do, counting in frequent pauses for rest. The
twelve miles stretched out into an all-day affair.
Once, toward the end of the afternoon, they came to the bank of a small
stream, and throwing off their burdens, cast themselves down in the
grass beside it, all alike and equal in their weariness. Sir Bryson
was no longer a knight and a governor, but only the smallest man of the
party, rather pathetic in his fatigue. They were too tired to talk;
only Jack moved about restlessly. The slowness of the pace had tired
him more than the seventy-five pounds he carried.
As Jack passed near Kate and Linda the latter said petulantly: "I'm
tired, Jack. I want to talk to you."
Jack's heart sank, but nothing of it showed in his face. The little
thing's look of appeal always reproached him. To a man of his type
there is something shameful and wrong in not being able to give a woman
more than she looks for. "Lord! it's not her fault," he would tell
himself; and "As long as I'm going through with it, I must make a good
job of it!" So he plumped down beside her.
"Go as far as you like," he said with a kind of hang-dog facetiousness.
"Everybody can see, and Mrs. Worsley is standing guard."
"But I'm tired," she repeated. "I want to put my head on your
shoulder." She looked at the spot she had chosen.
Jack became restive. "Easy there," he said uncomfortably. "You're
forgetting the compact!"
Linda's eyes slowly filled with tears. "Hang the compact," she said.
"I'm tired."
"I'll carry your blanket the rest of the way," Jack said gruffly.
"I won't let you," she said. "You've got a perfectly enormous load
already."
"Pshaw! that featherweight won't make any difference," he said, and
tied it to his pack.
"My feet hurt me," wailed Linda.
Jack frowned at the elegant little affairs Linda called her "sensible"
shoes. "No wonder," he said. "Trying to hit the trail on stilts. Put
out your foot."
His axe lay near. Firmly grasping her ankle, with a single stroke he
guillotined the greater part of the elevating heel. Linda and Kate
both screamed a little at the suddenness of the action, and Linda
looked down horrified, as if she expected to see the blood gush forth.
Jack laughed, and performed a like operation on the other foot. For
the next hundred yards she swore she could not walk at all, but the
benefit of the amputation gradually became apparent.
Never was such a long twelve miles. Finally, when most of them had
given up hope of ever making an end to this journey, they debouched on
the grassy esplanade surrounding the shacks of Fort Geikie. Humpy Jull
set about getting dinner, while Jack and Jean Paul cut poplar saplings
and constructed a leafy shelter for Linda and Kate. The business of
camp had to be carried on; no one seeing these people travelling, and
eating together, and sleeping around the same fire, could have guessed
how their hearts were divided.
They were ready for sleep immediately after eating. Linda and Kate
disappeared, and the men rolled up in their blankets, Sir Bryson
grumbling. He felt that another little shelter should have been made
for him. He found it very trying to be obliged to snore in public
among his servants.
Sir Bryson insisted that a watch be maintained throughout the night,
and Jack, who would have laughed at any other time, fell in with the
idea, because he had a notion that Jean Paul might try to slip away.
Jack arranged therefore that the half-breed keep the first watch, and,
at no little pain and difficulty, he remained awake himself to watch
Jean Paul. At eleven Jean Paul wakened Humpy Jull; at one, Vassall
took Humpy's place.
Jack had left instructions that he was to be roused at three. It was
already broad day at this hour. Upon Vassall's touch he staggered to
his feet under the burden of sleep and walked blindly up and down until
he had shaken it off. He went to the edge of the bank to take a
prospect, Vassall at his elbow. A better understanding was coming
about between these two. Vassall made no pretence that he had forgiven
Jack for burglarizing Linda's affections, as he thought, but granting
that, he, Vassall, was doing all he could do to bear his share of their
common burden.
A lovely panorama of river, islands, and hills lay before them in the
cool, pure, morning light.
"I'm going to cross to the island," Jack said, pointing. "In the
drift-pile on the bar there, there's dry wood enough for a dozen rafts."
"How will you get over there?" asked Vassall.
"Swim," said Jack.
"I'll go along, too."
Jack stared at the slender, pale young city man. "You!" he said with a
not very flattering intonation.
"Hang it, I'm not going to let you do everything," Vassall said,
frowning. "I can swim. It's one of the few things I can do that is
useful up here."
"It's not so much of a swim," said Jack. "The current carries us.
I'll tow the axe on a stick or two. But the water's like ice."
"I can stand if it you can," Vassall said doggedly.
Jack looked at him with a gleam of approval. "Come on and feed then,"
he said off-hand.
They wakened Baldwin Ferrie to stand the last watch, and sat down to
the cold victuals Humpy had left for them. In front of them the other
men still slept, an odd sight, the three of them rolled up like corpses
in a row in the morning light: lieutenant-governor, half-breed, and
cook, as much alike as three trussed chickens.
While Jack ate, he issued his instructions to Ferrie: "Wake Humpy at
five, and tell him to get a move on with breakfast. As soon as Vassall
and I knock the raft together, we'll cross back to this side, but the
current will carry us down about a third of a mile. When the rest of
you have finished eating, pack up and come down to the shore. You'll
have to walk along the stones to the first big point on this side.
Bald Point, they call it, because of the trees being burned off. Lose
no time, because we must be started by eight, if we mean to make Fort
Cheever by dark."
Jack and Vassall, clad only in shirt, trousers, and moccasins,
scrambled down the steep bank to the water's edge. Vassall looked at
the swirling green flood with a shiver.
"Tie your moccasins around your neck," Jack said. "Leave your other
things on. They'll soon dry as we work around. Head straight out into
midstream, and you'll find the current will ground you on the point of
the bar below."
The water gripped them with icy fingers that squeezed all the breath
out of their lungs. Vassall set his teeth hard, and struck out after
Jack. They were both livid and numb when they finally landed, and Jack
forced Vassall to run up and down the bar with him, until the blood
began to stir in their veins again. Then they attacked the tangled
pile of drift logs.
Eight bleached trunks as heavy as they could pry loose and roll down to
the water's edge provided the displacement of the raft. Jack chopped
them to an equal length, and laced them together with his rope. On
these they laid several cross-pieces, and on the cross-pieces, in turn,
a floor of light poles, the whole stoutly lashed together. The outfit
was completed by two roughly hewn sweeps and a pair of clumsy trestles
in which to swing them. They were greatly handicapped by the lack of
an auger and of hammer and nails, and the result of their labour was
more able than shipshape. Four strenuous hours went to the making of
it.
"She'll hold," said Jack at last, "if we don't hit anything."
They pushed off, and each wielding a sweep, pulled her back toward the
shore they had started from. They both watched her narrowly, not a
little proud of their handiwork. At least she floated high and dry,
and answered, though sluggishly, to the sweeps. Their common feeling
made Jack and Vassall quite friendly for the moment.
The little group was already waiting for them on the stones, with the
slender baggage. Apprehension is quicker than the physical senses.
Before he could see what was the matter, Jack sensed that something had
happened, and a sharp anxiety attacked him. As he and Vassall drew
near the shore he scanned the waiting group closely; he counted them,
and then it became clear! There were only five waiting instead of six!
"Where's Jean Paul?" he cried out.
The people on the shore looked at each other uncomfortably. There was
no answer until the raft grounded on the stones. Then Sir Bryson drew
himself up and puffed out his cheeks.
"He asked my permission to remain to search for poor Garrod," he said
in his most hoity-toity manner. "And I thought best to accede to his
request."
Jack's jaw dropped. For an instant he could not believe his ears.
Then he slowly turned white and hard. So this was what he got for
spending his strength in their service! This was what he had to deal
with: folly and self-sufficiency that passed belief! He was angrier
than he had ever been in his life before. He was much too angry to
speak. He stepped ashore, and walked away from them, struggling with
himself.
Sir Bryson strutted and puffed and blew for the benefit of all
observers. His secret dismay was none the less apparent. None looked
at him. They were gazing fearfully at Jack's ominous back.
He came back with a set, white face. "Sir Bryson," he said in a voice
vibrating with quiet, harsh scorn, "I say nothing about myself. Apart
from that I've shown you clearly, and these people are witnesses to it,
that this half-breed means Garrod no good. So be it. If he does for
him now, it will be on your head."
In spite of his bluster, Sir Bryson began to look like a frightened
small boy.
Linda was weeping with anger and fright. "I told him," she said, "but
he wouldn't listen to me."
Kate, fearful of another outburst, laid a restraining hand on her.
"Here's your raft," Jack went on harshly. "All you have to do is to
sit on it and keep it in the middle of the river and you'll be at Fort
Cheever before dark. After letting the breed go, the least you can do
is to let me stay and watch him."
They all cried out against this, even Kate and Vassall, whom Jack
thought he could count on a little. They all spoke at once in confused
tones of remonstrance and alarm. "What would we do without you? We
don't know the river. We can't handle a raft," and so on.
Above all the others Sir Bryson's voice was heard trembling with alarm
and anger: "Would you desert us here?"
The word brought the blood surging back into Jack's face. "Desert
nothing," he said. "I asked your permission. I do not desert. Get
aboard everybody, and hand on the bundles!"
They scrambled at his tone, a good deal like sheep. Jack launched the
raft with a great heave of his back, running out into the water, thigh
deep. Clambering on board, he picked up a sweep, and brought her
around in the current. Sir Bryson and the others stole disconcerted
sides glances at his hard and bitter face. There is something very
intimidating in the spectacle of a righteous anger pent in a strong
breast. The spectator is inclined to duck his head, and wonder where
the bolt will fall.