THE PACKER
Weston was engaged with several others flinging gravel into a flat car
with a long-hafted shovel the next morning when Cassidy strode up the
track; and, though the men already had been working hard, they
quickened the pace a little when they saw him. He could tell at a
glance whether a man were doing his utmost, and nothing less would
satisfy him. He knew also exactly how many cubic yards of soil or
gravel could be handled by any particular gang. If the quantity fell
short, there was usually trouble. However, he said nothing to the
others that morning, but beckoned Weston aside, and stood a moment or
two looking at him, with a grimly whimsical twinkle in his eyes.
Weston had not suffered greatly during the struggle of the previous
evening, but there was a discolored bruise on one of his cheeks and a
big lump on his forehead. He was glad to stand still a moment, for he
had been shoveling gravel for several hours, and that is an occupation
that conduces to an unpleasant stiffness about the waist. He was,
however, somewhat puzzled by the red-haired Cassidy's sardonic grin.
"Well," said the latter, with an air of reflection, "I guess you might
do if you got a piece of raw steak from the cook and tied it around
your face."
"For what?" asked Weston, sharply.
"For a packer. The boss's friends are going camping in the bush."
Weston did not answer immediately, for in that country, where roads
are still singularly scarce, packing usually means the transporting of
heavy loads upon one's back. The smaller ranchers are as a rule adept
at it, and when it is necessary, as it sometimes is, will cheerfully
walk over a mountain range with a big sack of flour or other sundries
bound upon their shoulders. Four or five leagues is not considered too
great a distance to pack a bushel or two of seed potatoes, or even a
table for the ranch, and Weston, who had reasons for being aware that
work of the kind is at least as arduous as shoveling gravel, did not
feel greatly tempted by the offer. Cassidy seemed to guess what he was
thinking.
"It's a soft thing I'm putting you on to, as a special favor," he
explained. "It will be up-river most of the way, and I've got a couple
of Siwash to pole the canoes. All you have to do is the cooking, make
camp, and tend to Miss Stirling's friends when they go fishing." He
waved his hand, and added, as though to clinch the argument, "I've
known people of that kind to give a man that pleased them ten
dollars."
Weston's face flushed a little, but he said he would go; and the next
day the party started up-river in two Indian canoes. Besides Weston
and the dark-skinned Siwash packers, it consisted of four: a tall,
elderly man called Kinnaird, with the stamp of a military training
plain upon him; his little, quiet wife; his daughter, who was somewhat
elaborately dressed; and Ida Stirling. Kinnaird and his daughter
traveled in the larger canoe with the Indians and the camp gear, and
Mrs. Kinnaird and Miss Stirling with Weston in the other.
Though Weston was more or less accustomed to the work, he found the
first few hours sufficiently arduous. It is not an easy matter to
propel a loaded canoe against a strong stream with a single paddle,
and it is almost as difficult to pole her alone; while there were two
long portages to make, when the craft and everything in them had to be
hauled painfully over a stretch of very rough boulders. Kinnaird took
his share in it, and Weston was quite willing to permit him to do so;
but the latter was floundering toward the canoes alone, with a heavy
load on his shoulders, when he came to a sharply sloped and slippery
ledge of rock. It was very hot in the deep valley, and the white
stones and flashing river flung up a blaze of light into his eyes;
while he limped a little under his burden, for his foot was still
painful. He had no idea that anybody was watching him; and, when he
slipped and, falling heavily, rolled down part of the slope,
scattering the packages about him, he relieved his feelings with a few
vitriolic comments upon the luxurious habits of the people who had
compelled him to carry so many of their superfluous comforts through
the bush. Then he set about gathering up the sundries he had dropped.
First of all he came upon a lady's parasol, white outside and lined
with green. He regarded it with a rueful smile when he had tried and
failed to open it.
"Trouble ahead," he commented. "It cost eight or nine dollars anyway,
and now it's broken."
Then he came to a rather big valise, which swung open and poured out
part of its contents when he lifted it by the handle. They seemed to
consist of voluminous folds of delicate fabric and lace, and he was
gazing at them and wondering how they were to be got back into the bag
when he heard a voice behind him.
"Will you kindly put that down?" it said.
Weston dropped the bag in his astonishment; and, swinging around
suddenly, he saw Miss Stirling standing in the shadow of a great
cedar. He had been too busy during the journey up the river to pay
much attention to her; but now it occurred to him that she was not
only pretty but very much in harmony with her surroundings. The
simple, close-fitting gray dress which, though he did not know this,
had cost a good many dollars, displayed a pretty and not over-slender
figure, and fitted in with the neutral tinting of the towering fir trunks
and the sunlit boulders, while the plain white hat with bent-down brim
formed an appropriate setting for the delicately-colored face beneath
it. Still, Weston scarcely noticed any particular points in Miss
Stirling's appearance just then, for he was subconsciously impressed
by her personality as a whole. There was something in her dress and
manner that he would have described vaguely as style, though it was a
style he had not often come across in the west, where he had for the
most part lived in the bush. She was evidently a little younger than
himself, but she had the quiet air of one accustomed to command,
which, as a matter of fact, was the case.
Then he wondered with a slight uneasiness whether she had heard all
that he said when he fell down. He fancied that she had, for there was
the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. They met his own
steadily, though he was not sure whether they were gray or blue, or a
very light brown. Indeed, he was never quite sure of this, for they
changed curiously with the light.
Then she came toward him and looked at the valise.
"It was locked when I gave it to you," she said, with a trace of
severity.
"Well," answered Weston, "it doesn't seem to be locked now. I think I
remember noticing that you left the key in it; but it's gone. It must
have fallen out. I'll look for it."
He looked for some time, and, failing to find it, walked back to the
girl.
"I'm afraid it's in the river," he said. "Still, you see, the bag is
open."
"That," replied Miss Stirling, "is unfortunately evident. I want it
shut."
Weston glanced at the protruding garments with which she seemed to be
busy.
"I'm very sorry," he said. "I dare say I could squeeze these things
back into it."
He was going to do so when Miss Stirling took the bag away from him.
"No," she said a trifle quickly, "I don't think you could."
Then it occurred to Weston that his offer had, perhaps, not been
altogether tactful, and he was sensible of a certain confusion, at
which he was slightly astonished. He did not remember having been
readily subject to fits of embarrassment when in England, though there
he had never served as porter to people of his own walk in life.
Turning away, he collected a waterproof carry-all, a big rubber ground
sheet, another parasol, a sketching stool, and a collapsible easel,
which also appeared to be damaged. Then as he knelt down and roped
them and the valise together he looked at the girl.
"I'm afraid Miss Kinnaird will be a little angry, for I think that
easel thing won't open out," he said. "I'm awfully sorry."
Now "awfully sorry" is not a western colloquialism, and the girl
looked at him attentively. She liked his voice, and she rather liked
his face, which, since he had not been called the Kid for nothing, was
ingenuous. She laughed a little. Then she remembered something she had
noticed.
"Well," she observed, "I suppose you couldn't help it. That load was
too heavy; and aren't you a little lame?"
"Not always," said Weston. "I cut my foot a little while ago. If it
hadn't been for that I shouldn't have fallen down and broken Miss
Kinnaird's things."
"And mine!"
"And yours," admitted Weston. "As I said, I'm particularly sorry.
Still, if you will let me have the bag afterward I can, perhaps, mend
the lock. You see, I assisted a general jobbing mechanic."
Ida Stirling flashed a quick glance at him. He had certainly a
pleasant voice, and his manner was whimsically deferential.
"Why didn't you stay with him?" she asked. "Mending plows and wagons
must have been easier than track-grading."
Weston's eyes twinkled.
"He said I made him tired; and the fact is I mended a clock. That is,
I tried--it was rather a good one when I got hold of it."
The girl laughed, and the laugh set them on good terms with each
other. Then she said:
"That load is far too heavy for you to climb over these boulders with
when you have an injured foot. You can give me the valise, at least."
"No," said Weston, resolutely, "this is a good deal easier than
shoveling gravel, as well as pleasanter; and the foot really doesn't
trouble me very much. Besides, if I hadn't cut it, Cassidy wouldn't
have sent me here."
He was, however, mistaken in supposing that the construction foreman
had been influenced only by a desire to get rid of a man who was to
some extent incapacitated. As a matter of fact, Miss Stirling, who had
been rather pleased with the part he had played two days ago, had,
when her father insisted on her taking a white man as well as the
Indians, given Cassidy instructions that he should be sent. Still, she
naturally did not mention this, and indeed said nothing of any account
while they went on to the canoes.
It was slacker water above the rapid; and all afternoon they slid
slowly up on deep, winding reaches of the still, green river.
Sometimes it flashed under dazzling sunshine, but at least as often
they moved through the dim shadow of towering pines that rolled, rank
on rank, somber and stately, up the steep hillside, while high above
them all rose tremendous ramparts of eternal snow. Then, as the sun
dipped behind the great mountain wall, the clean, aromatic fragrance
of pine and fir and cedar crept into the cooling air, and a stillness
so deep that it became almost oppressive descended upon the lonely
valley. The splash of pole or paddle broke through it with a startling
distinctness, and the faint gurgle at the bows became curiously
intensified. The pines grew slower, blacker and more solemn; filmy
trails of mist crawled out from among the hollows of the hills; and
the still air was charged with an elixir-like quality when Weston ran
his canoe ashore.
While he and the Indians set about erecting a couple of tents, he saw
Miss Kinnaird standing near him and gazing up across the misty pines
toward the green transparency that still hung above the blue-white
gleam of snow.
"This," she said to Miss Stirling, "is really wonderful. One can't get
hold of it at once. It's tremendous."
The smallest of the pines rose two hundred feet above her; and they
ran up until they dwindled to insignificance far aloft at the foot of
a great scarp of rock that rose beyond them for a thousand feet or so
and then gave place in turn to climbing fields of snow.
The girl, who was an artist, drew in her breath.
"Switzerland and Norway. It's like them both--and yet it grips you
harder than either," she added. "I suppose it's because there are no
hotels, or steamers. Probably very few white people have ever been
here before."
"I really don't think many have," said Ida Stirling.
Then Miss Kinnaird laughed softly as she glanced at her attire.
"I must take off these fripperies. They're out of key," she said. "One
ought to wear deerskins, or something of that kind here."
Weston heard nothing further, and remembered that, after all, the
girl's sentiments were no concern of his. It was his business to
prepare the supper and wait on the party; and he set about it.
Darkness had descended upon the valley when he laid the plates of
indurated ware on a strip of clean white shingle, and then drawing
back a few yards sat down beneath the first of the pines in case they
needed anything further. A fire blazed and crackled between two small
logs felled for the purpose and rolled close together, and its
flickering light fell upon him and those who sat at supper, except at
times when it faded suddenly and the shadows closed in again. He was
then attired picturesquely in a fringed deerskin jacket dressed by
some of the Blackfeet across the Rockies. Kinnaird, who had once or
twice glanced in his direction, gazed hard at him.
"Have you ever been in India?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Weston in a formal manner, though "sir" is not often
used deferentially in western Canada.
Kinnaird appeared thoughtful.
"Well," he said, "I can't help thinking that I have come across you
somewhere before. I have a good memory for faces, and yours is
familiar."
"I have never seen you until to-day," said Weston. "I don't remember
your name, either."
"The curious thing," persisted Kinnaird, "is that while I can't quite
locate you I am almost sure I am right. What makes me feel more
certain is that, though you were younger then, you have grown into the
man I should have expected you to." Then he laughed. "Anyway, it's
clear that you don't remember me."
He turned to the others, and Miss Kinnaird asked for more coffee,
after which Weston, who brought it, sat still again to wait until he
could take away the plates. It was evident that his presence placed no
restraint on the conversation. At length he became suddenly intent.
Kinnaird was contrasting Canada and England for Miss Stirling's
benefit.
"Of course," he said, "we have nothing like this, but in the north,
at least, we have odd bits of rugged grandeur where the wildness of
the hills about one is emphasized by the green fertility of the
valleys. There is a typical place where we spent a few months last
year that I should like you to see. If you come back with us, as you
half promised, we will take you there."
Weston leaned forward a little, for he had still a curious tenderness
for the land of the fells and dales in which he had been born. He did
not know that Ida Stirling, who had watched him closely when Kinnaird
addressed him, had now fixed her eyes on him again. The latter turned
to her as he proceeded.
"The old house," he said, "would make a picture in itself with its
little stone-ribbed windows, and the much older square tower and
curtain wall that form one wing. There is a terraced garden in front,
and a stream comes frothing out of a wooded ghyll at the foot of it."
Weston started, for there was no doubt that the house Kinnaird
described was the one in which he had been born. As it happened, the
firelight fell upon his intent face as he waited for the answer, when
Miss Stirling, who had missed his start, asked a question:
"The people who owned it were friends of yours?"
"No," said Kinnaird, "I never saw them. I took the place through an
agency for the rough shooting and as a change from London. They had to
let it and live in a neighboring town. The result of slack management
and agricultural depression, I believe."
Weston set his lips. He had written home once rejecting a proposition
made him, and his people had afterward apparently forgotten him. He
had made up his mind that he would not trouble them again, at least
while he toiled as a track-grader or a hired man; but now, when it
seemed that trouble had come upon them, he regretted many things.
Kinnaird signed to him that he might take away the plates, and he
gathered them up, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, and then
stumbled and dropped the pile of them. Though made of indurated fiber,
they fell with a startling clatter, and Kinnaird looked at him sharply
as he picked them up; but in another few moments he had vanished
beyond the range of the firelight into the shadows of the bush.
Ida Stirling had, however, noticed enough to arouse a young woman's
curiosity, especially as there was a suggestion of romance in it, and
before she went to sleep she thought a good deal about the man she had
never seen until two days ago.