KINNAIRD STRIKES CAMP
It was about the middle of the next afternoon when Ida Stirling,
walking slowly along the river-bank, came upon Weston sitting with his
back to a tree. He wore no boot on one foot which was wrapped in
bandages, and when he would have risen Ida checked him with a sign,
and sat down not far away.
"Is it too hot in the tent?" he asked.
Ida flashed a swift glance at him. He seemed perfectly contented, and
very much at his ease, and it was a little difficult to believe that
this was the sharp-voiced mart who had ordered her to put on his
jacket early on the previous morning. Now he was smiling languidly,
and there was a graceful carelessness that was almost boyish in his
manner, which made it a little easier to understand why his comrades
had called him the Kid. She was rather pleased with it.
"No," she said. "At least that was not what brought me out. The major
has gone fishing; Mrs. Kinnaird has gone to sleep; and Arabella
appears a little cross."
Weston nodded.
"It's excusable," he said. "How is Miss Kinnaird's knee?"
"I don't think it's very bad. How is your foot? It doesn't seem to
have affected your temper."
Weston laughed.
"I'd forgotten all about it. In some respects I feel a little obliged
to it. You see, for once in a while, it's rather nice to have nothing
to do, and know that one's wages won't immediately stop. Besides, to
be waited on is a pleasant change."
Ida's eyebrows straightened a trifle as they sometimes did when she
was not exactly pleased. It is by no means an unusual thing in the
west for a packer or a ranch hand to converse with his employers or
their friends on familiar terms, and it occurred to her that it was a
trifle superfluous for him to insist on reminding her of his status
when she was willing to forget it. Still, she was quite aware that
this man had not always been a packer, and she was conscious of an
increasing curiosity concerning his past.
"That is an unusual experience with you?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said Weston. "Anyway, during the last few years."
She was foiled again, for she could not press the question more
closely; and, sitting still in the shadow, she looked up between the
dark fir branches at the line of gleaming snow and the great rock
rampart beneath which they had crept.
"Were you ever up so high before?" she ventured.
"Yes," said Weston. "I believe so; but never for pleasure. In fact, I
think some of the ranges we crossed on the gold trail must have been
considerably higher. I told you that prospecting is one of my
weaknesses."
"You did," agreed Ida. "It's one I could never understand, though I
have spent some time, in this province. Every now and then it seems
that the rancher must leave his clearing and wander off into the bush.
As you admitted, he generally comes home dressed in rags, and very
seldom brings anything with him. Why do you do it?"
Weston laughed in a rather curious fashion.
"Oh," he said, "don't you know? Did you never feel, even in winter in
Montreal, when you had skating-rinks, toboggan-slides, snow-shoe
meets, and sleigh-rides to keep you amused, that it was all growing
tiresome and very stale? Haven't you felt that you wanted
something--something you hadn't got and couldn't define--though you
might recognize it when you found it?"
Once more Ida's eyebrows straightened. He was going rather deeper than
she had supposed him capable, though she was not altogether
unacquainted with the restlessness he had described. Weston glanced at
her face, and nodded.
"Well," he said, "that's very much what happens to the rancher and the
track-grader every now and then; and when it does he goes up into the
bush--prospecting. Still, I think you were wrong when you said that we
seldom bring back anything. Did you bring nothing down with you from
the quiet and the glimmering moonlight up yonder above the timber
line?"
His companion looked up across the climbing forest to the desolation
of rock and snow through which she had wandered with him a little
while ago. It had been her first ascent, and she now felt the thrill
of achievement and remembered how she had come down that apparently
endless slope in the darkness. The feat looked almost impossible, by
daylight. Then she remembered also how her nerves had tingled, and the
curious sense of exaltation that had come over her as she crept along
the dizzy edge of the great rock scarp in the moonlight, far above the
unsubstantial ghosts of climbing trees. For the time being, it had
proved stronger than weariness or the sense of personal danger, and
she had a vague fancy that the memory of it would always cling to her.
"Yes," she said, "I think I brought down something, or rather it
attached itself to me. What is it?"
Weston spread out his hands with a boyish laugh.
"How should I know? Its glamour and mystery, perhaps. Still, though
the prospector knows it, everybody can't feel it. One must have
sympathy. It would make itself felt by you."
The girl's face checked him. She felt that there was a subtle bond of
mutual comprehension between her and this stranger; but she was not
prepared to admit it to him; and he recognized that he had, perhaps,
gone further than was advisable.
"Still," he continued, "though it's plainest up on the high peaks, the
bush is full of it. You can recognize it everywhere. Listen!"
Ida did so. She heard the hoarse fret of the river, and the faint
elfin sighing high up in the top of the firs.
It was the old earth music, and it drowned the recollection of social
conventions and caste distinctions. It was the same to camp-packer and
rich contractor's daughter. As Ida listened it seemed to stir the
primitive impulses of her human nature. She took alarm and stopped her
ears to it.
"Is it wise to listen?" she asked. "It leads to nothing but
restlessness."
"It seldom leads to any material benefit," Weston admitted. "After
all, I think, one has to be a vagabond before one can properly
appreciate it."
"You seem sure of that?" Ida's curiosity to know more of him would not
permit her to avoid the personal application.
"I'm afraid there must be a little of the vagabond in me," said
Weston, with a smile. "Once I walked into Winnipeg without a dollar,
and was fortunate in hiring myself to add up figures in a big
flour-mill. The people for whom I worked seemed quite pleased with the
way I did it, and paid me reasonably. I lived in a big boarding-house
like a rabbit-warren. Through the thin partitions I could hear the
people all about me stirring in their sleep at night. I went to the
mill in a crowded car every morning, and up to the office in an
elevator. I stayed with it just a month, and then I broke out."
"Broke out?" said Ida.
"Threw the flour-mill people's pens across the office. You see, I was
getting sick for room and air. I presented the concern with my last
week's stipend, and a man at the boarding-house with my city clothes."
"What did you do then?"
"Took the trail. There was limitless prairie straight on in front of
me. I walked for days, and slept at night wherever I could find a
bluff. I could hear the little grasses whispering when I lay
half-awake, and it was comforting to know that there were leagues and
leagues of them between me and the city. I drove a team for a farmer
most of that season. Then I went on to a track that they were
strengthening and straightening in this province. It ran between the
rock and the river, and the snow hadn't gone. We worked waist-deep in
it part of the time, and thawed out every stick of giant-powder at the
fire. The construction boss was a hustler, and he drove us
mercilessly. We toiled raw-handed, worn-out and savage, and he drove
us all the harder when one of the boys tried to brain him."
"And you never longed to be back in the office at the flour-mill?"
Weston laughed.
"Didn't you find those sleigh-rides, skating-rinks, and even the trips
west in your father's private car, grow exceedingly tame?"
"Ah," said Ida, "you must remember that I have never known anything
else."
"Then you have only to wait a little. It's quite certain that you
won't be able to say that some day."
It seemed to Ida inadvisable to pursue the subject further, though she
was not sure that he wished to do so.
"How did you expend your energy after you left the track?" she asked.
"I don't quite remember. Drove horses, went about with a thrashing
outfit, hewed logs for bridges--but haven't I talked too long about
myself? You have told me nothing of--Montreal."
Ida risked a chance shot.
"Don't you know that kind of life? It must be very much the same as
the one your people lead in England. It doesn't count that their
amusements are slightly different."
Weston foiled her again.
"Well," he said, with an air of reflection, "I don't quite think it
is; but perhaps I'm prejudiced. I wheeled scrap-iron at the
rolling-mills when I was in Montreal."
He leaned farther back against the tree, with a little whimsical
smile. It was pleasant to appear as a modern Ulysses in the eyes of a
very pretty girl, but he had, as she was quick to recognize, taken up
the role unconsciously.
"Where are you going next?" she asked.
"I shall probably go off prospecting if I can raise the money. That is
partly why I hope that Major Kinnaird will keep me as long as he camps
out in the bush."
Ida laughed.
"I think you may count on that. He is rather pleased with you. In
fact, I heard him say that if he'd had you in India he would have made
a capable sergeant of you."
She saw a shadow creep into his face, and wondered what had brought it
there, for she did not know that in his younger days he had thought of
Sandhurst. Then, seeing that he did not answer, she rose.
"Well," she said, "Arabella is probably wanting me."
He watched her move away among the great fir trunks, and then took out
his pipe with a little sigh. Still he had, or so he fancied, sense
enough to refrain from allowing his thoughts to wander in her
direction too frequently, and, soothed by the murmur of the river, he
presently went to sleep. When he awakened it was time to see that the
Indians got supper ready.
During the evening, Stirling reached the camp; and when the Siwash who
had poled his canoe up the river had drawn it out, they sat down
somewhat limply on the shingle, for he had as usual traveled with
feverish haste. He stayed until the next day, which was rather longer
than any of them expected; and it was not by accident that he came
upon Weston alone before he went away. The latter was then engaged in
lighting a fire, and his employer sat down on a fir branch and quietly
looked him over.
"Foot getting better?" he asked.
"I think it is," said Weston.
Stirling nodded.
"I understand that you have been of some service to these people; and
they're my daughter's friends," he said. "Is there anything I can do
for you?"
"No," replied Weston, "I don't think there is."
The contractor looked at him steadily for a moment or two.
"Well," he said, "if anything strikes you, there's no reason why you
shouldn't let me know. Feeling anxious to get back to the track?"
Weston's eyes twinkled.
"I don't think I am."
"Then you may stay right where you are, and take care of my daughter.
If she wants to climb mountains or shoot rapids, it's to be done; but
you'll fix things so it can be done safely. You're in charge of this
outfit, and not that major man."
Stirling was never addicted to mincing matters, but Weston could not
quite repress a grin.
"It would make things a little difficult if Major Kinnaird understands
that," he said.
"Then you must see that he doesn't. You can fix it somehow. It's up to
you."
He rose, as if there were nothing more to be said, and then as he
moved away he turned and waved his hand.
"I'll have you moved up a grade on the pay-roll."
He started down the river in another half-hour, and left Weston
thoughtful. He had never seen his employer before; but it was evident
that the latter had made a few inquiries concerning him, and had been
favorably informed.
For another fortnight Weston tactfully carried out his somewhat
difficult task; and then it was with a curious sense of regret that he
stood one evening in a little roadside station. Major Kinnaird was
apparently counting the pile of baggage some little distance away, his
wife and daughter were in the station-room, and Ida and Weston stood
alone where the track came winding out of the misty pines. She glanced
from him to the forest, and there was just a perceptible hint of
regret in her voice.
"It has been very pleasant, and in one way I'm almost sorry we are
going to Vancouver," she said. "This"--and she indicated the wall of
hillside and the shadowy bush--"grows on one."
Weston nodded gravely.
"It does," he said. "You have been up among the high peaks, and you'll
never quite forget them, even in the cities. Now and then you'll feel
them drawing you back again."
The girl laughed, perhaps because she realized that the memory of the
last few weeks would remain with her. She also remembered that he had
said that the stillness among the white peaks and in the scented bush
was filled with a glamour that seized on one.
"Well," she confessed, "I may come back with other friends some day;
and in that case we shall certainly ask for you as guide. I want to
say, as Major Kinnaird did, that we owe a good deal to you. I am only
sorry that the trip is over."
Then her tone changed a little, and Weston supposed that she was
unwilling to make too great an admission.
"There are so many little discomforts you have saved us."
"Yes," he agreed, a trifle dryly, "I suppose there are. However, I
shall probably have gone away when you come back again."
He broke off for a moment, and then turned toward her quietly.
"Still," he said, "I seem to feel that I shall see you again some
day."
His voice was perfectly steady, but, though the light was fading fast,
Ida saw the glint in his eyes, and she answered conventionally.
"Of course," she said, "that would be a pleasure."
Then she spoiled it by a laugh when she saw the smile creep into her
companion's eyes; for it was clear to both of them that the formal
expression was in their case somewhat out of place. They realized that
there was more that might have been said; and it was a slight relief
when the shriek of a whistle came ringing down the track and a roar of
wheels grew louder among the shadowy pines. Then the great mountain
locomotive and the dusty cars came clanking into the station, stopped
a few moments, and rolled away again; and Weston was left with the
vision of a white-robed figure in a fluttering dress that leaned out
from a car platform looking back at the gleaming snow and then turned
a moment to wave a hand to him.
It was an hour later, and the big nickeled lamps were lighted, when
Arabella Kinnaird looked up at her companion as she sat in a lurching
car while the great train swept furiously down the Fraser gorge.
"Now," she exclaimed, "I remember! That packer has been puzzling me.
His face was familiar. The same thing struck the major, as you heard
him say."
"Well?" inquired Ida, a little too indifferently.
Her companion laughed.
"You overdo it. It would be wiser to admit that you are curious. The
major said he'd seen him somewhere, and so he has, in a way. You
remember his talking about the old North Country Hall he took for the
shooting? Well, the owners had left that young man's photograph among
some other odds and ends in what they probably called the library."
Ida had no doubt upon the matter, for she recalled the curious
intentness of Weston's face as he sat in the firelight listening to
Kinnaird's description of the house in question. Still, she was not
prepared to display her interest.
"Well?" she inquired again.
Arabella Kinnaird made a sign of impatience.
"Can't you see? They wouldn't have had his photograph unless he had
been a friend of the family or a relative. I wonder whether he told
you his real name?"
"He didn't."
"It doesn't matter," said Miss Kinnaird. "I feel tolerably sure it is
Weston, and that is the name of the people who own the place. You
don't appear to understand that the fact has its significance."
"How?" asked Ida.
"You haven't been in England or you'd understand. The people who live
in those old places are often very poor, but a certain number of them
have something that the people who have only money would give a good
deal to possess. As a matter of fact, though distinctly human in most
respects, they are--different."
Ida laughed.
"Oh," she said, "I've naturally heard of that. It's quite an old
notion, and didn't originate with you English people. Didn't the Roman
emperors claim to have the Imperial purple in their veins? Still, out
here, when we speak of a man appreciatively we say his blood is--red."
"And that's the color of packer Weston's."
A faint gleam crept into Ida's eyes as she remembered the white-faced
man who had limped out of camp one morning almost too weary to drag
himself along.
"Well," she said, "I think you ought to know. When he went back up the
range for you he left a trail of it behind him."
Her companion had no opportunity for answering, for Major Kinnaird
came back from the smoking end of the car just then, and when he spoke
to Ida his daughter took up a book she had laid down.
In the meanwhile, a mountain locomotive and a train of flat cars came
clanking into the station where Weston waited. Swinging himself onto
one he took his place among the men who sat on the rails with which
the car was loaded. Then, as the big locomotive slowly pulled them
out, some of his new companions vituperated the station-agent for
stopping them, and one came near braining him with a deftly-flung
bottle when he retaliated. There were a good many more men perched on
the other cars, and Weston concluded, from the burst of hoarse
laughter that reached him through the roar of wheels, that all of them
were not wholly sober. They had been recruited in Vancouver, and
included a few runaway sailormen. One told him that they were going
into the ranges to fill up a muskeg, and he expressed his opinion of
the meanness of the company for not sending them up in a Colonist
train, and offered to throw Weston off the car if he did not agree
with him. He explained that he had already pitched off two of his
companions.
Weston endeavored to pacify him; but, failing in this and in an
attempt to crawl over the couplings into the adjoining car, he
reluctantly grappled with the man and succeeded in throwing him into a
corner. Then one of the others rose and stood over his prostrate
comrade with a big billet of firwood that had been used to wedge the
rails.
"I can't sleep with all this circus going on," he said gruffly. "Make
any more trouble and off you go."
The other man apparently decided to lie still, and his comrade turned
to Weston.
"Guess the construction boss isn't going to find them tally out right
to-morrow," he observed, "We've lost quite a few of them coming up the
line."
He went to sleep again soon afterward, and Weston was left in peace.
In front of him the great locomotive snorted up the climbing track,
hurling clouds of sparks aloft. Misty pines went streaming by, the
chill night wind rushed past, the cars banged and clanked, and now and
then odd bursts of harsh laughter or discordant singing broke through
the roar of wheels. It was very different from the deep tranquillity
of the wilderness and the quiet composure of the people with whom he
had spent the last few weeks, but, as Ida Stirling had suggested,
Weston's blood was red, and he was still young enough to find pleasure
in every fresh draught of the wine of life. It was something to feel
himself the equal in bodily strength and animal courage of these
strong-armed men who were going to fill up the muskeg.