GRENFELL GOES ON
Weston, tired as he was, did not sleep well that night. Although they
had a pack-horse he had carried two blankets and a bag of flour, and
when a man has marched from sunrise until dusk under a heavy burden,
his shoulders, as a rule, ache distressfully. In addition to this
discomfort, Grenfell's manner throughout that day's march had roused
an unsettling sense of expectation in his comrades. The man had limped
wearily and continually lagged behind, but he had, in spite of it,
resolutely insisted on their pushing on as fast as possible. He had
also looked about him with a certain suggestive curiosity every now
and then, and though he had once or twice admitted that he could not
positively identify anything he saw, his air of restrained eagerness
had made its impression on Weston.
A half-moon had sailed up into the eastern sky when the latter wakened
and raised himself drowsily on one elbow. All round him the great
burned pines towered in black and shadowy columns against the silvery
light, and a stillness that was almost oppressive brooded over the
valley. No sound of running water came out of it, and there was not a
breath of wind. It was cool, however, and Weston drew his dusty
blanket higher about his shoulders as he glanced round the camp.
Devine lay close by sleeping like a log; but Grenfell was huddled at
the foot of a tree, and it became evident to his comrade that he, at
least, was wide awake.
"Haven't you done enough to make you sleep?" Weston asked.
Grenfell laughed softly.
"I haven't closed my eyes. I can't keep them off the range in front of
us."
Weston looked up and saw a huge black rampart cutting sharp and clear
against the blueness of the night.
"Don't tell me that you recognize it," he said.
"Three nicks," replied Grenfell. "After the third one, a rounded peak.
I can't tell whether I remember it from another time, but that
description came to me as if I'd used it, and I think I must have done
so. Anyway, you can see them yonder."
He broke off for a moment, and when he went on again his manner was
deprecatory.
"Since sunrise I've been troubled with a haunting sense of the
familiar, though when I found the lake with Verneille we marched
through no brûlée."
"That's years ago, and this brûlée is probably not more than twelve
months old--I mean as a brûlée," said Weston, impatiently, for the
strain of the long march was telling on him. "Anyway, you've been
half-recognizing places ever since we started on this search, and I'd
rather you didn't make half sure of anything else. In fact, I can't
stand much more of it."
Grenfell, who showed no sign of resentment, laughed again.
"As I think I told you, I've been troubled with memories that seem
half dreams. I'm not sure that's quite unusual in the case of a man
who has consumed as much whisky as I have. Besides, it's a little
difficult to distinguish between dreams and what we look upon as
realities, since the latter exist only in the perception of our
senses, which may be deceptive. They agree on that point, don't they,
in places as dissimilar as India and Germany?"
"Are you sure you didn't dream about the lead?" Weston asked bluntly.
"It's a point that has been troubling me for a considerable time."
"Then why did you come up with me to search for the lake?"
"I was once or twice told at home that I was a persistent imbecile.
That may account for it."
"Well," said Grenfell, reflectively, "your action on one or two
occasions seems to warrant the observation--I mean when you stood the
boys off me after I'd spoiled their supper, and the other time when
you decided on my account not to stay on at the copper-mine. Still, I
want to say that while I seem to know I will not make another journey
on the gold trail, I've had a subconscious feeling of certainty since
sunrise yesterday that the lake lies just ahead of us. I know nothing
definite that justifies it, but we'll probably find out to-morrow.
There's just another thing. If I leave my bones up here my share falls
to you."
He seemed disinclined for any further conversation, and Weston went to
sleep again. When he awakened the moon had sunk behind the range, and
a faint gray light was filtering down beneath the blackened pines. It
showed the pack-horse standing close by, and Devine stretched out
beneath his blanket, a shadowy, shapeless figure, but there was, as
far as Weston could see, no sign of Grenfell anywhere. He called out
sharply as soon as he was sure of this, and his voice rang hollowly up
the valley, but there was no answer until Devine slowly shook clear of
his blankets.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Grenfell's gone."
"Gone!" Devine was on his feet in a moment.
"It looks like it," said Weston, sharply. "Can you see him?"
Devine gazed into the shadows, but he saw nothing beyond the rows of
dusky trunks.
"Where's he gone?"
"That," said Weston, "is naturally just what I don't know. It's up to
us to find out."
Then he briefly related his conversation with Grenfell, and the two
looked at each other. There was just light enough to show the anxiety
in their faces.
"Well," said Devine, "it's quite clear to me that he's on the trail;
and it's fortunate in one way that he's left a plain trail behind him.
Whether the whole thing's a delusion on his part, or whether he did
strike that lode, I don't know, but I didn't like the man's looks
yesterday. He seemed badly played out, and it kind of struck me he was
just holding on." He turned toward the pack-horse and pulled up the
picket. "Anyway, we'll get upon his trail."
They both were men of action, and inside of five minutes they had
lashed their packs together and started without breakfast. Weston led
the horse, while Devine picked up Grenfell's trail. Weston was a
little astonished at the ease with which his companion did this.
"It's quite simple," said the surveyor, when the other stopped a
moment where the footprints seemed to break off, and questioned his
decision. "He's heading straight on, and not walking like a man with
much strength in him. I wish I knew just how far he is ahead of us."
Then he added in explanation: "I went east for a while, but I was
raised in this country, and this is 'way easier than trailing a deer."
They went on a little faster after that, for Devine had promptly
picked up the trail again, and by the time the red sun had cleared the
range it led them out of the brûlée and into a waste of rock and
gravel, where there were smaller firs and strips of tangled
undergrowth. Here and there Devine stopped for a few minutes, but he
found the trail again, though it led them through thickets, and now
and then they floundered among half-rotten fallen trunks and branches.
Fortunately, the horse was a Cayuse and used to that kind of work.
It rapidly grew hotter, until the perspiration streamed from them, and
Weston, who had eaten very little the previous evening, became
conscious of an unpleasant stitch in his side; but they pushed on
without flagging, urged by a growing anxiety. At length the ground,
which was a little clearer, rose sharply in front of them. Weston
pulled up the pack-horse and looked significantly at Devine, who
nodded.
"Yes," he assented, "he said a low divide. The lake lay just beyond
it."
Then he cast about with his eyes fixed on the loose gravel over which
they had scrambled, until he came to a spot where a wide patch of
half-rotted needles lay beneath another belt of pines.
"He stopped here and sat down," he commented. "Seemed to have had some
trouble in pulling out again. I don't like those footsteps. You and I
don't walk like that."
"Get on," said Weston, sharply, and, turning, struck the horse.
The sun was overhead when they scrambled, gasping, over the crest of
the divide and looked down into another long, winding hollow. Then
they stopped again and looked hard at each other, for the hollow
seemed filled with forest, and there was nowhere any shimmer of
shining water.
"He can't be far ahead. Went through those vines in front of you,"
said Devine.
Then ensued an hour's wild scramble through undergrowth in shade,
until they broke out, dripping with perspiration, from the gloom among
the pines into a comparatively open space on the edge of a wide belt
of willows. They left the horse tethered on the outskirts of the
latter; and twenty minutes afterward Devine, who had scrambled up and
down among the undergrowth, stopped suddenly.
"Come here," he cried with a suggestive hoarseness. "We're through
with this trail."
He was standing waist-deep among the tangled brushwood, and it was a
minute before Weston smashed through it to his side. Then he, too,
stopped and started, for he saw a huddled object in tattered duck
lying face downward at his comrade's feet. The latter made a little
gesture when he met Weston's eyes.
"We'll make sure," he said quietly. "Still, you see how he's lying."
Weston dropped on his knees, and with some difficulty turned the
prostrate figure over. Then he took off his battered hat and looked up
at Devine with it in his hand. The latter nodded.
"Yes," he said, "he has pulled out once for all. Started two or three
hours ago on a trail we can't pick up yet."
They drew back a little and sat down heavily on a ledge of stone, for
the sight of the huddled figure in the tattered duck troubled them. It
was a minute or two before either of them spoke.
"Heart trouble of some kind," said the surveyor. "If not, it isn't
going to matter."
He looked around at his companion with a little wave of his hand which
seemed to deprecate the mention of the subject.
"He can't tell us now where that lode is."
Weston said nothing for a minute. After all, there was so little that
could be said. Then he stretched himself wearily.
"There is something to be done, but I don't feel quite equal to it
yet, and I'm parched with thirst. Willows grow only where there's
water."
"These," said Devine, "look kind of sickly. You can see quite a few of
them have dried up; but it's a sure thing they had water to start
them. Wish I knew how to strike it. It's most three days since I had
what one could call a drink."
"Did you ever hear of water-finding?"
"Yes," answered Devine. "I've read a little about the old country.
Kind of old English charlatanry, isn't it?"
"Well," said Weston, simply, "I could find water once upon a time. I
know that, because I've done it."
"Don't you need a hazel fork? You can't get one here."
"I don't think the hazel matters. The power is in the man. I can cut a
fork out of something."
Devine made a little gesture which seemed expressive of resignation.
"Well," he said, "whether we go on or go back we have to have a drink.
That's a sure thing; and I feel, like you, that I want it before we
set about the work that's awaiting us."
After that they both sat still again. They had to decide whether they
would go back or go on, and both of them realized what the decision
would be. Their guide had left them, and the last expectation of
finding the lead had melted away. At first the sight of his dead
comrade had driven all other thoughts from Weston's mind, but now he
was compelled to admit that he had wasted time and money on a
delusion. That perhaps was no great matter in itself, but it made it
clear that all he could look for was to earn food and shelter as a
packer, logging-hand, or wandering laborer. Impassable barriers
divided Ida Stirling from a man of that kind, and he dare no longer
dream of the possibility of tearing them down. At last, and the
knowledge was very bitter, he was face to face with defeat. He forgot
for the moment that Grenfell lay just beyond the tangled undergrowth.
He gazed straight in front of him, with a hard hand clenched and a
look in his wavering eyes that puzzled his companion. At length he
raised himself wearily to his feet. After all, the needs of the body
would not be denied, and, as Devine had said, before they set about
the task that awaited them they must drink.
"Well," he said hoarsely, "I'm going to cut a fork."
He smashed back through the undergrowth toward the pines, unlashed the
ax from the horse's back, and, though he was never afterward sure
whether he cut it from a young fir or a bush of juniper, Devine came
upon him some time later trimming a forked twig with a short stem
where the two slender branches united. The surveyor glanced at it and
smiled.
"Any water that ran into this hollow must have come from the range,"
he said. "We'll try close beneath it and give the thing a show."
They did as he suggested, and his expression was sardonically
incredulous when Weston proceeded along the foot of the hillside,
where the ground was a little clearer, with a branch of the fork
clutched in each hand. The pointed stem was directed almost
horizontally in front of him, and it remained in that position for
about twenty minutes, when he lowered it with a gesture of
discouragement.
"Felt nothing yet?" Devine inquired eagerly. "There's a kind of hollow
yonder running into the thicket."
Weston made no answer, but he turned in among the willows, and for
half an hour or so they stumbled and floundered among the clinging
branches. Still there was no deflection of the fork, and when at
length they stopped again, gasping and dripping with perspiration,
Devine laughed rather grimly.
"Oh, give it a rest; I guess that's what it wants," he said. "I'll
hang on for another half-hour, and then I'm going prospecting on my
own account. We've got to strike water."
That, at least, was evident. They were parched with thirst and it was
very hot. No breath of air seemed to enter that dense thicket, and a
cloud of tormenting flies hung about them. Weston's head was throbbing
with the heat, and his sight seemed dazed. Both of them were dusty,
ragged, grim of face, and worn with travel, and the longing for even a
few drops of muddy liquid was becoming almost insupportable.
It was only by a strenuous effort that Weston went on again. He felt
scarcely capable of further exertion, but he could not overcome the
horrible bodily craving that seemed to grow stronger with every
pulsation of his fevered blood, and he plodded on into the thicket
very wearily. At length Devine saw the twig bend downward for a moment
in his hands,
"You did that?" he asked sharply.
"No," said Weston in a strained voice, "I certainly did not."
"Let me take hold," said Devine, and when Weston handed the fork to
him he walked back a few paces and crossed the same spot again. The
fork, however, pointed straight in front of him. He threw it down and
said nothing, but Weston looked at him with a little grim smile.
"I've heard it said that anybody could do it, but that's not my
experience," he observed.
Devine's gesture might have expressed anything.
"Oh, we were both crazy when we started with Grenfell," he said.
Weston moved forward with the fork, and, while Devine looked on, the
stem once more inclined. It wavered, tilted downward a little farther,
and then slowly swung back to rest again. Still, Weston held on, and
when there was a further inclination it became clear that his
companion was convinced.
"The thing's picking up the trail!" he exclaimed.
For a time they wandered up and down the thicket, Weston apparently
directing his course by the spasmodic movements of the fork, which now
and then would lie still altogether. At length it commenced to jerk
sharply, and Devine looked at his companion in a curious manner.
"It's heading right back for Grenfell," he said in a hoarse whisper.
They went on until they almost reached the spot which they had left
more than an hour ago. Then the fork suddenly pointed straight
downward, and Weston stopped. His face was flushed, and his voice was
sharp and strained.
"Go and bring the shovel!" he said.
Devine strode into the bush, and Weston struggled through the
undergrowth to where Grenfell lay, scarcely a stone's throw away.
Stripping off his jacket, he laid it over the dead man to keep off the
flies. Then he went back and sat down with a dazed look in his eyes
until the surveyor broke out from among the trees with the shovel.
"Sit still," said Devine, "I'll go down the first foot or two,
anyway."
Weary as he was he plied the shovel savagely, flinging out the mould
in showers, but he was knee-deep in the hole before there was a clink
as the blade struck stones.
"Gravel. The water would work right through that," he said.
He toiled on until the hole was a yard in depth, but the gravel he
flung out was dry, and at length he stopped and sat on the side of the
excavation, gasping.
"Nothing yet," he said. "You're sure you struck it?"
"Yes," replied Weston, quietly, "I'm sure."
Once more Devine seized the shovel, but in a moment he flung it down
suddenly, with a sharp, glad cry.
"It's sluicing out!"
Weston rose and strode to the edge of the hole. There was a little
water in the bottom of it, and this spread rapidly until it crept up
about his comrade's boots. In one place he could see a frothing,
bubbling patch with an edge that was crystal clear. Then Devine
stooped and, filling his wide hat, held it up to him dripping.
"We're through with one trouble, anyway," he announced exultantly.