Soon after the break of dawn Ben put his pick and shovel on his
shoulder, and leisurely walked up the creek past Ray's cabin. Since Chan
Heminway had already departed down the long trail to Bradleyburg--a town
situated nearly forty miles from Snowy Gulch--Ray alone saw him pass;
and he eyed him with some apprehension. Daylight had brought a more
vivid consciousness of his last night's crime; and a little of his
bravado had departed from him. He moved closer to his rifle.
Yet in a moment his suspicions were allayed. Ben was evidently a
prospector, just as he claimed to be, and was venturing forth to get his
first "lay of the land." The latter continued up the draw, crossed a
ridge, halted now and then in the manner of the wild creatures to see if
he were being followed, and finally by a roundabout route returned to
the lifeless form of his only friend. The wolf still trotted in silence
behind him.
The vivid morning light only revealed the crime in more dreadful detail.
The withered form lay huddled in the stained leaves; and Ben stood a
long time beside it, in deep and wondering silence, even now scarcely
able to believe the truth. How strange it was that this old comrade
could not waken and go on with him again! But in a moment he remembered
his work.
Slowly, laboriously, with little outward sign of the emotion that rent
his heart, he dug a shallow grave He knew perfectly that this was a
serious risk to his cause. Should the murderer return for any purpose,
to his dead, the grave would of course show that the body had been
discovered and would put him on his guard against Ben. Nevertheless, the
latter could not leave these early remains to the doubtful mercy of the
wilderness: the agents of air and sun, and the wild beasts.
He threw the last clod and stood looking down at the upturned earth.
"Sleep good, old Ez," he murmured in simple mass for the dead. "I'll do
what you said."
Then, at the head of the grave, he thrust the barrel of Ezram's rifle
into the ground, a monument grim as his own thoughts. The last rite was
completed; he was free to work now. From now on he could devote every
thought to the work in hand,--the payment of his debts.
By the same roundabout route he circled back to his camp, cooked his
meager lunch, and in the afternoon ventured forth again. But he was
prospecting in earnest this time, though the prospects that he sought
were those of victory to his cause, rather than of gold. He was seeking
simply a good, general idea of the nature and geography of the country
so that he might know better how to plan his attack.
His excursion took him at last to the wooded bank of the river. He stood
a long time, quite motionless, listening to the water voices that only
the wise can understand. This was really a noble stream. It flowed with
such grandeur in its silence and solitude; old and gray and austere, it
was a mighty expression of wilderness power,--resistless, immortal,
eternally secretive. The waters flowed darkly, icy cold from the melting
snow; but like a sleeping giant they would be quick to seize upon and
destroy such as would try to brave their currents, likely never to
yield them up again. Flowing forever through the uninhabited forest no
man would ever know the fate of those the river claimed.
He was above the camp when he descended to its banks, but he worked his
way down through the thickets toward Jeffery Neilson's cabin. The river
flowed quietly here, a long, still stretch that afforded safe boating.
Yet the smooth waters did not in the least alleviate Ben's haunting
sense of their sinister power and peril. The old gray she-wolf is not to
be trusted in her peaceful moments. His keen ears could distinctly hear
the roar and rumble of wild waters, just below.
The river was of great depth as well as breadth,--one of the king rivers
of the land. Ben found himself staring into its depths with a quickening
pulse. He had a momentary impression that this great stream was his
ally, a mighty agent that he could bend to his will.
He approached the long, sloping bank on which stood Neilson's cabin; and
he suddenly drew up short at the sight of a light, staunch canoe on the
open water. It was a curious fact that he noticed the craft itself
before ever he glanced at its occupant. A thrill of excitement passed
over him. He realized that this boat simplified to some degree his own
problem, in that it afforded him means of traversing this great
water-body, certainly to be a factor in the forthcoming conflict. The
boat had evidently been the property of Hiram Melville.
Then he noticed, with a strange, inexplicable leap of his heart, that
its lone occupant was Beatrice Neilson. His eye kindled at the
recognition, and the beginnings of a smile flashed to his lips. But at
once remembrance came to him, crushing his joy as the heel crushes a
tender flower. The girl was of the enemy camp, the daughter of the
leader of the triumvirate of murderers. While she herself could have had
no part in the crime, perhaps she already had guilty knowledge of it,
and at least she was of her father's hated blood.
He had builded much on his friendship with this girl; but he felt it
withering, turning black--like buds under frost--in his cold breast.
There could be no friendly words, except in guile; no easy comradeship
between them now. They were on opposite sides, hated foes to the last.
Perhaps she would be one of the innocents that must suffer with the
guilty; but he felt no remorse. Not even this lovely, tender wood child
must stand in his way.
Nevertheless, he must not put her on guard. He must simulate friendship.
He lifted his hat in answer to her gay signal.
She wore a white middy blouse, and her brown, bare forearms flashed
pleasantly in the spring sun. Her brown hair was disarranged by the wind
that found a passway down the river, and her eyes shone with the sheer,
unadorned love of living. Evidently she had just enjoyed a brisk paddle
through the still stretches of the river. With sure, steady strokes she
pushed the craft close to the little, board landing where Ben stood. She
reached up to him, and in an instant was laughing--at nothing in
particular but the fun of life--at his side.
The man glanced once at Fenris, spoke in command, then turned to the
girl. "All rested from the ride, I see," he began easily.
Her instincts keyed to the highest pitch, for an instant she thought she
discerned an unfamiliar tone, hard and hateful, in his voice. But his
eyes and his lips were smiling; and evidently she was mistaken. "I never
get tired," she responded. She glanced at the tools in his arms. "I
suppose you've found a dozen rich lodes already this morning."
"Only one." He smiled, significantly, into her eyes. Because she was a
forest girl, unused to flattery, the warm color grew in her brown
cheeks. "And how was paddling? The water looks still enough from here."
"It's not as still as it looks, but it is easy going for a half-mile
each way. If you aren't an expert boatman, however--I hardly think--I'd
try it."
"Why not? I'm fair enough with a canoe, of course--but it looks safe as
a lake."
"But it isn't." She paused. "Listen with those keen ears of yours, Mr.
Darby. Don't you hear anything?"
Ben did not need particularly keen ears to hear: the far-off sound of
surging waters reached him with entire clearness. He nodded.
"That's the reason," the girl went on. "If something should happen--and
you'd get carried around the bend--a little farther than you meant to
go--you'd understand. And we wouldn't see any more of Mr. Darby around
these parts."
Her dark eyes, brimming with light and laughter, were on his face, but
she failed to see him slowly stiffen to hide the sudden, wild leaping of
his heart. Could it be that he saw the far-off vision of his triumph?
His eyes glowed, and he fought off with difficulty a great preoccupation
that seemed to be settling over him.
"Tell me about it," he said at last, casually. "I was thinking of making
a boat and going down on a prospecting trip."
"I'll tell you about it, and then I think you'll change your mind. The
first cataract is the one just above where we first saw the
river--coming in; then there's this mile of quiet water. From that
point on the Yuga flows into a gorge--or rather one gorge after another;
and sometime they'll likely be almost as famous as some of the great
gorges of your country. The walls are just about straight up on each
side, and of course are absolutely impassable. I don't know how many
miles the first gorge is--but for nearly two hundred miles the river is
considered impassable for boats. Two hundred and fifty miles or so below
there is an Indian village--but they never try to go down the river from
here. A few white men, however, have tried to go down with canoe-loads
of fur."
"And all drowned?" Ben asked.
"All except one party. Once two men went down when the river was
high--just as it is now. They were good canoeists, and they made it
through. No one ever expected they would come out again."
"And after you've once got into the rapids, there's no getting out--or
landing?"
"Of course not. I suppose there are places where you might get on the
bank, but the gorge above is impassable."
"You couldn't follow the river down--with horses?"
"Yes, in time. Of course it would be slow going, as there are no trails,
the brush is heavy, and the country is absolutely unexplored. You see it
has never been considered a gold country--and of course the Indians
won't go except where they can go in canoes. Some of the hills must be
impassable, too. I've heard my father speak about it--how that if any
criminal--or any one like that--could take down this river in a canoe in
high water--and get through into that great, virgin, trackless country a
hundred miles below, it would be almost impossible to get him out.
Unless the officers could chase him down the same way he went--by
canoe--it would take literally weeks and months for them to get in, and
by that time he could be hidden and located and his tracks covered up."
"And with good ambushes, able to hold off and kill a dozen of them, eh?"
Ben's hands shook, and he locked them behind him. "They call that
country--what?"
"'Back There.' That's all I've ever heard it called--'Back There.'"
"It's as good a name as any. Of course, the reason they were able to
make it through in high water was due to the fact that most of the rocks
and ledges were submerged, and they could slide right over them."
"Of course. Many of our rivers are safer in high water. But you
seriously don't intend to take such a trip--"
He looked up to find her eyes wide and full upon his. Yet her concern
for him touched him not at all. She was his enemy: that fact could never
be forgotten or forgiven.
"I want to hear about it, anyway. I heard in town the river is higher
than it's been for years--due to the Chinook--"
"It _is_ higher than I've ever seen it. But it's reached its peak and
has started to fall, and it won't come up again, at least, till fall.
When the Yuga rises it comes up in a flood, and it falls the same way.
It's gone down quite a little since this morning; by the day after
to-morrow no one could hope to get through Devil's Gate--the first
cataract in the gorge."
"Not even with a canoe? Of course a raft would be broken to pieces."
"Not a canoe, either, in two or three days, if the river falls like it
usually does. But tell me--you aren't serious--"
"I suppose not. But it gets my imagination--just the same. I suppose a
man would average better than twenty miles an hour down through that
gorge, and would come out at _Back There_."
Their talk moved easily to other subjects; yet it seemed to Ben that
some secondary consciousness held up his end of the conversation. His
own deeper self was lost in curious and dark conjectures. Her
description of the river lingered in his thoughts, and he seemed to be
groping for a great inspiration that was hovering just beyond his
reach--as plants grope for light in far-off leafy jungles. He felt that
it would come to him in a moment: he would know the dark relation that
these facts about the river bore to his war with Neilson. It was as if
an inner mind, much more subtle and discerning than his normal
consciousness, had seen great possibilities in them, but as yet had not
divulged their significance.
"I must be going now," the girl was saying. "Father pretty near goes
crazy when I stay away too long. You can't imagine how he loves me and
worries about me--and how fearful he is of me--"
His mind seemed to leap and gather her words. It was true: she was the
joy and the pride and the hope of the old man's life. All his work, his
dreams were for her. And now he remembered a fact that she had told him
on the outward journey: that Ray Brent, the stronger of Neilson's two
subordinates, loved her too.
"To strike at them indirectly--through some one they love--" such had
been his greatest wish. To put them at a disadvantage and overcome his
own--to lead them into his own ambushes. And was it for the Wolf to care
what guiltless creatures fell before his fangs in the gaining of his
dreadful ends? Was the gratification of his hate to be turned aside
through pity for an innocent girl? Mercy and remorse were two things
that he had put from him. It was the way of the Wolf to pay no attention
to methods, only to achieve his own fierce desires. He stood lost in
dark and savage reverie.
"Good-by," the girl was saying. "I'll see you soon--"
He turned toward her, a smile at his lips. His voice held steady when he
spoke.
"It'll have to be soon, if at all," he replied. "I've got to really get
to work in a few days. How about a little picnic to-morrow--a grouse
hunt, say--on the other side of the river? It's going to be a beautiful
day--"
The girl's eyes shone, and the color rose again in her tanned cheeks.
"I'd think that would be very nice," she told him.
"Then I'll meet you here--at eight."