THE UNEXPECTED
After a hard tramp Wyllard felt a troublesome dizziness creeping over
him, and he sat down upon a boulder with the rifle across his knees. He
had eaten little in the last few days, which had been spent in arduous
exertion, and now the leaden weariness which he had fought against since
morning threatened to overcome him. In addition to this, he was
oppressed by a black dejection, which, though his mind had never been
clearer, reacted upon his failing physical powers, for it was now
evident that he and his companions could not reach the inlet while their
provisions held out. There was no longer any doubt that he had involved
the two faithful men in disaster, and the knowledge that he had done so
was bitter.
With haggard face he sat gazing up the ravine. Although he scarcely
imagined that either of the others had expected anything, he shrank from
going back as empty-handed as when he had left them. The light was
getting very dim, but he could still see the ice fringe upon the pool in
front of him, and a mass of rock that rose black against the creeping
dusk not very far away. Beyond it on the one side there seemed to be a
waste of stones amid which a few wreaths of snow still gleamed lividly.
Then a wall of rock scarcely distinguishable in the shadow shut in the
hollow.
The hollow was filled with the hoarse roar of the river and the sharp
crash and crackle of stream-driven ice, but by and by the worn-out man
started as he caught another faint sound which suggested the clink of a
displaced stone. His hands closed hard upon the rifle, but he sat very
still, listening with strained attention until he heard the sound again.
Then a thrill ran through him, for he was quite certain of it's meaning.
A stone had rolled over higher up the gorge, and he rose and crept
forward, cautiously, keeping the detached rock between him and the upper
portion of the ravine. Once or twice a stone clattered noisily beneath
his feet, and he stopped for a moment or two, wondering with tense
anxiety whether the sound could be heard at any distance through the
roar of the river. This was a much more serious business than crawling
through the long grass for a shot at the prairie antelope, when in ease
of success it had seemed scarcely worth while to pack the tough and
stringy venison back to the homestead.
By and by he heard the clatter of a displaced stone again, and this time
the sound was so distinct and near that it puzzled him. The wild
creatures of the waste were, he knew, always alert, and their perception
of an approaching danger was wonderful. It seemed strange that the beast
he was creeping in upon could not hear him, but he realized that he must
face the hazard of detection, since in another few minutes it would be
too dark to shoot. He had almost reached the rock by this time, and he
shifted his grasp on the rifle, holding it thrust forward in front of
him while crouching low he looked down for a spot on which to set his
foot each time he moved. It would, he knew, be useless to go any further
if a stone turned over now. He was fortunate, however, and, strung up to
highest tension, he stole into the deeper gloom behind the rock.
A little pool ran in close beneath the rock, but it was covered with ice
and slushy snow. Treading cautiously, he crept across it, and held his
breath as he moved out from behind the rock. He stopped suddenly, for a
man stood face to face with him scarcely a stone's throw away. The
stranger's fur-clad figure cut sharply against a gleaming back of snow,
and he held a gun in his hand. Though the light had almost gone, it was
evident to Wyllard that he was a white man.
They stood very still for several seconds gazing at each other, and then
the stranger dropped the butt of his weapon and called out sharply,
uttering words in a tongue that Wyllard did not recognize. Wyllard did
not move and the man spoke again. What he said was still unintelligible,
but this time Wyllard knew that he was trying German. When he received
only a shake of the head as an answer, the stranger tried again. This
time is was French that he spoke.
"You can come forward, comrade," he said.
He did not seem to be hostile, and Wyllard, who tossed his rifle into
the hollow of his left arm, moved out a pace or two to meet him.
"You are Russian?" he questioned in the language the other had used, for
French is freely spoken in parts of Canada.
The man laughed. "That afterwards," he answered.
"It is said so. My name is Overweg--Albrecht Overweg. As to you, it
appears you do not understand Russian."
Wyllard drew a little nearer, and sat down upon a boulder. Now that the
tension had slackened, his weariness had once more become almost
insupportable, and he felt that he might need his strength and senses.
He was bewildered by the encounter, for it was certainly astonishing in
that desolate wilderness to fall in with a man who spoke three civilized
languages and wore spectacles.
"No," he replied, after a slight pause, "it is almost the first time I
have heard Russian spoken."
"Ah," responded the other, "there is a certain significance in that
admission, my friend. May I inquire where you have come from, and what
you are doing here?"
Wyllard, who had no desire to give him any information concerning the
quest for his lost comrades, pointed towards the east.
"That is where I come from. As to my business at the moment you will
excuse me. It is perhaps not a rudeness to ask what is yours."
The stranger laughed. "Caution, it seems, is necessary; and to the east,
where you have pointed, there is only the sea. I will, however, tell you
my business. It is science, and not"--he seemed to add this with a
certain significance--"in any way connected with the administration of
the country."
Wyllard was conscious of a vast relief on hearing this, but as he was
not quite sure that he could believe it, he felt that prudence was still
advisable. In any case, he could not let the stranger go away until he
had learned whether there were any more white men with him. He sat
still, thinking hard for a moment or two.
"You have a camp somewhere near?" he asked at length.
"Certainly," replied the man. "You will come back with me, or shall I
come to yours?"
"There are several of you?"
"Besides myself, two Kamtchadales."
"Then," said Wyllard, "I will come with you. I have left two comrades a
little further down the ravine. Will you wait until I bring them?"
The stranger made a sign of assent, and sitting down upon a ledge of
rock took out a cigar. Wyllard now felt more sure of him, since it was
evident that had he meditated any treachery he would naturally have
preferred him to make the visit unattended. In any case, it seemed
likely that he would have something to eat in his camp.
Wyllard plodded back down the ravine, and when he returned with his
comrades Overweg was still sitting there in the gathering darkness. He
greeted them with a wave of his hand, and rising, silently led the way
up the hollow until they came in sight of a little tent that glimmered
beneath a rock. There was a light inside the tent and two dusky figures
were silhoueted against the canvas. Overweg drew the flap back, and the
light shone upon his face as he signed them to enter. Wyllard, standing
still a moment, looked at him steadily, and then, seeing a reassuring
smile, went in.
Overweg called to one of the Kamtchadales, who came in and busied
himself about the cooking-lamp. The three famished men sat down with a
sense of luxurious content among the skins that were spread upon the
ground sheet. After the raw cold outside the tent was very snug and
warm. Wyllard said little, however, and Overweg made no attempt at
conversation until the Kamtchadale laid out a meal, when he watched his
guests with a smile while they ate voraciously. He had stripped off his
furs, and with his knees drawn up sat on one of the skins. He was a
little, plump, round-faced man, with tow-colored hair, and eyes that
gleamed shrewdly behind his spectacles.
"Shall I open another can?" he asked presently.
"No," answered Wyllard. "We owe you thanks enough already. Provisions
are evidently plentiful with you."
Overweg nodded. "I have a base camp two or three days' journey back," he
explained. "It is possible that I shall make a depôt. We brought our
stores up from the south with dog sleds before the snow grew soft, but
it is necessary for me to push on further. My business, you understand,
is the scientific survey; to report upon the natural resources of the
country."
He paused, and his manner changed a little when he went on again. "I
have," he added, "to this extent taken you into my confidence, and I
invite an equal candor. Two things are evident. You have made a long
journey, and your French is not that one hears in Paris."
"First of all," said Wyllard, "I must ask again, are you a Russian?"
Overweg shrugged his shoulders. "My name, which I have told you, is not
Slavonic, and it may be admitted that I was born in Bavaria. In the
meanwhile, it is true that I have been sent on a mission by the Russian
Government."
"I wonder," remarked Wyllard reflectively, "how far you consider your
duty towards your employers goes."
Overweg's eyes twinkled. "It covers all that can be ascertained about
the geological structure and the fauna of the country, especially the
fauna that produce marketable furs. At present I am not convinced that
it goes very much further."
It was clear to Wyllard that he was already in this man's hands, since
he could not reach the inlet without provisions, and Overweg could, if
he thought fit, send back a messenger to the Russian authorities. He was
one who could think quickly and make a momentous decision, and he
realized that if he could not win the man's sympathy there must be open
hostility between them.
"In that case I think I may tell you what has brought me here," he said.
"If you have traveled much in Kamtchatka you can, perhaps, help me. To
begin with, I sailed from Vancouver, in Canada, nearly a year ago."
It required some time to make his errand clear, and then Overweg looked
at him with an inscrutable expression.
"It is," said the scientist, "a tale that in these days one finds some
little difficulty in believing. Still, it must be admitted that I am
acquainted with one fact which appears to substantiate it."
As he saw the blood rise to Wyllard's forehead he broke off with a
laugh.
"My friend," he added, "is it permitted to offer you my felicitations?
The men who would attempt a thing of this kind are, I think, singularly
rare."
"What is the fact that gives me at least partial credence?" asked
Wyllard, impatiently.
"There is a Kamtchadale in my base camp who told me of a place where a
white man was buried some distance to the west of us. He spoke of a
second white man, but nobody, I understand, knows what became of him."
Wyllard straightened himself suddenly. "You will send for that
Kamtchadale?"
"Assuredly. The tale you have told me has stirred my curiosity. As my
path lies west up the river valley, we can, if it pleases you, go on for
a while together."
Wyllard, who thanked him, turned to Charly with a sigh of relief.
"It seems that we shall not bring those men back, but I think we may
find out where they lie," he said.
Charly made no comment, for this was the most he had expected, and a few
minutes later there was silence in the little tent when the men lay down
to sleep among the skins.
They started at sunrise next morning, and followed the river slowly by
easy stages until the man sent back to Overweg's base camp overtook them
with another Kamtchadale. Then they pushed on still further inland, and
it was a week later when one evening their guide led them up to a little
pile of stones upon a lonely ridge of rock. There were two letters very
rudely cut on one of the stones, and Wyllard, who stooped down beside
it, took off his cap when he rose.
"There's no doubt that Jake Leslie lies here," he said. Looking at
Overweg, he asked, "Your man is sure there was only one white man who
buried him?"
Overweg spoke to the Kamtchadale, who answered:
"There was only one white man. It seems he went inland afterwards--at
least a year ago."
Wyllard turned to Charly, and his face was very grave. "That makes it
certain that two of them have died. There was one left, and he may be
dead by this time." He made a forceful gesture. "If one only knew!"
Charly made no answer. He was not a man of education or much
imagination, but like others of his kind he had alternately borne many
privations in the wilderness, logging, prospecting, trail-cutting about
the remoter mines, and at sea. As one result of this there crept into
his mind some recognition of what the outcast who lay at rest beside
their feet had had to face--the infinite toil of the march, the black
despair, the blinding snow, and Arctic frost. He met his leader's gaze
with a look of comprehending sympathy.
By what grim efforts and primitive devices their comrade had clung to
life for a time, it seemed probable they would never know, but they
clearly realized that, though some might call it an illegal raid, or
even piracy, it was a work of mercy this outlaw had undertaken when he
was cast away. In the command to swing the boats over and face the
roaring surf in the darkness of the night he had heard the clear call of
duty, and had fearlessly obeyed. His obedience had cost him much, but as
the man who had come so far to search for him looked down upon the
little pile of stones there in the desolate wilderness, there awoke
within him a sure recognition of the fact that this was not the end.
That, at least, was unthinkable. His comrade, putting off the
half-frozen, suffering flesh, had gone on to join the immortals with his
duty done.
It was with warmth at his heart and a slight haziness in his eyes that
Wyllard turned away at length, but when he put on his fur cap again he
was more determined than ever to carry out the search. There were many
perils and difficulties to be faced, but he felt that he must not
flinch.
"One man went inland," he said to Overweg. "I must go that way, too."
The little spectacled scientist looked at him curiously.
"Ah," he replied, "the road your comrade traveled is a hard one. You
have seen what it leads to."
Then Wyllard gave another a glimpse of the emotion that he generally
kept hidden deep in him.
"No," he said, quietly, "the hard road leads further--where we do not
know--but one feels that the full knowledge will not bring sorrow when
it is some day given to those who have the courage to follow."
Overweg waved a hand as he spoke. "It is not the view of the
materialists, but it is conceivable that the materialists may be wrong,"
he responded. "In this case, however, it is the concrete and practical
we have to grapple with, my friend. You say you are going inland to
search for that man, and for a while I go that way, but though I have my
base camp there is the question of provisions if you come with me."
They discussed the matter until Wyllard suggested that he could replace
any provisions his companion supplied him with from the schooner, to
which Overweg agreed, and they afterwards decided to send the Siwash and
one of the Kamtchadales on to the inlet with a letter to Dampier. The
two messengers started next day, when they found a place where the river
was with difficulty fordable, and the rest pushed on slowly into a
broken and rising country seamed with belts of thin forest here and
there. They held westwards for another week, and then one evening made
their camp among a few stunted, straggling firs. The temperature had
risen in the daytime, but the nights were cold, and when they had eaten
their evening meal they were glad of the shelter of the tent. A small
fire of resinous branches was sinking into a faintly glowing mass close
outside the canvas.
The flap was drawn back, and Wyllard, who lay facing the opening, could
see a triangular patch of dim blue sky with a sharp sickle moon hanging
low above a black fir branch. The night was clear and still, but now and
then among the stunted trees there was a faint elfin sighing that
quickly died away again. While still determined, Wyllard was moodily
discouraged, for they had seen no sign of human life during the journey,
and his reason told him that he might search for years before he found
the bones of the last survivor of the party. Still, he meant to search
while Overweg was willing to supply him with provisions.
By and by he saw Charly sharply raise his head and gaze towards the
opening.
"Did you hear anything outside?" asked Charly.
"It must be the Kamtchadales," Wyllard answered.
"They went back a mile or two to lay some traps."
"Then," said Wyllard, decisively, "it couldn't have been anything."
Charly did not appear satisfied, and it seemed to Wyllard that Overweg
was also listening, but there was deep stillness outside now, and he
dismissed the matter from his mind. A few minutes later, however, it
seemed to him that a shadowy form appeared out of the gloom among the
firs and faded into it again. This struck him as very curious, since if
it had been one of the Kamtchadales he would have walked straight into
camp, but he said nothing to his companions, and there was silence for a
while until Charly rose softly to his feet.
"Get out as quietly as you can," he said, as he slipped by Wyllard, who
crept after him to the entrance.
When he reached it Wyllard's voice rang out with a startling vehemence.
"Stop right now," he cried, and after a pause, "Nobody's going to hurt
you. Walk right ahead."
Wyllard felt his heart beat furiously, for a dusky, half-seen figure
materialized out of the gloom, and grew into sharper form as it drew
nearer to the sinking fire. The thing was wholly unexpected, almost
incredible, but it was clear that the man could understand English, and
his face was white. In another moment Wyllard's last doubt vanished, and
he sprang forward with a gasp.
"Lewson--Tom Lewson!" he cried.
Charly thrust the man inside the tent, and when somebody lighted a lamp
Lewson sat down stupidly and looked at them. His face was gaunt and
almost blackened by exposure to the frost, his hair was long, and
tattered garments of greasy skins hung about him. There was something
that suggested bewildered incredulity in his eyes.
"It's real?" he said, slowly and haltingly. "You have come at last?"
They assured him that this was the case. For a moment or two the man's
face was distorted with a strange look and he made a hoarse sound in his
throat.
"Lord," he muttered! "if I'm dreaming I don't want to wake."
Charly leaned forward and smote him on the shoulder.
"Shall I hit you like I did that afternoon in the Thompson House on the
Vancouver water front?" he asked.
Then the certainty of the thing seemed to dawn upon the man, for he
quivered, and his eyes half closed. After that he straightened himself
with an effort.
"I should have known, and I think I did," he said, turning to Wyllard.
"Something seemed to tell me that you would come for us when you could."
Wyllard's face flushed, but he made no answer, and it was Charly who
asked the next question:
"The others are dead?"
Lewson made an expressive gesture. "Hopkins was drowned in a crevice of
the ice. I buried Leslie back yonder."
He broke off abruptly, as though speech cost him an effort, and Wyllard
turned to Overweg.
"This is the last of the men I was looking for," he announced.
Overweg quietly nodded. "Then you have my felicitations--but it might be
advisable if you did not tell me too much," he remarked. "Afterwards I
may be questioned by those in authority."