THE OCCULT MAN
After breakfast the next morning, Blake and Harding sat on the veranda
talking to the farmer. When they mentioned their first objective
point, and asked if he could give them any directions for reaching it,
he looked thoughtful.
"I only know that it's remarkably rough country; thick pine bush on
rolling ground, with some bad muskegs and small lakes," he said. "You
would find things easier if you could hire an Indian or two, and a
canoe when you strike the river. The boys here seldom go up so far;
but Clarke could help you if he liked. He knows that country like a
book, and he knows the Indians."
"We're willing to pay him for any useful help," Harding said.
"Be careful," cautioned the farmer. "If you're on a prospecting trip,
keep your secret close. There's another bit of advice I might give."
He turned to Blake. "If you're a friend of Benson's, take him along
with you."
"I suppose I am, in a way, though it's a long time since I met him.
But why do you suggest our taking him?"
"I hate to see a man go to pieces as Benson's doing. Clarke's ruining
the fellow. He must have got two or three thousand dollars out of him,
one way or another, and isn't satisfied with that. Lent him money on
mortgage to start a foolish stock-raising speculation, and keeps him
well supplied with drink. The fellow's weak, but he has his good
points."
"But what's Clarke's object?"
"It isn't very clear. But a man who's seldom sober is easily robbed,
and Benson's place is worth something; Clarke sees it's properly
farmed. However, you must use your judgment about anything he tells
you; I've given you warning."
The farmer rose as he spoke, and when he had left them, Blake sat
silent for a while. Though he and Benson had never been intimate
friends, it did not seem fitting to leave him in the clutches of a man
who was ruining him in health and fortune. He would rather not have
met the man at all; but, since they had met, there seemed to be only
one thing to be done.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to
Harding.
The American looked doubtful.
"We could do with another white man; but I guess your friend isn't the
kind we want. He may give us trouble; and you can't count on much help
from a whisky-tank. However, if you wish it, you can bring him."
Soon afterward Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or
three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked
shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a
deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.
"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made
any unfortunate allusions, you must overlook them. You must have seen
that I wasn't altogether responsible."
"I did," Blake answered curtly. "If we are to remain friends, you'd
better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the
matter you talked about."
"Sorry," responded Benson, giving him a keen glance. "Though I don't
think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."
"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a
suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to
the northern bush."
"Thanks," said Benson, shaking hands with Harding. "I wonder what use
you think I would be?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any
use or not. The trip will brace you up, and you look as if you needed
it."
Benson's face grew red.
"Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous and respectable people
sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which degenerates like
myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come too late."
"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being
respectable," Blake answered with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to
come with us."
Tilting back his chair, Benson looked heavily about.
"When I was new to the country, I often wished to go North," he said.
"There are caribou and moose up yonder; great sights when the rivers
break up in the spring; and a sled trip across the snow must be a thing
to remember! The wilds draw me--but I'm afraid my nerve's not good
enough. A man must be fit in every way to cross the timber belt."
"Why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the life
and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"
"You hit hard, but I deserve it, and I'll try to explain."
Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness.
Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one
side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the
slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity; but two
or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room"
painted on its dirty windows. All round, the rolling prairie stretched
back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and gray. The prospect was
dreary and depressing.
"This place," Benson said grimly, "hasn't much to offer one in the way
of relaxation; and, for a man used to something different, life at a
lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's
apt to go to bits."
"Then, why don't you quit?" Harding asked.
"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't
the means to follow is not of much use at home; and all my money is
sunk in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned
to Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster for which I
wasn't responsible stopped my allowance, and I was in debt.
Eventually, about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck; and
I came here with that, feeling badly hipped. Perhaps that was one
reason why I took to whisky; and Clarke, who engaged to teach me
farming, saw that I got plenty of it. Now he has his hands on all
that's mine; but he keeps me fairly supplied with cash, and it saves
trouble to leave things to him."
When Benson stopped, Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew
that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who
undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He
must have unflinching courage and stubbornness, and be able to dispense
with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests
are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year
he must toil unremittingly from dawn till dark, and depend upon his own
resources through the long, bitter winter. For society, he may have a
hired hand, and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement,
which is often a day's ride away; and they are not, as a rule, men of
culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body, it is
nevertheless a healthful life; but Benson was not of sufficiently tough
fiber.
"Now, see here," said Harding. "I'm out for money, and this is a
business trip; but Blake wants to take you, and I'm agreeable. If you
can stand for two or three months' hard work in the open, and very
plain living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get
back. Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like
myself how you stand, if you'd rather not, I know something of business
and might see a way out of your difficulties."
Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his
troubles as a text for improving remarks, for he fully appreciated his
failings. What he desired was a means for escaping their consequences;
and the American seemed to offer it. He began an explanation and, with
the help of a few leading questions, made his financial position fairly
clear.
"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you;
but I guess it's possible to shake him on. As things stand, however,
it seems to me he has something to gain by your death."
"He couldn't count on that--to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so
far; but there's some truth in what you say."
Benson looked disturbed and irresolute, but after a few moments he
abruptly threw his cigar away and leaned forward with a decided air.
"If you'll have me, I'll go with you."
"You're wise," Harding said quietly.
Shortly afterward Benson left them, and Harding turned to Blake.
"Now you had better go along and see if you can learn anything from
Clarke about our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't
make him useful. If he can help us, pay him. But be careful what you
say. Remember that he was watching you at the hotel in Montreal, and
I've a suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs
when Benson talked last night."
Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a
well-kept, prosperous look. He found its owner in a small room
furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western
Provinces hung on one wall; and Clarke was seated at a handsome
American desk. He wore old overalls, and the soil on his boots
suggested that he had been engaged in fall plowing.
As Blake entered, Clarke looked up and the light fell on his face. It
was deeply lined and of a curious dead color, but, while, it bore a
sensual stamp and something in it hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake
felt, the face of a clever and determined man.
"Ah!" said Clarke. "You have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you.
Have a cigar."
Blake took one and explained his errand. Clarke seemed to consider;
then he took out a small hand-drawn map and passed it to his visitor.
"I won't ask why you are going north, as I dare say it's a secret.
However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it to you, this will
show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared one end of the
desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of the country."
It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it
carefully.
"I'll give you a few directions," Clarke went on, "and you had better
take them down. You'll want a canoe and one or two Indians. I can
enable you to get them, but I think the service is worth fifty dollars."
"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously.
"It's possible that we might not find the Indians; and we might leave
the water and strike overland."
"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions
before you go. But there's another matter I want to talk about." He
fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner?"
"I am; but I can't see what connection this has----"
Clarke stopped him.
"It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were a lieutenant of
engineers and served in India, where you left the army."
"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."
"So I imagined," Clarke said dryly. "Still, I'd like to say that there
is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You have
my sympathy."
"Thank you. I must remind you, however, that I have given you no
grounds for offering it."
"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"
"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know
about the matter--or how it concerns you."
"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you
were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."
Blake's face set sternly.
"It's hard to understand how you arrived at that flattering conclusion."
"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke
replied, watching him keenly. "One would imagine that the most
important matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and
were sent here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with
your lot? Haven't you the courage to insist on being reinstated?"
"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.
"It would be at the expense of----"
Blake stopped him with a gesture. He would have left the house only
that he was curious to learn where Clarke's suggestions led, and how
much he knew.
There was a moment's silence, and then Clarke went on:
"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a
choice of careers in England; and there's another point to be
considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the
question now."
"It will no doubt remain so," Blake replied, with the color creeping
into his set face.
"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may
be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and
added significantly: "In fact, I could show you a way in which the
matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to
anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your
confidence."
Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith
in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials; but
he had no intention of changing it. This was an old resolve, but it
was disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to
meddle with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the
possibility of putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake
shrank from the suggestion; it was not to be thought of.
"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It
must be dropped."
Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humoredly, after a
keen glance at him.
"As you wish. However, that needn't prevent my giving you the
directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty
dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are
you taking him?"
Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed; but he
admitted that Benson was going.
"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," Clarke said in a
tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I
tell you."
Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was
told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, a curious smile came
over Clarke's face. Blake had firmly declined to be influenced by his
hints; but Clarke had half expected that, and he had learned enough
about the young man's character to clear the ground for a plan that had
formed and grown in his clever mind.