THE MUSKEG
A fortnight later the party entered a hollow between two low ranges.
The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more
difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered
with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and
lay in tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the
hollow and the men had often to cross it; and as they plodded through
the morass they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still, Clarke's
directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they
stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.
They were wet to the waist, and their temper began to give way under
the strain. When they lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at
nights, Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed by a touch of
malarial fever. He had suffered from it in India, and now it had
attacked him again, in his weakened condition due to the hardships of
the march. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake
shivering for hours. Saying nothing to his companions, however, he
patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of
a depressing weakness.
The ground grew softer as they proceeded. The creek no longer kept
within its banks, but spread in shallow pools; and the rotting trees
were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The valley had turned into
very wet muskeg. It was shut in by hills whose rocky sides were seamed
by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through
which it was almost impossible to force a passage.
After making several attempts to get out of the valley, the men plodded
on through the muskeg, tramping down the wiry grass, often stumbling
over a partly submerged tree-trunk.
Then one day Blake felt his head reel. He staggered, and dropped down
heavily.
"Sorry!" he mumbled. "Malaria!"
His companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed; his eyes
glittered; and he lay limply among the grass. He looked seriously ill.
Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely
pulled himself together.
"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on
yonder hummock, and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can
stand up and lean on us, we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few
minutes."
Blake did not move. Instead, he lay gazing up at them and mumbling to
himself. With much trouble, they got him to a small, stony knoll,
where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds
for him to lie on. Then he spoke, in a faint and listless voice.
"Thanks! I think I'll go to sleep. I'll feel better to-morrow."
He fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and
muttered now and then. It was a heavy, gray afternoon, with a cold
wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers
felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they
were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet
muskegs, which they could not cross with a sick companion, shut them
off from all help. Their provisions were not plentiful; and the
rigorous winter would soon set in.
They scarcely spoke to each other as the afternoon wore away. When
supper time came, Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little
food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank again into a restless
sleep. His companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night
closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had
had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump
of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and
rustled drearily, and even the splash of the ripples on a neighboring
pool was depressing. As in turn they kept watch in the darkness their
hearts sank.
The next morning Blake was obviously worse. He insisted irritably that
he would be all right again in a day or two, but the others felt
dubious.
"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said.
"You needn't look so glum."
"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a
forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the
last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man------"
"You overdo the thing," Blake interrupted crossly; "and the way Benson
grins at your thread-bare jokes would worry me if I were well! Do you
suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on
his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely
common malaria! I've had it several times; but it doesn't bother you
when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram--very good fellow,
Bertram; so's his father. If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him
look out for me!"
He paused a moment, looking around him dazedly.
"Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my
head and back; but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my
feet again."
Lying down, he turned away from them, and during the next few hours he
dozed intermittently.
Late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty
blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's
clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that
he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had
finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him
best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighborhood. His
tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not
far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said,
quarrelsome people.
Harding looked interested.
"Ask the fellow where the village is!"
When Benson had interpreted the Indian's answer, Harding lighted his
pipe and thought keenly for a long time. Rain had begun to fall, and
though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off
the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight,
the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place for a
fever patient; and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade
into the adventure, and he felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a
strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill, and
something must be done to save him; but for a while Harding could not
see how help could be obtained. Then an idea crept into his mind, and
he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the
locality. When they were answered, he began to see his way; but he
waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.
It was getting dark and raining hard. Blake was asleep; the Indian
sitting silent; and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering
light against the surrounding gloom.
"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding began.
"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him; though I can't
blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.
"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that Clarke's
account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what
the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality farther
west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he
didn't want us to reach the place."
"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."
"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must admit it's curious that
when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills
and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we
could have got north with much less trouble had we headed farther west."
"That has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.
"Well, I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has
lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase
in value as the settlement grows--and sooner or later they are bound to
bring in a railroad. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think
there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two, if
you keep steady and work hard; but while you were in his clutches that
looked very far from probable."
"You might have put it more plainly--I was drinking myself to death."
Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that that is what the fellow
wished?"
"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if
you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his
statements, he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."
Benson started.
"I believe he would stick at nothing! But I'm only one of the party;
what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"
"That," said Harding evasively, "is not so clear."
He glanced at his companion searchingly, and seeing that he suspected
nothing, he decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have
overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse
after his return to the settlement, and betray the secret in his cups.
Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal
character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history,
and had seen a chance for extorting money from Colonel Challoner.
Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the
pretext of wishing to ascertain whether the latter were willing to seek
redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter
of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined
to thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake
out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at Clarke's
mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified.
Harding meant, however, to make a determined effort to save his comrade.
"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.
"It's this--I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these
muskegs, where we'd have no chance for renewing our provisions, and he
misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach.
Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble; now he has to help
us out. The fellow is a doctor."
Benson looked up eagerly.
"You're going to bring him here? It's a daring plan, because it will
be difficult to make him come."
"He'll come it he values his life," Harding said resolutely. "The
Indian will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I
offer him enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies.
I'll have to drop in upon the doctor late at night, when none of his
Indian friends are about."
"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."
"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his
partner."
"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested. "You know how I'm indebted to
Blake."
"It's your place," Harding insisted. "Try to arrange the thing with
the Indian."
It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that
he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone, because of some
quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson
gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to
accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.
"All right; that's settled. We start at daybreak," said Harding.
"I'll lie down now; it's your watch."
Five minutes later he was sound asleep, and awoke, quietly determined
and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the
cities, bred to civilized life, but he had a just appreciation of the
risks attached to his undertaking. He meant to abduct the doctor, who
himself was dangerous to meddle with, from an Indian village where he
apparently was held in great esteem. The Stonies, living far remote,
had escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit from the
patrols of the North-West Police; they knew nothing of law and order.
Moreover, there was a possibility that Clarke might prove too clever
for his abductor.
It was certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but Harding
believed that his comrade would perish unless help could be obtained.
He shook hands with Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and
then, with the Indian leading, struck out through the muskeg toward the
shadowy hills.