KIDNAPPED
Harding had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony
village. The light was faint, and the low ground streaked with haze,
as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots
and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill
bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upward over
banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they
trod on them. It was worse where the stones were large and they
stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short
pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and
afterward got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's
clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was
labored, and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upward,
without slackening his pace, for he knew there was no time to be lost.
It was exhausting toil, and trying to the man who, until he entered
that grim country, had undergone no physical training and had seldom
tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually
early age had prevented his even playing outdoor games. His career had
been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was
thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was
not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and a comrade. There
was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and
their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a
big thing; but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He
was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was
necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as
possible. Therefore, he braced himself for the arduous task.
In the afternoon they reached a tableland where traveling was slightly
easier; but when they camped without a fire among the rocks, one of
Harding's feet was bleeding, and he was very weary. Walking was
painful for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but after
walking a while his galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly
followed the Indian up and down deep ravines and over rough stony
slopes. Then they reached stunted timber: thickly massed, tangled
pines, with many dead trees among them, a number which had fallen,
barring the way. The Indian seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his
muscles having been toughened into something different from ordinary
flesh and blood. He was feeling great distress; but for the present
there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to march. He saw
it clearly with his shrewd sense; and though his worn-out body
revolted, his resolution did not flinch.
They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks,
passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the
afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted
them as they crossed the height of land. Harding's side ached, and his
feet were bleeding, but the march went on. Just before dark there
opened up before them a wide valley, fading into the blue distance,
with water shining in its midst and gray blurs of willows here and
there. However, it faded swiftly, and Harding found himself limping
across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting mist. Half an hour
afterward he threw himself down, exhausted, beside a fire in a
sheltered hollow.
Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on
the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched up to it,
with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and the
blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapor. The
night was dark but still, and Harding knew that a sound would carry
some distance. He felt his heart beat tensely, but there was nothing
to be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther
south and he was afraid now of hearing a warning bark; but nothing
broke the silence, and he concluded that Clarke's friends were unable
to find food enough for sled-teams. This was reassuring, because the
odds against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the
Indian's sense of hearing is remarkably keen.
Making certain that his magazine pistol was loose, he motioned to his
guide and they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately
clear, and their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts
of dry grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him
alarming distinctness. Still, nobody challenged them, and creeping up
to the center of the village they stopped again. The nearest of the
tepees was only thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into
the mist. As Harding stood listening, with tingling nerves, he clearly
recognized the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there
was nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied; and it was highly
undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an
Indian from his slumbers. Then, it was possible that the man shared a
tepee with one of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself
at the Indian's mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and
his Stony friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous
habits. Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still,
and he could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude.
Fortune favored them, for as Harding made toward a tepee, without any
particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart
from the others, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the
curtain. This suggested that it was occupied by the white man; and it
was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough
to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept
forward, with his heart beating painfully, and stopped a moment just
outside the entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but
he could not tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, creeping
silently up behind him, dragged the doorway open. Harding jumped
quickly through the entrance, and stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung
up, blinking in the unaccustomed light.
The tent had an earth floor, with a layer of reeds and grass thrown
down on one side. It was frail, and hinted at changing times and
poverty, for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with
the products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour-bags and old
sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of
sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that
it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a
common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles,
which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded
him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not
recognize it.
As Harding entered, Clarke looked up from where he was bending over the
case. It was, Harding thought, a good test of his nerve; but his face
was imperturbable and he showed no surprise. There was silence for a
moment, while the Indian stood motionless, with his ax shining as it
caught the light, and Harding's lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke
spoke.
"So you have turned back! You found the muskeg too difficult to cross?
I suppose this fellow showed you the way here."
Harding felt worn out; he crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and
sat down facing Clarke.
"We have come for you," he announced abruptly; "and we must start at
once. My partner is very sick--fever--and you'll have to cure him."
Clarke laughed, without mirth.
"You're presuming on my consent."
"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't
be wise of you to refuse."
"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends,
and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better
understand that nobody troubles about what goes on up here--and I
believe I'm a person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide.
"I don't know what this fellow's doing in this neighborhood, but he
belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I
think you have been somewhat rash."
"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken a lot of
chances in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let
that go. The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he
gets proper treatment--and gets it mighty soon."
Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile.
"It's a matter of indifference to me whether Blakes dies or not."
"Oh, no!" said Harding. "On the whole, you would rather he did die.
He's in the way."
He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though
Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.
"If you're right, it seems strange that you should urge me to prescribe
for him."
"There are precautions I mean to take," Harding informed him dryly.
"However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you
sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't possibly
get through. You expected us to be held up there until our provisions
ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would no doubt have moved
on. Well, part of what you wished has happened; but the matter is
taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us into
difficulties--and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay means
danger. Get ready to start."
The Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the tepee
with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke, turning
his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked at
Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight.
His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than
alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude
of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke
broke into a faint smile.
"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with
similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he
should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you
were in some danger--and the danger isn't over."
Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy minded man
of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as
the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.
"Understand this!" he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I've
staked my life on doing so. But I've said enough. You're coming with
me--now--and if you make any attempt to rouse your friends, you'll have
a chance to learn something about the other world at first hand a few
seconds afterward."
Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he
said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a
pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.
"I'm ready."
The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm, and Harding took out his pistol
and extinguished the lamp.
"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly
reminded Clarke.
He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards' distance. He
could see the dark gap of the doorway, and had a nervous fancy that
eyes were following his movements; for now that he had succeeded in the
more difficult part of his errand, he was conscious of strain. Indeed,
he feared that he might grow limp with the reaction; and the danger was
not yet over. Unless they reached camp in the next few days, he
thought Blake would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one.
Still, he was determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who
had betrayed them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law
and social conventions; but now, under heavy stress, he had suddenly
become primitive.
They approached the only remaining tepee. The tension on Harding's
nerves grew severe. As the Indian, holding tightly to their prisoner's
arm, picked his way noiselessly past the open flap, Clarke made a queer
noise--half cough, half sneeze--very low, but loud enough to be heard
by any one in the tent. Like a flash, Harding threw up his pistol,
ready for use. As he did so, his foot tripped on a broken bottle lying
in front of the dark entrance. The pistol did not go off, but Harding,
trying wildly to regain his balance, fell with a crash against the
tepee.