THE FROZEN NORTH
A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was arctic when
Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he
walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which
included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It
was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western
sky, and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the
glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white
expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke that the
place looked very dreary.
He walked on, with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on
his furs. On reaching the homestead, he went first to the
stable--built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawed
lumber--and, lighting a lantern, fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales
and lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a
successful farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals
and implements led to economy; though it was said that he seldom paid
the full market price for them. He had walked home because it was
impossible to keep warm driving; and he now felt tired and morose. The
man had passed his prime and was beginning to find the labor he had
never shirked more irksome than it had been. He dispensed with a hired
hand in winter, when there was less to be done, for Clarke neglected no
opportunity to save a dollar.
When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house,
which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London, where
he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty
dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting
supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled
up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a
cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone. Walls and
floor were uncovered and were roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber;
the stove was rusty, and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black
distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several
well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs,
Clarke lighted his pipe and, drawing his seat as near the stove as
possible, opened the English newspaper, which contained some news that
interested him. A short paragraph stated that Captain Bertram
Challoner, then stationed at Delhi, had received an appointment which
would shortly necessitate his return from India. This, Clarke
imagined, might be turned to good account; but the matter demanded
thought, and for a long time he sat motionless, deeply pondering. His
farming had prospered, though the bare and laborious life had tried him
hard; and he had made some money by more questionable means, lending to
unfortunate neighbors at extortionate interest and foreclosing on their
possessions. No defaulter got any mercy at his hands, and shrewd
sellers of seed and implements took precautions when they dealt with
him.
His money, however, would not last him long if he returned to England
and attempted to regain a footing in his profession, and he had
daringly schemed to increase it. Glancing across the room, his eyes
rested with a curious smile on one of the bookcases. It contained
works on hypnotism, telepathy, and psychological speculations in
general; he had studied some of them with ironical amusement and others
with a quickening of his interest. Amid much that he thought of as
sterile chaff he saw germs of truth; and once or twice he had been led
to the brink of a startling discovery. There the elusive clue had
failed him, though he felt that strange secrets might be revealed some
day.
After all, the books had served his purpose, as well as kept him from
brooding when he sat alone at nights while the icy wind howled round
his dwelling. He passed for a sage and something of a prophet with the
primitive Dubokars; his Indian friends regarded him as medicine-man;
and both unknowingly had made easier his search for the petroleum.
Then, contrary to his expectations he had found speculators in London
willing to venture a few hundred pounds on his scheme; but the amount
was insufficient and the terms were exacting. It would pay him better
to get rid of his associates. He was growing old; it would be too late
to return to his former life unless he could do so soon; but he must
make a fair start with ample means. The man had no scruples and no
illusions; money well employed would buy him standing and friends.
People were charitable to a man who had something to offer them; and
the blot on his name must be nearly forgotten.
First of all, however, the richest spot of the oil field must be found,
and money enough raised to place him in a strong position when the
venture was put on the market. He had failed to extort any from
Challoner; but he might be more successful with his son. The man who
was weak enough to allow his cousin to suffer for his fault would no
doubt yield to judicious pressure. It was fortunate that Bertram
Challoner was coming to England, where he could more easily be reached.
This led Clarke to think of Blake, for he realized that Challoner was
right in pointing out that the man was his greatest difficulty. If
Blake maintained that the fault was his, nothing could be done; it was
therefore desirable that he should be kept out of the way. There was
another person to whom the same applied. Clarke had preyed on Benson's
weakness; but if the fellow had overcome it and should return to farm
industriously, his exploitation would no longer be possible. On the
other hand, if he failed to pay off his debts, Clarke saw how he could
with much advantage seize his possessions. Thus both Blake and Benson
were obstacles; and now that they had ventured into the icy North it
would be better if they did not reappear.
Clarke refilled his pipe, and his face wore a sinister look as he took
down a rather sketchy map of the wilds beyond the prairie belt. After
studying it keenly, he sank into an attitude of concentrated thought.
The stove crackled, its pipe glowing red; driving snow lashed the
shiplap walls; and the wind moaned drearily about the house. Its
occupant, however, was oblivious to his surroundings. He sat very
still in his chair, with pouches under his fixed eyes and his lips set
tight. He looked malignant and dangerous. Perhaps his mental attitude
was not quite normal; for close study and severe physical toil, coupled
with free indulgence, had weakened him; there were drugs to which he
was addicted; and he had long been possessed by one fixed idea. By
degrees it had become a mania; and he would stick at nothing that might
help him to carry out his purpose.
When at last he got up, with a shiver, to throw wood into the stove, he
thought he saw how his object could be secured.
A month before Clarke spent the evening thinking about them, Blake and
his comrades camped at sunset in a belt of small spruces near the edge
of the open waste that runs back to the Polar Sea. They were worn and
hungry, for the shortage of provisions had been a constant trouble, and
such supplies as they obtained from Indians, who seldom had much to
spare, soon ran out. Once or twice they had feasted royally after
shooting a big bull moose, but the frozen meat they were able to carry
did not last long, and again they were threatened with starvation.
It was a calm evening, with a coppery sunset flaring across the snow,
but intensely cold; and though the men had wood enough and sat close
beside a fire, with their ragged blankets wrapped round them, they
could not keep warm. Harding and Benson were openly dejected, but
Blake had somehow preserved his cheerful serenity. As usual after
finishing their scanty supper, they began to talk, for during the day
conversation was limited by the toil of the march.
"No good," Harding said, taking a few bits of resin out of a bag.
"It's common fir gum, such as I could gather a carload of in the
forests of Michigan. Guess there's something wrong with my theory
about the effects of extreme cold." He took a larger lump from a neat
leather case. "This is the genuine article, and it's certainly the
product of a coniferous tree. The fellow I got it from said it was
found in the coldest parts of North America. Seems to me we have tried
all the varieties of the firs, but we're as far from finding what we
want as when we started."
"Hard luck!" Benson remarked gloomily.
Harding broke off a fragment and lighted it.
"Notice the smell. It's characteristic."
"The fellow may have been right on one point," said Blake. "When I was
in India I once got some incense which was brought down in small
quantities from the Himalayas, and, I understood, came from near the
snow-line. The smell was the same; one doesn't forget a curious scent."
"That's so. Talking about it reminds me that I was puzzled by a smell
I thought I ought to know when I brought Clarke out of the tepee. I
know now what it was; and the thing's significant. It was gasoline."
"They extract it from crude petroleum, don't they?"
"Yes; it's called petrol on your side. Clarke's out for coal-oil; and
I guess he's struck it."
"Then he's lucky; but his good fortune doesn't concern us, and we have
other things to think about. What are you going to do, now that we
don't seem able to find the gum?"
"It's a difficult question," Harding answered in a troubled voice.
"I'd hate to go back, with nothing accomplished and all my money spent.
Marianna's paying for this journey in many ways, and I haven't the grit
to tell her we're poorer than when I left. She wouldn't complain; but
when you have to live on a small commission that's hard to make, it's
the woman who meets the bill."
Blake made a sign of sympathy. He had never shared Harding's
confidence in the success of his search, and had joined in it from love
of adventure and a warm liking for his comrade.
"Well," he said, "I have no means except a small allowance which is so
tied up that it's difficult to borrow anything on it; but it's at your
disposal, as far as it goes. Suppose we keep on with our prospecting."
"If Clarke's mortgage doesn't stop me, I might raise a few dollars on
my farm," Benson volunteered. "I'll throw it in, with pleasure,
because I'm pretty deep in your debt."
"Thanks," Harding responded. "I'm sorry I can't agree; but I wouldn't
take your offer when you first made it, and I can't do so now that my
plan's a failure. Anyway, we're doing some useless talking, because I
don't see how we're to go on prospecting, or get south again, when we
have only three or four days' food in hand."
He stated an unpleasant truth which the others had characteristically
shirked, for Blake was often careless, and Benson had taken the risks
of the journey with frank indifference. After nearly starving once or
twice, they had succeeded in getting fresh supplies; but now their
hearts sank: as they thought of the expanse of frozen wilderness that
lay between them and the settlements.
"Well," said Blake, "there's a Hudson Bay factory somewhere to the east
of us. I can't tell how far off it is, though it must be a long way,
but if we could reach it, the agent might take us in."
"How are you going to find the place?"
"I don't know; but a Hudson Bay post is generally fixed where there are
furs to be got. There will no doubt be Indians trapping in the
neighborhood, and we must take our chances of hitting their tracks."
"But we can't make a long march without food," Benson objected.
"The trouble is that we can't stay here without it," Blake pointed out
with a short laugh.
This was undeniable, and neither of his companions answered. They were
unkempt, worn out, and ragged; and in the past week they had traveled a
long way through fresh snow on short rations. Ahead of them lay a vast
and almost untrodden desolation; behind them a rugged wilderness which
there seemed no probability of their being able to cross. Lured by the
hope of finding what they sought, they had pushed on from point to
point; and now it was too late to return.
Presently Blake got up.
"Our best chance is to kill a caribou, and this is the kind of country
they generally haunt. The sooner we look for one, the better; so I may
as well start at once. There'll be a moon to-night."
He threw off his blanket and, picking up a Marlin rifle, which was
their only weapon, strode out of camp; and as he was a good shot and
tracker they let him go. It was getting dark when he left the shelter
of the trees, and the cold in the open struck through him like a knife.
The moon had not yet risen and the waste stretched away before him, its
whiteness changed to a soft blue-gray. In the distance scattered
bluffs rose in long dark smears; but there was nothing to indicate
which way Blake should turn, and he had no reason to believe there was
a caribou near the camp. As a matter of fact, they had found the
larger deer remarkably scarce.
Blake was tired, after breaking the trail since sunrise, and the snow
was loose beneath his big net shoes, but he plodded toward the farthest
bluff, feeling that he was largely to blame for the party's
difficulties. Knowing something of the country, he should have
insisted on turning back when he found they could obtain no dog teams
to transport their supplies. Occasionally Hudson Bay agents and
patrols of the North-West Police made long journeys in arctic weather;
but they were provided with proper sleds and sufficient preserved food.
Indeed, Blake was astonished that he and his comrades had got so far.
He had given way to Harding, who hardly knew the risks he ran, and now
he supposed that he must take the consequences. This did not daunt him
badly. After all, life had not much to offer an outcast; he had
managed to extract some amusement from it, but he had nothing to look
forward to. There was no prospect of his making money--his talents
were not commercial--and the hardships he could bear now would press on
him more heavily as he grew older.
These considerations, however, were too philosophical for him to dwell
on. He was essentially a man of action, and was feeling unpleasantly
hungry, and he quickened his pace, knowing that the chance of his
getting a shot at a caribou in the open was small.
The moon had not risen when he reached the bluff, but the snow
reflected a faint light and he noticed a row of small depressions on
its surface. Kneeling down, he examined them, but there had been wind
during the day and the marks were blurred. He felt for a match, but
his fingers were too numbed to open the watertight case, and he
proceeded to measure the distance between the footprints. This was an
unreliable test, as a big deer's stride varies with its pace, but he
thought the tracks indicated a caribou. Then he stopped, without
rising, and looked about.
Near in front the trees rose in a shadowy wall against the clear blue
sky; there was no wind, and it was oppressively still; the darkness of
the woods was impenetrable and its silence daunting. The row of tracks
was the only sign of life Blake had seen for days.
While he listened, a faint howl came out of the distance, and was
followed by another. After the deep silence, the sound was startling.
Blake recognized the cry of the timber wolves, and knew his danger.
The big gray brutes would make short work of a lonely man. His flesh
crept as he wondered whether, they were on his trail. On the whole, it
did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him. Rising to his
feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he set off at his
highest speed.
The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath
got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound
behind him; but that somehow increased his uneasiness, and now and then
he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-gray
shadow; and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with
that the wolves were capable of making. At last, with keen
satisfaction, he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of
a bluff ahead, and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into
camp.
"You haven't stayed out long," Benson observed. "I suppose you saw
nothing?"
"I heard wolves," Blake answered dryly. "You had better gather wood
enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up
my trail. However, it's a promising sign."
"I guess we could do without it," Hording broke in. "I've no use for
wolves."
"They must live on something," Blake said. "Since they're here, there
are probably moose or caribou in the neighborhood. I'll have another
try to-morrow."
"But the wolves!"
"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyway, it seems to me we must take
some risks."
This was obvious; and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood,
Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.