THE STRESS OF THE TRAIL
Roaring Bill dumped his second pack on the summit of the Klappan, and
looked away to where the valley that opened out of the basin showed its
blurred hollow in the distance. But he uttered no useless regrets.
With horses they could have ridden south through a rolling country,
where every stretch of timber gave on a grass-grown level. Instead
they were forced back over the rugged route by which they had crossed
the range the summer before. Grub, bedding, furs, and gold totaled two
hundred pounds. On his sturdy shoulders Bill could pack half that
weight. For his wife the thing was a physical impossibility, even had
he permitted her to try. Hence every mile advanced meant that he
doubled the distance, relaying from one camp to the next. They cut
their bedding to a blanket apiece, and that was Hazel's load--all he
would allow her to carry.
"You're no pack mule, little person," he would say. "It don't hurt me.
I've done this for years."
But even with abnormal strength and endurance, it was killing work to
buck those ragged slopes with a heavy load. Only by terrible,
unremitting effort could he advance any appreciable distance. From
daybreak till noon they would climb and rest alternately. Then, after
a meal and a short breathing spell, he would go back alone after the
second load. They were footsore, and their bodies ached with weariness
that verged on pain when they gained the pass that cut the summit of
the Klappan Range.
"Well, we're over the hump," Bill remarked thankfully. "It's a
downhill shoot to the Skeena. I don't think it's more than fifty or
sixty miles to where we can take to the water."
They made better time on the western slope, but the journey became a
matter of sheer endurance. Summer was on them in full blaze. The
creeks ran full and strong. Thunderstorms blew up out of a clear sky
to deluge them. Food was scanty--flour and salt and tea; with meat and
fish got by the way. And the black flies and mosquitoes swarmed about
them maddeningly day and night.
So they came at last to the Skeena, and Hazel's heart misgave her when
she took note of its swirling reaches, the sinuous eddies--a deep,
swift, treacherous stream. But Bill rested overnight, and in the
morning sought and felled a sizable cedar, and began to hew. Slowly
the thick trunk shaped itself to the form of a boat under the steady
swing of his ax. Hazel had seen the type in use among the coast
Siwashes, twenty-five feet in length, narrow-beamed, the sides cut to a
half inch in thickness, the bottom left heavier to withstand scraping
over rock, and to keep it on an even keel. A rude and tricky craft,
but one wholly efficient in capable hands.
In a week it was finished. They loaded the sack of gold, the bundle of
furs, their meager camp outfit amidships, and swung off into the stream.
The Skeena drops fifteen hundred feet in a hundred miles. Wherefore
there are rapids, boiling stretches of white water in which many a good
canoe has come to grief. Some of these they ran at imminent peril.
Over the worst they lined the canoe from the bank. One or two short
cañons they portaged, dragging the heavy dugout through the brush by
main strength. Once they came to a wall-sided gorge that ran away
beyond any attempt at portage, and they abandoned the dugout, to build
another at the lower end. But between these natural barriers they
clicked off the miles in hot haste, such was the swiftness of the
current. And in the second week of July they brought up at the head of
Kispiox Cañon. Hazleton lay a few miles below. But the Kispiox stayed
them, a sluice box cut through solid stone, in which the waters raged
with a deafening roar. No man ventured into that wild gorge. They
abandoned the dugout. Bill slung the sack of gold and the bale of furs
on his back.
"It's the last lap, Hazel," said he. "We'll leave the rest of it for
the first Siwash that happens along."
So they set out bravely to trudge the remaining distance. And as the
fortunes of the trail sometimes befall, they raised an Indian camp on
the bank of the river at the mouth of the cañon. A ten-dollar bill
made them possessors of another canoe, and an hour later the roofs of
Hazleton cropped up above the bank.
"Oh, Bill," Hazel called from the bow. "Look! There's the same old
steamer tied to the same old bank. We've been gone a year, and yet the
world hasn't changed a mite. I wonder if Hazleton has taken a Rip van
Winkle sleep all this time?"
"No fear," he smiled. "I can see some new houses--quite a few, in
fact. And look--by Jiminy! They're working on the grade. That
railroad, remember? See all those teams? Maybe I ought to have taken
up old Hackaberry on that town-lot proposition, after all."
"Fiddlesticks!" she retorted, with fine scorn of Hazleton's real-estate
possibilities. "You could buy the whole town with this."
She touched the sack with her toe.
"Not quite," Bill returned placidly. "I wouldn't, anyway. We'll get a
better run for our money than that. I hope old Hack didn't forget to
attend to that ranch business for me."
He drove the canoe alongside a float. A few loungers viewed them with
frank curiosity. Bill set out the treasure sack and the bale of furs,
and tied the canoe.
"A new hotel, by Jove!" he remarked, when upon gaining the level of the
town a new two-story building blazoned with a huge sign its function as
a hostelry. "Getting quite metropolitan in this neck of the woods.
Say, little person, do you think you can relish a square meal? Planked
steak and lobster salad--huh? I wonder if they _could_ rustle a salad
in this man's town? Say, do you know I'm just beginning to find out
how hungry I am for the flesh-pots. What's the matter with a little
variety?--as Lin MacLean said. Aren't you, hon?"
She was; frankly so. For long, monotonous months she had been
struggling against just such cravings, impossible of realization, and
therefore all the more tantalizing. She had been a year in the
wilderness, and the wilderness had not only lost its glamour, but had
become a thing to flee from. Even the rude motley of Hazleton was a
welcome change. Here at least--on a minor scale, to be sure--was that
which she craved, and to which she had been accustomed--life, stir,
human activity, the very antithesis of the lonely mountain fastnesses.
She bestowed a glad pressure on her husband's arm as they walked up the
street, Bill carrying the sack of gold perched carelessly on one
shoulder.
"Say, their enterprise has gone the length of establishing a branch
bank here, I see."
He called her attention to a square-fronted edifice, its new-boarded
walls as yet guiltless of paint, except where a row of black letters
set forth that it was the Bank of British North America.
"That's a good place to stow this bullion," he remarked. "I want to
get it off my hands."
So to the bank they bent their steps. A solemn, horse-faced Englishman
weighed the gold, and issued Bill a receipt, expressing a polite regret
that lack of facility to determine its fineness prevented him from
converting it into cash.
"That means a trip to Vancouver," Bill remarked outside. "Well, we can
stand that."
From the bank they went to the hotel, registered, and were shown to a
room. For the first time since the summit of the Klappan Range, where
her tiny hand glass had suffered disaster, Hazel was permitted a clear
view of herself in a mirror.
"I'm a perfect fright!" she mourned.
"Huh!" Bill grunted. "You're all right. Look at me."
The trail had dealt hardly with both, in the matter of their personal
appearance. Tanned to an abiding brown, they were, and Hazel's
one-time smooth face was spotted with fly bites and marked with certain
scratches suffered in the brush as they skirted the Kispiox. Her hair
had lost its sleek, glossy smoothness of arrangement. Her hands were
reddened and rough. But chiefly she was concerned with the sad state
of her apparel. She had come a matter of four hundred miles in the
clothes on her back--and they bore unequivocal evidence of the journey.
"I'm a perfect fright," she repeated pettishly. "I don't wonder that
people lapse into semi-barbarism in the backwoods. One's manners,
morals, clothing, and complexion all suffer from too close contact with
your beloved North, Bill."
"Thanks!" he returned shortly. "I suppose I'm a perfect fright, too.
Long hair, whiskers, grimy, calloused hands, and all the rest of it. A
shave and a hair cut, a bath and a new suit of clothes will remedy
that. But I'll be the same personality in every essential quality that
I was when I sweated over the Klappan with a hundred pounds on my back."
"I hope so," she retorted. "I don't require the shave, thank goodness,
but I certainly need a bath--and clothes. I wish I had the gray suit
that's probably getting all moldy and moth-eaten at the Pine River
cabin. I wonder if I can get anything fit to wear here?"
"Women live here," Bill returned quietly, "and I suppose the stores
supply 'em with duds. Unlimber that bank roll of yours, and do some
shopping."
She sat on the edge of the bed, regarding her reflection in the mirror
with extreme disfavor. Bill fingered his thick stubble of a beard for
a thoughtful minute. Then he sat down beside her.
"Wha's a mollah, hon?" he wheedled. "What makes you such a crosser
patch all at once?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered dolefully. "I'm tired and hungry, and
I look a fright--and--oh, just everything."
"Tut, tut!" he remonstrated good-naturedly. "That's just mood again.
We're out of the woods, literally and figuratively. If you're hungry,
let's go and see what we can make this hotel produce in the way of
grub, before we do anything else."
"I wouldn't go into their dining-room looking like this for the world,"
she said decisively. "I didn't realize how dirty and shabby I was."
"All right; you go shopping, then," he proposed, "while I take these
furs up to old Hack's place and turn them into money. Then we'll
dress, and make this hotel feed us the best they've got. Cheer up.
Maybe it was tough on you to slice a year out of your life and leave it
in a country where there's nothing but woods and eternal silence--but
we've got around twenty thousand dollars to show for it, Hazel. And
one can't get something for nothing. There's a price mark on it
somewhere, always. We've got all our lives before us, little person,
and a better chance for happiness than most folks have. Don't let
little things throw you into the blues. Be my good little pal--and see
if you can't make one of these stores dig up a white waist and a black
skirt, like you had on the first time I saw you."
He kissed her, and went quickly out. And after a long time of sober
staring at her image in the glass Hazel shook herself impatiently.
"I'm a silly, selfish, incompetent little beast," she whispered. "Bill
ought to thump me, instead of being kind. I can't do anything, and I
don't know much, and I'm a scarecrow for looks right now. And I
started out to be a real partner."
She wiped an errant tear away, and made her way to a store--a new place
sprung up, like the bank and the hotel, with the growing importance of
the town. The stock of ready-made clothing drove her to despair. It
seemed that what women resided in Hazleton must invariably dress in
Mother Hubbard gowns of cheap cotton print with other garments to
match. But eventually they found for her undergarments of a sort, a
waist and skirt, and a comfortable pair of shoes. Hats, as a milliner
would understand the term, there were none. And in default of such she
stuck to the gray felt sombrero she had worn into the Klappan and out
again--which, in truth, became her very well, when tilted at the proper
angle above her heavy black hair. Then she went back to the hotel, and
sought a bathroom.
Returning from this she found Bill, a Bill all shaved and shorn,
unloading himself of sundry packages of new attire.
"Aha, everything is lovely," he greeted enthusiastically. "Old Hack
jumped at the pelts, and paid a fat price for the lot. Also the ranch
deal has gone through. He's a prince, old Hack. Sent up a man and had
it surveyed and classified and the deed waiting for me. And--oh, say,
here's a letter for you."
"For me? Oh, yes," as she looked at the hand-writing and postmark. "I
wrote to Loraine Marsh when we were going north. Good heavens, look at
the date--it's been here since last September!"
"Hackaberry knew where we were," Bill explained. "Sometimes in camps
like this they hold mail two or three years for men that have gone into
the interior."
She put aside the letter, and dressed while Bill had his bath. Then,
with the smoke and grime of a hard trail obliterated, and with decent
clothes upon them, they sought the dining-room. There, while they
waited to be served, Hazel read Loraine Marsh's letter, and passed it
to Bill with a self-conscious little laugh.
"There's an invitation there we might accept," she said casually.
Bill read. There were certain comments upon her marriage, such as the
average girl might be expected to address to her chum who has forsaken
spinsterhood, a lot of chatty mention of Granville people and Granville
happenings, which held no particular interest for Bill since he knew
neither one nor the other, and it ended with an apparently sincere hope
that Hazel and her husband would visit Granville soon as the Marshes'
guests.
He returned the letter as the waitress brought their food.
"Wouldn't it be nice to take a trip home?" Hazel suggested
thoughtfully. "I'd love to."
"We are going home," Bill reminded gently.
"Oh, of course," she smiled. "But I mean to Granville. I'd like to go
back there with you for a while, just to--just to--"
"To show 'em," he supplied laconically.
"Oh, Bill!" she pouted.
Nevertheless, she could not deny that there was a measure of truth in
his brief remark. She did want to "show 'em." Bill's vernacular
expressed it exactly. She had compassed success in a manner that
Granville--and especially that portion of Granville which she knew and
which knew her--could appreciate and understand and envy according to
its individual tendencies.
She looked across the table at her husband, and thought to herself with
proud satisfaction that she had done well. Viewed from any angle
whatsoever, Bill Wagstaff stood head and shoulders above all the men
she had ever known. Big, physically and mentally, clean-minded and
capable--indubitably she had captured a lion, and, though she might
have denied stoutly the imputation, she wanted Granville to see her
lion and hear him roar.
Whether they realize the fact or not, to the average individual, male
or female, reflected glory is better than none at all. And when two
people stand in the most intimate relation to each other, the success
of one lends a measure of its luster to the other. Those who had been
so readily impressed by Andrew Bush's device to singe her social wings
with the flame of gossip had long since learned their mistake. She had
the word of Loraine Marsh and Jack Barrow that they were genuinely
sorry for having been carried away by appearances. And she could nail
her colors to the mast if she came home the wife of a man like Bill
Wagstaff, who could wrest a fortune from the wilderness in a briefer
span of time than it took most men to make current expenses. Hazel was
quite too human to refuse a march triumphal if it came her way. She
had left Granville in bitterness of spirit, and some of that bitterness
required balm.
"Still thinking Granville?" Bill queried, when they had finished an
uncommonly silent meal.
Hazel flushed slightly. She was, and momentarily she felt that she
should have been thinking of their little nest up by Pine River Pass
instead. She knew that Bill was homing to the cabin. She herself
regarded it with affection, but of a different degree from his. Her
mind was more occupied with another, more palpitating circle of life
than was possible at the cabin, much as she appreciated its green and
peaceful beauty. The sack of gold lying in the bank had somehow opened
up far-flung possibilities. She skipped the interval of affairs which
she knew must be attended to, and betook herself and Bill to Granville,
thence to the bigger, older cities, where money shouted in the voice of
command, where all things were possible to those who had the price.
She had had her fill of the wilderness--for the time being, she put it.
It loomed behind her--vast, bleak, a desolation of loneliness from
which she must get away. She knew now, beyond peradventure, that her
heart had brought her back to the man in spite of, rather than because
of, his environment. And secure in the knowledge of his love for her
and her love for him, she was already beginning to indulge a dream of
transplanting him permanently to kindlier surroundings, where he would
have wider scope for his natural ability and she less isolation.
But she was beginning to know this husband of hers too well to propose
anything of the sort abruptly. Behind his tenderness and patience she
had sometimes glimpsed something inflexible, unyielding as the
wilderness he loved. So she merely answered:
"In a way, yes."
"Let's go outside where I can smoke a decent cigar on top of this
fairly decent meal," he suggested. "Then we'll figure on the next
move. I think about twenty-four hours in Hazleton will do me. There's
a steamer goes down-river to-morrow."