THE RIVER PILOT.
On the next day, the routine and monotony of life at the post was broken
by the arrival of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer from Painter’s
Ferry. It carried a cargo of merchandise and the bi-monthly mail for
persons residing at the post and vicinity. Dick was on hand when it hove
to and tied up at the landing. Factor Scott was also there and waved his
hand at the pilot, Captain Morrison, who stood near the rail while the
gang plank was lowered. A moment later, a crowd of passengers trooped
down to the shore. Dick followed the factor who went aboard to speak to
the captain.
“You’re a day ahead of your schedule,” he smiled as they shook hands.
Captain Morrison was a grizzled veteran of twenty years’ continuous
service with the great fur company. Few men knew the North better than
he. On the Athabasca, the Peace and the Mackenzie Rivers and Great Slave
Lake he had passed a long and eventful career. Scarcely a white person
in the North that he had not met at some time or other. He smiled when
he saw Dick, stepped forward and extended a brawny hand.
“Perhaps you don’t remember me, my boy. You’re Dick Kent, aren’t you? I
was at Peace River Crossing two years ago when you made that flight from
near Fort Good Faith to the Crossing in that airplane with that fire
ranger.”
“At the time of the small-pox epidemic,” Dick recalled. “I remember you
now.”
“I had the _Northern Queen_ then. My run was from Fort Vermilion to
Hudson’s Hope. Got transferred up here this spring.”
Morrison turned for a moment to call out instructions to the first mate,
then resumed:
“Still assisting the police?”
“Occasionally,” answered Dick.
“That’s what I thought. We passed Corporal Rand, Mr. Frazer and a number
of others in two canoes. Where are they bound for?”
“Mackenzie Barracks,” answered Mr. Scott.
“Frazer accompanying the policeman?”
“Yes.”
“Had some trouble here?” persisted the captain.
It was a little difficult for Mr. Scott to explain the circumstances. He
hesitated, looking at Dick.
“You have guessed correctly, Captain Morrison. Donald Frazer, the former
factor here, has been arrested for complicity in the murder of Conroy
Miller, a prospector. The motive was robbery. With the exception of the
two young men you might have noticed in one of the canoes, all the
others in the party were implicated.”
Captain Morrison stalked to the rail and looked down at the scene of
activity below. His mouth twitched and he wiped his perspiring face with
a shaky hand.
“Good Heavens! I never would have suspected—it is hard to
believe—Frazer! The last person on earth I’d associate with such a
crime.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Scott admitted. “He’s changed a lot in the last two
or three years. Gambling and drinking led up to it. He was pressed for
money, had appropriated funds belonging to the company.”
“Weren’t two of those prisoners Toby McCallum and Wolf Brennan? Seems to
me I recognized them.”
“That’s who they were. The others were Henri and Pierre Mekewai, two
Indians.”
“Never heard of the Indians, but Toby McCallum and Wolf Brennan I know
well. Very unscrupulous, both of them. At one time, about ten years ago,
they worked under me. I was on the Athabasca then. My run was from
Gruard to Athabasca Landing. Lazy, impertinent, light fingered. I had
the devil’s own time with them. Finally forced to dismiss them from my
employ.”
“How far do you run up the river?” Dick asked, hoping to change the
subject.
“I go as far as Big Rock Lake. During high water, occasionally I go down
Big Rock River which flows into the Peace.”
Dick started. “You mean to say, Captain, that in high water you can run
your steamer clear from here to Peace River Crossing?”
“Quite right, my boy. A month ago I could have done it quite easily. But
not now. Under the present arrangement, all the supplies for these
northern posts in this immediate territory, are freighted across country
from Peace to Big Rock Lake. Costs the company a pile of money, too. If
the cost wasn’t so prohibitive, we would deepen the channel in Big Rock
River.”
At this juncture, Morrison was called away to supervise the work of
unloading cargo stored in the hold. Dick and Mr. Scott watched the
proceedings for a time, then turned and retraced their steps to the
post.
“You don’t know how hard it was to tell Captain Morrison about Frazer,”
confided the latter. “He and Frazer were pretty close friends at one
time, I believe. I’ve often heard the former factor speak of him in
rather laudatory terms.”
“It was quite a shock to him. You could see that. By the way, when does
Captain Morrison make the return trip to Big Rock Lake?”
“Early tomorrow morning. He always ties up here for the night. All
afternoon they’ll be loading cordwood which, as you know, they use for
fuel. Also, I have nearly two hundred bales of fur ready for shipment.”
So, as was his usual custom, the grizzled pilot of the North’s great
waterways remained at Half Way House for the night. Dick spent the
afternoon in a futile wandering about, still pondering over the problem
of the dinosaur. The captain’s statement, that in the spring, when water
was high, his steamer could proceed as far south as Peace River
Crossing, filled him with unbounded joy. If only he could think of some
way—some plan by which he could bring the fossil from the Lake of Many
Islands to Half Way House, his perplexity would be at an end.
“It can’t be impossible,” he kept repeating to himself over and over in
a monotonous, mournful undertone. “I simply must think of some way
before the boys return.”
But how? Almost within his reach, that remaining barrier of three
hundred miles of wilderness held him from his goal. The thought was
maddening. Restless as a sprite, he paced back and forth between the
post and the river at least twenty times. Again he considered Mr.
Scott’s suggestion regarding a scow. Wasn’t there some way of pushing or
hauling such an unwieldy craft through the rapids opposite the portages?
For a time, he seriously considered the advisability of a gasoline motor
in the scow.
Of all the plans that had come into his mind, the last seemed most
feasible. Yet, it had its drawbacks too. In the first place, he didn’t
have a motor or the gasoline with which to run it. It would cost a lot
of money and a good deal of time would elapse before he could even hope
to try out his plan. In case that it should prove to be impracticable,
he would be out a good sum of money and no nearer a workable solution.
After supper, he sat in the dining room, still pondering the question.
He could hear Captain Morrison and Mr. Scott conversing in low tones at
the opposite side of the room. Now and again, a word or phrase came to
him. Tonight Captain Morrison was in a reminiscent mood and he regaled
his host with many tales of a long lifetime spent in the northern
Canadian wilderness. His voice droned on and on happily. Occasionally he
lapsed into thoughtful silences, industriously sucking his pipe. The
room was pleasantly warm and Dick felt tired and sleepy.
He rose lazily to his feet and went to a window and looked out. He was
standing close to Captain Morrison now and could hear every word that
was being said. In spite of himself, he became interested.
“In 1904, I think it was,” Morrison paused for a moment, puffing at his
pipe. “Yes, 1904. I was running on this river same as I am now. A
different steamer though, the _Lady Marian_. Trim little vessel she was
and, at that time, the fastest boat that ever headed into these northern
waters. She was new and spick as a pin. I was proud of her. I wasn’t a
bit ashamed when that distinguished party of Hudson’s Bay officials, I
was telling you about, came out here from London, England on their round
of inspection.
“There were a couple of Lords and an Earl or two in that party. I picked
them up at Big Rock Lake and steamed up here for Half Way House in one
of the worst storms I have ever seen. It had rained steady for six days.
River flowing like a torrent. Drift bumping up against us every few
minutes. So nasty outside that not one of the party could come out on
deck. Thermometer dropping every hour. That was in April, too—the tail
end of the month. My second trip since the ice went out. Near Painter’s
Ferry I was standing in the bow, watching the drift, when I heard
someone come up behind me and felt a hand on my arm. I turned, and so
help me Bob, if it wasn’t the commissioner himself.
“‘When do we arrive at Half Way House?’ he asked me.
“‘In about six more hours,’ I told him.
“He nodded to me, pinched my arm in a friendly way and went below. I
kept watching the drift until the dark came. All the time the storm was
increasing. The rain turned into a wet, blinding snow. It kept getting
colder every minute. I was afraid of the drift and slowed down until I
was barely drifting with the current.
“With the engines quiet and the darkness growing more and more intense,
I began to see that I could never make Half Way House in six hours. So I
went below and explained my difficulties. The commissioner was a very
grave man and a little impatient at the delay.
“‘Why don’t you put on a little more steam?’ he asked me.
“‘I’m afraid of crashing into the drift,’ I told him.
“He hesitated, twirled the ends of his waxed mustache and turned to the
rest of the party.
“‘Are you gentlemen willing to take the risk?’ he inquired. ‘If you are,
I’ll give the captain here instructions to go ahead more quickly.’
“There wasn’t a dissenting voice. They were all anxious, it seemed, to
get on to their destination. I went down and gave the engineer his
orders.
“‘Full steam ahead,’ I said a little angrily. ‘Give her all you’ve got.
The commissioner and his party are in a hurry to get to Half Way House.’
“Soon after, when I went to the deck, the _Lady Marian_ was thundering
under my feet like a huge locomotive. We drove straight into a head
wind, a furious storm of sleet and snow. It kept me busy trying to
figure out where I was. Every little while, I was compelled to take
soundings. The minutes and the hours slipped on. The night was black as
a crow’s wing. Snow piling up in drifts along the deck—slippery as ice.
Still no sight of Half Way House. I couldn’t see a light twinkling. I
was certain that we must be close upon it by that time and finally I
rang orders to the engineer to slow down and, a few minutes later, to
stop altogether.
“Nearly frozen, I stood there like a lost child gazing out through the
storm. One thing that worried me was the rate of speed we were drifting.
I had never seen the current so swift here before. It literally boiled
around us. When the steamer went forward again, the velocity of the
current increased. Then two miles farther on, it became steadier, less
precipitous.
“For a long time I stood out there on the deck, shivering, weary,
disgusted, unable to account for the phenomenon. I knew the river like
you gentlemen know a book. I had never run into anything like that
before. Between Painter’s Ferry and Half Way House, such a current
simply did not exist. Then suddenly, like a clap out of a blue sky, it
struck me all at once. I got so blamed mad that I felt like jumping
overboard. For the first time in all my life, I had committed an
unpardonable error.”
“What was it?” asked Dick, unable to contain himself any longer.
With maddening deliberateness, the old river man silently filled and
relighted his pipe. He turned toward his young questioner and grinned
broadly.
“In the terrific storm and darkness,” he explained, “I had run
completely past Half Way House and down an uncharted stretch of river
six miles past the first portage. All things considered, I was mighty
fortunate. If it had been a few weeks later, I would have run slap-dash
into the rocks there at the portage.”
“Did you go back to Half Way House that same night?”
Captain Morrison laughed and shook his head.
“No, that’s the best part of it. It hurt like blazes to go below and
tell that distinguished party what a fool I had made of myself. But
instead of becoming angry, as I had supposed they would, they had a good
laugh over it and instructed me to pull in a little closer to shore
where we wouldn’t drag anchor, and stop for the night.
“The next morning was beautiful. The wind had changed into the west and
one could feel the faint stirrings of a regular chinook. I was getting
ready to turn back, when the commissioner came on deck, all rosy and
smiling, and asked me how I had spent the night.
“‘Fine,’ I told him.
“‘Have you got a good head of steam?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered. ‘I can take you back to the trading post in a
little over an hour and a quarter.’
“I had stepped forward to give my orders to my engineer, when he called
me back.
“‘Have you ever been this far down the river before?’ he asked me.
“I told him that I had not. I explained to him that there were no
trading posts further down the river and that navigation was impossible
except during high flood.
“‘The lower part of the river has never been charted then?’ he said.
“I shook my head.
“‘Very well then, Captain Morrison, we’ll go on down the river and chart
it. We’ll stop at Half Way House on our return.’”
Dick suddenly strode forward and placed an eager, trembling hand on the
broad shoulders of the river pilot.
“And did you really chart the river?” he asked in a queer, tense voice.
“Yes, that’s what we did,” the other replied promptly. “We were away two
weeks. Went three hundred and fifty miles by actual count.”
Dick suddenly threw his hat in the air.
“Whoopee!” he shouted,