CLARKE MAKES A SUGGESTION
At breakfast next morning Blake and Harding found the farmer, who had
spent the night at the hotel, at their table and afterwards sat for a
time on the verandah talking to him. When they mentioned their first
objective point and asked if he could give them any directions for
reaching it he looked thoughtful.
"I only know that it's remarkably rough country; thick pine bush on
rolling ground, with some bad muskegs and small lakes," he said. "You
would find things easier if you could hire an Indian or two and a canoe
when you strike the river. The boys here seldom go up so far, but
Clarke could help you if he liked. He's been north and knows the
Indians."
"We're willing to pay him for any useful help," Harding replied.
"Be careful," said the farmer. "If you're on a prospecting trip, keep
your secret close. There's another thing I might mention." He turned
to Blake. "If you're a friend of Benson's, take him along with you."
"I suppose I am, in a way, though it's a long time since I met him.
But why do you recommend our taking him?"
"I hate to see a man go to pieces as Benson's doing, and Clarke's
ruining the fellow. He must have got two or three thousand dollars out
of him one way or another and isn't satisfied with that. Lent him
money on mortgage to start a foolish stock-raising speculation and
keeps him well supplied with drink. The fellow's weak, but he has his
good points."
"But what's Clarke's object?"
"It isn't very clear, but a man who's seldom sober is easily robbed and
Benson's place is worth something; Clarke sees it's properly farmed.
However, you must use your judgment about anything he tells you; I've
given you warning."
He went away and Blake sat silent for a time. Though they had not been
intimate friends, he had known Benson when the latter was a wild young
subaltern, and it did not seem fitting to leave him in the clutches of
a man who was ruining him in health and fortune. He would sooner not
have met the man at all, but since they had met, there was, so far as
he could see, only one thing to be done.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to
Harding.
The American looked doubtful. "We could do with another white man, but
I guess your friend isn't the kind we want. He may give us trouble,
and you can't count on much help from a whisky-tank. However, if you
wish it, you can bring him."
Soon afterwards Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or
three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked
shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a
deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.
"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made
any unfortunate allusions you must overlook them. You must have seen
that I wasn't altogether responsible."
"I did," Blake answered drily. "If we are to remain friends, you had
better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the
matter you talked about."
"Sorry," said Benson, who gave him a keen glance. "Though I don't
think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."
"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a
suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to
the northern bush."
"Thanks," said Benson, who shook hands with Harding. "I wonder what
use you think I would be?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any
use or not; but you had better come. The trip will brace you up, and
you look as if you needed it."
Benson's face grew red. "Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous
and respectable people sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which
degenerates like myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come
too late."
"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being
respectable," Blake rejoined with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to
come with us."
Tilting his chair back, Benson looked heavily about. "When I was new
to the country I often wished to go north. There are caribou and moose
up yonder; great sights when the rivers break up in spring, and a
sledge trip across the snow must be a thing to remember. The wilds
draw you, but I'm afraid my nerve's not good enough. A man must be fit
in every way to cross the timber belt."
"Then why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the
life and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"
"You hit hard, but I expect I deserve it, and I'll try to explain."
Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness.
Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one
side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the
slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity, but two
or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room,"
painted on its dirty window. All round, the rolling prairie stretched
back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and grey. The prospect was
dreary and depressing.
"This place," Benson resumed, "hasn't much to offer one in the way of
relaxation, and, for a man used to something different, life at a
lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's
apt to go to bits."
"Then why don't you quit?" Harding asked.
"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't
the means to follow is not much use at home, and all my money is sunk
in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned to
Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster I wasn't
responsible for stopped my allowance and I was in debt. Eventually
about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck, and I came here
with that feeling badly hipped, which was one reason why I took to
whisky, and Clarke, who engaged to teach me farming, saw I got plenty
of it. Now he has his hands on all that's mine, but he keeps me fairly
supplied with cash, and it saves trouble to leave things to him."
When Benson stopped Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew
that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who
undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He
must have unflinching courage and stubbornness and be able to dispense
with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests
are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year
he must toil unremittingly from dawn to dark, and depend upon his own
resources through the long, bitter winter. For society he may have a
hired hand and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement,
which is often a day's ride away, and they are not, as a rule, men of
culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body it is
nevertheless a healthful life, but Benson was not of sufficiently tough
fibre.
"Now see here," said Harding. "I'm out for dollars, and this is a
business trip, but Blake wants to take you and I'm agreeable. If you
can stand for two or three months hard work in the open and very plain
living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get back.
Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like myself how
you stand if you'd sooner not, I know something of business and might
see a way out of your difficulties."
Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his
troubles as a text for improving remarks, since he already knew his
failings. What he desired was a means of escaping their consequences,
and the American, whose tone was reassuringly matter of fact, seemed to
offer it. He began an explanation and, with the help of a few leading
questions, made his financial position fairly clear.
"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you,
but I guess it's possible to shake him off. As things stand, however,
it seems to me he has most to gain from your death."
"He couldn't count on that; to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so
far, but there's some truth in what you say." Benson looked disturbed
and irresolute, but after a few moments he abruptly threw his cigar
away and leaned forward with a decided air. "If you'll have me, I'll
go with you."
"You're wise," Harding said quietly.
Shortly afterwards Benson left them and Harding said to Blake, "Now you
had better go along and see if you can learn anything from Clarke about
our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't make him
useful. If he can help us, pay him and be careful what you say.
Remember that he was watching you at the _Windsor_, and I've a
suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs when
Benson talked last night."
Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a
well-kept, prosperous look, and found its owner in a small room
furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western
Provinces hung upon one wall; the floor was uncovered and a rusty stove
stood in the middle of it, but Clarke was seated at a handsome American
desk. He wore old overalls and the soil upon his boots suggested that
he had been engaged in fall ploughing. As Benson came in he looked up
and the light fell upon his face. It was deeply lined and of a curious
dead colour, but while it bore a sensual stamp and something in it
hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake felt, the face of a clever and
determined man.
"Ah!" he said, "you have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you.
Have a cigar."
Blake, who took one, explained his errand and Clarke seemed to
consider. Then he took out a small hand-drawn map and passed it to his
visitor.
"I won't ask why you are going north, as I daresay it's a secret," he
remarked. "However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it you,
this will show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared the
other end of the desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of
the country."
It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it
carefully. When he had finished, Clarke resumed: "I'll give you a few
directions, and you had better take them down, but you'll want a canoe
and one or two Indians. I daresay I could enable you to get them, but
I think the service is worth fifty dollars."
"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously.
"It's possible that we mightn't find the Indians, and we might leave
the water and strike overland."
"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions
before you go, but there's another matter I want to talk about." He
fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner's."
"I am, but I can't see what connexion this has----"
Clarke stopped him. "It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were
a lieutenant of engineers and served in India, where you left the army."
"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."
"So I imagined," Clarke said drily. "Still I would like to say that
there is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You
have my sympathy."
"Thank you," said Blake. "I must remind you that I have given you no
grounds for offering it."
"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"
"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know
about the matter."
"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you
were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."
Blake's face set sternly. "It's hard to understand how you arrived at
that flattering conclusion."
"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke
rejoined, watching him. "One would imagine that the most important
matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and were sent
here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with your lot?
Haven't you the courage to insist upon being reinstated?"
"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.
He would have left the house only that he was curious to learn where
the other's suggestions led and how much he knew. There was a moment's
silence, and then Clarke went on--
"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a
choice of careers in England, and there's another point to be
considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the
question now."
"It will, no doubt, remain so," Blake replied with the colour creeping
into his set face.
"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may
be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and
added significantly: "In fact I could show you a way in which the
matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to
anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your
confidence."
Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith
in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials, and
it had been cunningly hinted that he could change it when he liked, but
he had no intention of doing so. This was an old resolve, but it was
disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to meddle
with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the possibility of
putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake shrank from the
suggestion. It was not to be thought of.
"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It
must be dropped."
Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humouredly, after a
keen glance at him.
"As you wish," he said. "However, that needn't prevent my giving you
the directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty
dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are
you taking him?"
Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed, but he
admitted that Benson was going.
"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," said Clarke in a
tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I
tell you."
Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was
told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, Clarke sat still for
a time with a curious smile. Blake had firmly declined to be
influenced by his hints, but Clarke had half expected this, and what he
had learned about the young man's character cleared the ground.