BENSON GIVES TROUBLE
It was nearly dark when Blake and Harding led two packhorses through a
thin spruce wood, with Benson lagging a short distance behind. They
had spent some time crossing a wide stretch of rolling country, dotted
with clumps of poplar and birch, which was still sparsely inhabited,
and now they had reached the edge of the timber belt that cuts off the
prairie from the desolate barrens. The spruces were gnarled and
twisted by the wind, a number of them were dead, and many of the rest
leaned unsymmetrically athwart each other. The straggling wood had no
beauty and in the fading light wore a dreary, forbidding look.
Fortunately, however, it was thin enough for the travellers to pick
their way among the fallen branches and patches of muskeg, for the
ground was marsh and their feet sank among the withered needles.
By and by Blake checked his pony and waited until Benson came up. The
man moved with a slack heaviness and his face was worn and tense. He
was tired with the journey, for excess had weakened him, and now the
lust for drink which he had stubbornly fought against had grown
overwhelming.
"I can go no faster. Push on and I'll follow your tracks," he said in
a surly tone. "It takes time to get into condition, and I haven't
walked much for several years."
"Neither have I," Harding answered cheerfully "I'm more used to riding
in elevators and the street cars, but this sort of thing soon makes you
fit."
"You're not troubled with my complaint," Benson rejoined, and when
Blake started the pony deliberately dropped behind.
"He's in a black mood; we'll leave him to himself," Harding remarked.
"So far he's braced up better than I expected, but when a man's been
tanking steadily, it's pretty drastic to put him through the total
deprivation cure."
"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have
both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though
I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good
material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to
get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by
careless handling."
"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Blake, frowning; "but there's a difference between that and
the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that
annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, which is the best
word for it, because we tried to get something in return; a rebel hill
fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in
breaking a horse or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one
couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."
Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed,
he was rather casual, as a rule, but Harding, who was shrewd, saw
beneath the surface a love of order, and what he thought of as
constructive ability.
"I guess you're right, but your speaking of India, reminds me of
something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said
to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one.
He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."
"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."
"That's so; it's my point. Suppose the fellow goes to work without
you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."
"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it
won't stand for a moment after I deny it."
"True," said Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd
have a free hand. Since you wouldn't join him you're a serious
obstacle."
Blake laughed. "I'm glad I am, and as I come of a healthy stock
there's reason to believe I'll continue one."
Harding said nothing more, and they went on in silence through the
gathering darkness The spruces were losing shape and getting blacker,
though through openings here and there they could see a faint line of
smoky red on the horizon. A cold wind wailed among the branches, and
the thud of the tired horses' feet rang dully among the shadowy trunks.
At length, reaching a strip of higher ground, the men pitched camp and
turned out the hobbled horses to graze among the swamp grass that lined
a muskeg. After supper they sat beside their fire, and by and by
Benson took his pipe from his mouth.
"I've had enough of this, and I'm only a drag on you," he said. "Give
me grub enough to see me through, and I'll start back for the
settlement first thing in the morning."
"Don't be a fool," Blake said sharply. "You'll get harder and feel the
march less every day. Are you willing to let Clarke get hold of you
again?"
"I don't want to go. I'm driven; I can't help myself."
Blake felt sorry for him. He imagined that Benson had made a hard
fight, but he was being beaten by his craving. Still, it seemed unwise
to show any sympathy.
"You want to wallow like a hog for two or three days that you'll regret
all your life," he said. "You have your chance of breaking free now.
Be a man and take it. Hold out a little longer and you'll find it
easier."
Benson regarded him with a mocking smile. "I'm inclined to think the
jag you so feelingly allude to will last a week; that is, if I can
raise dollars enough from Clarke to keep it up. You mayn't understand
that I'm willing to barter all my future for it."
"Yes," said Harding grimly; "we understand all right. Yours is not a
singular case; the trouble is that it's too common. But we'll quit
talking about it. You can't go."
He was in no mood to handle the subject delicately; they were alone in
the wilds and the situation made for candour. There was only one way
in which they could help the man and he meant to take it. Benson
turned to him angrily.
"Your permission's not required; I'm a free man."
"Are you?" Harding asked. "It strikes me as a very curious boast.
Improving the occasion's a riling thing, but there was never a slave in
Dixie tighter bound than you."
"That's an impertinence," Benson rejoined, flushing, as unsatisfied
longing drove him to fury. "What business is it of yours to preach to
me? Confound you! who are you? I tell you I won't have it. Give me
food enough to last until I reach Sweetwater and let me go."
As he spoke a haughty ring crept into his voice and Blake was moved to
compassion because he recognized it and found it ludicrous. Benson,
who would not have used that tone in his normal state, belonged by
right of birth to a ruling caste, and no doubt felt that he had been
treated with indignity by a man of lower station. Harding, however,
answered quietly--
"I am a paint factory drummer who has never had the opportunities you
have enjoyed, but so long as we're up here in the wilds the only thing
that counts is that we're men with the same weaknesses and feelings.
Because that's so, and you're hard up against it, I and my partner mean
to see you through."
"You can't unless I'm willing. Man, don't you realize that talking's
of no use? The thing I'm driven by won't yield to words. What's more
to the purpose, I didn't engage to go all the way with you. Now I've
had enough, I'm going back to the settlement."
"Very well. You were right in claiming that there was no engagement of
any kind. So far, we have found you in grub, but we're not bound to do
so, and if you leave us, you must shift for yourself." Harding
addressed Blake, who sat nearest the provisions. "You'll see that your
friend doesn't touch those stores."
There was silence for a moment or two, and Benson, whose face was
marked with baffled desire and scarcely controlled fury, glared at the
others. Blake's expression was pitiful, but his lips were resolutely
set; Harding's eyes were very keen and determined. Then Benson made a
sign of resignation.
"It looks as if I were beaten. I may as well go to sleep."
He wrapped his blanket round him and lay down near the fire, and soon
afterwards the others crept into the tent. Benson would be warm enough
where he lay and they felt it a relief to get away from him.
Day was breaking when Blake rose and threw fresh wood on the fire, and
as a bright flame leaped up, driving back the shadows, he saw that
Benson was missing. This, however, did not disturb him, because the
man had been restless and they had now and then heard him moving about
at night. When the fire had burned up and he filled the kettle,
without his seeing anything of his friend, he began to grow anxious and
called loudly. There was no answer and he could hear no movement in
the bush. The dark spruces had grown sharper in form; he could see
some distance between the trunks, but everything was still. Then
Harding came out of the tent.
"You had better look if the horses are there," he suggested.
Blake failed to find them near the muskeg, but as the light got clearer
he saw tracks leading through the bush. Following these for a
distance, he came upon the Indian pony, still hobbled, but the other, a
powerful range horse, had gone. Mounting the pony, he rode back to
camp, where he found Harding looking grave.
"The fellow's gone and taken some provisions with him," he said. "He
left this for us."
It was a strip of paper, apparently torn from a pocket-book, with a few
lines written on it. Benson said he regretted having to leave them in
such an unceremonious fashion, but they had given him no choice, and
added that he would leave the horse, hobbled, at a spot about two days'
ride away.
"He seems to think he's showing us some consideration in not riding the
beast down to the settlement," Blake remarked with a dubious smile,
feeling strongly annoyed with himself for not taking more precautions.
With the cunning which the lust for drink breeds in its victims Benson
had outwitted him by feigning acquiescence. "Anyhow," he added, "I'll
have to go after him. We must have the horse, for one thing, but I
suppose we'll lose four days. This is rough on you."
"Yes," agreed Harding, "you must get after him, but don't mind about
me. The man's a friend of yours and I like him; he wasn't quite
responsible last night. I wouldn't feel happy if we let him fall back
into the clutches of that cunning brute. Now we'll get breakfast;
you'll need it."
They made a hasty meal and during it Blake said, "If you don't mind
waiting, I'll follow him half way to Sweetwater if necessary. You see
I haven't much expectation of overtaking him before he leaves the
horse. It's the faster beast and we don't know when he started."
"That's so," said Harding. "Still, you're tough, and I guess the first
hard day's ride will be enough for your partner."
Five minutes later Blake was picking his way as fast as possible
through the wood. It was a cool morning, and when he had gone a few
miles the ground was fairly clear. By noon he was in more open
country, where there were long stretches of grass, and after a short
rest he pushed on fast. Bright sunshine flooded the waste that now
stretched back to the south, sprinkled with clumps of bush that showed
a shadowy blue in the distance. In those he passed the birch and
poplar leaves glowed in flecks of vivid lemon among the white stems,
but Blake rode hard, his eyes turned steadily on the misty skyline. It
was only broken by clusters of small trees; nothing moved on the
wilderness he pushed across.
He felt tired when evening came, but he must find water before he
camped, and he pressed on. Benson was a weak fool, who would, no
doubt, give them further trouble, but they had taken him in hand, and
Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon
his failings. It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke
curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he
checked the jaded pony. Later he dismounted and picketing the animal
moved cautiously round the edge of the wood. Passing a projecting
tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting
beside a fire, and stopped a moment to watch him. The man's face was
weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led
had unfitted him for a long, hard ride. He looked forlorn and
dejected, but he started as Blake moved forward and his eyes had an
angry gleam.
"So you have overtaken me; I thought myself safe from you," he said.
"You were wrong," Blake replied. "If it had been needful, I'd have
gone after you to Clarke's. But I'm hungry and I'll cook my supper at
your fire." He glanced at the provisions scattered about. "You
haven't had much of a meal."
"It's a long drink I want," said Benson, looking steadily at him.
Blake, who let this pass, prepared his supper and offered the other a
portion.
"Try some of that," he said, indicating the light flapjacks fizzling
among the pork in the frying-pan. "It strikes me as a good deal more
tempting than the stuff you have been eating."
Benson thrust the food aside, and Blake finished it before he took out
his pipe. "Now," he said, "you can go to sleep when you wish. I
expect you're tired, and it's a long ride back to camp."
"You seem to count upon my going back with you," Benson remarked
mockingly.
"I do; don't you mean to come?"
"Do you suppose it's likely after I've ridden all this way?"
Blake laid down his pipe and looked hard at the man. "You force me to
take a line I'm not cut out for. Think a moment! You have land and
stock worth a good deal of money which my partner believes can be saved
from the rogue who's stealing it from you. You are a young man, and if
you pull yourself together and pay off his claims, you can sell out and
look for another opening wherever you like, but you know what will
happen if you go on as you are doing a year or two longer. Have you no
friends and relatives in England you owe something to? Is your life
worth nothing, that you're willing to throw it away?"
"It's all true," Benson admitted moodily. "Do you think I can't see
where I'm drifting? The trouble is that I've gone too far to stop."
"Try," said Blake. "It's very well worth while."
Benson was silent for a few moments, and then looked up with a curious
expression. "You're wasting time, Dick. I've sunk too far. Go back
in the morning and leave me to my fate."
"When I go back you are coming with me."
Benson's nerves were on edge and his self-control broke down.
"Confound you!" he cried; "let me alone! You have reached the limit;
once for all, I'll stand no more meddling."
"Very well," Blake answered quietly, "You have left me only one
recourse, and you can't blame me for taking it."
"What's that?"
"Superior strength. You're a heavier man than I am and ought to be a
match for me, but you have lost your nerve and grown soft and flabby
with drink. It's your own doing, and now you have to take the
consequences. If you compel me, I'll drag you back to camp with the
pack lariat."
"Do you mean that?" Benson's face grew flushed and his eyes glittered.
"Try me and see."
Savage as he was, Benson realized that his companion was capable of
making his promise good. The man looked hard and very muscular, and
his expression was determined.
"This is insufferable!" he cried.
Blake coolly filled his pipe. "There's no other remedy. Before I go
to sleep I'll picket the horses close beside me and if you steal away
on foot during the night, I'll ride you down a few hours after
daybreak. I think you understand me, and there's nothing more to be
said."
He tried to talk about other matters and found it hard, for Benson,
tormented by his craving, made no response. Darkness crept in about
them and the prairie grew shadowy. The leaves in the bluff rustled in
a faint, cold wind, and the smoke of the fire drifted round the men.
For a while Benson sat moodily watching his companion, and then,
wrapping his blanket round him, lay down and turned away his head. It
was now very dark outside the flickering light of the fire, and by and
by Blake, who felt the strain of the situation, strolled towards the
horses and chose a resting-place beside their pickets.
Waking in the cold of daybreak, he saw Benson asleep, and made
breakfast before he called him. They ate in silence and then Blake led
up the pony.
"I think we'll make a start," he said as cheerfully as he could.
For a moment or two Benson hesitated, standing with hands clenched and
baffled desire in his face, but Blake looked coolly resolute, and he
mounted.