THE MUSKEG
It was a fortnight later when the party entered a hollow between two
low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened
and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and
thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some
had fallen and lay in horrible tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish
creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it, while
as they plodded through the morass they found their loads intolerably
heavy. Still Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as
their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could
find a dry spot.
They were generally wet to the waist and their temper began to give way
under the strain, while Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed
when he lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights. Sometimes
he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake shivering, for hours. He
had, however, suffered from malarial fever in India without having it
badly, and supposed that it had again attacked him now that he was
feeling the hardships of the march. Saying nothing to his companions,
he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious
of a depressing weakness; and the ground grew softer as they proceeded.
The creek no longer kept within its banks but spread in shallow pools,
the rotting trees were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The
valley had turned into a very wet muskeg, but, after making one or two
attempts, they failed to find a better road among the hills that shut
it in. The rocky sides of the knolls were seamed by ravines and
covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was very
difficult to force a passage. Then one day, Blake, who felt his head
reel, staggered and sat down heavily.
"I'm sorry I can't keep on my feet," he said. "Think it's malaria I've
got."
For a moment or two his companions gazed at him in dismay. His face
was flushed, his eyes glittered, and moving feebly he sank further down
with his back against a stone. He looked seriously ill, but Harding,
realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled
himself together.
"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on
yonder hummock and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can
stand up and lean on us we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few
minutes."
When Blake had shakily risen they unstrapped his pack and afterwards
with much trouble helped him to reach a small, stony knoll, where they
made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to
lie on.
"Thanks," he said in a listless voice. "I found it hard to keep my
eyes open all morning and now I think I'll go to sleep. I'll no doubt
feel better to-morrow."
By and by he fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his
limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, grey afternoon with a
cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the
watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge,
and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides
and wet muskegs which they could not cross with a sick companion shut
them off from all help; their provisions were not plentiful, and the
rigorous winter would soon set in.
They scarcely spoke to one another as the afternoon wore away, but when
supper time came Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little
food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank into restless sleep
again, and his companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night
closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had
to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of
rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled
drearily, and they could hear the splash of the ripples on a
neighbouring pool, It was all depressing, and as in turn they kept
watch in the darkness their hearts sank.
Next morning Blake, who made an attempt to get up, was obviously worse,
and though he insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a
day or two the others felt dubious.
"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said.
"You needn't look so glum."
"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a
forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the
last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man----"
"It's located in half a dozen different places," Blake rejoined. "You
overdo the thing, and the way Benson grins at your threadbare jokes
would worry me if I were well. Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't
know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking
angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria; I've
had it several times, and it seldom bothers you much when you're out of
the tropics. Why, Bertram--you've seen my cousin--was down with it a
week at Sandymere; temperature very high, old fool of a family doctor
looking serious and fussing. Then he got up all right one morning and
rode to hounds next day. Very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father.
If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me."
He paused and resumed with a vacant air: "Getting off the subject,
wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back, but don't
worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."
Lying down, he turned away from them and they exchanged glances, for it
looked as if their comrade's brain were getting clouded. Blake, who
dozed part of the time, said nothing during the next few hours, and
late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty
blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's
clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that
he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had
finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him
best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighbourhood. His
tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not
far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said,
quarrelsome people.
Harding looked interested when he heard this and made Benson ask
exactly where the Stony village lay; and when he had been told he
lighted his pipe and said nothing for the next half hour. Rain had
begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and
stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been
abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It
was not the place to nurse a fever patient in and Harding was getting
anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure and felt
responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the
helpless man. Blake was very ill and something must be done to save
him, but for a time Harding could not see how help could be obtained.
Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a
few more questions about the locality. When they were answered he
began to see his way, but he waited until supper was over before he
spoke of his plan.
It was getting dark and raining hard; Blake was asleep, the Indian
sitting silent, and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering
light against the surrounding gloom.
"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding
remarked.
"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him, though I can't
blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.
"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that the
fellow's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree
with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the
locality further west and a good deal farther off from where we are
now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."
"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."
"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must allow it's curious that
when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills
and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we
could have got north with much less trouble had we headed further west."
"If that's true, it has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.
"Very well; I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke
has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will
increase in value as the settlement grows, while sooner or later
they'll bring a railroad in. Now, after what you once told me, I don't
think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two
if you keep steady and work hard, but while you were in his clutches
that looked very far from probable."
"You might have put it more plainly--I was drinking myself to death."
Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that this is what the fellow
wished?"
"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if
you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his
statements he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."
Benson started. "I believe he would stick at nothing; you may be
right. But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and
Blake came to grief?"
"That," said Harding, "is not so clear."
He glanced at his companion searchingly and seeing that he suspected
nothing, decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome
his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse upon his
return to the settlement and betray the secret in his cups. Harding
thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal
character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history and
had seen a chance of extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed,
Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of
wishing to ascertain whether the latter was willing to seek redress,
and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact,
but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to
thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake
out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at his mercy;
and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified.
Harding, however, meant to make a determined effort to save his comrade.
"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.
"It's this--I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these
muskegs where we'd have no chance of renewing our provisions, and
misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach.
Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble and now he has to
help us out. The fellow is a doctor."
Benson looked up eagerly. "You're going to bring him here? It's a
daring plan, because it will be difficult to make him come."
"He'll come if he values his life," said Harding drily. "The Indian
will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I offer him
enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies. I'll have to
drop in upon the doctor late at night when none of his Indian friends
are about."
"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."
"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his
partner."
"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested, and added with feeling: "You know
how I'm indebted to Blake."
"It's your place," said Harding. "Now you had better try to arrange
the thing with the Indian."
It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that
he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone and hinted at some
quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson
gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to
accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.
"That's fixed; we start at daybreak," said Harding. "I'll lie down
now; it's your watch."
Five minutes later he was sound asleep and awoke, quietly determined
and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the
cities, bred to civilized life and had a just appreciation of the risks
he ran, since he meant to abduct the doctor, who was dangerous to
meddle with, from an Indian village where he was apparently held in
some esteem. The Stonies, living far remote, had, so Harding
understood, escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit
from the patrols of the North-West Police. Moreover there was a
possibility that Clarke might prove too clever for him. It was
certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but he believed that
Blake would perish unless help was obtained. He shook hands with
Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and then, with the Indian
leading, struck out through the muskeg towards the shadowy hills.