CLARKE'S SUMMONS
Harding, who knew there was no time to lose, had cause to remember the
forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint and the
low ground streaked with haze as they floundered through the muskeg,
sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools.
When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and
their path led sharply upwards over banks of ragged stones which had a
trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where they
were large and he stumbled into the hollows between. Then they
struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick
willows grew, and afterwards got entangled among thickets of thorny
canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his
breath was laboured and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on
upwards without slackening his pace.
It was exhausting toil, and until he entered the North-West, he had
undergone no physical training and seldom tried his muscles; being left
to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even
playing any outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it
had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company
of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they
accepted him as an equal and comrade. There was, however, nothing
assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he
clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing, but the need was
urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially
practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he
should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore he
braced himself for the arduous task.
In the afternoon they reached a tableland where travelling was slightly
easier, but when they camped without a fire among the rocks one of
Harding's feet was bleeding and he was very weary. Walking was painful
for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but by and by his
galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly followed the Indian up
and down deep ravines and over rough stony slopes. Then they reached
stunted timber; thickly-massed, tangled pines, with many dead trees
among them and a number which had fallen, barring the way. The Indian
seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his muscles having been
toughened into something different from ordinary flesh and blood. He
was feeling distress, but for the present there was only one thing for
him to do, and that was to march. He saw it clearly with his shrewd
sense, and though his worn-out body revolted his resolution did not
flinch.
They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks,
passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the
afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted
them as they crossed the height of land, but although Harding's side
ached as well as his bleeding feet the march went on. Then just before
dark he had a glimpse of a wide valley fading into the blue distance
with water shining in its midst and grey blurs of willows here and
there. The prospect, however, faded swiftly from his sight, and he
found himself limping across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting
mist. Half an hour afterwards he threw himself down exhausted beside a
fire in a sheltered hollow.
Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on
the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched close up
to it with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and
the blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapour.
The night was dark but still, and Harding thought a sound would carry
some distance, but while he felt his heart beating there was nothing to
be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther south
and was horribly afraid of hearing a warning bark, but nothing broke
the silence and he supposed that Clarke's friends were unable to find
food enough for sledge-teams. This was reassuring, because the odds
against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the Indian's
sense of hearing is remarkably keen.
Feeling that his magazine pistol was loose, he signed to his guide and
they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately clear and
their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts of dry
grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him alarming
distinctness. Still nobody challenged them and reaching the centre of
the village they stopped again. The nearest of the tepees was only
thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into the mist, and
as Harding stood listening with tingling nerves he clearly recognized
the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there was
nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied, and it was highly
undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an
Indian from his slumbers. Then it was possible that the man shared a
tepee with some of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself
at his mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and his Stony
friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous habits.
Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still, and he
could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude. Pulling
himself together with an effort, Harding went on.
Fortune favoured him, for as he made towards a tepee, without any
particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart
from the rest, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the
curtain, This suggested that it was occupied by the white man, and it
was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough
to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept forward
with his heart beating painfully and stopped a moment just outside the
entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but he could not
tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, who had crept up
behind him, dragged the doorway open and Harding, hastily stepping in,
stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung up, blinking in the unaccustomed
light.
The tent had an earth floor with a layer of reeds and grass thrown down
on one side. It was frail and hinted at changing times and poverty,
for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with the
products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour bags and old
sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of
sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that
it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a
common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles,
which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded
him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not
recognize it.
Harding could not tell whether he noted all this at once, or if it
afterwards impressed itself upon him by degrees, because as he entered
Clarke, who sat beside the case, looked up. It was, Harding thought, a
good test of his nerve, but his face was imperturbable and he showed no
surprise. There was silence for a moment or two while the Indian stood
motionless with his axe shining as it caught the light, and Harding's
lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke spoke--
"So you have turned back. You found the muskeg too difficult to cross,
and I suppose this fellow showed you the way here?"
Harding, who was worn out, crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and
sat down facing Clarke.
"We have come for you and must start at once. My partner is very
sick--fever he thinks--and you'll have to cure him."
"You're presuming on my consent."
"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't
be wise of you to refuse."
"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends,
and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better
understand that the North-West Police have never visited this place and
nobody troubles about what goes on up here, while I believe I'm a
person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide. "Then,
though I don't know what he's doing in this neighbourhood, this fellow
belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I
think you have been very rash."
"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken some chances
in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let that go.
The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he gets proper
treatment."
Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile. "It's a matter of
indifference to me whether Blake dies or not."
"No," said Harding, "I allow it isn't quite so. On the whole, you
would sooner he did die. He's in the way."
He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though
Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.
"If you're right, it's strange you should urge me to prescribe for him."
"There are some precautions I mean to take," said Harding drily.
"However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you
sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't get
through. My notion is that you expected us to be held up there until
our stores ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would, no
doubt, have moved on. Well, part of what you wished has happened, but
the matter is taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us
into difficulties and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay
means danger--get ready to start."
Then the Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the
tepee with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke,
turning his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked
at Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight.
His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than
alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude
of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke
broke into a faint smile.
"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with
similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he
should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you
were in some danger."
Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy-minded man
of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as
the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.
"Understand this," he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I
staked my life on doing so, and since I guess you're not ready to go so
far as that, I've a pretty strong pull on you. But I've said enough.
You're coming with me--now--and if you make any attempt to rouse your
friends, you'll have a chance of learning something about the other
world at first hand a few seconds afterwards."
Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he
said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a
pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.
"I'm ready."
The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm and Harding, who took out his
pistol, extinguished the lamp.
"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly
reminded Clarke.
He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards distance. He
could see the dark gap of the doorway and had a nervous fancy that eyes
were following his movements, for now he had succeeded in the more
difficult part of his errand he was conscious of strain. Indeed, he
feared he was getting shaky and the danger was not yet over. They were
not clear of the village and a noisy stumble would bring the Indians
out. Unless they reached camp in the next few days he thought Blake
would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one. Still, he was
determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who had betrayed
them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law and social
conventions, but now he had suddenly become primitive under heavy
stress.
They passed the tepee unnoticed, but the tension he felt did not
slacken, because there was another they could not avoid. Nobody,
however, called to them, and he felt easier as they drew away from the
row of shadowy tents. Then, moving very cautiously, they reached the
thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, and Harding,
who found it hard to hold himself in hand, feared that he might grow
limp with the reaction. Difficult as his task had looked, it had been
successfully carried out.
"Get on," he said to Clarke and, walking faster, they plunged into the
open waste.