CLARKE MODIFIES HIS PLANS
A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was Arctic when
Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he
walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which
included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It
was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western
sky and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the
glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white
expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke, who had
lately returned from England, that the place looked very dreary.
He walked on with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on
his furs, and on reaching the homestead went first to the stable. It
was built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawn lumber, and,
lighting a lantern, he fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales and
lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a successful
farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals and
implements led to economy, though it was said he seldom paid the full
market price for them. He had walked home because it was impossible to
keep warm driving, and felt tired and morose. The man had passed his
prime and was beginning to find the labour he had never shirked more
irksome than it had been, while he dispensed with a hired hand in
winter, when there was less to be done. Clarke neglected no
opportunity of saving a dollar.
When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house,
which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London where
he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty
dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting
supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled
up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a
cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone, though he
remembered that for a number of years he had not noticed this. Walls
and floor were uncovered and roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber;
the stove was rusty and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black
distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several
well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs.
Clarke lighted his pipe and drawing his seat as near the stove as
possible opened an English newspaper, which contained some news that
interested him. A short paragraph stated that Captain Bertram
Challoner, then stationed at Delhi, had received an appointment which
would shortly necessitate his return from India. This, Clarke
imagined, might be turned to good account, but the matter demanded
thought, and for a time he sat motionless, deeply pondering. His
farming had prospered, though the bare and laborious life had tried him
hard, and he had made some money by more questionable means, lending to
unfortunate neighbours at extortionate interest and foreclosing on
their possessions. No defaulter got any mercy at his hands and shrewd
sellers of seed and implements took precautions when they dealt with
him.
His money, however, would not last him long if he returned to England
and attempted to regain a footing in his profession, and he had
daringly schemed to increase it. Glancing across the room, his eyes
rested on a bookcase, with a curious smile. It contained works on
hypnotism, telepathy, and psychological speculations in general, and he
had studied some with ironical amusement and others with a quickening
of his interest. Amidst much that he thought of as sterile chaff he
saw germs of truth, and had once or twice been led to the brink of a
startling discovery. There the elusive clue had failed him, though he
felt that strange secrets might be revealed some day.
After all, the books had served his purpose, as well as kept him from
brooding when he sat alone at nights while the icy wind howled round
his dwelling. He passed for a sage and something of a prophet with the
primitive Dubokars, his Indian friends regarded him as a medicine man,
and both had unknowingly made his search for the petroleum easier.
Then, contrary to his expectations, he had found speculators in London
willing to venture a few hundred pounds on his scheme, but the amount
was insufficient and the terms were exacting. It would pay him better
to get rid of his associates. He was growing old; it would be too late
to return to his former life unless he could do so soon, but he must
make a fair start with ample means. The man had no scruples and no
illusions; money well employed would buy him standing and friends.
People were charitable to a man who had something to offer them, and
the blot upon his name must be nearly forgotten.
First of all, however, the richest spot of the oil field must be found
and money enough raised to place him in a strong position when the
venture was put on the market. He had failed to extort any from
Challoner, but he might be more successful with his son. The man who
was weak enough to allow his cousin to suffer for his fault would no
doubt yield to judicious pressure. It was fortunate that Bertram
Challoner was coming to England, because he could be more easily
reached. This led Clarke to think of Blake, since he realized that
Challoner was right in pointing out that the man was his greatest
difficulty. If Blake maintained that the fault was his, nothing could
be done; it was therefore desirable that he should be kept out of the
way. There was another person to whom the same applied; Clarke had
preyed on Benson's weakness, but if the fellow had overcome it and
returned to farm industriously, his exploitation would be no longer
possible. On the other hand, if he failed to pay off his debts, Clarke
saw how he could with much advantage seize his possessions. Thus both
Blake and Benson were obstacles, and now they had ventured into the icy
North it would be better if they did not reappear.
Clarke refilled his pipe and his face wore a sinister look as he took
down a rather sketchy map of the wilds beyond the prairie belt. After
studying it for a time he sank into an attitude of concentrated
thought. The stove crackled, its pipe glowing red, driving snow lashed
the shiplap walls, and the wind moaned drearily about the house. Its
occupant was, however, oblivious to his surroundings and sat very still
in his chair, with pouches under his fixed eyes and his lips set tight.
He looked malignant and dangerous, and perhaps his mental attitude was
not quite normal. Close study and severe physical toil, coupled with
free indulgence, had weakened him; there were drugs he was addicted to
which affected the brain, and he had long been possessed by one fixed
idea. By degrees it had become a mania, and he would stick at nothing
that might help him to carry his purpose out. When at length he got up
with a shiver to throw wood into the stove as the room grew cold, he
thought he saw how his object could be secured.
A month before Clarke spent the evening thinking about them, Blake and
his comrades camped at sunset in a belt of small spruces near the edge
of the open waste that runs back to the Polar Sea. They were worn and
hungry, for the shortage of provisions had been a constant trouble and
such supplies as they obtained from Indians, who had seldom much to
spare, soon ran out. Once or twice they had feasted royally after
shooting a big bull moose, but the frozen meat they were able to carry
did not last long, and again they were threatened with starvation.
It was a calm evening with a coppery sunset flaring across the snow,
but intensely cold, and though they had wood enough and sat close
beside a fire with their ragged blankets wrapped round them they could
not keep warm. Harding and Benson were openly dejected, but Blake had
somehow preserved his cheerful serenity. As usual after finishing
their scanty supper, they began to talk, for during the day
conversation was limited by the toil of the march. By and by Harding
took a few bits of resin out of a bag.
"No good," he said. "It's common fir gum, such as I could gather a
carload of in the forests of Michigan. Guess there's something wrong
with my theory about the effects of extreme cold." Then he took a
larger lump from a neat leather case. "This is the genuine article,
and it's certainly the product of a coniferous tree, while the fellow I
got it from said it was found in the coldest parts of North America.
Seems to me we have tried all the varieties of the firs, but we're as
far from finding what we want as when we started."
"Hard luck!" Benson remarked gloomily.
Harding broke off a fragment and lighted it. "Notice the smell. It's
characteristic."
"The fellow may have been right on one point," said Blake. "When I was
in India I once got some incense which was brought down in small
quantities from the Himalayas, and, I understood, came from near the
snow-line. The smell was the same, one doesn't forget a curious scent."
"That's so. Talking about it reminds me that I was puzzled by a smell
I thought I ought to know when I brought Clarke out of the tepee. I
remembered what it was not long since and the thing's significant. It
was gasoline."
"They extract it from crude petroleum, don't they."
"Yes; it's called petrol on your side. Clarke's out for coal-oil, and
I guess he's struck it."
"Then he's lucky, but his good fortune doesn't concern us and we have
other things to think about. What are you going to do, now we don't
seem able to find the gum?"
"It's a difficult question," Harding answered in a troubled voice.
"I'd hate to go back, with nothing accomplished and all my dollars
spent, and take to the road again. Marianna's paying for this journey
in many ways, and I haven't the grit to tell her we're poorer than when
I left. She wouldn't complain, but when you have to live on a small
commission that's hard to make, it's the woman who meets the bill."
Blake made a sign of sympathy. He had never shared Harding's
confidence in the success of his search and had joined in it from love
of adventure and a warm liking for his comrade.
"Well," he said, "I've no means except a small allowance which is so
tied up that it's difficult to borrow anything upon it, but it's at
your disposal as far as it goes. Suppose we keep this prospecting up."
"If Clarke's mortgage doesn't stop me, I might raise a few dollars on
my farm," Benson remarked. "I'll throw them in with pleasure, because
I'm pretty deep in your debt."
"Thanks," said Harding. "I'm sorry I can't agree, but I wouldn't take
your offer when you first made it, and I can't do so now my plan's a
failure. Anyway, we're doing some useless talking, because I don't see
how we're to go on prospecting or get south again when we have only
three or four days' food in hand."
He stated an unpleasant truth which the others had characteristically
shirked, for Blake was often careless and Benson had taken the risks of
the journey with frank indifference, though they had the excuse that
after nearly starving once or twice they had succeeded in getting fresh
supplies. Now, however, their hearts sank as they thought of the
expanse of frozen wilderness that lay between them and the settlements.
"Well," said Blake, "there's a Hudson's Bay factory somewhere to the
east of us. I can't tell how far off it is, though it must be a long
way, but if we could reach it, the agent might take us in."
"How are you going to find the place?"
"I don't know, but a Hudson's Bay post is generally fixed where there
are furs to be got, and there will, no doubt, be Indians trapping in
the neighbourhood. We must take our chances of hitting their tracks."
"But we can't make a long march without food," Benson objected.
"The trouble is that we can't stay here without it," Blake rejoined
with a short laugh.
This was undeniable, and neither of his companions answered. They were
unkempt, worn out, and ragged, and had travelled a long way through
fresh snow on short rations in the past week. Ahead of them lay a vast
and almost untrodden desolation; behind them a rugged wilderness which
there seemed no probability of their being able to cross. Lured by the
hope of finding what they sought they had pushed on from point to
point, and now it was too late to return.
By and by Blake got up. "Our best chance is to kill a caribou, and
this is the kind of country they generally haunt. Since the sooner we
look for one the better, I may as well start at once. There'll be a
moon to-night."
He threw off his blanket and picking up a Marlin rifle, which was their
only weapon, strode out of camp, and as he was a good shot and tracker
they let him go. It was getting dark when he left the shelter of the
trees and the cold in the open struck through him like a knife. The
moon had not risen yet and the waste stretched away before him, its
whiteness changed to a soft blue-grey. In the distance scattered
bluffs rose in long dark smears, but there was nothing to indicate
which way he should turn, and he had no reason to believe there was a
caribou near the camp. As a matter of fact, they had found the larger
deer remarkably scarce. He was tired after breaking the trail since
sunrise, and the snow was loose beneath his big net shoes, but he
plodded towards the farthest bluff, feeling that he was largely to
blame for the party's difficulties.
Knowing something of the country, he should have insisted on turning
back when he found they could obtain no dog-teams to transport their
supplies. Occasionally the Hudson's Bay agents and patrols of the
North-West Police made long journeys in Arctic weather, but they were
provided with proper sledges and sufficient preserved food. Indeed,
Blake was astonished that he and his comrades had got so far. He had,
however, given way to Harding, who hardly knew the risks he ran, and
now he supposed must take the consequences. This did not daunt him
badly. After all, life had not much to offer an outcast, and though he
had managed to extract some amusement from it he had nothing to look
forward to. There was no prospect of his making money--his talents
were not commercial--and the hardships he could bear with now would
press on him more heavily as he grew older. These considerations,
however, were too philosophical for him to continue. He was
essentially a man of action and feeling unpleasantly hungry, and he
quickened his pace, knowing that the chance of his getting a shot at a
caribou in the open was small.
The moon had not risen when he reached the bluff, but the snow
reflected a faint light and he noticed a row of small depressions on
its surface. Kneeling down, he examined them, but there had been wind
during the day and the marks were blurred. He felt for a match, but
his fingers were too numbed to open the watertight case, and he
proceeded to measure the distance between the footprints. This was an
unreliable test because a big deer's stride varies with its pace, but
he thought the tracks indicated a caribou. Then he stopped, without
rising, and looked about.
Close in front the trees rose in a shadowy wall against the clear blue
sky; there was no wind, and it was oppressively still. He could see
about a quarter of a mile across the open, but the darkness of the wood
was impenetrable and its silence daunting. The row of tracks was the
only sign of life he had seen for days.
While he listened a faint howl came out of the distance and was
followed by another. After the deep silence, the sound was startling
and there was danger in it, for Blake recognized the cry of the timber
wolves. The big grey brutes would make short work of a lonely man and
his flesh crept as he wondered whether they were on his trail. On the
whole, it did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him, and,
rising to his feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he
set off at his highest speed.
The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath
got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound
behind him, but that somehow increased his uneasiness and now and then
he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-grey
shadow and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with
that the wolves were capable of making. At length it was with keen
satisfaction he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of
a bluff ahead and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into
camp.
"You haven't stayed out long," Benson remarked. "I suppose you saw
nothing."
"I heard wolves," Blake answered drily. "You had better gather wood
enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up
my trail. However, it's a promising sign."
"I guess we could do without it," Harding broke in. "I've no use for
wolves."
"They must live on something," Blake rejoined. "Since they're here,
there are probably moose or caribou in the neighbourhood. I'll have
another try to-morrow."
"But the wolves."
"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyhow, it seems to me we must take
some risks."
This was obvious, and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood
Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.