THE FACTORY
Light snow was driving across the waste before a savage wind when the
party sat at breakfast one morning a fortnight after Blake had shot the
caribou. They had spent the first two days enjoying a badly needed
rest, but the rest of the time had been passed in forced marches which
severely taxed their strength. Part of their way, however, had lain
across open country, for they were near the northern edge of the timber
belt, and the straggling trees, dwarfed and bent by the wind, ran east
and west in a deeply indented line. In some places they boldly
stretched out towards the Pole in long promontories; in others they
fell back in wide bays which Blake, steering by compass, held straight
across and afterwards again plunged into the scrub. Three days were
spent in struggling through the broadest tongue, but as a rule, a few
hours' arduous march brought them out into the open. Even there the
ground was very rough and broken, and they were thankful for the
numerous frozen creeks and lakes which provided an easier road.
Pushing on stubbornly, camping where they could find shelter and wood,
since they could hardly have survived a night spent without a fire in
the open, they had made, by calculation, two hundred miles, and Blake
believed they might by a determined effort reach the Hudson's Bay post
about nightfall. This was necessary since their strength was nearly
exhausted, and provisions had run out, but an Indian trapper whom they
had met two days before had given them directions and landmarks, some
of which they recognized.
Day had broken, but there was little light and Blake, looking out from
behind a slab of rock in the shelter of which a few junipers clung,
thought that three or four miles would be the longest distance that he
could see. This was peculiarly unfortunate, because he understood that
their course led across a wide untimbered stretch, on the opposite side
of which one or two isolated bluffs would indicate the neighbourhood of
the factory. Disastrous consequences might follow the missing of these
woods.
A pannikin of weak tea made from leaves which had already been once or
twice infused stood among the embers, and by and by Benson, who was
dividing the last of the meat, held up a piece.
"I had thought of saving this, but it hardly seems worth while," he
said. "If we make the factory, we'll get a good supper."
"You don't mention what will happen if we miss it," Harding remarked
with grim humour. "Anyhow, that piece of meat won't make much
difference. What do you think, Blake?"
Blake forced a cheerful laugh. "Put it all in; we're going to make the
post; as a matter of fact, we have to. How's the leg this morning?"
"I don't think it's worse than it was last night," Harding answered.
"If I'm careful how I go, it ought to stand another journey."
He made a grimace as he stretched out the limb, which was very sore,
for during the last few days the strain the snowshoe threw on the
muscles had nearly disabled him. Now he knew it would be difficult to
hold out for another journey, but he had grown accustomed to pain and
weariness and hunger. They were, he imagined, the lot of all who
braved the rigours of winter in the northern wilds.
"Well," said Benson, "there's no use in carrying anything that's not
strictly needful and the empty grub-bag may stay behind. Then here's a
pair of worn out moccasins I was keeping as a stand by. I should be
able to get new ones at the factory."
"It's still some distance off," Harding drily reminded him.
"If we don't make it, the chances are that I won't need the things.
But what about your collection of gum?"
Nothing had been said on this point for some time, but Harding's face
wore a curious look as he took up a bag which weighed three or four
pounds.
"Some of the stuff might be used for low-grade varnish, but that's not
what I'm out for. I've been trying to believe that a few of the
specimens might prove better on analysis, but I guess it's a delusion."
With a quick resolute movement he threw the bag into the fire and when
the resin flared up with a thick brown smoke the others regarded him
with silent sympathy. This was the end of the project he had expected
so much from, but it was obvious that he could meet failure with
fortitude. Nothing that would serve any purpose could be said, and
they quietly strapped on their blankets.
There was not much snow when they set off and fortunately the wind blew
behind them, but the white haze narrowed in the prospect and Blake, who
broke the trail, kept his eyes upon the compass. He was not quite sure
of the right line, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was,
at least, going straight. After a few minutes, Harding glanced behind.
Their camping place had vanished, they were out in an open waste, and
he knew that he had started on the last march he was capable of making.
Where it would lead him he could not tell, though the answer to the
question was of vital importance.
For a time he thought of his wife and wondered with keen anxiety what
would become of her if his strength gave way before they reached the
post, but he drove these cares out of his mind. It was dangerous to
harbour them and served no purpose; his part was to struggle on,
swinging the net shoes while he grappled with the pain each step caused
him. He shrank from contemplating the distance yet to be covered; it
seemed vast to him in his weakness, and he felt himself a feeble,
crippled thing. Soft snow and Arctic cold opposed his advance with
malignant force, but his worn-out body still obeyed the spur of his
will, and he roused himself to fight for the life that had some value
to another. He must march, dividing up the distance into short stages
that had less effect upon the imagination; limping forward from the
ice-glazed rock abreast of him to the white hillock which loomed up
dimly where the snow blurred the horizon. Then he would again look
ahead from some patch of scrub to the most prominent elevation that he
could see.
The marks he chose and passed seemed innumerable, but the wilderness
still ran on, pitilessly empty, in front of him. His leg was horribly
painful, he knew he must break down soon, and they had seen nothing of
a stony rise they were looking for. To find it would simplify matters,
because the Indian had made them understand that the bluffs about the
post lay nearly east of it.
Noon passed and they still pressed forward without a halt, for there
was little more than three hours' daylight left, and it was unthinkable
that they should spend the night without food or shelter. The horizon
steadily narrowed as the snow thickened; there was a risk of their
passing the guiding-marks or even the factory.
It was nearly three o'clock when Harding stumbled and falling into the
snow found himself unable to get up until Benson helped him. In his
attempt to rise he further strained his weakened leg and for a moment
or two he leaned on his companion, his face contorted with pain.
"The fall seems to have hurt you," Benson said sympathetically.
"I'll have to go on," Harding gasped and, setting his teeth, strode
forward, made a few paces with horrible pain, and then sank down on his
knees.
The others stopped in consternation and Blake said, "If I've kept the
right line, we can't be far from the factory."
"I'm played out," said Harding. "You'll have to leave me here. If you
make the post, you can come back with a sledge."
"No," Blake answered shortly. "How are we to find you with our trail
drifting up? Besides, you'd be frozen in a few hours. If you can't
walk, you'll have to be carried. Get hold of him, Benson."
Benson lifted him to his feet, Blake seized his arm, and, both
supporting him, they resumed the march. Leaning on them heavily,
Harding was dragged along, and they silenced the feeble protests he
made now and then.
"Stop talking that rot! We see this out together," Blake told him
roughly.
None of them had much doubt as to what the end would be, but they
stubbornly held on. Nothing further was said; Blake and Benson's
pinched faces were set and stern and Harding's drawn up in a ghastly
fashion by suffering. Still, their overtaxed muscles somehow obeyed
the relentless call on them.
At length, when the light had almost gone, Benson stepped into a slight
depression that slanted across their path.
"Hold on!" he cried hoarsely. "Look at this!"
Blake stooped while Harding, swaying awkwardly with bent leg, held on
to him. The hollow was small, a smooth groove of slightly lower level
than the rest of the snow.
"A sledge trail!" he said in an exultant voice. "Drifted up a bit, but
they've been hauling lumber over it and that means a good deal to us."
He indicated a shallow furrow a foot or two outside the groove.
"That's been made by the butt of a trailing log. The Indian said there
were bluffs near the post and they wouldn't haul their cordwood farther
than necessary."
Then they were silent for a few moments, overcome by relief. They had
now a guide to shelter and safety, but when they had gathered breath
Blake steadied Harding, who found standing difficult, with his arm.
"We must make a move and hustle all we can," he said. "It will be dark
in half an hour and the snow won't take long in filling up the trail."
The risk of missing the factory, which might be close at hand, was not
to be faced, and they pulled themselves together for a last effort;
Blake and Benson breathing hard as they dragged Harding along. The
light was rapidly going, now they had changed their course the snow
lashed their faces, making it difficult to see, and they plodded
forward with lowered heads and eyes fixed on the guiding-line. It grew
faint in places and vanished altogether after a while. Then they
stopped in dismay, and Blake went down upon his knees scraping with
ragged mittens in the snow.
"I can't see which way it runs, but it certainly doesn't end here," he
said. "Go ahead and look for it, Benson, but don't get out of call."
Benson moved forward and when he faded into the cloud of driving flakes
those he left behind were conscious of a keen uneasiness. They could
only see a few yards, it was blowing fresh and the wind might carry
their voices away, while if this happened the chances were against
their comrade's being able to rejoin them. By and by Blake shouted and
the answer was reassuring. They waited for a time and then when they
cried out a hail came back very faintly: "Nothing yet!"
"Keep closer!" Blake shouted, but it seemed that Benson did not hear
him, for there was no reply.
"Hadn't you better go after him?" Harding suggested.
"No," said Blake shortly. "It would make things worse to scatter." He
raised his voice. "Come back before your tracks fill up."
The silence that followed filled them with alarm, but while they
listened in strained suspense a minute or two later a faint call came
out of the snow. The words were indistinguishable, but the voice had
an exultant note in it, and Blake said with deep relief, "He has found
the trail."
It was difficult to see the print of Benson's shoes and Harding could
not move a step alone, but they called out at intervals as Blake slowly
helped him along, and at length a shadowy object loomed in front of
them. As they came up Benson pointed to a slight depression.
"We can follow it if it gets no fainter, but there's no time to lose,"
he said. "It might be safer if I went first and kept my eye on the
trail."
He shuffled forward with lowered head while Blake came behind, helping
Harding as best he could, and all three long remembered the next half
hour. Once or twice they lost the trail and were seized with despair,
but searching anxiously they found it again. At length a pale, elusive
light appeared amidst the snow ahead and they saw it grow clearer with
keen satisfaction. When it had changed to a strong yellow glow they
passed a broken white barrier which Blake supposed was a ruined
stockade, and the hazy mass of a building showed against the snow.
Then there was a loud barking of dogs, and while they sought for the
door a stream of light suddenly shone out with a man's dark figure in
the midst of it.
Next minute they entered the house and Harding lurching forward across
the floor of a large room, clutched at a table and then fell with a
crash into a chair. After the extreme cold outside, the air was
suffocatingly hot and, overcome by the change and pain, he leaned back
with flushed face and half closed eyes. His companions stood still,
with the snow thick upon their ragged furs, and the other man shut the
door before he turned to them.
"A rough night," he said calmly. "Ye might as weel sit down. Where do
ye hail from?"
Blake laughed as he found a seat. He imagined that their appearance
must have been somewhat startling, but he knew it takes a good deal to
disturb the equanimity of a Hudson's Bay Scot.
"From Sweetwater, but we have been up in the timber belt since winter
set in. Now we have run out of provisions and my partner's lamed by
snowshoe trouble."
"Ay," said the other, "I suspected something o' the kind. But maybe
ye'll be wanting supper?"
"I believe, if we were put to it, we could eat half a caribou," Benson
told him with a grin.
"It's no to be had," the Scot answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "I
can give ye a good thick bannock and some whitefish. Our stores are no
so plentiful the now."
They took off their furs and glanced about the place while their host
was busy at the stove. The room was large, its walls of narrow logs
chinked with clay and moss. Guns and steel traps hung upon them, the
floor was made of uneven boards which had obviously been split in the
nearest bluff, and the furniture was of the simplest and rudest
description. It had, however, an air of supreme comfort to the
famishing newcomers, and after the first few minutes they found it
delightfully warm. They ate the food given them ravenously and
afterwards the agent brought Harding some warm water and examined his
leg.
"Ye'll no walk far for a while I'm thinking," he remarked. "Rest it on
the chair here and sit ye still."
Harding was glad to comply and lighting their pipes they began to talk.
Their host, who told them his name was Robertson, was a rather
hard-featured man of middle age.
"I'm all my lone; my clerk's away with the breeds at the Swan lake," he
said. "Where are ye making for?"
"For the south," said Blake. "We came here for shelter, badly tired,
and want to hire a dog team and a half-breed guide if possible, as soon
as my partner's fit to travel. Then we want provisions."
"I'm afraid I cannot supply ye. Our stores are low--we got few fish
and caribou the year, and we have not a team to spare."
"Well," said Benson, "I don't suppose you'll turn us out, and we'd be
glad to pay for our accommodation. We have no wish to take the trail
again without food or transport."
Robertson looked thoughtful. "Ye might wait a week or two; and then
we'll maybe see better what can be done."
He asked them a few questions about their journey, and by and by
Harding took the piece of gum from its case.
"I guess you have seen nothing like this round here?"
"No," said Robertson, who examined it carefully. "I have made it my
business to study the natural products o' the district, and it's my
opinion ye'll find no gum of this kind in the northern timber belt."
"I expect you're right. Leaving furs out, if the country's rich in
anything, it's probably minerals."
"There's copper and some silver, but I've seen no ore that would pay
for working when ye consider the transport."
"I don't suppose you're anxious to encourage prospecting," Benson
suggested.
Robertson smiled. "If there was a rich strike, we would no object.
We're here to trade, and supplying miners is no quite so chancy as
dealing in furs; but to have a crowd from the settlements disturbing
our preserves and going away after finding nothing of value would not
suit us. Still I'm thinking, it's no likely; the distance and the
winter will keep them out."
"Did you ever see signs of oil?"
"No here; there's petroleum three hundred miles south, but no enough,
in my opinion, to pay for driving wells. Onyway, the two prospecting
parties that once came up didna come back again."
He left them presently, and when they heard him moving about an
adjoining room, Harding said, "We'll stay here for a time and then look
for that petroleum on our way to the settlements."
Blake, who agreed, thought this determination was characteristic of his
comrade. Harding's project had failed, but instead of being crushed by
disappointment, he was already considering another. While they talked
about it Robertson returned, and shortly afterwards they went to sleep.
CHAFFER XXV
THE BACK TRAIL
Blake and his friends spent three weeks at the Hudson's Bay post, and
throughout the first fortnight an icy wind hurled the snow against the
quivering building. It was dangerous to venture as far as a
neighbouring bluff where fuel had been cut, and one evening Benson and
the agent, who were hauling cordwood home, narrowly escaped from death
in the suddenly freshening storm. None of the half-breeds could reach
the factory and Robertson confessed to some anxiety about them; there
was little that could be done, and they spent the dreary days lounging
about the red-hot stove, and listening to the roar of the gale. In the
long evenings Robertson told them grim stories of the North.
Then there came a week of still, clear weather with intense frost, and
when several of the trappers arrived Robertson suggested that his
guests had better accompany a man who was going some distance south
with a dog team. He could, however, only spare them a scanty supply of
food, and they knew that a long forced march lay before them when they
had left their guide.
Day was breaking when the dogs were harnessed to the sledge, and
Harding and his companions, shivering in their furs, felt a strong
reluctance to leave the factory. It was a rude place and very lonely,
but they had enjoyed warmth and food there, and their physical nature
shrank from the toil and bitter cold. None of them wished to linger in
the North, and Harding least of all, but it was daunting to contemplate
the distance that lay between them and the settlements. Strong effort
and stern endurance would be required of them before they rested beside
a hearth again.
There was no wind, the smoke went straight up and then, spreading out,
hung above the roof in a motionless cloud; the snow had a strange
ghostly glimmer in the creeping light, and the cold bit to the bone.
It was with a pang they bade their host farewell, and followed the
half-breed, who ran down the slope from the door after his team.
Robertson was going back to sit, warm and well-fed, by his stove, but
they could not tell what hardships awaited them.
Their depression, however, vanished after a time. The snow was good
for travelling, the dogs trotted fast, and the half-breed grunted
approval of their speed as he pointed to landmarks that proved it when
they stopped at noon. After that they held on until dark, and made
camp among a few junipers in the shelter of a rock. All had gone well
the first day, Harding's leg no longer troubled him, and there was
comfort in travelling light with their packs upon the sledge. The
journey began to look less formidable, and gathering close round the
fire they ate their supper cheerfully while the dogs fought over the
scraps of frozen fish. Harding, however, had some misgivings about
their ability to keep the pace up; he thought that in a day or two it
would tell on the white men.
Nothing disturbed their sleep, which was sound, for the cold has less
effect on the man who is fresh and properly fed. Breakfast was quickly
dispatched, and after a short struggle with the dogs they set out
again. It was another good day, and they travelled fast, over a
rolling tableland on which the snow smoothed out the inequalities among
the rocks. Bright sunshine streamed down on them, the sledge ran
easily up the slopes and down the hollows, and looking back when they
nooned Harding noticed the straightness of their course. Picked out in
delicate shades of blue against the unbroken white surface surrounding
it, the sledge trail ran back with scarcely a waver to the crest of a
rise two miles away. This was not how they had journeyed north, with
the icy wind in their faces, laboriously struggling round broken ridges
and through tangled woods. Harding was a sanguine man, but experience
warned him to prepare for much less favourable conditions. It was not
often the wilderness showed a smiling face.
Still, the fine weather held and they were deep in the timber when they
parted from their guide on a frozen stream which he must follow while
they pushed south across a rugged country. He was not a companionable
person, and spoke only a few words of barbarous French, but they were
sorry to see the last of him when he left them with a friendly
farewell. He had brought them speedily a long distance on their way,
but they must now trust to the compass and their own resources, while
the loads they strapped on were unpleasantly heavy. Before this task
was finished dogs and driver had vanished up the white riband of the
stream, and they felt lonely as they stood in the bottom of the gorge
with steep rocks and dark pines hemming them in. Blake glanced at the
high bank with a rueful smile.
"There are advantages in having a good guide, and we hadn't to face a
climb like that all the way," he said. "Anyhow, we had better get up."
It cost them some labour and, after reaching the summit they stopped to
look for the easiest road. Ahead, as far as they could see, small,
ragged pines grew among the rocks, and breaks in the uneven surface
hinted at troublesome ravines.
"It looks rough," said Benson. "There's rather a high ridge yonder.
It might save trouble to work round its end. What do you think?"
"When I'm not sure," said Harding, "I mean to go straight south."
Benson gave him a sympathetic nod. "One can understand that; you have
better reasons for getting back than the rest of us, though I've no
particular wish to loiter up here. Break the trail, Blake; due south
by compass!"
They plunged deeper into the broken belt, clambering down ravines,
crossing frozen lakes and snowy creeks. Indeed, they were thankful
when a strip of level surface indicated water, for the toil of getting
through the timber was heavy. After two days of travel there was a
yellow sunset, and the snow gleamed in the lurid light with an ominous
brilliance, while as they made their fire a moaning wind got up. These
things presaged a change in the weather, and they were rather silent
over the evening meal. They missed the half-breed and the snarling
dogs, while it looked as if the good fortune that had so far attended
them was coming to an end.
Next morning there was a low, brooding sky, and at noon snow began to
fall, but they kept on until evening over very rough ground and then
held a council round the fire.
"The situation requires some thought," Blake remarked. "First of all,
our provisions won't carry us through the timber belt. Now the
shortest course to the prairie, where the going will be easier, is due
south, but after we get there we'll have a long march to the
settlements. I'd partly counted on our killing a caribou or perhaps a
moose, but so far we've seen no tracks."
"There must be some smaller beasts that the Indians eat," Benson
suggested.
"None of us knows where to look for them, and we haven't much time to
spare for hunting."
"That's so," Harding agreed. "What's your plan?"
"I'm in favour of heading south-west. It may mean an extra hundred
miles, or more, but it would bring us nearer the Stony village, and
afterwards the logging camp on the edge of the timber, where we might
get supplies."
"It's understood that the Indians are often half starved in winter,"
Benson observed. "For all that, they might have had good luck, and
anyhow we couldn't cross the prairie with an empty grub-sack. My
vote's for striking off to the west."
Harding concurred, though as his leg had threatened further trouble
during the last day or two, he would have preferred the shorter route.
Then Blake asked him: "What about the petroleum?"
"We can't stop to look for it unless we can lay in a good stock of
food, and I don't suppose we could do much prospecting with the snow
upon the ground." He paused a moment with a thoughtful air. "When we
reach the settlement I must go home, but if the dollars can be raised,
I'll be back as soon as the thaw comes to try for the oil. Clarke's an
unusually smart man, and there's no doubt he's on the trail."
"We'll raise enough money somehow," Benson told him, and Blake
signified his agreement with a nod. Then they dropped into casual talk
which lasted until they went to sleep.
When dawn came it was snowing hard, and for a week they made poor
progress with a bitter gale driving the flakes in their faces, while
rations were cut down as the distance covered daily steadily lessened.
Harding's leg was getting sore, but he did not mean to speak of this
unless it was necessary. They were, however, approaching the
neighbourhood of the Indian village and Blake began to speculate upon
the probability of their finding its inhabitants at home. He
understood that the Stonies wandered about, and realized with
uneasiness that it would be singularly unfortunate if they were away on
a hunting trip.
At length, after laboriously climbing the rough but gently rising slope
of a long divide all one blustering day, they camped on a high
tableland, and lay awake, too cold to sleep, beside a sulky, greenwood
fire. In the morning it was difficult to get upon their feet, but as
the light grew clearer, the prospect they looked down upon seized their
attention. The hill summits were wrapped in leaden cloud, but a valley
opened up below. It was wider and deeper than any they had met with
since leaving the factory, the bottom looked unusually level, and it
ran roughly south.
They gazed at it in silence for a time; and then Harding said, "I've a
notion that this is the valley where Blake fell sick, and it's going to
straighten out things for us if I'm right."
"That's so," Benson agreed. "We would be sure of striking the Stony
village, and we could afterwards follow the low ground right down to
the river. With the muskegs frozen solid, it ought to make an easy
road."
Blake was conscious of keen satisfaction, but there was still a doubt.
"We'll know more about it after another march," he said.
No snow fell that morning, and as their packs were ominously light they
made good speed across the hill benches and down a ravine where they
scrambled among the boulders of a frozen creek. It was a grey day
without the rise in temperature that often accompanies cloudiness, and
the light was strangely dim. Rocks and pines melted into one another
at a short distance, and leaden haze obscured the lower valley. Blake
was, however, becoming sure it was the one they had travelled up and,
dispensing with the usual noon halt, they pushed on as fast as
possible. All were anxious to set their doubts at rest, for there was
now a prospect of obtaining food and shelter in a few days, but they
recognized no landmarks, and with the approach of evening the frost
grew very keen. The haze drew in closer, the scattered pines they
passed wailed drearily in a rising wind, and the men were tired, but
they could see no suitable camping place and held on, looking for
thicker timber.
It was getting dark when a belt of trees stretched across the valley,
and they were thinking of stopping, when Benson, who led the way, cried
out.
"What is it?" Harding asked.
Benson hesitated. "Well," he said, "the thing doesn't seem probable,
but I believe I saw a light. Anyway, it's gone."
They stopped, gazing eagerly into the gloom. A light meant that there
were men not far off, and after the grim desolation they had travelled
through all were conscious of a longing for human society. Besides,
the strangers would, no doubt, have something to eat and might be
cooking a plentiful supper. There was, however, nothing to be seen
until Blake moved a few yards to one side. Then he turned to Benson
with a cheerful laugh.
"You were right; I can see a glimmer about a mile ahead. I wonder who
the fellows are, though that's not important."
They set off as fast as they could go, though travelling among the
fallen branches and slanting trees was difficult in the dark. Now and
then they lost their beacon, but the brightening glow shone out again
and when it was visible Blake watched it with surprise. It was low,
and he thought hardly large enough for a fire, besides which it had a
curious irregular flicker. Drawing nearer, they dipped into a hollow
where they could only distinguish a faint brightness beyond the rising
ground ahead which they eagerly ascended. Reaching the summit, they
saw the light plainly, but it was very small, and there were no figures
outlined against it. Benson shouted, and all three felt a shock of
disappointment when he got no answer.
He ran as fast as his snowshoes would let him, smashing through brush,
floundering over snowy stones, with Blake and Harding stumbling, short
of breath, behind; and then stopped with a hoarse cry close to the
light. There was nobody about, and the blaze sprang up mysteriously
from the frozen ground.
"A blower of natural gas," said Harding in an excited tone. "In a
sense, we've had our run for nothing, but this may be worth a good deal
more than your supper."
"If I had the option, I'd trade all the natural gas in Canada for a
thick, red moose steak, and a warm place to sleep in," Benson savagely
rejoined. "Anyhow, it will help us to light our fire, and we have a
bit of whitefish and a few hard bannocks left."
Blake shared his comrade's disappointment. He was tired and hungry,
and felt irritated by Harding's satisfaction. For all that, he chopped
wood and made camp, and their frugal supper was half eaten before he
turned to the American.
"Now," he said, "you may as well tell us what you think about this gas."
"First of all," Harding answered good-humouredly, "it indicates that
there's oil somewhere about; the two generally go together. Anyhow, if
there were only gas, it would be worth exploiting so long as we found
enough of it, but judging by the pressure there's not much here."
"What would you do with gas in this wilderness?"
"In due time, I or somebody else would build a town. Fuel's power and
if you could get it cheap I expect you'd find minerals that would pay
for working. Men with money in Montreal and New York are looking for
openings like this, and no place is too remote to build a railroad to
if you can ensure freight."
"You're the most sanguine man I ever met," Blake said, grinning. "Take
care your optimism doesn't ruin you."
"I wonder," Harding continued, "whether Clarke knows about this gas,
and on the whole I think it probable. We can't be very far from the
Stony camp, and there's reason to believe he's been prospecting this
district. It's oil he's out for."
"How did the thing get lighted?" Benson asked in an indifferent tone.
Harding smiled as he gave him a sharp glance. He had failed in his
search for the gum and did not expect his companions to share his
enthusiasm over a new plan. They had, however, promised to support
him, and that was enough, for he believed he might yet show them the
way to prosperity.
"Well," he said, "I guess I can't blame you for not feeling very keen,
but that's not the point. I can't answer what you ask, and I believe
our forest wardens are now and then puzzled about how bush fires get
started. We have crossed big belts of burnt trees in a country where
we saw no signs of Indians."
"If this blower has been burning long, the Stonies must have known of
it," Blake remarked. "Isn't it curious that no news of it has reached
the settlements?"
"I'm not sure," Harding rejoined. "They may venerate the thing, and
anyway, they're smart in some respects. They know that where the white
men come their people are rounded up on reserves, and I guess they'd
sooner have the whole country to themselves for trapping and fishing.
Then Clarke may have persuaded them to say nothing."
"It's possible," Blake said thoughtfully. "We'll push on for their
camp first thing to-morrow."