"If it were to clear up I wouldn't know how to behave, it would seem
so unnatural," said Kate. "Do you, by any chance, remember what the
sun looks like, Phil?"
"Does the sun ever shine in Saskatchewan anyhow?" I asked with assumed
sarcasm, just to make Kate's big, bonny black eyes flash.
They did flash; but Kate laughed immediately after, as she sat down on
a chair in front of me and cradled her long, thin, spirited dark face
in her palms.
"We have more sunny weather in Saskatchewan than in all the rest of
Canada put together, in an average year," she said, clicking her
strong, white teeth and snapping her eyes at me. "But I can't blame
you for feeling sceptical about it, Phil. If I went to a new country
and it rained every day--all day--all night--after I got there for
three whole weeks I'd think things not lawful to be uttered about the
climate too. So, little cousin, I forgive you. Remember that 'into
each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.' Oh,
if you'd only come to visit me last fall. We had such a bee-yew-tiful
September last year. We were drowned in sunshine. This fall we're
drowned in water. Old settlers tell of a similar visitation in '72,
though they claim even that wasn't quite as bad as this."
I was sitting rather disconsolately by an upper window of Uncle
Kenneth Morrison's log house at Arrow Creek. Below was what in dry
weather--so, at least, I was told--was merely a pretty, grassy little
valley, but which was now a considerable creek of muddy yellow water,
rising daily. Beyond was a cheerless prospect of sodden prairie and
dripping "bluff."
"It would be a golden, mellow land, with purple hazes over the bluffs,
in a normal fall," assured Kate. "Even now if the sun were just to
shine out for a day and a good 'chinook' blow you'd see a surprising
change. I feel like chanting continually that old rhyme I learned in
the first primer,
'Rain, rain, go away,
Come again some other day:
--some other day next summer--
Phil and Katie want to play.'
Philippa, dear girl, don't look so dismal. It's bound to clear up
sometime."
"I wish the 'sometime' would come soon, then," I said, rather
grumpily.
"You know it hasn't really rained for three days," protested Kate.
"It's been damp and horrid and threatening, but it hasn't rained. I
defy you to say that it has actually rained."
"When it's so wet underfoot that you can't stir out without rubber
boots it might as well be wet overhead too," I said, still grumpily.
"I believe you're homesick, girl," said Kate anxiously.
"No, I'm not," I answered, laughing, and feeling ashamed of my
ungraciousness. "Nobody could be homesick with such a jolly good
fellow as you around, Kate. It's only that this weather is getting on
my nerves a bit. I'm fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. If your
chinook doesn't come soon, Kitty, I'll do something quite desperate."
"I feel that way myself," admitted Kate. "Real reckless, Phil. Anyhow,
let's put on our despised rubber boots and sally out for a wade."
"Here's Jim Nash coming on horseback down the trail," I said. "Let's
wait and see if he's got the mail."
We hurried down, Kate humming, "Somewhere the sun is shining," solely,
I believe, because she knew it aggravated me. At any other time I
should probably have thrown a pillow at her, but just now I was too
eager to see if Jim Nash had brought any mail.
I had come from Ontario, the first of September, to visit Uncle
Kenneth Morrison's family. I had been looking forward to the trip for
several years. My cousin Kate and I had always corresponded since they
had "gone west" ten years before; and Kate, who revelled in the
western life, had sung the praises of her adopted land rapturously and
constantly. It was quite a joke on her that, when I did finally come
to visit her, I should have struck the wettest autumn ever recorded in
the history of the west. A wet September in Saskatchewan is no joke,
however. The country was almost "flooded out." The trails soon became
nearly impassable. All our plans for drives and picnics and
inter-neighbour visiting--at that time a neighbour meant a man who
lived at least six miles away--had to be given up. Yet I was not
lonesome, and I enjoyed my visit in spite of everything. Kate was a
host in herself. She was twenty-eight years old--eight years my
senior--but the difference in our ages had never been any barrier to
our friendship. She was a jolly, companionable, philosophical soul,
with a jest for every situation, and a merry solution for every
perplexity. The only fault I had to find with her was her tendency to
make parodies. Kate's parodies were perfectly awful and always got on
my nerves.
She was dreadfully ashamed of the way the Saskatchewan weather was
behaving after all her boasting. She was thin at the best of times,
but now she grew positively scraggy with the worry of it. I am afraid
I took an unholy delight in teasing her, and abused the western
weather even more than was necessary.
Jim Nash--the lank youth who was hired to look after the place during
Uncle Kenneth's absence on a prolonged threshing expedition--had
brought some mail. Kate's share was a letter, postmarked Bothwell, a
rising little town about one hundred and twenty miles from Arrow
Creek. Kate had several friends there, and one of our plans had been
to visit Bothwell and spend a week with them. We had meant to drive,
of course, since there was no other way of getting there, and equally
of course the plan had been abandoned because of the wet weather.
"Mother," exclaimed Kate, "Mary Taylor is going to be married in a
fortnight's time! She wants Phil and me to go up to Bothwell for the
wedding."
"What a pity you can't go," remarked Aunt Jennie placidly. Aunt Jennie
was always a placid little soul, with a most enviable knack of taking
everything easy. Nothing ever worried her greatly, and when she had
decided that a thing was inevitable it did not worry her at all.
"But I am going," cried Kate. "I will go--I must go. I positively
cannot let Mary Taylor--my own beloved Molly--go and perpetrate
matrimony without my being on hand to see it. Yes, I'm going--and if
Phil has a spark of the old Blair pioneer spirit in her, she'll go
too."
"Of course I'll go if you go," I said.
Aunt Jennie did not think we were in earnest, so she merely laughed at
first, and said, "How do you propose to go? Fly--or swim?"
"We'll drive, as usual," said Kate calmly. "I'd feel more at home in
that way of locomotion. We'll borrow Jim Nash's father's democrat, and
take the ponies. We'll put on old clothes, raincoats, rubber caps and
boots, and we'll start tomorrow. In an ordinary time we could easily
do it in six days or less, but this fall we'll probably need ten or
twelve."
"You don't really mean to go, Kate!" said Aunt Jennie, beginning to
perceive that Kate did mean it.
"I do," said Kate, in a convincing tone.
Aunt Jennie felt a little worried--as much as she could feel worried
over anything--and she tried her best to dissuade Kate, although she
plainly did not have much hope of doing so, having had enough
experience with her determined daughter to realize that when Kate said
she was going to do a thing she did it. It was rather funny to listen
to the ensuing dialogue.
"Kate, you can't do it. It's a crazy idea! The road is one hundred and
twenty miles long."
"I've driven it twice, Mother."
"Yes, but not in such a wet year. The trail is impassable in places."
"Oh, there are always plenty of dry spots to be found if you only look
hard for them."
"But you don't know where to look for them, and goodness knows what
you'll get into while you are looking."
"We'll call at the M.P. barracks and get an Indian to guide us.
Indians always know the dry spots."
"The stage driver has decided not to make another trip till the
October frosts set in."
"But he always has such a heavy load. It will be quite different with
us, you must remember. We'll travel light--just our provisions and a
valise containing our wedding garments."
"What will you do if you get mired twenty miles from a human being?"
"But we won't. I'm a good driver and I haven't nerves--but I have
nerve. Besides, you forget that we'll have an Indian guide with us."
"There was a company of Hudson Bay freighters ambushed and killed
along that very trail by Blackfoot Indians in 1839," said Aunt Jennie
dolefully.
"Fifty years ago! Their ghosts must have ceased to haunt it by this
time," said Kate flippantly.
"Well, you'll get wet through and catch your deaths of cold,"
protested Aunt Jennie.
"No fear of it. We'll be cased in rubber. And we'll borrow a good
tight tent from the M.P.s. Besides, I'm sure it's not going to rain
much more. I know the signs."
"At least wait for a day or two until you're sure that it has cleared
up," implored Aunt Jennie.
"Which being interpreted means, 'Wait for a day or two, because then
your father may be home and he'll squelch your mad expedition,'" said
Kate, with a sly glance at me. "No, no, my mother, your wiles are in
vain. We'll hit the trail tomorrow at sunrise. So just be good,
darling, and help us pack up some provisions. I'll send Jim for his
father's democrat."
Aunt Jennie resigned herself to the inevitable and betook herself to
the pantry with the air of a woman who washes her hands of the
consequences. I flew upstairs to pack some finery. I was wild with
delight over the proposed outing. I did not realize what it actually
meant, and I had perfect confidence in Kate, who was an expert driver,
an experienced camper out, and an excellent manager. If I could have
seen what was ahead of us I would certainly not have been quite so
jubilant and reckless, but I would have gone all the same. I would not
miss the laughter-provoking memories of that trip out of my life for
anything. I have always been glad I went.
* * * * *
We left at sunrise the next morning; there was a sunrise that morning,
for a wonder. The sun came up in a pinky-saffron sky and promised us a
fine day. Aunt Jennie bade us goodbye and, estimable woman that she
was, did not trouble us with advice or forebodings.
Mr. Nash had sent over his "democrat," a light wagon with springs; and
Kate's "shaganappies," Tom and Jerry--native ponies, the toughest
horse flesh to be found in the world--were hitched to it. Kate and I
were properly accoutred for our trip and looked--but I try to forget
how we looked! The memory is not flattering.
We drove off in the gayest of spirits. Our difficulties began at the
start, for we had to drive a mile before we could find a place to ford
the creek. Beyond that, however, we had a passable trail for three
miles to the little outpost of the Mounted Police, where five or six
men were stationed on detachment duty.
"Sergeant Baker is a friend of mine," said Kate. "He'll be only too
glad to lend me all we require."
The sergeant was a friend of Kate's, but he looked at her as if he
thought she was crazy when she told him where we were going.
"You'd better take a canoe instead of a team," he said sarcastically.
"I've a good notion to arrest you both as horse thieves and prevent
you from going on such a mad expedition."
"You know nothing short of arrest would stop me," said Kate, nodding
at him with laughing eyes, "and you really won't go to such an
extreme, I know. So please be nice, even if it comes hard, and lend us
some things. I've come a-borrying."
"I won't lend you a thing," declared the sergeant. "I won't aid and
abet you in any such freak as this. Go home now, like a good girl."
"I'm not going home," said Kate. "I'm not a 'good girl'--I'm a wicked
old maid, and I'm going to Bothwell. If you won't lend us a tent we'll
go without--and sleep in the open--and our deaths will lie forever at
your door. I'll come back and haunt you, if you don't lend me a tent.
I'll camp on your very threshold and you won't be able to go out of
your door without falling over my spook."
"I've more fear of being accountable for your death if I do let you
go," said Sergeant Baker dubiously. "However, I see that nothing but
physical force will prevent you. What do you want?"
"I want," said Kate, "a cavalry tent, a sheet-iron camp stove, and a
good Indian guide--old Peter Crow for choice. He's such a
respectable-looking old fellow, and his wife often works for us."
The sergeant gave us the tent and stove, and sent a man down to the
Reserve for Peter Crow. Moreover, he vindicated his title of friend by
making us take a dozen prairie chickens and a large ham--besides any
quantity of advice. We didn't want the advice but we hugely welcomed
the ham. Presently our guide appeared--quite a spruce old Indian, as
Indians go. I had never been able to shake off my childhood conviction
that an Indian was a fearsome creature, hopelessly addicted to
scalping knives and tomahawks, and I secretly felt quite horrified at
the idea of two defenceless females starting out on a lonely prairie
trail with an Indian for guide. Even old Peter Crow's meek appearance
did not quite reassure me; but I kept my qualms to myself, for I knew
Kate would only laugh at me.
It was ten when we finally got away from the M.P. outpost. Sergeant
Baker bade us goodbye in a tone which seemed to intimate that he never
expected to see either of us again. What with his dismal predictions
and my secret horror of Indians, I was beginning to feel anything but
jubilant over our expedition. Kate, however, was as blithe and buoyant
as usual. She knew no fear, being one of those enviable folk who can
because they think they can. One hundred and twenty miles of
half-flooded prairie trail--camping out at night in the solitude of
the Great Lone Land--rain--muskegs--Indian guides--nothing had any
terror for my dauntless cousin.
For the next three hours, however, we got on beautifully. The trail
was fair, though somewhat greasy; the sun shone, though with a
somewhat watery gleam, through the mists; and Peter Crow, coiled up on
the folded tent behind the seat, slept soundly and snored
mellifluously. That snore reassured me greatly. I had never thought of
Indians as snoring. Surely one who did couldn't be dreaded greatly.
We stopped at one o'clock and had a cold lunch, sitting in our wagon,
while Peter Crow wakened up and watered the ponies. We did not get on
so well in the afternoon. The trail descended into low-lying ground
where travelling was very difficult. I had to admit old Peter Crow
was quite invaluable. He knew, as Kate had foretold, "all the dry
spots"--that is to say, spots less wet than others. But, even so, we
had to make so many detours that by sunset we were little more than
six miles distant from our noon halting place.
"We'd better set camp now, before it gets any darker," said Kate.
"There's a capital spot over there, by that bluff of dead poplar. The
ground seems pretty dry too. Peter, cut us a set of tent poles and
kindle a fire."
"Want my dollar first," said old Peter stolidly.
We had agreed to pay him a dollar a day for the trip, but none of the
money was to be paid until we got to Bothwell. Kate told him this. But
all the reply she got was a stolid, "Want dollar. No make fire without
dollar."
We were getting cold and it was getting dark, so finally Kate, under
the law of necessity, paid him his dollar. Then he carried out our
orders at his own sweet leisure. In course of time he got a fire
lighted, and while we cooked supper he set up the tent and prepared
our beds, by cutting piles of brush and covering them with rugs.
Kate and I had a hilarious time cooking that supper. It was my first
experience of camping out and, as I had become pretty well convinced
that Peter Crow was not the typical Indian of old romance, I enjoyed
it all hugely. But we were both very tired, and as soon as we had
finished eating we betook ourselves to our tent and found our brush
beds much more comfortable than I had expected. Old Peter coiled up on
his blanket outside by the fire, and the great silence of a windless
prairie enwrapped us. In a few minutes we were sound asleep and never
wakened until seven o'clock.
* * * * *
When we arose and lifted the flap of the tent we saw a peculiar sight.
The little elevation on which we had pitched our camp seemed to be an
island in a vast sea of white mist, dotted here and there with other
islands. On every hand to the far horizon stretched that strange,
phantasmal ocean, and a hazy sun looked over the shifting billows. I
had never seen a western mist before and I thought it extremely
beautiful; but Kate, to whom it was no novelty, was more cumbered with
breakfast cares.
"I'm ravenous," she said, as she bustled about among our stores.
"Camping out always does give one such an appetite. Aren't you hungry,
Phil?"
"Comfortably so," I admitted. "But where are our ponies? And where is
Peter Crow?"
"Probably the ponies have strayed away looking for pea vines. They
love and adore pea vines," said Kate, stirring up the fire from under
its blanket of grey ashes. "And Peter Crow has gone to look for them,
good old fellow. When you do get a conscientious Indian there is no
better guide in the world, but they are rare. Now, Philippa-girl, just
pry out the sergeant's ham and shave a few slices off it for our
breakfast. Some savoury fried ham always goes well on the prairie."
I went for the ham but could not find it. A thorough search among our
effects revealed it not.
"Kate, I can't find the ham," I called out. "It must have fallen out
somewhere on the trail."
Kate ceased wrestling with the fire and came to help in the search for
the missing delicacy.
"It couldn't have fallen out," she said incredulously. "That is
impossible. The tent was fastened securely over everything. Nothing
could have jolted out."
"Well, then, where is the ham?" I said.
That question was unanswerable, as Kate discovered after another
thorough search. The ham was gone--that much was certain.
"I believe Peter Crow has levanted with the ham," I said decidedly.
"I don't believe Peter Crow could be so dishonest," said Kate rather
shortly. "His wife has worked for us for years, and she's as honest as
the sunlight."
"Honesty isn't catching," I remarked, but I said nothing more just
then, for Kate's black eyes were snapping.
"Anyway, we can't have ham for breakfast," she said, twitching out the
frying pan rather viciously. "We'll have to put up with canned
chicken--if the cans haven't disappeared too."
They hadn't, and we soon produced a very tolerable breakfast. But
neither of us had much appetite.
"Do you suppose Peter Crow has taken the horses as well as the ham?" I
asked.
"No," gloomily responded Kate, who had evidently been compelled by the
logic of hard facts to believe in Peter's guilt, "he would hardly dare
to do that, because he couldn't dispose of them without being found
out. They've probably strayed away on their own account when Peter
decamped. As soon as this mist lifts I'll have a look for them. They
can't have gone far."
We were spared this trouble, however, for when we were washing up the
dishes the ponies returned of their own accord. Kate caught them and
harnessed them.
"Are we going on?" I asked mildly.
"Of course we're going on," said Kate, her good humour entirely
restored. "Do you suppose I'm going to be turned from my purpose by
the defection of a miserable old Indian? Oh, wait till he comes round
in the winter, begging."
"Will he come?" I asked.
"Will he? Yes, my dear, he will--with a smooth, plausible story to
account for his desertion and a bland denial of ever having seen our
ham. I shall know how to deal with him then, the old scamp."
"When you do get a conscientious Indian there's no better guide in the
world, but they are rare," I remarked with a far-away look.
Kate laughed.
"Don't rub it in, Phil. Come, help me to break camp. We'll have to
work harder and hustle for ourselves, that's all."
"But is it safe to go on without a guide?" I inquired dubiously. I
hadn't felt very safe with Peter Crow, but I felt still more unsafe
without him.
"Safe! Of course, it's safe--perfectly safe. I know the trail, and
we'll just have to drive around the wet places. It would have been
easier with Peter, and we'd have had less work to do, but we'll get
along well enough without him. I don't think I'd have bothered with
him at all, only I wanted to set Mother's mind at rest. She'll never
know he isn't with us till the trip is over, so that is all right.
We're going to have a glorious day. But, oh, for our lost ham! 'The
Ham That Was Never Eaten.' There's a subject for a poem, Phil. You
write one when we get back to civilization. Methinks I can sniff the
savoury odour of that lost ham on all the prairie breezes."
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these--it might have been,"