“That’s what I’m sayin’ all the time. Olaffson and he are hidin’ some
place, and I guess they’re spyin’ upon us. How are they going to cross
Lake Peace? They won’t have the gall to face us on the _Carillon_.”
I suggested that, as they had stolen a canoe from Yellow Sands, they
might make away with one of the steam-tugs used at Gull to take out the
lumber scows.
“Takin’ a tug outer Gull ain’t the same trick as stealin’ a canoe from
a nitchi camp. There’s too many folks around, and they might be hanged
for stealin’ hereabouts.”
“I should know that canoe again,” I said, and well I might, for I had
paddled Akshelah in it many a time. “It’s not around here.”
“Pshaw! They’d have broke it up, and used it on the camp fire.
Professional rascals don’t take risks. Look-a-here! We’ve got the
nickels to stand this racket, but after we’ve bought our cornmeal, an’
bacon, an’ dried fruit, an’ a few little tools, an’ paid our passage
across, we won’t have a lot to gamble with. The best we can do is to
move along easy, watchin’ and not worryin’, and if Redpath’s on the
ground when we strike it, there’ll be a fight if he’s awkward. If we
can fix up things so as to work our claims apart, without scrappin’,
that’s our line. If Redpath won’t have that, it’s throw up hands, and
the best partners scoop the pool.”
Then the factor produced a pack of cards, and we played poker, and
after that went to sleep upon our shake-downs.
It was almost dark when we awoke, and took to smoking to pass the
time. Rain was still beating, but the wind had lessened, and a wet
mist hung over the lake. It was cold, and I felt miserable; MacCaskill
looked depressed, and we were both silent. Thus an hour of unutterable
dreariness dragged away.
MacCaskill coughed suddenly, opened the box-stove, spat into it, and
flung away the stub of his cigar.
“Swallowed a bit of leaf,” he growled. “Sets a man ’gainst smokin’ for
a while.” He laughed grimly, and rubbed his hands. “Cheer up, Rupe;
it’s Sunday, lad.”
“What about it?” I asked, for I had never been brought to look upon one
day as different from another, apart from good or foul weather.
“Why, on Sunday evenings I gen’rally get as dolesome as a gibcat.
Mem’ries, I guess, but you ain’t got enough past to make any of them.
When I was away in the bush I kep’ track of the days easy. Whenever a
fit of the megrims came on ’bout lights down, I’d know ’twas Sunday. It
gen’rally worked out right. I come out clean and fresh Monday morning,
but Sunday night I get hipped reg’lar. Say! What’ll you do, if old
man’s notion pans out?”
“Follow your lead,” I said.
I expected the old fellow to laugh, but the dolesome fit was on him,
and he became more surly than ever.
“I went home ’bout eight winters ago,” he said morosely.