I
Because the doctor had forbidden Jack Cornwall to read a single line
except by daylight, the boy was spending a series of most miserable
evenings. No books, no stories, no studies, for a severe cold had left
him with an inflammation of the eyes; and, just as he was careering with
all sorts of honors through the high school, he was ordered by the great
oculist to drop everything, leave school, and--"loaf."
Young Cornwall hated "loafing." His brain and body loved activity. He
would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours
that had been forced on him to endure. To-night, particularly, time hung
very heavy on his hands. He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from
the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding
it most difficult. His father read the newspaper, his mother mended
stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra.
Presently Jack's nerves seemed to break. He sprang up impetuously, then,
controlling himself, sat down again, and said: "Oh, it is brutal, this
sitting around! I don't believe I can stand it much longer. I wish I
were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work
with my hands, if I mustn't use my eyes."
His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it _was_ hard. His
father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then,
extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said:
"John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull?
Here's news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you
in connection with it. Here's the chance of your life--the very thing
you want--a letter from your Uncle Matt. He's going up North, to the end
of civilization. Started at his old business of fur-trading again. He
says here"--and Mr. Cornwall referred to the letter, reading--"'But
there's something else taking me north besides otter and mink skins.
I'll tell it to you when I return, but just now the secret must be mine
alone. I only wish I had some decent chap to go with me; but in this
chasing-for-the-dollar age, no one seems to be able to leave their
miserable little shops for mere adventures into the wilds. I suppose
I'll have to hunt up some strapping boy as a partner, but the trouble is
to get one who is strong enough to work and starve alternately; one who
will sleep in the open, live on rabbits and beans, let his clothes dry
on him when they get wet, and who will keep his mouth shut and his ears
open. They aren't making young men like that now, I'm afraid.'"
"Yes, they are, father! Yes, they are!" cried Jack, springing to his
feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Do you think Uncle Matt will
take me?"
His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye. "You certainly
have great shoulders, my son. Why, I never really noticed them before.
You're built like an ox! How old are you?"
"Seventeen next month, and I'm not only built like an ox, I'm as strong
as one, and--I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open."
"Yes, you can do that if you are your mother's son," said his father,
glancing slyly at his mother. Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall
was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard
everything but who repeated nothing.
That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following
day, came the reply:
"Sure! Will take Jack gladly. Expect me Saturday. Be ready to start
Tuesday. MATT."
When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would
be. In the first place, he was not like one's uncle. Jack had forgotten
that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was
only six years old when she was married, and had acted "page" at the
wedding. So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a
big brother than an uncle. His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of
a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from
each temple. His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose
determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack's own mother's, but
his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life. There was
something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders,
that made Jack love him at sight.
Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else. Years of exploring the wilds
had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that
he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life,
which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible. His suit of heavy,
rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for
a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having
ever seen him wear a hat. A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very
back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.
"No, don't call me 'uncle,'" he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the
respect the relationship demanded. "You and I are just going to be pals.
All hands up north call me Larry--I suppose it's short for Larson--so
it's Larry to you, isn't it, old man?"
"Yes, Larry," replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this
extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, "and I think we will be pals,
all right," he continued.
"No 'think' about it; it's a dead sure fact!" asserted Matt Larson,
gripping Jack's hand with those splendid, sturdy fingers of his. Then,
turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle
of the "up-norther," he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped
russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said: "That's yours, boy,
never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink
of condition, ready for instant action."
Jack's poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.
"But, unc--I mean, Larry--why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading
expedition?" he asked.
Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, "There are
other things up north besides furs."
"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.
"Well," hesitated his uncle, "perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things,
too." And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject. But the
boy was very proud of his "gun," and a little curious as to just why his
uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment,
he said: "Larry, that shooter is--bully! It's great to have it. I'd
rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had
it."
"I was there once, and not so very long ago, my boy," said Matt Larson,
with a quick frown. Then, half to himself, "But the man in the mackinaw*
will never catch me unarmed again."
[*A mackinaw is a short, rough coat of material much like a grey
horse blanket. It is worn by most lumberjacks, explorers, miners
and woodsmen in the regions north of the great Canadian lakes.]
"The man in the mackinaw, eh?" echoed Jack, lifting his eyebrows
meaningly.
"Oh, ho, youngster! You're the boy for me!" grinned his uncle. "You're
sharp! You've caught on, all right. Yes; he's the man you've got to keep
your eyes in the back of your head to watch for. He's a bad lot. He may
bother us. Now, are you afraid to tackle the wilderness, since you know
there is menace--perhaps danger?"
"I'm not afraid of anything with you, Matt Larson," said the boy,
gravely, looking the other directly in the eyes.
"But suppose we should get separated, by some unlucky chance, what
then?" asked the man.
"I don't think I would be afraid--I _shall not_ be afraid, even then,"
Jack answered.
"That's the way to talk! Now I know you are game," said Larson, seizing
the boy by the shoulders and peering into his eyes. Then they shook
hands silently, but it was an unspoken pledge nevertheless.
"The man in the mackinaw," repeated Jack, slowly, as their hands
gripped. Then his eyes narrowed down to little slits of light. "I think,
Larry, I should know him by instinct."
"You're a wolf on two legs, boy!" replied Larry, with delight. "You have
the intuition of the wiser animals. Why have I never really known you
before? Why have I not had you?"
"You've got me now, anyway, and you are going to keep me, Larry," said
the boy. Then they said good-night with a bond of manly friendship
between them that was destined to last throughout their lives.
* * * * * * * *
They left the luxurious sleeping-car of the great Canadian Pacific
Railway, at a little settlement on the north shore of Lake Superior.
There were but three buildings in the place, all of logs: the railway
station, the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, and "French" Pierre's
"bunk and eating-house." The northern forest closed in on all sides, and
the little settlement in all amounted to nothing more than a clearing.
The instant they stepped from the car, Matt Larson's eyes swept the
platform, alighting with a pleased expression on the figure of a wiry,
alert-looking boy of perhaps eighteen, who stepped forward silently,
quickly, and laid his hand in Larson's, outstretched to greet him. The
boy was Indian through and through, with a fine, thin, copper-colored
face, and eyes of very rare beauty. The instant Jack Cornwall saw those
eyes, he knew that they could see almost unseeable things. But Matt
Larson was introducing them. "Fox-Foot," he said, turning to the Indian,
"here is Jack, my own sister's son. He has my confidence. He will know
all that I know. You may trust him with _everything_. Jack, old man,
this Chippewa boy, Fox-Foot, is my friend and our guide. His canoe is
ours for weeks ahead. He knows what I know. You may trust him with
_everything_. Shake hands."
But the two boys were already shaking hands, friends at once because of
their friendship for Matt Larson. Then came the packing of duffle and
dunnage bags into the narrow bark canoe beached on the river bank, fifty
yards away. A last look at the outfit, to see if there were sufficient
matches and other prime necessities, then they were off--off on that
strange quest Jack knew so little of. His alert senses had long ago
grasped the fact that furs alone were not taking them north, that
something unspoken of was the real cause of this expedition; but he was
content to wait until the time came when he should be told. His handsome
young uncle knelt at the bow thwart, the silent Chippewa boy at the
stern. The canoe shot forth like a slender arrow, and the wilderness
closed in about them Just as they rounded the bend of the river which
was to shut the settlement from sight, Matt Larson turned his head
several times quickly, looking behind them with something of the
lightning movement and sharp rapidity of a wild animal. It struck Jack
as an odd action, betraying suspicion--suspicion perhaps that they might
be followed. That night wisdom came to him. The day had been a heavy
one, paddling upstream against a cruel current; and, after they had
pitched camp for the night at the foot of an exquisite cascade of water
called the Red Rock Falls, and eaten a tremendous supper, Jack strolled
to the water's margin to see that the canoe was properly beached high
and safe. On the opposite side of the river a slim shadow slipped
along--a canoe that contained a single man, who wore a rough coat of
indefinite greyish plaid. Jack crept noiselessly up the river bank.
"Larry, Fox-Foot," he said in a hoarse, low whisper, "look, look across
the river! A canoe, with a man in it--a man in a mackinaw!"