A LONG MARCH, WITH A SURPRISE AT THE END OF IT
As the time approached for David to be relieved from duty, he began to
watch for the expected traveller and to conjecture as to who would be
sent. Two weeks had passed since he had left the camp on Alder Creek.
It was now near the end of July.
About noon of the day following the departure of Shep and the midnight
visit of the wolf, as he was cooking his dinner, he saw Davidson,
a young Bostonian, swinging rapidly up the path. The two exchanged
cordial greetings, and David immediately prepared to give his friend a
hearty meal.
"How did you leave the people in the Shorty Creek district?" asked the
young cook when the new-comer had removed his light pack and seated
himself in one of Hovey's rustic chairs.
"Everybody was well when I left," answered Davidson, "except old Tom
Moore, the recorder. He's down with scurvy, but I guess our doctor
will fix him up. They've sent him a lot of dried fruit and vegetables,
and that diet ought to help him. I don't believe he had eaten much but
bacon for a month, and he hardly ever stirred out of his tent. It's no
wonder the scurvy caught him."
"I should think so," said David. And then he asked abruptly, "How long
did it take you to get here, Davidson?"
"Two days and a half from Reitz's tent on Klukshu Lake," was the reply.
"That's quick time. You must be a good walker. I just wish my legs were
as long as yours. How far do you think it is?"
"About sixty-five miles by the trail. You'd better allow three days if
you carry anything."
"I shall have about forty pounds," said David. "The men at Moran's gave
me a list of things they wanted out of their clothing bags, and I sent
all I could by the boat; but in the hurry I couldn't find everything.
Is Reitz catching any salmon yet?"
"Oh, yes; plenty of them. Humphrey is with him now, and they're having
all they can do."
Next morning David gave his friend such directions regarding the cache
as had been given to himself, and surrendered the key of the padlock on
the cabin door. Then he cooked three days' rations of bacon, biscuits,
and rice, to which he added some pieces of jerked beef which Davidson
had brought and kindly offered him. Finally he made up his pack, and
an hour before noon was ready to start on the long, solitary tramp.
If he had stopped to think much about it he might well have shrunk
from so lonely a journey through the wilderness, for he was armed only
with hunting-knife and hatchet, but the thought of getting back to his
friends was uppermost and made him light-hearted; and, besides, if
Davidson had made the journey, he was sure he could.
"Hold on!" exclaimed Davidson, suddenly, as he saw the lad taking up
his pack. "I'm going with you a few miles. I'll carry the pack."
"Oh, no indeed!" said David, whose pride was touched. It seemed almost
effeminate to surrender his burden to one who had hardly yet rested
after a long journey. "I'm perfectly fresh, and you must be tired. It's
mighty kind of you, but I can't let you."
"You don't feel the need of a lift now," said Davidson, kindly, "but
you may at the other end of the day's march. And it's only at this end
that I can help you."
"But surely I can carry that load all day. It isn't heavy,--and it
really belongs to me to take it."
"Then I won't go with you, Dave."
David instantly perceived that if he refused the generous offer of
his friend he would hurt his feelings, and that he ought to yield.
"Well, then," said he, "rather than lose your company, I accept your
conditions, and please don't think me ungrateful."
So Davidson fastened the pack upon his own shoulders, and having
locked the cabin, the two set off down the path to the trail, which
they followed till they had covered about five miles and were near
the entrance to the pass between Mount Bratnober and Mount Champlain.
They now sat down beside a brook, and David proceeded to eat his
dinner, which he insisted his companion should share. This Davidson was
reluctant to do, since he knew the lad would have to calculate closely
to make his food last. He was finally prevailed upon to accept a piece
of bacon and half a biscuit, but would take no more.
"If I were you," said Davidson, "I should divide the journey into three
parts as nearly equal as possible. From the Landing to Pennock's Post
is about twenty-five miles. You'd better try to reach there to-night.
Then it's twenty miles to the river that flows into Dasar-dee-ash from
the east. You'll have to wade it, unless there's somebody there with a
horse. I was lucky enough to find a pack train at the ford. The water
won't come much above your waist."
"H-m!" said David, laconically. "Ice-water, I suppose."
"Very likely. Then on the third day you can make the remaining twenty
miles to Reitz's camp, and go over to Moran's any time you like."
"Thank you, Davidson," said his young friend. "That's just the way I'll
plan to do it."
They parted with mutual good-will, and David, with the pack now on his
own back, soon found himself traversing the recently burned district
within the pass. The mighty cliff of Mount Champlain towered on his
left, while across the river rose the hardly less stupendous crags of
Mount Bratnober. On every side the country was bright with the purple
fireweed, which had sprung up from the ashes as if by magic.
There were scattered patches of forest which the great conflagration
had spared, and in the midst of one of these David was suddenly aware
of a crackling sound ahead. The next instant he caught a whiff of smoke
and saw it rising in a dense cloud through the trees. A few steps more
and he found himself in a shower of sparks which a sudden gust blew
toward him. Forced to beat a precipitate retreat, he made a détour to
the windward of the burning area, from which side he was able to make a
closer examination.
Plainly some careless traveller had allowed his camp-fire to get beyond
his control, or else had neglected to extinguish it when he moved on.
The flames had crept through the moss and communicated with several
dry spruces, which were now blazing fiercely. It was utterly beyond
David's power to check the spread of the flames, but he reflected that
the whole country around had been burned over, and the fire could
not extend past the limits of the oasis-like grove in which it had
originated, so he continued on his journey.
In an open stretch of meadow he came upon a white horse and a mule
grazing contentedly. The animals raised their heads in mute inquiry,
and then resumed their feeding. David looked about for the owners,
but seeing no one, came to the conclusion that these were waifs from
some pack train, and might now be appropriated by any one who could
catch them. It was a great temptation to try. Riding was certainly an
improvement on walking; and if he could not do that without a bridle,
he could at least lead the horse with a bit of rope and make him carry
his pack. On second thought, however, he abandoned the idea. Perhaps
the animals were not lost. The owners might be somewhere in the
neighborhood. If this were the case, and he were seen leading the horse
away, he might be accused of horse-stealing,--a very serious charge on
the trail. It was better to let them alone, and he plodded on.
A little later he caught sight of a black animal among the trees ahead,
and it must be confessed that a lonely, creepy sensation ran up his
back at that moment. He loosened the hatchet in its leather case as
he walked, but soon saw that the beast was not a bear, but a large
black dog which, having even more respect for him than he had felt for
it, turned out of the trail and gave him a wide berth. A few minutes
afterward he met two men with a small pack train, and concluded that
the dog was theirs. The men nodded pleasantly as they passed; they
were the only persons he saw on the trail that day.
By mid-afternoon he found himself getting tired. A great many trees had
fallen across the path, and the labor of stepping over them contributed
materially to his fatigue. There were bogs, too, so cut up by the
passage of horses and cattle that it was difficult for a pedestrian to
cross without becoming stuck fast. Usually, however, a sapling had been
cut down and laid over the ooze, and David crossed all but one of these
rude bridges successfully.
The one exception nearly cost him dear. He made a misstep, and his
right foot slipped into the mud beside the log. The mud and water
offered no support, and the sudden lurch having thrown the weight of
his pack to that side, his foot sank deeper and deeper without reaching
solid ground. By good fortune his other foot was still on the log,
and, better still, there were stout bushes on the other side. These he
grasped desperately as he sank, and by a violent effort restored his
balance and drew himself back upon the log.
In the early evening he waded Frying-Pan Creek and caught the first
welcome glimpse of Pennock's Post. "Now," thought he, "I shall have a
good night's rest in my own bunk,"--for he had brought no tent; so with
a light heart in spite of his weariness, he turned toward the cabin.
But he was doomed to disappointment. What was his astonishment at
finding an enormous padlock and a heavy chain upon the door! And hardly
had he touched the contrivance to determine whether it was locked, when
there was an angry growl and the rattle of a chain within the building,
and he knew by the sound that a fierce dog had sprung toward the door
to oppose his entrance.
If he had been surprised at seeing the padlock, it was nothing to the
burning indignation which now possessed him. He passed around to the
north window. Someone, probably an Indian, had loosened one of the
wooden bars and torn a hole in the cheese-cloth in order to look into
the interior. He took advantage of the rent to do likewise. In the
southeast corner of the cabin he could see a great pile of goods. The
dog, a huge and savage-looking beast, was chained to the corner post of
Pennock's bunk, and there was a dish of water and another of meat on
the floor. David was locked out of his own house, and it was garrisoned
against him.