It was late in the afternoon when Ingleby, who led two jaded
pack-horses, limped into the Green River canyon. His long boots, which
were caked with the mire of leagues of travel, galled him cruelly; every
joint was aching; and it was only by an effort he kept himself on his
feet at all. It had rained most of the way from the distant settlement
where he had been for the flour Hetty had asked for, and during the last
week he had slept by snatches amidst the dripping fern while the
pitiless deluge thrashed the fir trunks that indifferently sheltered
him. The few strips of natural prairie in the valleys had turned to
treacherous swamps, where he sank to the knee, and every few miles there
was a furious torrent to be forded perilously.
Had he been called on to make that journey under such conditions when
fresh from England he would probably never have reached the canyon, but
strenuous toil with pick and shovel and the simple life of the
wilderness had hardened him, and endued him with the strength of will
which holds the worn-out body in due subjection. Man's capacity for
endurance is, as even the hard-handed bushman knows, moral as well as
physical; but Ingleby was making his last effort when he reached the
great rift between the hills.
The river roared close beneath him, swirling among its boulders, stained
green with the clay of a great glacier, and overhead the sombre pines
were blurred by mist and rain. No laden beast could scale the slope they
clung to, and a treacherous bank of gravel on which a man could
scarcely keep his footing dropped to the river just outside the slushy
trail. Ingleby sank ankle-deep in mire at every step, but he held on
doggedly with a hand on the leading horse's bridle and the rain on his
face, for Leger's camp was not very far away, and he feared that if he
rested now his worn-out limbs might fail him when he came to start
again.
That was sufficient to account for the sudden hardening of his face when
a thud of hoofs came out of the rain. The trail was especially soft and
narrow just there, and it would evidently be a risky matter to attempt
to lead two horses past each other. Thrusting the leading beast close in
to the inner side he raised his voice as two figures materialized amidst
the trunks in front of him. Down in that great hollow the light was dim,
but the clatter of accoutrements told him it was a couple of police
troopers who were approaching.
"Stop where you are until I get by. There's scarcely room for both of
us," he said.
It was evident that the men heard him, for one said something to the
other sharply, but they did not stop. They came on at a floundering trot
instead, until Ingleby saw who the foremost was and pulled the
pack-horse across the trail. Then there was a musical jingling as the
men drew bridle, and Ingleby and the leader looked at each other. He
wore an officer's uniform and there was just then a little sardonic
gleam in his dark eyes. He was also very like the man Ingleby, who now
knew he bore the same name, had faced at Willow Dene.
"Why didn't you pull up behind there, packer?" he asked.
"You couldn't have got past, Captain Esmond," said Ingleby. "I was well
into the narrow stretch when I called to you."
"That," said the policeman, "is a trifle unfortunate--for you. It ought
to be tolerably evident that I can't wheel my horse now."
It was apparently out of the question, but Ingleby's wet face grew a
trifle grim, for the assurance with which the young officer claimed
precedence was exasperating, and he knew that any miner in the valley
seeing him hampered by two laden beasts would have made way for him. One
of them, it was evident, must leave the trail, but Ingleby felt that the
question which that one would be was by no means decided yet. He glanced
at the swirling pool below, and though he fancied there was no great
depth of water, it was clear to him that even if he could lead the
worn-out beasts down the slippery slope of gravel he could never drag
them up again.
"You should have foreseen that when I warned you to stop," he said.
A little flicker of colour showed in Esmond's face, but he sat easily,
and, as it seemed to Ingleby, insolently, still in his saddle, looking
at him with an excellent assumption of ironical incredulity, as though
unwilling to believe that he had heard correctly. This was the more
exasperating because Ingleby had his share of the sturdy English
independence, and an almost unreasoning dislike of anything that
savoured of arrogance. It was, however, consoling to remember that in
the wilderness the patrician is held of no more account than the manhood
inherent in him warrants, and must either waive his claim to superiority
or support it by his own resources. There was also no sign that the
trooper sympathized with his officer.
"Will you be good enough to get out of my way?" asked Esmond with
portentous quietness.
There was no answer; and he touched his horse with the spur. The beast
floundered forward splashing in the mire; but Ingleby stood still with a
grim wet face in the middle of the trail, and a faint trace of
astonishment crept into the young officer's eyes, for, as sometimes
happens in the case of men with sufficient belief in themselves, he had
hitherto found the world inclined to take him at his own valuation. Now
he found the position as galling as it was unexpected, for it was
evident that the nerve of the wet and miry man who stood awaiting him
with exasperating quietness was quite equal to his.
Esmond's blood was up, and it is very probable that he would have risked
the encounter had he been free from official responsibility. As it was,
however, he remembered that an officer of police is not warranted in
riding down an unoffending citizen, and in addition to this the
heavily-laden pack-horse drawn right across the trail promised to prove
an embarrassing obstacle even if Ingleby had not been standing beside it
with a heavy fir staff in his hand. It occurred to Esmond that there was
very little to be gained except damage to his personal dignity by riding
into two bags of flour, while a second pack-horse similarly encumbered
blocked the trail close behind.
Thus at the last moment he swung himself backwards with a wrench upon
the bridle, and there was a scattering of mire and gravel as his horse
reeled down the slope to the river. The beast was used to the mountains,
and the man had ridden from infancy, so that when they plunged to the
girth in the swirling pool he was still in the saddle, and Ingleby saw
that his face was dark with a flush of anger. How he was to get out was
his own business, and it was evident that he was in no danger, so
Ingleby turned and gazed at the trooper, who sat still with a faint but
suggestive twinkle in his eyes.
"I don't want to wait here. Both the beasts and I are badly played out,"
he said.
The trooper rubbed his chin with a wet hand, and glanced at his officer,
who had, however, his back to him just then as he picked his way amidst
the boulders.
"Well," he said, "I guess if I got down and edged out to the off side
you might pass me. The trail's a little wider here."
"Thanks!" said Ingleby, and looked at the man as he carefully led his
beasts by him. The trooper also looked at him, with a little
comprehending grin.
"Somebody's going to make trouble if he can find a speck on anything
to-morrow," he said.
He swung himself into the saddle with all the haste he could contrive,
and with one eye still upon his officer. Ingleby plodded on, and, as
dusk was closing in, limped into sight of a ruddy blaze among the pines.
Leger, who had heard his approach, took the pack-horses' bridles, and
Ingleby stood stupidly still, blinking at him.
"I've got it," he said, pointing to the flour. "Where is it to go? I'll
give you a hand to heave it down."
Leger laughed and pointed to the shanty. "Go right in. I'll manage the
bags myself," he said. "Tomlinson and the boys have been up and built us
a new store-shed."
Ingleby turned towards the shanty, and as he neared the doorway a slim
figure cut against the light, and a hand was stretched out to draw him
in. Then he felt a little thrill run through him as he stood in the
welcome warmth with Hetty looking up at him. There was an almost
maternal gentleness and compassion in her eyes, for Ingleby's face was a
trifle grey and the water ran from him. Then she turned swiftly and
thrust an armful of clothing upon him.
"Put them on this minute; they're warm and dry. There's a light in the
new shed," she said. "Then come back here. You're not to go outside
again."
Ingleby was glad to obey her, and when he came back Hetty had drawn a
rude chair of deerhide towards the fire.
"Sit down, and don't worry about trying to talk," she said.
Ingleby sank wearily into the chair, and lay there in a state of
blissful content watching her with half-closed eyes. It was an
inestimable luxury to be free from the chill of his saturated clothing
and feel the warmth creep through him, but by degrees he became sensible
that his contentment had more than a physical origin. The soft rustle of
Hetty's dress was soothing as she laid out a simple meal; her quick,
light footsteps suggested a gratifying anxiety to minister to his
comfort; and he found the fashion in which she smiled at him, as she did
once or twice, especially pleasant. Hetty had a spice of temper and a
will of her own, but she was also endued with the kindliness which makes
up for a good many deficiencies. Ingleby turned his head at last and
looked at her languidly.
"You make this shanty feel like home--though it is a very long while
since I had one," he said.
Hetty flushed, ever so slightly, and Ingleby naturally did not notice
it.
"We have been making improvements since you left," she said. "It really
doesn't need very much to make a place look comfortable."
Ingleby appeared reflective. "Well," he said, "I suppose it doesn't. I
don't know how you manage it, Hetty, but everything seems just as one
would like it when you arrange it. Still, that's not quite what I mean
either. I'm really not sure I know what I do mean--you see, I'm sleepy."
Hetty stopped close beside him and looked down with a little smile,
though there was just a shade more colour than usual in her face.
"You are worn out, and needn't worry about it until you have had
supper," she said. "If I had known you would come back like this I would
never have let you go."
"Still, you wanted the flour."
"I didn't mean you to wear yourself out to save those lazy miners from
baking their own bread."
Ingleby shook his head. "I shall be all right to-morrow, and I'm going
to talk," he said, "That wasn't why you sent me. One doesn't start a
bakery out of philanthropy."
"Well," said Hetty, "you know I wanted the money."
"For Tom and me!" said Ingleby reproachfully. "I felt horribly mean
about it all the way to the settlement."
"Is it very unpleasant then to let me do anything for you?"
"No," said Ingleby. "That is, of course, it's generally very nice.
Still, in this case----"
Hetty looked at him curiously. "Oh, I know! Still, you seemed quite
angry once because I didn't care to let you lend Tom the money to bring
us out."
"That, of course, was very different."