Two months passed almost uneventfully after the felling of the tree, for
Esmond found no means of forcing the entrance to the valley. The canyon
furnished the only road to it, and he found a band of determined men
ready to dispute his passage each time he appeared before the tree. A
company of sappers could scarcely have raised them a more efficient
defense than the one they had made at the cost of an hour's labour with
the axe, and Esmond reluctantly recognized that it was practically
unassailable by the trifling force at his command. An attempt to carry
it by assault could only result in his handful of men being swept away,
and strategy proved as useless, for when the troopers floundered
upstream at night through the crackling ice-cake in the slacker flow of
the rapid they came to a furious rush of water, and with difficulty
gained the bank again. An attempt to crawl up to the barrier in the
darkness resulted as unsuccessfully, for a man leapt up upon the log
with a blazing brand almost as they left the shelter of the pines.
The getting in was also only half the difficulty, for even if he passed
the barrier the miners could muster a score of men for every one he had.
It was thus apparently useless to provoke actual hostilities. The cards
were evidently in Sewell's hand, and it was clear that he recognized
this and had his men in perfect command. Not a shot had been
fired--indeed, no miner had actually been seen with a rifle--and the
only act of overt violence was the hurling of Trooper Grieve from the
log. In the meanwhile Esmond had written to the Provincial authorities
in Victoria, but two different troopers who set out with his letters
came back again. The snowfall had been abnormal, and, though they were
hard men, they admitted that to force a way through the passes was
beyond their ability. As one result of this, Grace Coulthurst had
abandoned all idea of going to Vancouver.
In the meanwhile work was being carried on slowly and painfully in the
valley, where the men thawed the soil with great fires on the shallow
claims and postponed the washing until the ice should melt again.
Between whiles they mounted guard behind the log, and slept when they
could. They were as far from submission as ever, but the tension had
slackened long ago, and there was nothing but the breastwork to show
that imperial authority was being quietly set at nought in the Green
River valley. It was merely a question whose provisions would hold out
longest now; but the question was a vitally important one and one night
three or four of the leaders sat discussing it in Sewell's shanty.
"So far, everything has gone very much as one could expect," he said.
"The trouble will naturally come in the spring when Esmond can bring
more troopers in. That is, of course, unless we can make terms before
then, which is, I fancy, quite probable."
"And if we can't?" asked the American who had attended to Tomlinson.
"That police captain shows very little sign of backing down."
"Then we'll have to bring over the men from Westerhouse," said Ingleby.
"I think they'll come, and, because it will not be difficult to block
out Slavin, who is in command of the police there, if he comes along
after them, the position will be much the same as before."
He looked at Sewell, who, however, did not appear to have heard him.
"What's going to stop the other people from sending a whole regiment
along?" asked the American.
"The British official character," said Sewell drily. "It wouldn't look
well, you see, and it would hurt somebody's dignity to admit that it was
necessary,--that is, of course, so long as we play our cards cleverly.
This trouble would be regarded from the official point of view as merely
a little temporary friction which could be got over if handled
tactfully. Indeed, I shouldn't wonder if Esmond is quietly reprimanded
for causing it; but one has to remember that if you persist in making
our rulers see what they don't wish to, they're apt to display an
activity that's likely to prove as unpleasant to men in our position as
it is unusual. They don't want to move if they can help it, but somebody
has to smart for it if they're forced to."
"That's quite right," said another man. "I remember Riel, and they'd
have let him down again if he'd known enough not to aggravate them by
killing that man at Fort Garry. Well, I guess we've no use for that
while Esmond keeps his head, and the one question is what we're going to
eat. It's quite certain I can't live on cedar bark. We want grub, and
we've got to get it. There are men right here who could break a trail to
anywhere."
"If we try the usual one we'll only clear it for Esmond to bring
troopers in," said Ingleby.
That was evident to everybody, and there was silence until Sewell spoke
again.
"I've been well up the south fork of the river looking for deer," he
said. "The valley's level, and I didn't strike a rapid, while with the
snow on the river one could keep clear of the timber. The slight thaw we
had should make a good crust for travelling, and it wouldn't be much
trouble to make a few jumper-sleds for the provisions. The difficulty is
that whoever went would have to cross the divide from headwater and
pick up the usual trail on the other side."
"Nobody has ever been over," said another man. "I've no use for crawling
up precipices with a big flour-bag on my back."
"That might be because nobody has ever tried," said Sewell. "One
advantage in going that way is that Esmond wouldn't know you had either
gone out or come back again. We don't want to make a road for him." Then
he turned to the American. "How's Tomlinson to-night?"
"Going very slow. The frost's against him. Wound won't heal, and
half-rotten pork and bread isn't quite the thing to feed a sick man. He
should have been on his feet quite a while ago."
There was a brief discussion, and as the result of it twenty men, of
whom Ingleby was one, were fixed upon to make the attempt. They were all
of them willing, and started two days later before the stars had paled,
while every man in the valley, except those on guard behind the log,
assembled to see them go, though Ingleby did not know that Hetty Leger
stood a little apart from them watching the shadowy figures melt into
the gloom beneath the pines. It was, everybody knew, by no means certain
that all of them would come back again.
They made their way up-river, dragging a few rude sledges with them, and
they crossed the big divide in the face of one of the blinding
snowstorms that rage on the higher ranges most of the winter. That cost
them a week of tremendous labour; and then they floundered through
tangled muskegs, where the stunted pines that grew in summer out of
quaggy mire had been reaped and laid in rows by the Arctic winds. Their
branches were strewn about them, and the men smashed a way through the
horrible maze, making, with infinite pains, scarcely a league a day.
Still, the muskegs were left behind, and the ground was clearer in a big
_brulee_ where fire had licked up undergrowth and branches and the
great trunks rose gauntly, charred and tottering columns. There they
made as much as four leagues in a day through ashes and dusty snow, and
at last came out on the trail to the settlement, dragging with them one
man whose feet were frost-bitten. Nobody had crossed the divide before;
but that was probably because nobody had hitherto been driven by
necessity into trying, and now, as usually happens in that country, the
thing attempted had been done.
The settlement was not an especially cheerful spot, consisting as it did
of three or four log-houses roofed with cedar shingles which their
owners had split, a store, and a frame hotel covered in with galvanized
iron, though slabs of bark had been largely used as well. They, however,
rested there several days, and they needed it, while the hearts of most
of them sank a trifle at the contemplation of the journey home. They had
set out light, but the store was crammed with provisions, which the
freighter, who had somehow brought them there, had abandoned all hope of
taking farther. It was evident they must each go back with a load which
a man unaccustomed to the packing necessary in that country could
scarcely carry a mile, and the hardiest prospector among them shrank
from crossing the divide with such a burden. The thing, however, had to
be done, and on the night before their departure they were arranging
their packs in the store when the man who kept it pointed to a pile of
bags and cases in a corner.
"That's the police lot, and I guess they'll want the grub," he said. "I
can't quite figure why none of them have come in for it, but you could
strike them for transport on anything you took along."
The reason Esmond had not sent down to inquire about his stores was, of
course, quite plain to the miners; but nobody in that settlement knew
which way they had reached it or what had happened in the Green River
valley, and Sewell laughed.
"I am not," he said, "a freight-ox or a dromedary, and the rest of us
have already got a good deal more than any one could reasonably expect
them to carry."
The storekeeper glanced at a stout deal box. "Well," he said, "I guess
there's not much more than twelve pounds in there, and it's for the
major--tea and coffee and some special fixings from Vancouver. If he
don't get it, he and Miss Coulthurst will come right down to drinking
water. The freighter couldn't take more than a half-case of whisky in
for him last time, and I guess that's not going to last the Gold
Commissioner long."
Ingleby, who was acquainted with the major's habits, surmised that this
was very probable, but it appeared of much less consequence than the
fact that Grace might also have to do without even the few small
comforts it had hitherto been possible to bring into the Green River
country. He no longer remembered the galling of the pack-straps or the
tremendous struggle over the big divide, but laid his hand upon the box.
"We'll manage this one, anyway," he said. "I'll take it along with me."
Then, turning at the sound of a step, he saw that Sewell, who had
followed apparently with the same purpose, was looking at him.
"Well," he said, "what do you want?"
"You can't take that case," said Sewell. "My pack's lighter."
Ingleby was a trifle astonished. "I was first," he said. "Is there any
special reason why you should have it instead of me?"
Sewell laughed, though his tone was not quite his usual one.
"No," he said. "If one must be candid, I scarcely think there is."
It had never occurred to Ingleby that his comrade might have set himself
to gain Miss Coulthurst's favour and in a measure succeeded. He would
have thought the notion preposterous in view of Sewell's opinions, and
he smiled good-humouredly.
"It really doesn't matter. I wouldn't have let you have it, anyway," he
said, and drew the storekeeper aside.
They started at daybreak next morning, and before they had gone a league
Ingleby found that the extra twelve pounds made his burden almost
insupportable. Still, he set his lips and bore it, taking a grim
pleasure in the nip of the straps that galled his shoulders as he
remembered for whom he was carrying the box. They were raw, and he was
worn-out when the men made camp beneath a towering fir as the coppery
sun went down, but it was very much worse on the morrow when he rose
with aching limbs from the frozen soil to start again. Somehow he kept
his place with the others throughout that weary day and the ones that
dragged by after it, though when he remembered them afterwards the
blurred pictures his fancy called up were like an evil dream of fatigue
and pain.
They sank ankle-deep in ashes in the _brulee_, rent their limbs and
garments smashing through the muskeg, melted the snow with their
camp-fires by lakes and streams whose shores even the wandering
prospector's foot had scarcely trodden, and slept, or lay awake
shivering, with boots in the embers and half-frozen bodies radiating
like spokes from the hub of crackling fire, while the smoke, which was
sharp with the sting of the resin, curled about them. Ingleby's
shoulders bled daily and troubled him seriously in the frost at night, a
seam of his boot had fretted a raw place across his foot, and in the
bitter mornings the cold struck deep and keen. Twelve pounds more count
for a good deal when the burden is already all that its bearer is fit to
carry, and the effort drained the store of heat in his worn-out body and
left nothing for the up-keep of its vitality. That heat is the source of
energy everybody knows, but only those who have taxed every muscle in
the cold of the Northwest realize the fact's full significance. The man
who has tried his strength too hard in the Arctic frost may char his
boots in the camp-fire, but he cannot get warm. To add to his troubles,
Ingleby had no proper mittens, and when the one extemporized from a
strip of flour-bag burst, the hand with which he clutched the
pack-straps split at every finger joint and at that temperature a sore
will rarely heal.
The others were not in much better condition, though day by day the line
of weary men stumbled on in a silence that seemed the grimmer for the
burst of anathemas from the one or two of them who had to be dragged up
from the fire and brutally shaken into wakefulness when the hour to
resume the journey came. Then they came to the tremendous barrier of the
divide, a rampart of ice and snow which even in summer no man new to
that country would attempt to climb.
It cost them a day to make the first thousand feet or so, and then they
lost count of the rest, during which they dragged themselves upward from
dwarf pine to pine or crawled along scarped slopes with the peaks still
above them. They were waist-deep in snow when they crossed the ridge
through the gap of a ravine down which all the winds of heaven
apparently rioted, but they fought their way foot by foot, and were
floundering down the farther side when Ingleby, who was staggering, grey
in face, behind the rearmost of them, lost his footing and rolled down a
declivity. He brought up with a crash in a juniper, and rising,
half-dazed, recovered his legitimate burden and dragged himself on
again. He could scarcely see the others, for his head was throbbing
intolerably and his sight was dim, but it seemed to him that he was
travelling a little more easily than he had done. It was, however, not
until they lay beside a snapping fire that night with their packs piled
behind them as a barrier to the bitter wind, that the reason for this
became apparent.
"Where's that case of yours?" asked one of the men.
Ingleby glanced behind him, and then laid down the blackened can of tea
he held and rose unsteadily.
"You haven't got it," he asked hoarsely, "none of you?"
There was a little sardonic laughter, and one of the others said, "I
guess we've got 'most enough without humping another case along for
anybody."
"Then I must have left it where I fell into that juniper this
afternoon."
He shook his galled shoulders, which were bleeding through the shirt
that was glued to them, and he winced as the movement tore it from the
wound. Then he turned slowly away from the fire.
"Hold on. Where are you going?" said one of the men.
"Back for the case. If I'm fortunate, I may make camp before you start
to-morrow."
He stopped for just a moment, and looked back at the fire with a fierce
physical longing in his eyes, for all that was animal in him craved for
food and the rest of repletion. Sewell, he saw, was lying half-asleep,
with a partly consumed flapjack fallen from his hand.
"Now, see here," said somebody, "we can't wait for you. Unless we get
down out of the frost into thick timber by to-morrow night, it's quite
likely one or two of us will stay up here altogether. You've got a
straight warning. Let the blame thing go."
Ingleby said nothing. He knew that if he dallied his flesh would master
him, and he limped out of the firelight with a groan. The red flicker
faded suddenly, and he was alone on a great sloping waste where a few
dwarf firs and junipers were scattered, black as ink on a ground of
blinking white, under the big coppery moon. There was a pain in every
joint, the rag wound about one hand was stiff, and he dare not move his
shoulders now, while at every step the torturing boot ate into his
flesh. That was all he remembered, for he could never recall afterwards
much of what he felt and did that night.
He was not back at the camp next morning, and when his comrades had
waited an hour or two they moved on slowly without him. One can live in
the open under a greater cold than they were called upon to face, that
is, if one is provided with costly furs and sleeping bags to suit it;
but there are reasons why the prospector usually has neither, and there
was no more endurance left in the men. Ingleby, however, would, at
least, have no difficulty in picking up their trail, and unless they
made shelter that night it seemed very probable that some of them would
freeze. They found it at the foot of the mountain wall in a thick belt
of young firs where the jumper-sledges and two or three axes had been
left, and that night they lay in comfort about the fire with a kettle of
strong green tea in their midst, and the springy cedar and spruce twigs
piled high about them. Two of them, however, were not there, for Sewell
had gone back in search of Ingleby.
It was snowing a little, and there was no moon visible, while, though
the rest of the journey down the valley would, by comparison, be easy,
now they had the sledges, the men were curiously silent as they lay
about the fire. Nobody seemed disposed to sleep, and the kettle had been
emptied when one of them glanced round at the rest.
"If he doesn't come in by to-morrow I'm going back," he said.
"I guess it mightn't be much use to-morrow," said a comrade. "If I could
get a move on me I'd go to-night, but I'm not sure I can. What d'you say
'he' for, anyway? There's two of them."
The men were dead-weary, too dazed with fatigue almost to think. Nor was
there one of them anxious to make the effort, which if successful might
drag him from his rest. Thus they were willing to be led away from the
point at issue, which was what might have happened to Ingleby.
"Well," said the first speaker, "Sewell's a smart man, and he means
well, but I hadn't quite remembered him. When I was broke, and hadn't a
dollar's worth of dust to get the truck I had to have from the
freighter, Ingleby went bond for me. He don't know a good deal more than
he has any use for, like the other man, but he's there when he's wanted.
That's the kind he is. I'll give him another half-hour. Then I'm going
back for him."
There was a drowsy murmur of concurrence. Sewell was liked in the Green
River valley, and no man doubted his sincerity; but that was, after all,
not quite enough, for it is, though somewhat difficult of comprehension,
a fact that the dwellers in the wilderness, who see fewer of their
fellowmen, have usually a clearer insight into the primitive essentials
of human character than the men of the cities. They do not ask too much
of it, but on certain points their demand is inexorable, and it is very
seldom that a simply meretricious quality goes far with them. Ingleby
was not a genius, he blundered in details, and he had few graces; but
they believed in him.
The half-hour had almost passed when one of them sharply raised his
head, and, though few other men would probably have heard anything, the
rest shook themselves to attention. High up on the range above them
there was a soft pattering in the snow, which grew louder, until they
could hear two men stumbling down the steep hillside. After that there
was a snapping of twigs among the firs, and Sewell strode into the red
light with his hand on Ingleby's shoulder. The latter's face was grey,
and he staggered until somebody seized him and dragged him down beside
the fire. Then he blinked at them out of half-closed eyes.
"I got the case," he said.
"That's all right," said a man soothingly as he loosed the straps about
his shoulders and lifted the case aside, but Ingleby turned upon him
savagely.
"Put it there, ---- you! I want to see it. It's hers," he said.
His voice was strained and broken, and Sewell did not hear all he said.
"Get him some tea and flapjacks. I think he's a little off his head," he
said.