FACING DEATH ON THE STONE-SLIDE.
It was the last day of Corbett's journey between the Harrison and the
Frazer, and a boiling hot day at that. With the exception of Corbett
himself, and perhaps Cruickshank, whose back alone was visible as he led
the train, the whole outfit had relapsed into that dull mechanical gait
peculiar to packers and pack animals. To Chance it seemed that he was in
a dream--a dream in which he went incessantly up and up or down, down
day after day without pause or change. To him it seemed that there was
always the same gray stone-slide under foot, the same hot sun overheard,
and the same gleaming blue lake far below; like the pack animals, he was
content to plod along hour after hour, seeing nothing, thinking of
nothing, unless it was of that blessed hour when the camp would be
pitched and the tea made, and the soothing pipe be lighted.
But though Chance had no eyes for it, the end of this first part of his
journey was near at hand. Fourteen miles away the great grisly mountains
came together and threw a shadow upon Seton Lake, building a wall and
setting a barrier over or through which there seemed no possible way of
escape. As Corbett looked at it, he could see the trees quite plainly on
the narrow rim of grass between that mountain wall and the lake, and
though he could not see that too, he knew that through them ran a trail
which led to Lillooet on the Frazer. Even Ned longed to reach that trail
and catch a glimpse of the little town, in which he and his weary beasts
might take at least one day's rest and refreshment.
Since leaving Douglas, Cruickshank and Corbett had been upon the best of
terms. Cruickshank knew how everything ought to be done, and Corbett was
quick and tireless to do it, so that between them these two did most of
the work of the camp; and though Ned noticed that his guide was not as
anxious to get to Lillooet as he had been to get away from Douglas, he
made allowances for him. Cruickshank was hardly a young man, and no
doubt his strength was not equal to his will.
As to the straying of the horses at the second camp, there could be but
one opinion. It was a bad mistake to leave them unhobbled; but after all
everyone made mistakes sometimes, and though that mistake had involved
the loss of a great deal of time, it was the only one which could be
laid to Cruickshank's account. So far not one single thing, however
unimportant, had been left behind in camp or lost upon the trail; there
had been no accidents, no lost packs, nor any sign of sore backs. Day
after day Cruickshank himself had led the train, choosing the best going
for his ponies, and seeing them safely past every projecting rock and
over every _mauvais pas_.
On this day for the first time Cruickshank proposed to give up his
position in front of the train to Ned. Stopping at a place where there
was room to shunt the rear of his column to the front, the colonel
hailed Ned, and suggested that they should change places.
"Come on and set us a quick step, Corbett. Even if you do overtire the
ponies a bit, it doesn't matter now that we are so near Lillooet. They
can rest there as much as they like."
"Very well. I expect _you_ must want a change, and I'll bet old Steve
does. Why, you have hardly had anyone to speak to for a week," replied
Corbett good-naturedly.
"That's so, but I must save my breath a little longer still. If Roberts
will go behind with Phon and Chance, I'll keep the first detachment as
close to your heels as I can; and, by the way, we had better make a
change with the horses whilst we are about it."
"Why?" asked Ned. "What is the matter with them?"
"Not much, but if we are to have any more swimming across places where
the bridging is broken down, we may as well have the horses that take
kindly to water in front, and send that mean old beast to the rear;" and
the colonel pointed to Job, which with its head on one side and an
unearthly glare in its blue eye, appeared to be listening to what was
being said.
"All right, we can do that here if you will lend a hand. Which shall we
put the bell on?" and Ned took the bell off Job, and turned that veteran
over to the second half of the train.
"Put it on this fellow; he takes to the water like an otter, and he will
make a good leader. Wherever his packs can go, any of the others can
follow;" and Cruickshank pointed to the great bulging bales upon the
back of the buckskin.
"I expect Steve and Roberts packed him, didn't they?" Cruickshank added.
"Well, they aren't pretty to look at, but I guess they'll stick;" and so
saying, he gave the buckskin a smack on his quarters which sent that
big star-gazing brute trotting to the front, where Ned invested him with
the order of the bell.
"Is it all right now, Cruickshank?" asked Corbett.
"All right."
"Forrard away then!" cried Ned, and turning he strode merrily along a
narrow trail, which wound up and up across such sheer precipitous side
hills as would make some men dizzy to look at. A slip in some places
would have meant death to those who slipped, long before their bruised
bodies could reach the edge of the lake glittering far below; but
neither men in moccasins nor mountain ponies are given to slipping.
After the rain had come the sunshine and the genial warmth of spring,
under the influence of which every hill was musical with new-born
rivulets, and every level place brilliant with young grass. The very
stone-slides blossomed in great clumps of purple gentian, and over even
the stoniest places crept the tendrils of the Oregon vine, with its
thorny shining leaves and flower-clusters of pale gold.
Now and again the trail rose or fell so much that it seemed to Ned as if
he had passed from one season of flowers to another. Down by the lake,
where the pack animals splashed along the bed of a little mountain
stream, the first wild rose was opening, a mere speck of pink in the
cool darkness made by the overhanging bushes. Here by the lake side,
too, were numerous butterflies--great yellow and black "swallow tails,"
hovering in small clouds over the damp stones, or Camberwell beauties in
royal purple, floating through sun and shadow on wings as graceful in
flight as they were rich in colour. Higher up, where the sun had heated
the stone-slides to a white heat, were more butterflies (fritillaries
and commas and tortoise-shells), while now and again a flash of orange
and a shrill little screech told Ned that a humming-bird went by.
In the highest places of all, where the snow still lingered in tiny
patches, the red-eyed spruce-cocks hooted from the pines, the ruffed
grouse strutted and boomed in the thickets, and the yellow flowers of
lilies gave promise of many a meal for old Ephraim, when their sweet
bulbs should be a few weeks older.
To Ned, merely to swing along day after day in the sunshine and note
these things, was gladness enough, and it was little notice he took of
heat, or thirst, or weariness. Unfortunately he became too absorbed, and
as often happens with men unused to leading out, forgot his train and
walked right away from his ponies.
When this fact dawned upon him it was nearly mid-day, and he found
himself at the highest point which the path had yet reached, from which,
looking back, he could see the train crawling wearily after him. He
could see, too, that Cruickshank was signalling him to stop, so nothing
loth Ned sat down and waited. The path where he sat came out to a sharp
promontory, and turning round this it began to pass over the worst
stone-slide Ned had yet seen. Most of those he had hitherto encountered
had been mere narrow strips of bad going from fifty to a hundred yards
across, but this was nearly five hundred yards from side to side, and
except where the trail ran, there was not foothold upon it for a fly.
Properly speaking it was not, as the natives called it, a stone-slide at
all, but rather the bed or shoot, by which, century after century, some
hundreds of stone-slides had gone crashing down into the lake below.
As soon as Ned had assured himself that the train was once more as near
to him as it ought to be, he knocked off as much of the projecting
corner as he could, and passed round it on to the slide.
Looking up from the narrow trail, the young Englishman could see the
great rocks which hung out from the cliffs above; rocks whose fellows
had been the makers of this slide, letting go their hold up above as the
snows melted and the rains sapped their foundations, and then thundering
down to the lake with such an army of small stones and debris that it
seemed as if the whole mountain-side was moving. When this
stone-avalanche crashed into the water a wave rolled out upon the lake
big as an ocean swell from shore to shore.
Looking down, a smooth shoot sloped at an angle from him to the blue
water.
"Well, that is pretty sheer," muttered Ned, craning his neck to look
down to where the lake glistened a thousand feet below, "and if one of
our ponies gets his feet off this trail, there won't be anything of him
left unbroken except his shoes;" and so saying, he turned to see how the
leader would turn the awkward corner which led on to this _via
diabolica_.
As he did so the report of a pistol rang out sharp and clear, followed
by a rush and the clatter of falling stones, and the next moment Ned saw
the leading pony dash round the overhanging rocks, its ropes all loose,
its packs swinging almost under its belly, its bell ringing as if it
were possessed, and its eyes starting from its head in the insanity of
terror.
At every stride it was touch-and-go whether the brute would keep its
legs or not. Each slip and each recovery at that flying pace was in
itself a miracle, and Ned hardly hoped that he could stop the maddened
beast before it and the packs went crashing down to the lake.
Stop the pony! He might as well have tried to stop a stone-slide. And as
he realized this, the danger of his own position flashed across him for
the first time.
Coming towards him, now not fifty yards away, was the maddened horse,
which probably could not have stopped if it wanted to in that distance,
and on such a course. Behind Ned was four hundred yards of such a trail
as he hardly dared to run over to escape death, and even if he had
dared, what chance in the race would he have had against the horse?
Above him there was nothing to which even his strong fingers could
cling, and below the trail--well, he had already calculated on the
chances of any living thing finding foothold below the trail.
Instinctively Ned shouted and threw up his hands. He might as well have
tried to blow the horse back with his breath. In another ten seconds the
brute would be upon him; in other words, in another ten seconds horse
and packs and Ned Corbett would be the centre of a little dust-storm
bounding frantically down that steep path to death!
In such a crisis as this men think fast, or lose their wits altogether.
Some, perhaps, rather than face the horror of their position shut their
eyes, mental and physical, and are glad to die and get it over. Ned was
of the other kind: the kind that will face anything with their eyes
open, and fight their last round with death with eyes that will only
close when the life is out of them.
There was just one chance for life, and having his eyes open, Ned saw it
and took it.
Twenty yards from him now was that hideous maddened brute, with its
ears laid back, its teeth showing, the foam flying from its jaws, and
its great blood-shot eyes almost starting from their sockets. Twenty
yards, and the pace the brute was coming at was the pace of a
locomotive!
And yet, though Corbett's face was gray as a March morning, and his
square jaws set like a steel trap, there was no blinking in his eyes. He
saw the blow coming, and quick as light he countered. Never on parade in
the old school corps did his rifle come to his shoulder more steadily
than it came now; not a nerve throbbed as he pressed (not pulled) the
trigger, nor was it until he stood _alone_ upon that narrow path that
his knees began to rock beneath him, while the cold perspiration poured
down his drawn white face in streams.
One man only besides Corbett saw that drama; one man, whose features
wore a look of which hell might have been proud, so fiendish was it in
its disappointed malice, when through the dust he saw the red flame
flash, and then, almost before the report reached him, saw the body of
the big buckskin, a limp bagful of broken bones, splash heavily into the
Seton Lake.
But the look passed as a cloud passes on a windy morning, and the next
moment Cruickshank was at Corbett's side, a flood of congratulations and
inquiries pouring from his ready lips. As for Ned, now that the danger
was over, he was utterly unstrung, and a bold enemy might have easily
done for him that which the runaway horse had failed to do. Perhaps that
thought never occurred to any enemy of Ned's; perhaps the quick,
backward glance, in which Cruickshank recognized old Roberts' purple
features, was as effectual a safeguard to the young man's life as even
his own good rifle had been; be that as it may, a few moments later Ned
stumbled along after his friend to a place of safety, and there sat down
again to collect himself.
Meanwhile, Roberts and Cruickshank stood looking at one another, an
expression in the old poet's face, which neither Corbett nor Cruickshank
had ever seen there before, the hand in his coat pocket grasping a
revolver, whose ugly muzzle was ready to belch out death from that
pocket's corner at a moment's notice. At last Cruickshank spoke in a
voice so full of genuine sorrow, that even Roberts slackened his hold
upon the weapon concealed in his coat pocket.
"You've had a near shave to-day, Corbett, and it was my fault. I am
almost ashamed to ask you to forgive me."
"How--what do you mean? Did you fire that shot?"
"I did, like a cursed idiot," replied Cruickshank.
Roberts' face was a study for an artist. Speechless surprise reigned
upon it supreme.
"I did," Cruickshank repeated. "I fired at a grouse that was hooting in
a bull-pine by the track, and I suppose that that scared the
cayuse--though I've never known a pack-horse mind a man shooting
before."
"Nor I," muttered Roberts. "I suppose you didn't notice if you hit that
fool-hen, Colonel Cruickshank?"
"No; I don't suppose I did. I'd enough to think of when I saw what I had
done."
"Well, it didn't fly away, and it ain't there now," persisted Roberts.
"Perhaps you'd like to go and look for it."
However, Cruickshank took no notice of Roberts' speech, but held out his
hand to Corbett with such an honest expression of sorrow, that if it was
not sincere, it was superb as a piece of acting.
Without a word Corbett took the proffered hand. There are some natures
which find it hard to suspect evil in others, and Ned Corbett's was one
of these. Only he made a mental note, that though Cruickshank had only
made two mistakes since starting from Douglas, they had both been of
rather a serious nature.
Only one man climbed down to look at the dead cayuse as it lay half
hidden in the shallow water at the edge of the lake, and that was only a
Chinaman. Of course he went to see what he could save from the wreck;
equally, of course, he found nothing worth bringing away; found nothing
and noticed nothing, or if he did, only told what he had seen to old
Roberts. There seemed to be an understanding between these two, for Phon
trusted the hearty old Shropshireman as much as he seemed to dread and
avoid the colonel.