Blake's Burden Part 16

n.o.body made any comment, and there was silence for a few minutes while the smoke whirled about the group and the drips from the dark boughs above fell upon the brands. Then Clarke asked Benson a question or two and afterwards talked casually with the others until he rose to go.

"I shall start at daybreak and your way lies to the east of mine," he said. "You'll find travelling easier when the snow comes; I wish you good luck."

Though the loneliness of the wilds had now and then weighed upon them, they felt relieved when he left, and soon afterwards Benson went to sleep, but Blake and Harding continued talking for a time.

"That's a man I have no use for," the American remarked. "I suppose it struck you that he made no attempt to get your friend back?"

"I noticed it. He may have thought it wouldn't succeed and didn't wish to show his hand. Benson already looks a different man; I saw the fellow studying him."

"He could have drawn him away by the sight of a whisky flask or a hint of a jag in camp. My opinion is that he didn't want him."

"That's curious," said Blake. "He seems to have stuck to Benson pretty closely, no doubt with the object of fleecing him, and you think he's not altogether ruined yet."

"If what he told me is correct, there are still some pickings left on him."

"I don't suppose the explanation is that Clarke has some conscience and feels he has robbed him enough."

Harding laughed. "He has as much pity as a hungry wolf; in fact, to my mind, he's the more dangerous brute, because I've a feeling that he delights in doing harm. There's something cruel about the man; getting fired out of his profession must have warped his nature. Then there was another point that struck me; why's he going so far to stay with those Indians?"

"It's puzzling," Blake said thoughtfully. "He hinted that he was interested in their superst.i.tions, and I think there was some truth in it. Meddling with these things seems to have a fascination for neurotic people, and as the fellow's a sensualist he may find some form of indulgence that wouldn't be tolerated near the settlements. All this, however, doesn't quite seem to account for the thing."

"I've another idea," said Harding. "Clarke's known as a crank and takes advantage of it to cover his doings. At first, I thought of the whisky trade, but taking up prohibited liquor would hardly be worth his while, though I daresay he has some with him to be used for gaining his Indian friends' good will. He's on the trail of something and it's probably minerals. What the prospector told us suggested it to me."

"You may be right. Anyway, it doesn't seem to concern us."

"Well," said Harding gravely, "I'm troubled about his leaving Benson alone, when one could have understood his trying to take him away. The fellow had some good reason--I wish I knew."

He rose to throw more wood upon the fire and they changed the subject.

CHAPTER XII

THE MUSKEG

It was a fortnight later when the party entered a hollow between two low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and lay in horrible tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it, while as they plodded through the mora.s.s they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.

They were generally wet to the waist and their temper began to give way under the strain, while Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed when he lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake s.h.i.+vering, for hours. He had, however, suffered from malarial fever in India without having it badly, and supposed that it had again attacked him now that he was feeling the hards.h.i.+ps of the march. Saying nothing to his companions, he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of a depressing weakness; and the ground grew softer as they proceeded.

The creek no longer kept within its banks but spread in shallow pools, the rotting trees were giving place to tall gra.s.s and reeds. The valley had turned into a very wet muskeg, but, after making one or two attempts, they failed to find a better road among the hills that shut it in. The rocky sides of the knolls were seamed by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was very difficult to force a pa.s.sage. Then one day, Blake, who felt his head reel, staggered and sat down heavily.

"I'm sorry I can't keep on my feet," he said. "Think it's malaria I've got."

For a moment or two his companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and moving feebly he sank further down with his back against a stone. He looked seriously ill, but Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled himself together.

"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on yonder hummock and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can stand up and lean on us we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few minutes."

When Blake had shakily risen they unstrapped his pack and afterwards with much trouble helped him to reach a small, stony knoll, where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to lie on.

"Thanks," he said in a listless voice. "I found it hard to keep my eyes open all morning and now I think I'll go to sleep. I'll no doubt feel better to-morrow."

By and by he fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, grey afternoon with a cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet muskegs which they could not cross with a sick companion shut them off from all help; their provisions were not plentiful, and the rigorous winter would soon set in.

They scarcely spoke to one another as the afternoon wore away, but when supper time came Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank into restless sleep again, and his companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled drearily, and they could hear the splash of the ripples on a neighbouring pool, It was all depressing, and as in turn they kept watch in the darkness their hearts sank.

Next morning Blake, who made an attempt to get up, was obviously worse, and though he insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a day or two the others felt dubious.

"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said.

"You needn't look so glum."

"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man----"

"It's located in half a dozen different places," Blake rejoined. "You overdo the thing, and the way Benson grins at your threadbare jokes would worry me if I were well. Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria; I've had it several times, and it seldom bothers you much when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram--you've seen my cousin--was down with it a week at Sandymere; temperature very high, old fool of a family doctor looking serious and fussing. Then he got up all right one morning and rode to hounds next day. Very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father.

If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me."

He paused and resumed with a vacant air: "Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back, but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."

Lying down, he turned away from them and they exchanged glances, for it looked as if their comrade's brain were getting clouded. Blake, who dozed part of the time, said nothing during the next few hours, and late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighbourhood. His tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said, quarrelsome people.

Harding looked interested when he heard this and made Benson ask exactly where the Stony village lay; and when he had been told he lighted his pipe and said nothing for the next half hour. Rain had begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place to nurse a fever patient in and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure and felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill and something must be done to save him, but for a time Harding could not see how help could be obtained.

Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the locality. When they were answered he began to see his way, but he waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.

It was getting dark and raining hard; Blake was asleep, the Indian sitting silent, and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering light against the surrounding gloom.

"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding remarked.

"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him, though I can't blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.

"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that the fellow's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality further west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."

"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."

"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must allow it's curious that when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we could have got north with much less trouble had we headed further west."

"If that's true, it has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.

"Very well; I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase in value as the settlement grows, while sooner or later they'll bring a railroad in. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two if you keep steady and work hard, but while you were in his clutches that looked very far from probable."

"You might have put it more plainly--I was drinking myself to death."

Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that this is what the fellow wished?"

"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if you didn't come back from this trip. With n.o.body to dispute his statements he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."

Benson started. "I believe he would stick at nothing; you may be right. But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"

"That," said Harding, "is not so clear."

He glanced at his companion searchingly and seeing that he suspected nothing, decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse upon his return to the settlement and betray the secret in his cups. Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history and had seen a chance of extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of wis.h.i.+ng to ascertain whether the latter was willing to seek redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to thwart than a.s.sist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at his mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified.

Harding, however, meant to make a determined effort to save his comrade.