Blake's Burden

CHAPTER XIII

CLARKE'S SUMMONS

Harding, who knew there was no time to lose, had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint and the low ground streaked with haze as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upwards over banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where they were large and he stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and afterwards got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was laboured and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upwards without slackening his pace.

It was exhausting toil, and until he entered the North-West, he had undergone no physical training and seldom tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even playing any outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and comrade. There was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing, but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore he braced himself for the arduous task.

In the afternoon they reached a tableland where travelling was slightly easier, but when they camped without a fire among the rocks one of Harding's feet was bleeding and he was very weary. Walking was painful for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but by and by his galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly followed the Indian up and down deep ravines and over rough stony slopes. Then they reached stunted timber; thickly-massed, tangled pines, with many dead trees among them and a number which had fallen, barring the way. The Indian seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his muscles having been toughened into something different from ordinary flesh and blood. He was feeling distress, but for the present there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to march. He saw it clearly with his shrewd sense, and though his worn-out body revolted his resolution did not flinch.

They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks, passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted them as they crossed the height of land, but although Harding's side ached as well as his bleeding feet the march went on. Then just before dark he had a glimpse of a wide valley fading into the blue distance with water shining in its midst and grey blurs of willows here and there. The prospect, however, faded swiftly from his sight, and he found himself limping across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting mist. Half an hour afterwards he threw himself down exhausted beside a fire in a sheltered hollow.

Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched close up to it with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and the blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapour. The night was dark but still, and Harding thought a sound would carry some distance, but while he felt his heart beating there was nothing to be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther south and was horribly afraid of hearing a warning bark, but nothing broke the silence and he supposed that Clarke's friends were unable to find food enough for sledge-teams. This was reassuring, because the odds against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the Indian's sense of hearing is remarkably keen.

Feeling that his magazine pistol was loose, he signed to his guide and they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately clear and their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts of dry grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him alarming distinctness. Still nobody challenged them and reaching the centre of the village they stopped again. The nearest of the tepees was only thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into the mist, and as Harding stood listening with tingling nerves he clearly recognized the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there was nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied, and it was highly undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an Indian from his slumbers. Then it was possible that the man shared a tepee with some of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself at his mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and his Stony friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous habits. Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still, and he could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude. Pulling himself together with an effort, Harding went on.

Fortune favoured him, for as he made towards a tepee, without any particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart from the rest, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the curtain, This suggested that it was occupied by the white man, and it was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept forward with his heart beating painfully and stopped a moment just outside the entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but he could not tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, who had crept up behind him, dragged the doorway open and Harding, hastily stepping in, stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung up, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

The tent had an earth floor with a layer of reeds and grass thrown down on one side. It was frail and hinted at changing times and poverty, for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with the products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour bags and old sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles, which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not recognize it.

Harding could not tell whether he noted all this at once, or if it afterwards impressed itself upon him by degrees, because as he entered Clarke, who sat beside the case, looked up. It was, Harding thought, a good test of his nerve, but his face was imperturbable and he showed no surprise. There was silence for a moment or two while the Indian stood motionless with his axe shining as it caught the light, and Harding's lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke spoke —

"So you have turned back. You found the muskeg too difficult to cross, and I suppose this fellow showed you the way here?"

Harding, who was worn out, crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and sat down facing Clarke.

"We have come for you and must start at once. My partner is very sick – fever he thinks – and you'll have to cure him."

"You're presuming on my consent."

"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't be wise of you to refuse."

"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends, and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better understand that the North-West Police have never visited this place and nobody troubles about what goes on up here, while I believe I'm a person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide. "Then, though I don't know what he's doing in this neighbourhood, this fellow belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I think you have been very rash."

"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken some chances in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let that go. The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he gets proper treatment."

Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile. "It's a matter of indifference to me whether Blake dies or not."

"No," said Harding, "I allow it isn't quite so. On the whole, you would sooner he did die. He's in the way."

He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.

"If you're right, it's strange you should urge me to prescribe for him."

"There are some precautions I mean to take," said Harding drily. "However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't get through. My notion is that you expected us to be held up there until our stores ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would, no doubt, have moved on. Well, part of what you wished has happened, but the matter is taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us into difficulties and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay means danger – get ready to start."

Then the Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the tepee with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke, turning his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked at Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight. His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke broke into a faint smile.

"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you were in some danger."

Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy-minded man of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.

"Understand this," he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I staked my life on doing so, and since I guess you're not ready to go so far as that, I've a pretty strong pull on you. But I've said enough. You're coming with me – now – and if you make any attempt to rouse your friends, you'll have a chance of learning something about the other world at first hand a few seconds afterwards."

Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.

"I'm ready."

The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm and Harding, who took out his pistol, extinguished the lamp.

"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly reminded Clarke.

He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards distance. He could see the dark gap of the doorway and had a nervous fancy that eyes were following his movements, for now he had succeeded in the more difficult part of his errand he was conscious of strain. Indeed, he feared he was getting shaky and the danger was not yet over. They were not clear of the village and a noisy stumble would bring the Indians out. Unless they reached camp in the next few days he thought Blake would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one. Still, he was determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who had betrayed them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law and social conventions, but now he had suddenly become primitive under heavy stress.

They passed the tepee unnoticed, but the tension he felt did not slacken, because there was another they could not avoid. Nobody, however, called to them, and he felt easier as they drew away from the row of shadowy tents. Then, moving very cautiously, they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, and Harding, who found it hard to hold himself in hand, feared that he might grow limp with the reaction. Difficult as his task had looked, it had been successfully carried out.

"Get on," he said to Clarke and, walking faster, they plunged into the open waste.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CURE

It was noon when Harding returned to camp, ragged and exhausted, with Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The latter had suffered badly from the hurried march, but his conductor would brook no delay and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to the utmost exertion he was capable of. Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"

"The last two days," said Benson. "I'm afraid he's very bad."

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache, he could scarcely hold himself upright, and his heart was heavy. He would miss Blake terribly; it was hard to think of going on without him, but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man, but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.

"Had you much trouble?" Benson asked as he laid out a meal.

"No," said Harding; "I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."

"Then I don't see how you overcame his objections."

Harding broke into a dry smile. "In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends upon how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."