Читать книгу The Untamed American Spirit: Historical Novels & Western Adventures - Emerson Hough - Страница 45

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“How far to-day, sir?” asked Rob of the leader of their party, when, having left their camp on the bank of the McLeod at the spot known as the Leavings, they had headed straight west toward the steep divide which rose before them.

“That all depends on luck,” said Uncle Dick. “We’ve got to climb that divide and get down off the top of it. By noon we’ll be higher than the Rocky Mountains!”

“That isn’t possible, of course.”

“I didn’t say higher than the highest peak in the Rocky Mountains. But as a matter of fact on top of the divide between the McLeod and the Athabasca we are four thousand six hundred and forty feet above sea-level, and that is nine hundred and seventeen feet higher than the summit of the Yellowhead Pass where we cross the Rockies.”

“It doesn’t look like a very easy trail,” said Rob.

“No, on the contrary, it is one of the most dismal and desolate parts of the whole march, with its burned forests and its steep grades. Besides, some of the worst muskeg in the country is on each side of this Athabasca divide — it just runs in terraces all up and down both sides.”

“When does the first one come?” asked Rob.

“Just before we get ready for it! But if you don’t discover when we get there I’ll let you know. To my notion, this looks considerable like a muskeg just on ahead of us. Now we’ll take a little lesson in muskeg work. What I want to say to you is, that you must never get angry and excited, either over muskeg or mosquitoes. Take it easy all the time.”

They paused now at the edge of what seemed a thicket covered with low bushes, which rose above green moss and tufts of grasses. In places the swamp looked as though it would hold up either a man or a horse. None the less, the boys could see where long ago an attempt had been made to corduroy the bog. Some of the poles and logs, broken in the middle, stuck up out of the mud. A black seam, filled with broken bits of poles, trampled moss and bushes, and oozing mud, showed the direction of the trail, as well as proved how deceptive the surface of an unbroken muskeg can be.

“Now, Jesse,” said Uncle Dick, “you and John take your guns and go across on foot on one side of the trail. It will probably hold you if you keep moving and step on the tufts and the bushes. The rest of us will have to do the best we can with the horses.”

“Why can’t the horses go out there, too?” demanded Jesse. “It looks all right.”

“There are times,” said Uncle Dick, “when I wish all horses had been born with webbed feet. The hoof of a horse seems made purposely to cut through a muskeg, and the leg of a horse is just long enough to tangle him up in one. None the less, here is the muskeg, and here we are with our horses, and we must get across. We’ll not go dry into camp this day, nor clean, either.”

The two younger boys were able to get across without any very serious mishaps, and presently they stood, a hundred yards or more away, waiting to see what was going to happen. The horses all stood looking at them as though understanding that they were on the farther side of the troublesome country.

“Get in, Danny,” said Uncle Dick, and slapped his riding-pony on the hip. The plucky little horse walked up to the edge of the soft ground, pawing at it and sniffing and snorting in dislike. Uncle Dick slapped him on the hip once more, and in Danny plunged, wallowing ahead belly-deep in the black slime, slipping and stumbling over the broken bits of poles, and at times obliged to cease, gallant as were his struggles. Of course the saddle was entirely covered with mud. None the less, in some way Danny managed to get across and stood on the farther side, a very much frightened and disgusted horse.

“She’s a bad one, Moise,” said Uncle Dick, thoughtfully. “I don’t know how they’ll make it with the loads, but we’ve got to try. Come on, Rob, let’s drive them in.”

It took a great deal of shouting and whipping to get the poor brutes to take to this treacherous morass, but one after the other they were driven in, until at length the whole dozen of the pack-train were distributed, half-submerged, over the hundred yards of the mucky trail. Uncle Dick, not stopping to think of his clothes, followed Moise in; and Rob, pluckily as either of the others, also took to the mud. Thigh-deep, plunging along as best they could, in the churned up mass, they worked along the animals, exhorting or encouraging them the best they could. It was piteously hard for all concerned, and for a long time it seemed doubtful if they would get the whole train across. Sometimes a horse, exhausted by its struggles, would lie over on its side, and the three of them would have to tug at him to get him started again.

The last horse in the train was the unhappy claybank. Within a few yards of the farther side this horse bagged down, helpless, and fell over on its side, its pack down in the mud, and after plunging viciously for a time lay flat, with its head out, so that Rob had to cut some brush to put under it.

“Broken leg, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Dick. “It’s that rotten corduroy down in the mud there. What shall we do, Moise, cut off the packs and — but I hate to shoot a horse.”

“S’pose you’ll wait some minute,” said Moise, after a time, coming up plastered with mud from head to foot. “Those horse, she’ll want for rest a little while.”

“Feel down along his hind leg if you can, Moise,” said Uncle Dick; “that’s the one that seems helpless.”

Moise obediently kneeled in the mud and reached his arm along down the cayuse’s legs.

“Those legs, she always there,” said he, arising. “Maybe those horse, she’ll just fool us.” Then he began to exhort the helpless animal. “Advance donc, sacré cochon diable cheval! En avant la — whoop!”

Moise continued his shouts, and, to the surprise of all, the disabled horse began to flounder once more; and as they all lifted at his pack and pushed him forward he gave a series of plunges and finally reached firm ground.

“So,” said Moise, calmly, “thass all right. She was French horse, thass all — you’ll been spoke English on him, and he wasn’t understood it.”

Uncle Dick, grimed as he was from head to foot, could not help laughing at Moise’s explanation. Then they all stood and laughed at one another, for they, as well as the saddles and packs, were black with muck.

“I told you, young men,” said Uncle Dick, “that we wouldn’t make a clean camp to-night. You see now why we have covers on the packs, don’t you, and why we roll everything in canvas? Well, anyhow, we’re across that one, and I hope there’s nothing any worse ahead, although you never can tell.”

The pack-horses seemed to have very short memories of their troubles, for when the line of march was again resumed they went on peacefully enough, even the claybank bringing up the rear as though nothing had happened to him.

It was a stiff climb which confronted them now, on the eastern slope of the big Athabasca divide; but as they rose the terrors of the trail were in some part compensated by the splendid views of the country which now were disclosed as they passed into this or that opening along the jack-pine ridge. A wide panorama lay off to the east, the country from which they had come; and at last, when finally they had arrived at the top of the divide, they could see the barren slopes of the Rockies, now apparently so close as to be within a half-day’s travel. It was a savage and desolate scene which lay about them, the more gloomy because of the wide areas of dead and half-burned timber which stretched for miles beyond. Weary and travel-stained as the young travelers were, a feeling of depression came upon them, seeing which Uncle Dick did his best to cheer them up.

“Never mind,” said he; “that much is behind us at least. We’re nearly a thousand feet above the McLeod River here, and it’s over thirteen hundred feet down to the Athabasca yonder. There’s bad going between here and there, although the valley itself isn’t so bad. So I tell you what I think we’ll do — we’ll make an early camp, and Moise and I will go off to the south of the main trail and see if we can’t work over the heads of some of the creeks. It may be rougher country, but it ought not to be quite so soft.”

They were glad enough to follow this counsel, and when at last they came to a little open glade with running water they pulled up and began the unpleasant work of removing the muddy packs.

“I’ve got mud in my hair and my eyes and my mouth yet,” said Rob, laughing.

“And my stirrups are full, and my rifle scabbard and everything else,” added Jesse.

“Well, I don’t call this any fun,” said John; “I don’t like to be dirty.”

“Nonsense!” said Rob. “It’ll all wash off. And once we are clean and have a cup of tea, we’ll be just as good as new.”