Читать книгу The Broken Trail - Harold Bindloss - Страница 5
ОглавлениеHARDEN GOES FISHING
The tents by the beach got indistinct, the trembling reflections lost their sharpness, and Harden's paddle slowed. The water was smooth as glass, and an easy stroke sent the light canoe along. Now he thought about it, he was persuaded a branch by the point did shake, and when he was fishing at Pierced Rock somebody lurked about the spot. It looked as if his movements interested the fellow, but Harden could not account for his curiosity. He was not remarkably important, and to see the stranger's object for following him was hard.
Harden resolved he would not bother about it, and he mused happily about his approaching marriage. Margaret was altogether the proper wife for him. She was kind and stanch; leal was the good Scottish word. He loved her quiet humor and her thoughtful calm. Then he knew her pluck; if forced, she would front trouble nobly, and he knew she loved him, although she was not a sentimentalist. Well, he himself was a sober Scot and had not much use for hectic romance. In some of his relations the reckless vein a Borderer now and then inherited was rather marked, but Keith imagined he, so to speak, was his staid Presbyterian mother's son.
Margaret, however, had ordered him not to stay long, and since he wanted to catch a big trout, he resumed his paddling. Across the quiet reach, a river the lake fed plunged down a valley, and when the swift current hurried the canoe along Harden glanced ahead. The light was going, and vague, crossed branches and dim, straight trunks bordered the high bank. In the background, white foam glimmered and angry water throbbed. Keith knew he must not go down the rapid. When the water was low, rocks broke the channel and savage whirlpools revolved.
The stream went faster, and when Harden saw the head of a rocky island he backed his paddle and got his breath. He dared not take the west fork, down which the greater part of the water plunged, and the other was awkward, but he was a good river man, and when he was level with the first pines on the island he let the canoe go. She leaped ahead like a toboggan; rocks and trees sped by; and then a swift stroke carried her to an eddy running back the other way. Harden had marked the landing, and a few more strokes drove her bow on to a gravel bank. Keith thought he had made it neatly, but the exploit was not really hard. If one studied the slacks, and hit the backwash at the proper spot, one might, perhaps, swim across. The light, however, was nearly gone, and seizing his rod he pushed through the brushwood under the trees.
On the other side of the island, the current was deflected by a ledge, and, swinging across, revolved about a dark, foam-streaked pool. Where the ripples marked the edge of deep water one ought to find a good trout, and Harden got to work. For some time, however, the large, light-colored fly floated undisturbed across the slack, and Keith frowned and lighted his pipe. The mosquitoes had got busy, and where the pests were numerous one could not concentrate. He thought he knew where the trout were, but one must steer the fly, as if the current carried it, to the proper spot. Nothing but the ripples broke the surface and he turned his head.
Small slanted pines grew in the rocks, and one, broken by a storm, was in the water. He could see for a few yards across the island; and then the dark, tangled branches cut his view. In the gloom downstream, where the forking channels reunited, the main rapid crashed on the ledges; and one heard mosquitoes——
The rod jerked. Things happened like that; when one watched one's line the trout did not rise. Then Harden thrilled. The trout was not gone, and he knew it was large. The reel clicked, and, holding down the rod's butt, he let the fish run. Until it was beaten, he could not use the net, and to get down to the water was awkward.
The tense line sped across the pool; and then Harden began to wind. The trout was turning and the trace must not get slack. He ought to pull the fish downstream, but he could not scramble along the precipitous bank, and not far off the broken pine was in the water. He must not risk an entanglement. After all, he might use the net; the trout was going upstream and would soon be at his feet. For a moment he looked about. A branch dropped to the pool, and a crack in the smooth slabs would support his foot. If he used some caution, he might reach a mossy shelf——
The rod quivered and he knew the line had stopped. It was under the broken tree, and it all at once went slack. The jar had cut the trace, and the trout was gone. Harden swore, and then, reeling up the line, savagely rubbed his face and neck. Had the blamed mosquitoes left him alone, he might not have lost the trout! Now there was no use in fishing. Dark had fallen, and when the venomous insects swarmed about one's head one could not steer the line. Besides, he had stayed longer than he ought and Margaret waited for him at the camp.
Keith put up his rod, crossed the island, and when he stopped at the other side clenched his fist. The landing was two or three yards below him; he knew where he had climbed the rocks, but the canoe was not about. Moreover, there was no use in his searching the bank: when she floated off the gravel the eddy had swept her into the main stream and she had gone down the rapid. Harden experimented with a dead branch he broke. Where the branch went the canoe had gone; his supposition was accurate.
Sitting on the stones, he reloaded his pipe. To smoke might drive off the mosquitoes and help him see a plan. It certainly was awkward! If Margaret were not disturbed, she had, at all events, some grounds to be annoyed, and the others did not know where he had meant to fish. There was the trouble, since the lake was large and the woods along its shore were thick. In fact, Harden wondered whether he ought not to swim across.
Keith's nerve was good, but his habit was to weigh things, and he pondered. In order to get across, one must watch for the slacks and backwash, and use all one's strength at exactly the proper spot. So long as one could see, the turmoil was perhaps not dangerous; in the dark, however, to plunge into the angry flood might be very rash. There was another thing: when he fell down the rocks in Alberta he hurt his leg. The injury did not bother him much, but when he walked fast his step was slightly uneven, and the muscles would not bear a violent strain.
In the circumstances, Keith resolved to wait for morning. Day broke about three o'clock, and although he must for some distance push through tangled forest and stumble along stony beaches where the driftwood was piled, he ought to reach camp for breakfast. In the meantime, the mosquitoes swarmed about his face, and he must make a smudge fire. To gather dead branches and throw green twigs on the snapping flame was some relief. The pungent smoke drove back the pests, the night was not cold, and Harden on a mossy shelf rested his back comfortably against a trunk. After a time, however, he got restless and put up his pipe.
A flame pierced the smoke, and for a few moments flickering light touched the stiff branches and smooth-topped rocks; then the beam faded and the gloom crept back. But for the river's turmoil and the snapping fire, all was very quiet. Harden frowned. Margaret certainly would be disturbed; perhaps it was strange, but somehow he felt she wanted him to risk the crossing, and he wanted to go. In fact, to conquer the rash impulse was hard. He was young, and but for his leg, athletic. In some respects, to take the plunge was easier than to wait.
All the same, Keith refused to allow his imagination to carry him away. Moreover, to think Margaret would like him to risk it was ridiculous; her pluck was good, but it was not the pluck that fronts a hazard carelessly. Harden argued like a logical Scot and thought his reasoning sound.
A fresh noise pierced the turmoil, and far off across the woods, he thought he heard a train. The train would make Miscana in half an hour, and had Keith not got Walthew's note, he might have stopped her at the flag station down the lake. He began to wonder whether he ought to have taken the two extra days. Walthew was young, and the Brockenhurst Company was the bank's chief customer. The new factory would cost a large sum, and the treasurer had engaged to send across some valuable stock certificates, on which the bank would negotiate a loan. The documents must go to Montreal, and when they arrived Harden would sooner be at the office. All the same, it was not important; the bank's safe was good and Walthew would express the packet by the first train.
Harden speculated about the canoe. He had thought he pulled her bow up the bank, but the sand-flies bothered him and he was keen to start fishing. Perhaps he had not used proper caution, and if the current swung her stern against the stones, the jar might help her slide back into the pool. As a rule, he was not careless, and his slackness puzzled him, but he must have been slack. To imagine somebody had swum the rapid in order to steal an old canoe was absurd. He stretched his legs and rested his back farther down the trunk. His chin sank to his chest, the curling smoke got indistinct, and he was asleep.
When he looked up the smoke was gone and feathery ashes marked the spot the fire had occupied. Day was breaking and the morning was cold. Harden shivered, but he jumped up and pulled off his coat. Since he must follow rough beaches and smash through underbrush, he would need his thick hiking boots. His summer clothes ought not to embarrass him much, and pulling his belt tight, he scrambled down the bank. Now his trying to cross was justified, he did not loiter.
For a few moments the cold cut his breath and the eddy, running upstream, carried him along. It looked as if the dark rocks sped the other way, but Harden fixed his glance in front. Seven or eight yards off, the eddy joined the main current, and a savage turmoil marked the confluence. Keith swam slowly and got his breath.
He was pulled under, as if somebody had seized his legs. When he came up he went downstream horribly fast, and angry white waves broke against his head. He, however, had reckoned on something like that and had marked a big rock in the channel. The rock sped by, and using his fastest stroke, he plunged into a swirling, foaming belt. His weak leg hurt, his side hurt, his head was covered, and he could not breathe or see. Then the confused tumult stopped and he was in the slack behind the rock. With something of an effort, he reached the mass and rested his arms on a shelf. He had covered half the distance and he imagined the other half looked worse than it was.
The channel in front was deep; a long, smooth slide of water, running ominously fast to the spray that leaped about the rapid's top. All, however, did not reach the daunting spot, for a backwash, marked by revolving eddies, broke the main stream and followed the hollow bank. If one could reach the junction, to land ought not to be difficult; but one must not be carried past.
Keith pushed off and was swept downstream like a cork, although he headed obliquely the other way. Speed was now indicated, and he used all the strength he had; his head for the most part under water and his arms beating the flood. He dared not for a moment ease his stroke in order to look about. When he reached the slack he would know, but if he were carried past, his strongest swimming would not help him much.
A wave flung him sideways. He went down and was violently tossed about; and then he was on the surface and going the other way. Two or three yards off, he saw steep, smooth rocks, and he got his breath and swam easily. Not far in front, a broken pine had fallen across the stones, and when the stream swept him by he seized a branch.
Crawling along the trunk, he reached the bank and stopped for a minute or two to rub his leg. The effort he had used had hurt the strained muscles, and when he started for the camp he limped. The stiffness, however, wore off, and when a bright sunbeam pierced the woods his speed was good. On the whole, to cross the rapid was easier than he had thought, but he was glad he had not tried it in the dark. Yet he admitted he came near to going. Now the sun shone and the morning was fresh, he knew the queer romantic impulse was ridiculous. One must be logical, and Harden smiled. The boys would banter him about the trout he did not catch, and after breakfast he must take Bob's canoe and go back for his coat and fishing-rod.
