Читать книгу The Ghost of Hemlock Canyon - Harold Bindloss - Страница 2

II

IN THE LOOKING-GLASS

Marvin, by the ranch-house window, forgot his daughter would soon be home. Denis Aylward’s letter was crumpled in his muscular fist, and he heard the river in the dusk. Somehow its broken throb was like the beat of hurrying feet, and Marvin set his mouth. He was not at all romantic and his imagination was in firm control, but the footsteps he had heard long since by a flooded river haunted him. Now the sunset melted from the snow and the light in the big room was fading, they seemed to get distinct—

A branch cracked in the slashing; leaves gently shook, as if somebody crept along the uneven trail. Marvin knew the branch had borne the fierce sun’s heat and a light wind blew down the valley and moved the broad maple-leaves. A few maples grew near the water-front, and maples love good soil. That was all, but Marvin turned from the window and frowned.

Although the light was nearly gone, the mirror by the fireplace shone with reflections from the sky. Mrs. Marvin’s taste was not cultivated and the glass had attracted her at a Vancouver furnishing-sale. The frame was rudely carved, but it enclosed a noble picture.

Crossed by the window-bars’ thin shadows, pines and rocks rolled up the slopes. Where they stopped, glimmering snow began, and in the far background, touched the sky. By contrast with the dusky room, the bright belt at the picture’s top was conspicuous, and Marvin’s glance got fixed. Perhaps Denis Aylward’s letter had something to do with it and perhaps Marvin’s concentration helped; but the dark pines slowly melted and reappeared, as if a fresh landscape occupied the frame. Marvin angrily jerked his head, for he knew the spot, but he did not turn his glance. His habit was to front things, and although he set his mouth he studied the growing picture.

A camp-fire burned by a big hemlock’s roots, and, a hundred feet below, an angry green river brawled in a canyon. The green was the stain of the glaciers’ clay; Marvin knew the snow on the peaks melted in the hot sun. The bent figure by the parallel hearth logs was his; the other was Aylward’s. Tom smoked his pipe and bantered Marvin about his industry. Marvin rejoined that one must cook supper, although Tom would sooner loaf. He recaptured the words he used, almost as if he heard his scornful voice, and he frowned impatiently.

In Western cities, clairvoyants, diviners, and fakirs of sorts, yet use their arts for gain. Marvin knew nothing about hypnotism, crystal-gazing, and telepathy. The fakirs’ business was to plunder trustful fools, but he hated their experiments, particularly when men he knew declared some were not altogether bunk. Marvin had inherited a superstitious vein from his pioneering ancestors. His stock was Puritan; the type that burned the Salem witches.

Turning from the mirror, he lighted his pipe. The stinking sulphur match’s flame dimmed the reflection in the glass; but when his pipe was going and he looked back, the picture of the camp in the rocks had not disappeared. In fact, Aylward’s careless pose and smile were plainer than before. Marvin clenched his fist, and, as if driven by a force his brain rebelled against, reviewed the last holiday he and the other took.

The excursion did not begin fortunately. Marvin for some time had borne a heavy strain and was yet highly strung. He felt he had not got much help from Tom. Aylward talked persuasively and his cheerful confidence encouraged customers; but when they were satisfied he allowed his partner to work out the plans and remove the obstacles. As a rule Marvin did not grumble. Aylward was a white man and the money was his.

They had risked much in a mining speculation; Marvin had thought all they had might go, but he held on and the company was floated. Then when they started on their holiday Aylward packed .38 cartridges for their .44 rifle, and forgot the compass. In a way, it was not important, but Marvin had carried a heavy load and his nerves were raw. He reflected, with a sense of grievance, that Tom was like that.

Although they were friends and partners, their temperaments jarred. Marvin was sternly frugal, willing to use the utmost effort of brain and body, and logical as far as he knew. His philosophy was utilitarian; he hated fools and slobs. Sometimes he hated Aylward’s polite carelessness. Tom refused to bother; when Marvin swore he smiled.

They had supposititiously gone prospecting and they found a pocket of alluvial gold. Aylward talked at large about floating a hydraulic company; Marvin labored for some days in melted snow, and then remarked that the pocket was cleaned up and they might not find another for twelve months. When they camped by the river, the gold, and most of their food, was on board the canoe. Aylward’s job was to pull her up and carry the stuff to camp, but he declared he would first get supper—

Marvin’s pipe had gone out. The tobacco did not taste good, and although he rebelled, the mirror drew his brooding glance. He thought he saw blue smoke curl about the big trunks and the stiff pines roll down the gulch. They had portaged the canoe round a rapid and left her on the gravel by a pool. To reach the spot was awkward; one must scramble down a precipitous ravine, and then plow across the stones and driftwood between the rocks and the water.

They began their supper, but Marvin was not at ease. He thought the rapid’s turmoil ominously loud, and the rumbling note got sharper. All day the sun was scorching, and he knew the snow on the high peaks melted.

“The river might come down, Tom,” he said. “I’m through, and if you have had enough, I’ll help you pack our truck to camp. Then we ought to haul the canoe farther up the bank.”

“You’re not a restful camp-mate,” Aylward rejoined with a laugh. “Anyhow, you pitched the tent, cut the beds, and cooked supper; but I undertook to be accountable for the canoe and outfit. Division of labor’s useful, although I admit your habit is to carry out two-thirds of the job; mine is not to worry but let you go ahead. The important thing is, you’re a bully cook and your flapjacks are remarkably good. You might give me another and shove across the drips.”

Perhaps it was strange, but Marvin thought he accurately recaptured Aylward’s words. At all events, his reply was much like that, and it annoyed him. Sometimes Tom loafed for half an hour over a meal; Marvin thought ten minutes was long enough. The thing, of course, was a small thing, but for most of the day he had waded in glacier-water and tracked the canoe upstream.

“You are not taking supper while the band plays at a London restaurant,” he remarked. “We are in the woods, and our blankets and breakfast are down the gulch. If you go for them now, I’ll pack half the load, although I have done my share. If you wait until you’re forced you can carry up the lot.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Aylward tranquilly. “I’ll promise not to bother you, but I hate to hurry after supper, and I’m not going yet.”

In the quiet room at the ranch-house, Marvin reflected that Tom was obstinate. For all his easy cheerfulness, you could not hustle him. Then sometimes his humorous English politeness jarred. In Canada one did not use Old Country rules, but Marvin admitted a sort of jealousy. He supplied the labor and driving-force; Aylward, so to speak, spread himself and talked. Yet the boys liked Tom, and as far as possible left Marvin alone. Well, he was not a good mixer, and anyhow, for two or three months, he had borne a cruel strain.

He thought the rapid got angrier, but for a time Aylward calmly smoked his pipe. Then a floating tree crashed against a rock and a fresh turmoil throbbed across the woods. A rotten glacier’s foot perhaps had caved; perhaps the hot sun had suddenly released a flood. Anyhow, the river was coming down, and Marvin jumped to his feet.

“Now you have got to go,” he said.

“It looks like that,” Aylward agreed. “All the same, I mustn’t bother you. I undertook the job.”

“Oh, shucks!” shouted Marvin. “Don’t talk. Come on!”

The need for speed was obvious. A week’s supply of food, their blankets, rifle, and a small bag of gold were on board the canoe. As a rule, when the snow-fields melt, the river’s rise is swift, and sometimes the flood rolls down a canyon in a high, curling wave.

Plunging across sharp stones, and sliding where the pitch was steep, they reached the bottom of the ravine. The water lapped the driftwood stranded by other floods, the canoe was a hundred yards off, and Marvin doubted if they could get there. He, however, meant to try, and Aylward did not hesitate.

When they stopped by the canoe, the water was round their boots and the noise up the canyon was like the roar of a big freight-train. Aylward seized the bow, but Marvin pushed him back.

“We can’t save her. Get hold of the camp-truck!”

He gathered up their blankets, the rifle, and the gold. He could carry more, but when he reached for something else Aylward stopped him.

“Shove off with your load. Since I ought to have gone before, I’ll bring the heavy stuff.”

Marvin refused to go and waited sullenly. Tom’s firmness annoyed him, but after all he had declared he would not help. Aylward seized the cotton bag in which they carried their flour and pork and groceries. The bag, slung by Marvin’s old braces, went on one’s back, but after Aylward pushed his arms through the straps he stopped to pick up some other articles, and when they started the flood was near their knees.

For all that, Marvin, who was in front, did not go as fast as he might. Tom had meant to be nasty; he ought to have given him half the load. Moreover, had he not refused to go at the proper time, they might have saved the canoe. The big bag was heavy, and so long as his partner could not make much speed, Marvin was not going to run, but he was willing for him to sweat. He hated to be baffled by an obstinate loafer, and his jealousy and their small disputes, so to speak, had culminated in a savage moodiness.

Although Marvin did not hurry, he began to be afraid. The water was rising fast, and until they reached the spot where they had scrambled down, they could not climb the rocks. For a time he heard Aylward gasp and splash; and then the current got shallower, and they reached a narrow belt of gravel and driftwood. Aylward was three or four yards behind; his thick hiking boots rattled on the stones and sometimes rotten branches smashed. Then the road in the canyon drowned the noise he made.

Twenty yards off, a broken slab went up to a ledge from which the climb to the top was not hard. Marvin wanted to stop and hustle Aylward along, but there was not time to take part of his load. They must make the spot before the flood covered the gravel. Marvin was at the bottom a few moments in front; his impulse was to wait and shove the other up the awkward slab, but if he boosted Tom, he must throw down the rifle, and the Winchester was nearly new. Besides, the obstinate fool’s loafing had entangled them, and he would perhaps refuse to be helped. At the top of the slab Marvin could throw the stuff he carried on the ledge and pull him up.

Balancing his load awkwardly, he pushed his boot into a crack and began to climb. He knew he ought to wait, but he did not hurry altogether because he was afraid; he was rather moved by sullen stubbornness than fear. In fact, had Tom not been nasty, he would have stopped.

He climbed for two or three yards; and then a roar deafened him and a white wave rolled furiously down the channel. A broken pine rode on its crest; battered trunks and white, peeled branches tossed in the flood. Marvin’s boots were in the water and he let the blankets go; but, mechanically gripping the rifle, he crawled on to the ledge. Although the effort cost him much, he turned and looked back. The muddy green torrent swirled across the slab, but Tom was gone.

Five minutes afterwards, Marvin, breathless and trembling, reached the camp. Breakers crashed in the rapid, broken trees struck the rocks, and thirty pounds of camp supplies were strapped to Aylward’s back. Marvin’s skin was wet by sweat and his big hands shook. Had he firmly seized his proper load, had he but stopped for a moment at the bottom of the slab, Tom might have made the camp. Moreover, Marvin knew he had not got rattled; he had consciously indulged his moodiness. All he had thought was, Tom had refused to go when he might and must take his punishment.

In the morning the river fell and for two horrible days Marvin searched the rocks and pools. He knew there was no use in searching, but until he had done so he dared not start. Then at daybreak he threw the rifle on his shoulder and took the mountain trail. He hated his load; to some extent it accounted for the tragedy at the slab, but he had two or three cartridges of the proper size and he might find a deer. The nearest settlement was some distance off, and all his food was a hard bannock.

Marvin did not find a deer, but he shot a blue grouse, and wild berries are numerous in the British Columbian woods. Rocks split by frost blocked his path up the ravines, and on the lower benches the forest was thick. Devil’s-club thorn tore his clothes, and he was forced to cross tangled, fallen trees, buried in giant fern.

He had no blanket and at night the dew was cold; mosquitoes banished sleep, but he could not light a smudge-fire, for his matches were gone. Moreover, if the mosquitoes did leave him alone, he heard Aylward’s boots rattle on the stones. Sometimes when the sun was hot he went to sleep on his feet, and wakened with a jolt if he struck a tree. He was exhausted, and faint from want of food, but he went fast, for he thought Aylward gasped and stumbled in the gloom behind the trunks. The haunting footsteps began in the lonely woods, and Marvin, looking back on his career, felt as if Tom had followed him ever since.

When he reached the mining town his tale was received with bleak suspicion. His neighbors knew Aylward and he had recently disputed and the other had supplied the capital Marvin used. Then Marvin carried a rifle and had brought back gold. The quantity was not large, but he had not long since sold a claim to a mining company and had perhaps wanted all the profit of a fresh speculation.

Marvin faced his calumniators, and the storekeeper-magistrate admitted, rather unwillingly, that he was satisfied. Yet the doubts were not banished, and Marvin soon was conscious that only his wife believed his innocence. He told her much about the tragedy, but she did not know he had refused to stop for Aylward at the bottom of the slab.

When he resolved to sell his business Hannah agreed, and in a sense he had made good at Vancouver. Anyhow, he had got rich, and when his ambition was satisfied had gone back to the woods; Marvin was by inheritance a bush pioneer. His ranch would soon be a model ranch, and until Denis’s letter arrived, he had almost persuaded himself that Aylward’s haunting him was an illusion. Yet, when he was tired and bothered and the river throbbed in the dark, he heard his partner’s feet on the rocks.

Now Tom’s nephew proposed to join him, and he must help the boy find an occupation. Denis Aylward must not stay at the ranch. Marvin frankly could not stand seeing him about—

A stick cracked in the clearing and cedar-branches shook. The river’s turmoil was louder, and the glass on the mantel was cloudy and dim. Marvin threw back the window-frame, pulled down the shade, and got a light.