Читать книгу Raw Gold - James B. Hendryx - Страница 12

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Daylight found the two still sitting close to their fire. They had managed to dry their clothing during the night and were fairly comfortable save for the gnawings of hunger. Neither had tasted food since noon of the preceding day. As the light increased, they surveyed their immediate surroundings. The narrow strip of shingle on which they had landed at the mouth of the creek terminated in a rocky shore line a few hundred feet in either direction. To the eastward, across a narrow strait, loomed the heights of Prince of Wales Island, which the two took to be the mainland. At their backs towered an almost perpendicular wall of rock, cleft by the narrow gorge through which the waters of the creek tumbled noisily to the sea.

“What we goin’ to eat, Matt?” asked Jake, anxiously, as his eye swept the barren shore. “I’m hungry as a hog.”

“Me, too. We’ll find somethin’. We’re lucky to be alive. I bet all the others was drownded. They couldn’t have landed if they’d reached shore agin’ them rocks.”

“I’m sorry about the cook an’ some of the rest,” said Jake. “But not the mate. He was a mean man. Anyhow, he can’t find out I loaded that cannon wrong. But what we goin’ to eat? I don’t believe ther’d be any varmints on top of them rocks, even if we could climb ’em.”

“We’ve got to figure to get acrost to the land some way.”

“Cripes! It’s a mile, er maybe a couple of miles—things looks nearer acrost the water. We can’t make it on that damn lid. We’d be froze before we got there. I see a dead fish!”

Rising, he hurried up the beach toward the spot where the white belly of a fish gleamed at the water line. In a moment he returned. “It stinks,” he announced, in disgust. “We got here too late.”

“There’s plenty of driftwood,” said Matthew. “If we had some way of fastenin’ it together we could build a raft an’ use the hatch cover for a deck. Then, with our shirts for sails, we might make it acrost.”

“Yeah—an’ the wind might change, an’ we’d git blow’d clean to Chiny, er somewheres! Look—there’s a bird. He’s goin’ to light by the dead fish! Gosh, Matt, he’s big as a hen! Git yer pistol.”

Matthew reached for the muzzle-loading revolver he had laid aside, and took careful aim. He pressed the trigger and was rewarded by the sharp snap of the cap. “Powder’s wet,” he said in disgust. “We’ve got to unload ’em an’ dry ’em good, an’ load ’em with dry powder.”

The large white and slaty-blue bird stood beside the dead fish and eyed the intruders with no sign of fear, as they drew the charges of wet powder from the chambers of their pistols and reloaded them.

“Don’t miss, Matt,” implored Jake. “You was pretty good when the mate was makin’ us practise.”

Once again Matthew took careful aim and pressed the trigger. This time the gun functioned, and the gull flopped about crazily upon the sand, to be pounced upon a moment later by Jake, who promptly wrung its neck and brought it in triumph to the fire, where he skinned and cleaned it and divided it into two equal portions. Spitted on sticks, the two halves were soon broiling over the coals.

“By Gosh, Matt—chicken fer breakfast! Who’d of thought it? An’ us ’way out here to hell an’ gone on a island in the ocean! It’s better’n we ever got on that dang ship. Won’t the folks’ eyes bung out back home when we tell ’em what we done an’ seen!”

“Humph!” grunted Matthew. “They’ll think we’re lyin’.”

“Yeah—that’s ’cause they’re ignorant, an’ ain’t traveled none. I’m glad we come to Californy. Things didn’t look so good fer a while when them damn Rooshians was shootin’ our mast off, an’ the ship was spinnin’ around an’ bustin’ all to hell on them rocks in the dark, an’ tippin’ over an’ sinkin’, an’ us scootin’ down the deck on that lid. But it ain’t so bad now. I’m glad it was us that got to shore instead of someone else, ain’t you, Matt?”

“Why, sure! Anyone would be glad of that.”

“My hen’s done. Here goes. Gosh, I’m that hungry I can’t wait another minute.”

Jake lifted the stick that skewered his portion and inspected the sizzling meat. “I wisht we had some salt. By gosh, the sea’s salty—I got a bellyful when we first hit the water. I’m goin’ to dip mine in the water, an’ that’ll salt it an’ cool it off all to onct.”

Suiting the action to the word, he dabbled the portion in the water, and, removing the stick, seated himself and eyed the morsel gloatingly. Then he bit largely into the breast and began to chew with gusto. Suddenly his jaws ceased to work, an expression of pained surprise overspread his face, and he forcibly ejected the half-masticated mass. Crawling to the brook, he rinsed his mouth with the clear, sweet water.

“What’s the matter?” asked Matthew, in surprise.

“Cripes—it tastes like fish!”

“Well—fish is good.”

“Yeah—but when yer expectin’ a thing to taste like chicken, you don’t want it tastin’ like fish! Anyways, not like rotten fish!”

“You prob’ly dipped it in the ocean too clost to that dead fish,” said Matthew. “Wash it off in the crick, an’ it’ll be all right.”

“I’ll wait till you taste yourn,” said Jake. “I’m kind of sick to my stummick. Anyhow, I ain’t hungry right now.”

Matthew removed his portion from the fire and allowed it to cool slowly while Jake waited expectantly. Finally he bit into it, more gingerly, however, than had Jake. He, too, spat the morsel from his mouth. “Does taste kind of fishy,” he said. “Maybe it’ll be better when it’s cold. I guess them birds must live on dead fish, an’ it tastes in the meat.”

“Hell—hog meat don’t taste like swill!” argued Jake. “It can’t be that.”

Matthew shrugged. “All right—it’s your guess. Anyway, my piece can wait till I’m a damn sight hungrier’n I am now. Look!” he cried suddenly. “There’s a boat!”

Both leaped to their feet and gazed toward a small craft that seemed to be approaching from the opposite shore. Already it was halfway across the narrow strait.

“Maybe it’s some of them Rooshians comin’ to hang us!” exclaimed Jake. “What’ll we do, Matt?”

“Wait an’ see. If they’re Rooshians, we can get behind those rocks at the mouth of the crick an’ stand ’em off. We’ve got our pistols an’ quite a bit of powder an’ ball.”

“Yeah—but how’ll we know if they’re Rooshians? What the hell does a Rooshian look like, Matt?”

“Why—I don’t know. Seems like I remember a picture of the Czar in the geography book. He had whiskers.”

“Well, we can’t go shootin’ ’em jest because they got whiskers. An’ it might not be the Czar, anyhow. They’s other Rooshians, ain’t there? I’ll tell you—if they talk funny we’ll blast hell out of ’em!”

“Dutchmen an’ Frenchmen talk funny, too. It wouldn’t be right to go shootin’ ’em jest because they was furriners.”

“Well,” said Jake resignedly, “here’s jest one more damn thing goin’ to happen to us! If they hang us, they’re Rooshians—an’ if they don’t, they ain’t.”

The craft was rapidly drawing closer. “It’s a skin boat,” said Matthew, shading his eyes with a hand. “There’s four men paddlin’. They’re Injuns, an’ there’s a white man standin’ up in the bow!”

“He’s got whiskers,” added Jake. “Git yer pistol ready, Matt. It’s prob’ly the Czar!”

“Hel-o-o-o, ashore!” The voice came floating over the wavelets.

“Gosh, he’s a reg’lar American white man! Holler at him, Matt! An’ them must be tame Injuns, too.”

The boat beached a few minutes later, and a tall young man with a rich chestnut beard stepped ashore. He spoke with a strong Scotch burr. “Who are ye?” he asked, his eyes sweeping the beach for some sign of a boat. “An’ how’d ye get here?”

“I’m Matthew Blunt, an’ he’s Jake Valentine. We got shipwrecked an’ floated here on that hatch cover.”

“What ship?”

“She was the Sassy Kate, first—but the captain changed the name to the Avenger. We put into some bay along the coast an’ repainted her. He figured on stealin’ cargoes of seal an’ sea otter from the Rooshians. But the first Rooshian ship we ran acrost licked us an’ chased us onto the rocks an’ the Avenger sunk.”

The man was grinning as he listened to the naïve account. “Ye don’t look much like pirates to me.”

“We ain’t, neither,” explained Matthew. “We came to California to dig gold. A man showed us some nuggets in San Francisco, an’ we bought shares in a company with all the money we had, an’ the night before we was goin’ to start for the mountains, we went down to a shanty to have a supper. We had jest one drink—an’ the next thing we knew it was the next day, an’ we was out in the ocean on the ship. The captain claimed we signed on—but we didn’t.”

“Press gang got ye,” observed the man. “It’s dirty business.”

“Who are you?” asked Matthew.

“I’m Colin McDermott, in charge at Fort Stickine. I was visitin’ some of the Siwash villages on the islands, an’ last evenin’ I heard the sound of heavy gunfire. I thought ’twas strange. The firin’ kept up at intervals till dark. It sounded like one gun. So this mornin’ I come out to investigate.”

“That was them damn Rooshians shootin’ at us!” explained Jake. “They hit us, too. Knocked the bridge all to hell, an’ killed the captain, an’ the last shot knocked down our front mast, an’ we hit a rock an’ sunk.”

“Where’d she sink? Did anyone else get off?”

“I don’t know,” said Matthew. “It can’t be far from here. We floated around awhile an’ came ashore on the hatch cover. I don’t know whether anyone else got off or not.”

“She must have struck in the pass between this island an’ the next. The tide rips through them passes like a mill race. A ship wouldn’t have a chance where there was rocks.”

“Will you take us to shore?” asked Matthew. “We ain’t got any money—but you can have the pistols. We want to get back to California.”

“Aye, I’ll tak’ ye to the fort. It’s a long way to California. Ye’ll not be makin’ it afoot. Ye can go down to Fort Victoria on the company boat in June, then, mayhap, ye’ll find passage from there to San Francisco.”

“What kind of a fort is it—an’ what company do you mean?” asked Matthew.

“The Hudson’s Bay Company. We hold a lease from the Russian Fur Company on the coast from Cape Spencer south. Get in the bidarka an’ we’ll be goin’. We’ll slip around the point of the island to see if any more of the crew got ashore. I’m doubtin’ we’ll find anyone, with the rocks raisin’ straight out of the water like they do. Ye was mighty lucky to find that strip o’ gravel.”

“Will yer boat hold us all?” asked Jake, eyeing the light craft doubtfully. “She ain’t made of nothin’ but skins.”

“Aye,” smiled the man. “Bidarkas are light craft, but they’re staunch, an’ they’ll carry a load. Set on the bottom amidship.”

Gingerly the two took their places, McDermott pushed off, and under the short choppy strokes of the paddlers the light craft skirted the shore. Rounding a high, rocky point, another island appeared, separated from the one on which they had been cast by a narrow gut.

“ ’Twas yonder ye’r ship prob’ly went down,” opined the Scot, pointing to the narrow passage. “There’s jagged rocks in some of these passes that would rip the bottom out of any ship.”

“But the one where we were wrecked had a current running through it—like a river, only stronger.”

“ ’Twas the tide. ’Tis a bad coast fer tides, what wi’ the islands an’ all. We’ll skirt yon shore for a bit to be sure there’s na poor devils clingin’ amongst the rocks. Then we’ll put back.”

But beyond a few bits of wreckage bumping the rocky shore, no sign of the ill-fated ship was found. Evidently the two in the bidarka were the sole survivors of the wreck.

“Ye’re lucky,” repeated McDermott, tersely, and ordered his paddlers to return to the village toward the northern extremity of Prince of Wales Island.

Four days later, after a leisurely journey, during which many Indian villages and encampments were visited, the little party arrived at Fort Stickine to find an emissary of the company, Finlayson by name, who had orders to take over the trading at Fort Stickine. McDermott was ordered to proceed up the Stickine River and establish a new post in the vicinity of the Dease Lake post, founded some ten years before by Robert Campbell, later abandoned, and burned by the Indians. McDermott was authorized to employ such help as he might deem necessary for the exploration of the river and the establishment of the new post. The vessel from Fort Victoria would reach Fort Stickine a month later than usual—in July, instead of in June—so that McDermott should have time to report the success of the upriver venture.

The Scot sought out Matthew and Jake and explained the situation. “Ye canna find passage to Fort Victoria till July, an’ ’twill be dull enough an ye bide the time here at Stickine. I can use ye upriver, an’ while the pay is not high, ’twill gi’ ye work to do an’ a fine chance to see a grand bit o’ country.”

“I’d like to go,” agreed Matthew. “I don’t want to lay around doin’ nothin’.”

“Me, too,” seconded Jake. “An’ besides, it’ll take us back away from this danged ocean. Seems like it’s bad luck every time I see one.”

And so it came about that the two partners engaged with the great fur company for the exploration of the Stickine.