Читать книгу Beyond the Outposts - James B. Hendryx - Страница 7

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Corporal Downey, R.N.W.M.P., knelt in his canoe with eyes to the front and paddle trailing, ready at a twist of the wrist to shoot the frail craft to the right or the left to keep from plunging headlong onto rock or shallow.

Many years in the service had not dulled the keen delight with which this veteran guardian of the untracked wastes always descended a swift-water river. And the Bear was one of his favourites. Swift-flowing, icy-cold, clear as a crystal, it rushes from Great Bear Lake to the Mackenzie in a series of rapids and shallows and swift deep stretches that are the delight of the experienced canoeman. The banks shot past in an ever-changing panorama of beauty. Long stretches of grassy shore fairly blazing with its brilliant patches of wild flowers, gave place with startling abruptness to steep, cut banks, and they in turn, to perpendicular ice cliffs, their bases worn and cut by the swift-flowing water into all manner of grotesque and fantastic carvings. The roar of the rapids by means of which the river plunges through the canyon of the Franklin Mountains was music to the ears of the grizzled monitor of the outlands.

But this day he was not thinking so much of the roar of the rapids, nor of the wild beauty of changing shores. Ever since his meeting with Irma Boyne he had been wondering, not exactly worrying, but wondering how she would fare in the indescribably wild and desolate country beyond Great Bear Lake. A hundred times in the week or more that he had paddled along the shore of the great lake, he had found himself wondering, and each time he had dismissed the girl from his mind with an effort. But always after a few miles, she would be there again, introduced by memory of a word, a look, a smile, as they had talked together across the little fire.

“It’s because she’s like—her,” muttered the man, between clenched teeth. “God! Can’t a man ever forget?” And then, for miles, and miles, and miles, as the canoe shot swiftly westward, the officer’s thoughts lingered in a reverie of other years, of his earlier days in the Service, of the little Hudson’s Bay post at Lashing Water, of the old white-haired, whist-playing factor, of Murdo MacFarlane, and of the passing of Margot Molaire.

He had been Corporal Downey then, and he is Corporal Downey now, and the reason for this only Corporal Downey knows. Times without number he has been recommended and cited for promotion, and each time he has steadfastly refused promotion. Sergeants and commissioned officers alike have tried, time and again to find the answer, and have failed. Admittedly one of the most capable men the Service ever listed upon it’s roll, he has been tendered an Inspectorship, coupled with unofficial hints from high officials that a Superintendency was not so far in the offing. But he declined the honour, as many times he has declined the Sergeantcy, and the reason no man knows. So Corporal Downey has remained through the years the riddle of the Service—a man of large calibre, kindly, efficient, wise. A man all for the Service, and yet, even among his intimates, a man of mystery—a man within himself.

Bar Rock, with its fantastic colouring of high lights and shadows, loomed ahead, the speed of the current slackened, and Downey began leisurely to paddle. A half-mile above the junction of the Bear and the Mackenzie, upon a grassy flat upon the left bank of the river, the white canvas of a little tent caught his eye and even as he swung the bow of his canoe toward it, the tent collapsed and a man began to fold it for packing. A canoe was drawn up on the beach, and beside it were piled various articles of camp gear. Evidently the man was in the act of breaking camp. The officer recognized him, and before he beached his canoe he was smiling. “I’ll just slip up on him this time without his knowin’ it,” he thought, and without lifting the paddle from the water, shot the canoe shoreward. The man, still busy with the tent, had not looked up. “Hello, Downey!” he called, suddenly, “what in the devil you doin’ all that splashin’ around for? Don’t you know you’ll roile the river up, an’ kill all the fish?”

The officer’s smile broadened as he stepped out of the canoe and drew it up beside the other: “Hello, Gus! What you doin’ here? An’ where in thunder you be’n for the past six months? Last time I saw you was, let’s see—it was over on the east end of Slave Lake. You remember? Your dogs were laid up with sore feet, and you didn’t have grub enough on hand to last a week. You wouldn’t go back with me to Fort Resolution and be saved from starvation. It was cold, if I remember—let’s see.” Both had seated themselves on the grass, and Downey reached for his notebook, and thumbed its pages. “Here it is: January sixth: Investigatin’ report of Indian family starvin’ on McLeod Bay. Made nearly complete circle of bay, January 6th, 8th, 9th. No evidence of any Indians on bay this winter. At noon of 10th, came upon camp of Gus Janier. Had not moved camp for a week. Doctorin’ his dogs’ feet. Food for only a few days in camp. Refused offer of food, also refused to accompany me to Fort Resolution. Has seen no Indians around east end of lake. Remained in his camp two hours, then struck out for Resolution. Temperature, 45. Wind, North-east, 30 miles.”

As the officer returned the diary to his pocket, the other regarded him with a grin: “Ain’t you forgot somethin’?” he asked.

“No—o, I guess not—nothin’ of any consequence. Why?”

The younger man shook his head in mock solemnity: “You’re gettin’ old, Downey, an’ careless—careless with your diary, an’ careless of Government supplies. I don’t keep any diary myself, but if I did I could turn back to that same date—January 10th, wasn’t it. Here’s what it would say: ‘Found on ice near water-hole, six pounds bacon, twenty-five pounds smoked fish, ten pounds flour, one quarter pound tea.’ Old man Downey is a good old soul. Damn his eyes! You must have lost that stuff off your sled when you pulled out of my camp.”

“Must have,” admitted Downey, gravely. “Can’t recollect missin’ any grub, though. By the way, did you run across any Injuns back from the lake?”

“Yes, a few, but they were in good shape—all but one family up on a little lake just north of Lake MacKay. They had three kids, all little bits of devils, and the man had managed to chop his foot, and couldn’t tend to his traps. His foot was in pretty bad shape—all full of proud flesh and pus and as sore as the devil. Wouldn’t let me touch it at first, and the woman was worse than he was. But I persuaded ’em to after a while. They’d got caught in a sort of temporary camp, and the old girl had her hands full tryin’ to snare enough rabbits to keep ’em goin’. I stuck around a couple of weeks, and moved ’em over into some good rabbit country, and fixed up the foot, and shot ’em a caribou or two, and when I left they were in pretty good shape.”

“Too bad you don’t keep a diary, Gus,” said Downey, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “There’d be some things in it I’d kind of like to read. For instance, about you persuadin’ those Injuns to let you work on his foot—how’d you go at that persuadin’—what kind of argument did you put up to ’em?”

Gus Janier doubled his two fists, and held them up before the officer: “These,” he grinned, “an’ about sixty feet of babiche line. He wasn’t so hard to handle, but I had to knock the old woman down three times before she’d stay down long enough for me to get her tied. An’ I had to tie the oldest one of the kids, too. The little devil couldn’t have been over five or six, but he sunk his teeth into my thumb to the bone. Oh, she was a lively camp for a while, you ought to have seen the fun! We quit good friends, though. Before I left they’d have given me anything they had. When I pulled out the foot was about healed up, and the old boy was hobbling around on a kind of crutch I made for him. It was comical as hell to see him tryin’ to rig a snowshoe onto that crutch.”

“You’ve got quite a lot of those friends scattered around over a few million square miles of bush, ain’t you, boy? I run onto ’em every now an’ then.”

“Oh, I guess there’s some. An’ a hell of a lot of ’em that ain’t my friends. That reminds me, I ran across that damned Amos Nixon up on the head of Fish River.”

“When was that? An’ what was he doin’ up there?”

“This spring, before the ice went out. I don’t know what his game was—can’t figure what it could be, way up in there. But, it’s somethin’. He ain’t up there for any good.”

“He ain’t anywheres for any good,” agreed Downey. “I’d like to get holt of Nixon. Want to question him about some caches the Canadian Arctic Expedition reported robbed. They had him hired for a while, till they fired him for stealin’. I sent word to Fort MacPherson, and to Baker Lake to be on the look-out for him. We’ll pick him up before long. He’ll be showin’ up somewheres for supplies.”

“He’s a bad egg, all right. Got it in for me. You fellows have got a leak somewhere.”

“A leak?” The officer regarded the man gravely, “what do you mean?”

“I mean that some inside stuff is gettin’ outside—right where it’ll do the most harm.”

Downey puffed at his pipe for several minutes, then slowly shook his head: “I can’t figure it, Gus. There ain’t a man in the division but what I’d bet my life on.”

“Guess you’d be safe enough at that,” smiled Janier. “The leak ain’t in this division. It’s yonder.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the eastward.

“How do you know?”

“Last year Puk-puk and I ran onto a hooch cache over on Kazan River just south of Baker Lake.” At the sound of his name the great Chesapeake dog that was Janier’s inseparable companion raised his head and fixed his yellow eyes upon the face of his master. “Didn’t we, Puk-puk?” The dog’s tail thumped the ground lazily, and Janier continued. “I reported the find to the Inspector at detachment headquarters, and he sent a certain Constable down to investigate. He couldn’t find anything. But, when I ran onto Amos Nixon up on Fish River this spring, he managed to show me that he knew who had tipped his cache off to the Inspector.”

“M Division has always had good men,” said Downey, regretfully. “If anybody but you had told me that, I wouldn’t have believed him.”

“Yes, and they’ve got good men there, now,” said Janier. “Every man of ’em, except this one—and he’s going to take his discharge this winter. His time will be up then. He’s kultus komooks. Shouldn’t be surprised if he threw in with Nixon.”

Downey nodded, thoughtfully. “Guess I’ve got him located all right. Guess he won’t find no obstructions throw’d in his road when he asks fer his discharge. They squeeze into the Service once in a while, fellows like him—but they don’t last long. By the way Gus, why don’t you join on? Ain’t you about tired of roamin’ around the country doin’ nothin’ but huntin’ an’ fishin’?”

Janier laughed: “Tired of it! We’ll never get tired of it—Puk-puk and I. And, besides, we ain’t just huntin’ an’ fishin’.”

“What in the devil are you doin’, then? You don’t need to tell me that what little tradin’ you do, here an’ there, is enough to satisfy a young fellow with the energy you’ve got?”

“No, it ain’t the tradin’, either. It’s just—the livin’! If I was in the Service, I’d have to go where someone sent me. Maybe the Inspector would send me up the Mackenzie, at just the time my hunch told me to hit over around the Bay. I couldn’t do it, Downey. The way it is, I’m free to go wherever I please, whenever I please, and do whatever I please when I get there.”

The old Corporal smiled: “But, all that don’t get you anywheres—”

“It’s got me everywhere you’ve ever been, and I’ll bet a whole lot of places that you don’t know anything about.”

“Oh, sure—that ain’t what I meant. But, it’s time you was doin’ somethin’. You’re gettin’ along now to where a man ought to be accomplishin’ somethin’—layin’ somethin’ by. You don’t figure on goin’ on like this for ever, do you?”

“Wish I could,” laughed the other, “but unfortunately, I’ve got to die sometime. And, as for laying somethin’ by, it don’t take much to keep me goin’. What Dad left will last me a long time, yet.”

“Lots of folks talks, an’ lots of ’em kind of wonders what you’re really up to.”

“Let ’em talk, an’ let ’em wonder. Fact is, I don’t know myself. All I know is that sometime, someplace, I’m going to run onto something big.”

“Somethin’ big?” asked Downey, with interest. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t the least idea in the world. Maybe it’ll be gold, or copper, or iron. Maybe a chunk of timber. Maybe a development proposition. Or a water-power project. But, I’ve got a kind of a hunch, someway, it’ll be gold.”

“Humph! The pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow,” growled the officer.

“Maybe,” answered the younger man, solemnly. “If I find it I’ll give you the gold. The pot’s half-full of gold, and half-full of happiness, you know.”

“How old you gettin’ to be, Gus?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Where you headin’, now?”

“Well,” answered the younger man, speculatively. “Until about an hour ago I was headin’ up the Mackenzie. Thought I’d kind of like to switch off west into the mountains somewhere. I was goin’ to camp here for a day or two. But all of a sudden I got a hunch to hit up the Bear. Probably wind up over around the Bay, somewhere, in the fall.”

“Have you seen Gaudet?”

“No, didn’t go down to the post. Camped here last evening and just laid around this morning takin’ it easy.”

Downey smiled: “Within half a mile of a post with several white men to talk to, an’ haven’t been down to see ’em!”

“What’s the use. Gaudet’s like all the rest of ’em. You know Dad was a factor, and all the old-timers knew him, and liked him. They all either hint around that I ought to be doin’ something, or else come right out and say so. What business is it of theirs what I do. If I wanted to work for the Company, I could get a post easy enough. Why can’t they let me alone?”

“Don’t think hard of ’em, boy. They’re doin’ what they think is fer you’re own good—ain’t I just be’n raggin’ you myself about the same thing? So, you’re hittin’ out for the Bay. What you goin’ to do over there?”

Janier shrugged: “Haven’t the least idea in the world—may be I won’t get to the Bay. Might get a fresh hunch, an’ hit up onto the coast, or down to the settlements.”

“S’pose, though, you do keep on to the Bay,” speculated Downey, his eyes on the high-flung skyline of Bear Rock. “You’ve got your canoe along, so you couldn’t hardly swing up along the coast. The way you’ll prob’ly go is up the Coppermine an’ across to Fish River, an’ then drop down onto the Thelon.”

Janier laughed. “What’s on your mind Old Timer? Want to deputize me to bring in Amos Nixon?”

“No. No, Nixon’s due to show up for supplies somewhere, soon, an’ someone will pick him up. An’ yet I was thinkin’ of Nixon, too—partly. When you come through the Fish River country in the spring, you didn’t see no one else up there, did you?”

“No,” answered Janier, with a trace of interest in his tone. “I didn’t travel far on the Fish River. Why, is someone supposed to be up there?”

Downey nodded: “Yes, somewheres over in there. On Fish River, or the Thelon, or some feeder. Fellow name of John Boyne. Sort of an oldish fellow, I guess—be’n all over hell. Cleaned up about a million in the Klondike, an’ now he’s putterin’ around up in that God-forsaken country. Be’n up there about a year, an’ ain’t be’n heard from.”

Janier nodded: “Yes, heard about him last year at Baker Lake. He’d started out from detachment headquarters a couple of months before I got there. Expected to pick up an Eskimo guide somewhere around Beverly Lake. Prospector, he was—huntin’ Hearne’s lost mines.”

“That’s the fellow. An’ when you mentioned seein’ Nixon up on Fish River, it kind of started me to thinkin’.”

“By Gosh!” cried Janier, suddenly, “I believe you’re right! It’s a wonder I didn’t think of that. Fact is, I’d forgotten all about this Boyne. I couldn’t figure what Nixon would be doin’ on Fish River. Guess I’ll just slip around that way, an’ look around a bit. Better go along. It’s really your job, you know—not mine.”

The Corporal shook his head: “Can’t do it, Gus. Like to the best way in the world, but I’ve got my work cut out for me, up-river. You can do more in that country than anyone else, if you’ll do it. No one knows the country like you do, an’ the fact that you ain’t in the Service will help you.”

“Anyway, it will give me something to do. I might as well be knockin’ around up there as anywhere. I’ll find this John Boyne for you, Downey. Or, maybe, I’ll find Hearne’s lost mines, who knows?”

Downey shook his head, sombrely: “Damn Hearne’s lost mines!” The vehemence of the imprecation surprised Janier, but before he could make any comment the officer continued, “I’ll see that you get paid for your time and supplies.”

“Never mind the pay. And, as for the supplies,” he pointed with a grin to his rifle and fishing-rod case. “We’ll just let the country furnish the grub.”

The officer rose and stepped to his canoe. “Well, I must be gettin’ along. So long, Gus.”

“So long, Downey. You’ll prob’ly hear from me sometime along in the fall, or maybe not till winter.”

Downey nodded: “Take your time, boy.” He stood, resting on his paddle. “You know, I get hunches once in a while, myself. I got one now. It’s about you—this hunch is. It says that you’re goin’ to find somethin’ over yonder—at the foot of the rainbow.”

Janier laughed: “Gold?”

Downey shook his head as he took his place in the canoe: “Well—mebbe gold. This hunch of mine though—it don’t say nothin’ about gold.” And the next moment the canoe shot out into the current of the river.

With little wrinkles of perplexity gathering upon his forehead, Janier watched until the canoe disappeared from sight—but Corporal Downey did not look back.