A week later, he went up the river bank, one evening, with a fishing rod, and stopped at dusk at the tail of the Grand Rapid. He had gone farther than he meant and was tired after scrambling across slippery rocks and among the driftwood that lay about the bank. There was, however, a shorter way back, and lighting his pipe he sat down upon the gravel and looked about.

The sun had set some time since, but the light would not quite die out until just before the dawn, and the pines across the river rose against the green sky in a dark, broken-topped wall. Near his feet the bleached skeletons of trees, ground by floods and ice, glimmered a livid white, and beyond them the rapid frothed and roared in angry turmoil. The river had shrunk now the melted snow had flowed away, and rocks one seldom saw lifted their black tops above the racing foam. Insh.o.r.e of the main rush, smooth-worn ledges ran in and out among shallow pools. A short distance ahead, the bush rolled down to the water's edge in a dark ma.s.s that threw back in confused echoes the din the river made.

By and by the mosquitoes that had followed Thirlwell got more numerous and when, in spite of the smoke, they settled upon his face and neck he reeled up his line ready to start. As he did so he thought he saw something move where the forest ran down to the river. The object was indistinct, but it looked like a man walking cautiously upon a ledge between the pools, and Thirlwell wondered what the fellow was doing there. The big gray trout had stopped rising, there were no Indians about, and the miners had not left the camp.

Thirlwell waited until the man moved out from the gloom of the trees.

His figure was now distinct against the foam of the rapid, and he stooped as if he were looking down into a pool. Then he moved on, and Thirlwell, noting that he would soon pa.s.s in front of a dark rock, resolved to change his place in order to watch him better. Getting up, he went down to the water's edge, but came to a tangle of white branches that the river had thrown up. As he stopped he saw the man plainly, but when he looked up after scrambling over the driftwood there was n.o.body about.

This was strange and excited his curiosity. The other's figure would probably be invisible against the rock, but he must have moved rapidly to get in front of it. Then Thirlwell saw that where he stood the bush was no longer behind him. He had the insh.o.r.e eddies for a background and the water reflected a faint light. There was no obvious reason why the other should be alarmed and try to steal away, but it looked as if he had done so.

Thirlwell sat down among the driftwood and waited, but saw no more of the man; and then going back quietly, turned into a trail that led to the mine. The trail was rough and narrow; in places, short brush had sprung up, and there were patches of outcropping rock. It would be difficult for anybody to follow it without making some noise, but although he stopped and listened no sound came out of the gloom.

He went on, pondering the matter with some curiosity. Since the miners were in camp, he imagined the man he had seen was Driscoll, who lived alone in a log shack near the bank. But, if this were so, what was Driscoll's object for wading among the reefs, and why had he stolen away when he thought he was watched? Thirlwell could not solve the puzzle, but he could find out if the fellow were Driscoll or not, because the trail pa.s.sed his shack.

He walked faster, making as little noise as possible, and by and by reached a belt of thinner forest. He pa.s.sed a fallen pine, from which he knew the shack was visible in daylight, and resolved to see if Driscoll was at home. If not, Thirlwell thought it would be safe to conclude that he had seen him among the reefs. A few moments later a light flashed among the trees, flickered once or twice, and then burned steadily.

Thirlwell knew it came from the window of the shack, but it was curious that Driscoll had lighted his lamp. In summer, miners and prospectors went to bed at sunset, and Driscoll read no books or newspapers.

Besides, if he wanted a light, why had he not got it before? It, however, looked as if the man had not been at the rapid and when Thirlwell pa.s.sed the shack he saw his dark figure at the door.

"Who's that?" he asked, and when Thirlwell answered, added: "Watch out as you go down the gulch. There's a rampike across the trail."

When Thirlwell came to the burned pine he stopped abruptly as a thought struck him. Driscoll's voice had sounded breathless; perhaps the fellow had overdone his part. It might have been wiser for him to be silent.

Driscoll often went fishing and knew the river well; now the water was low he could have saved some distance by crossing the uncovered reefs instead of scrambling along the curved bank. Besides, he had had a few minutes' start. After all, he might have been at the rapid and have hurried back in order to deceive the man who had disturbed him.

Moreover, he had learned who the man was.

This, however, did not take Thirlwell far and he resumed his walk, wondering what Driscoll had been doing and why he feared to be disturbed. It was plain that he had taken some trouble to put Thirlwell off the track and might have succeeded had not the hoa.r.s.eness of his voice given the latter a hint. Thirlwell felt puzzled, but could find no clue, and deciding that the matter was not important presently dismissed it. For all that, he resolved to watch Driscoll, but saw nothing to excite his suspicions for the next week or two. Then the man bought all the provisions Scott would let him have and loading his canoe started for the North.

CHAPTER V

A NIGHT'S WATCH

Winter began unusually soon and a blizzard raged about the shack one evening when Scott and Thirlwell sat near the stove. The small room smelt of hot-iron and the front of the stove glowed a dull red, but the men shivered as the bitter draughts swept in. Thirlwell watched the skin curtain he had nailed across the window bulge while the snow beat savagely against the gla.s.s, and then picked up a book. Presently Scott hung a bearskin on the back of his chair.

"It's a pretty good hide although the forequarter's cut away," he said.

"Still I don't know that I wanted the thing and reckon the half-breed who sold it me got its value in cartridges and food. Now transport's difficult, I hope he and his Indian friends won't bring us any more of the damaged stock they can't sell to the Hudson's Bay."

Thirlwell nodded. The rivers were frozen and canoeing was stopped, while the bush was deep in fresh, loose snow. It would be a long and strenuous business to break a trail to the south, and in winter the mine was often cut off from the settlements. Provisions sometimes ran short, but Scott found it hard to refuse the starving Indians a share of his supplies.

"You bought a fine skin," he resumed. "I haven't seen the thing since.

What have you done with it?"

"I sent it away," said Thirlwell. "Old Musquash said he'd try to make the settlements and took it out for me."

"He'll probably get through, though I don't think a white man could. But I didn't know you had friends in Canada."

Thirlwell did not reply. He had bought the skin for Agatha and now wondered what she would think about his present, or whether she might feel he ought not to have sent it. Still he doubted if the skin would arrive, because the old half-breed would meet with many dangers on the way. Thirlwell pictured him hauling his sledge up thinly frozen rivers, crossing wide lakes swept by icy gales, and plunging into tangled forests smothered in snow. The thought of it emphasized the sense of isolation one often felt at the mine, but while he mused there was a knock at the door.

"I expect it's an Indian come to beg for food," Scott remarked and the door swung open.

The flame of the lamp leaped up and then nearly flickered out as a shower of snow blew in. The stove roared and the room got horribly cold, and for a moment or two a s.h.a.ggy, white figure, indistinct in the semi-darkness, struggled to close the door. Then there was a sudden calm and when the light got steady an Indian in ragged furs leaned against the table, breathing hard and holding out a note.

"From Father Lucien," said Scott, who took the folded paper. "He's had a sick man on his hands for three or four days and wants one of us to relieve him. I allow I'd sooner stop here. It's pretty fierce to-night."

"Who's sick?" Thirlwell asked.

"Black Steve. I don't know that he has much claim on us, but Father Lucien's a good sort. I guess we've got to help him out."

Thirlwell nodded. Father Lucien was a French-Canadian missionary who had studied medicine, and, for the most part, lived with his wandering flock. In summer, he went North with canoe and tent, but generally returned in winter to a shack near the mine. Scott and Thirlwell had found his society pleasant when they sat round the stove on long cold nights, for the priest had been trained in Europe and knew the great world as he knew the Canadian wilds. A scholar and something of a mystic, he was marked by a wide toleration and liberality of thought.

"Who's going? Shall we draw cuts for it?" Scott resumed.

Thirlwell hesitated. He felt tired, the shack was warm, and he heard the blizzard rage among the tossing pines; but he was curious about Driscoll and something urged him to go to the priest's help.

"I'll take first turn. You can come along to-morrow if you're wanted,"

he said, and putting on his fur coat and cap, went out with the Indian.

When the door shut he let his companion take the lead, for his eyes were filled with water and snow. He knew the bush, but imagined that n.o.body but an Indian could find the trail that night, and to lose it would mean death. For some moments the icy gale stopped his breathing, and he stumbled forward, seeing nothing, until he struck a pine, which he seized and leaned against. Looking round, with his back to the wind, he noted that the shack had vanished, although he thought it was only a few yards off. There was nothing visible, but when the Indian touched him he pulled himself together and struggled on again.

It was a little warmer when they plunged into the bush, but the snow was soft and deep, and they stumbled over fallen branches and fell into thickets. Torn-off twigs rained upon their lowered heads, shadowy trunks loomed up and vanished, and Thirlwell could not tell where he was going; but the Indian plodded on, his white figure showing faintly through the snow. At length, when Thirlwell was nearly exhausted, another sound mingled with the scream of the gale, and he knew it was the turmoil of the Grand Rapid, where the furious current did not freeze. They were getting near the end of the journey, and he braced himself for an effort to reach Driscoll's shack. By and by a ray of light pierced the snow, surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a wall.

A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted room. Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair and blinked stupidly as he looked about. His head swam, the warmth made him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful.

Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall. The priest wore an old buckskin jacket with a ta.s.seled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like an Indian until one studied his thin face. His forehead was lined, as if by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost, but the Indian's glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank. One got a hint of patience and dignity.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I would not have sent for you on such a night only that I cannot trust myself to keep awake and neglect just now might cost Driscoll's life. One sleeps soundly after watching for three nights."

Thirlwell glanced at the figure rudely outlined by the dirty blue blanket on the bunk. Driscoll's face was turned to the wall, but Thirlwell saw that his black hair was damp.

"What's the matter with Steve?" he asked.

"Pneumonia. Two of my people who pa.s.sed the shack in the daytime saw a light burning. They went in and found him unconscious, an empty whisky bottle on the floor, and the stove burned out. They made a fire and then came for me."

"That's something of a compliment," Thirlwell remarked. "If it had happened before you came, they'd probably have cleaned out the shack and left Steve to freeze. I don't know that he'd have been regretted, and if the rumors about his selling the Indians liquor are true, imagine he's your worst enemy."

"He's a sick man. Besides, have you often seen my people drunk?"

"No," said Thirlwell thoughtfully; "I believe only once. But Steve didn't deny the thing when one of the boys at the mine called him a whisky runner, and I thought it curious, because there's a heavy penalty. I suppose he can't hear what we say?"

"He's unconscious, but has fits of weak delirium. Three or four o'clock may mark the turning, and if he lives until daybreak I'll feel hopeful.

But do you imagine he didn't deny your workman's charge because it was true?"

"I'd have expected him to deny it whether it was true or not. That's what puzzled me. It looked as if he was willing to be suspected."

"Driscoll," said Father Lucien, "is a strange, dark man, but he needs our help and one of us must watch."

"I'm fresh and will take the first turn," Thirlwell offered, and pulled his chair to the stove when Father Lucien, wrapping himself in a blanket, lay down on the floor.