CHAPTER VII
In spite of the late hour of his retiring, Donald was up early and was the first of the party to reach the dock. Gillis and Andy arrived soon after, the latter staggering manfully under his heavy pack, a rifle swinging loosely in his hand.
Donald stepped forward as Douglas appeared. His face fell as he saw that he was alone. “Isn’t your sister coming?” he asked.
Douglas avoided Donald’s direct gaze. He leaned over to fumble needlessly with the straps of his duffle-bags. “She’s peeved; saw your photograph in last night’s paper.”
“I’m sorry,” said Donald, obviously distressed.
“Janet makes me tired,” said Douglas irritably. “What if you did fight Garrieau? What difference does it make?”
“Your sister’s view-point is different,” answered Donald gloomily. “You must be curious to know more about me, Doug, yet you have never asked any questions.”
“I have often wondered,” admitted Douglas; “but if you wished me to know you would tell me. I don’t give a hang who you are or what you are. You suit me.”
“Thanks, Doug.”
The shrill blast of the steamer’s whistle smote their ears.
“ ’Ere, you blighters!” shouted Andy from the top deck, “are you goin’ on this blinkin’ picnic?”
The lines were cast off, the water boiled under the steamer’s stern. They backed slowly from the dock, swung about and headed for the Narrows. The scores of screaming gulls that accompanied them hovered over the deck, their keen eyes on the lookout for any bits of waste food that should fall in the steamer’s wake. Boats plied in and out, every kind of craft from small fishing-boat to ocean liner.
A bright sun, beaming with all the warmth and splendour of full morning, bathed inlet and mountain in a wide shower of gold. A strong westerly wind bucked an outgoing tide, the foam of tossing wave crests flashing white in the sunlight. The tumbling combers hissed and crashed against the sturdy bow of the boat, causing her to pitch jerkily. The salt breeze whipped a glow into the faces of the party gathered near the pilot-house and strummed noisily through the masts and superstructure. A yacht-like passenger steamer from Victoria, painted a pure white, swept past them, a smother of foam at her bow. A rakishly-built tug trudged cityward with a huge raft of logs in tow, a pillar of inky smoke streaming over her bow.
As they passed the sheer wall of Prospect Point, Donald’s thought reverted to his first meeting with Janet. Douglas, who had been studying the shore through binoculars, passed the glasses to Donald and pointed to the bluff. At first he saw nothing of special interest and turned to glance at Douglas inquiringly.
“Janet,” smiled Douglas.
Sure enough, he now saw a horse and rider on the highest point etched in miniature against the dark green woods. Douglas waved a handkerchief, and Donald caught a flutter of white from the dizzy promontory. His mind was filled with conjectures. Why was she there? Had she still a kindly feeling for him despite last night’s exposure?
Janet could not herself have explained her reason for being there. She was up early, stole quietly to the stable, saddled her horse and rode to the Park. Riding steadily all the morning, she had battled with herself, had summoned all her courage to resist the spell this strange young man held over her, only to find that her will was impotent.
As she now waved her handkerchief she strained her eyes in a vain effort to single out Donald’s tall form. Suddenly a feeling of shame for her weakness came over her. “Can’t you forget him?” she asked herself irritably. “A prize-fighter!” Whirling her horse about she galloped swiftly toward the City.
The Rennie C. & L. Co. were already operating trains to Cheakamus, twelve miles from the Coast. An engine with two coaches was waiting to convey the passengers—chiefly labourers carrying blankets—to “the end of steel.”
At Cheakamus the atmosphere was tense with activity. Engines shunted back and forth; the scream of a big circular saw came from a mill that was turning huge fir logs into ties; mule-skinners shouted as they backed their heavy wagons to the platform to be loaded with supplies. At both sides of the track were huge piles of ties, lumber and rails. The newly-arrived labourers hoisted their packs to their backs and set off up the road.
It was plain that this settlement was not built for permanency; it was a typical mushroom town. The rough board buildings still retained the colour of green lumber. Heaps of tin cans, piles of waste lumber, and the various parts of broken wagons littered the ground. The picturesqueness that Donald had expected to find in this wilderness camp was lacking, but he was vastly thrilled by the stupendous power exhibited in the combined forces of men and machinery.
From up the line came the roar of a terrific blast that made the ground tremble and sent rumbling echoes through the valley. A whole train-load of logs were dumped into the millpond with a crash that sent the water in a hissing wave that struck the opposite shore and exploded in a seething mass of dirty white foam. The air seemed charged with a dynamic energy which caused the blood to tingle in the veins.
In the yard of a stable a number of horses lay on the ground or stood weakly with drooping heads.
“Horse hospital,” informed Gillis, to Donald’s inquiry.
Donald moved to the fence, his heart filled with pity. Two men, one carrying a rifle, entered the enclosure and walked to the side of a handsome big Clydesdale that stood on slayed legs, his head lowered and his eyes filled with mute agony. One foreleg was terribly swollen, and a long, livid wound showed on one powerful hip.
“Sorry, Pete, but Doc. sez he’s got to go,” said the man with the rifle regretfully, as he slipped a halter over the stricken animal’s head.
The man addressed as Pete patted the horse’s head affectionately. “I bin drivin’ old Bob for about six years, Bill. We knows each other like a book.” He pressed his face roughly to the horse’s muzzle. “Don’t we, old pal?” he finished in a muffled tone.
Pulling and coaxing they urged the doomed animal through the gate.
“You needn’t go, Pete,” said the man with the gun.
His companion stopped near Donald and stood staring after the painfully limping animal. Nearing the woods the horse stopped short, lifted his head high on his arched neck, and sent out a clarion call that was answered by weak nickers from his mates within the corral.
A few men glanced up casually, then turned to their tasks. Work went on as usual. The mill clattered, drivers shouted, engine bells clanged—only a horse that was no more useful being led to his death. An everyday occurrence in a construction camp.
For a short interval the noble animal held his majestic pose, then, swaying awkwardly, he disappeared from view. At the sharp crack of the rifle the man by Donald’s side winced as though the bullet had seared his own flesh. Brushing the sleeve of his coarse mackinaw shirt hastily across his eyes, he muttered a curse, then turned and ran with stumbling steps to his waiting team, mounted the seat and clucked gently to his four horses. The big animals strained against their collars. The huge load moved slowly at first, then, gathering momentum, rolled swiftly up the road.
Gillis brought five cayuses to the rear of the station, and in a few minutes his practised hands loaded two of them with their luggage.
The small cavalcade moved up the dusty road in a single file, with Douglas in the lead. They overtook and met numbers of freight wagons, going in and out, the drivers shouting greetings to each other in foreign tongues. They passed the track-laying machine, which was throwing the heavy rails about as if they were matches in giant hands. Guards stopped them without the zone of flying débris while giant blasts rent the air as if some titanic monster had torn the earth asunder. Huge rocks soared above the trees, then crashed to the ground with sickening thuds, while small pebbles spattered about them.
Through the trees they saw a cloud of steam and smoke. The air was shrill with incessant quick steam-whistles as a huge steam-shovel growled and tore like a ravenous monster at the gravelled hillside. Four men bearing a stretcher came slowly down the trail. A man on horseback, wearing riding-breeches and leather leggings, rode in their wake.
“How are you, Doctor Paul?” greeted Douglas. “Is it a serious accident?”
“Tree fell on him. Broke both legs, and he is hurt internally—won’t live,” answered the doctor in a low voice.
Donald glimpsed the face of the sufferer showing ashen through a stubby beard. Bloody bandages framed two crimson-stained lips, from which issued gurgling groans of agony. They moved on in silence for a few moments.
“When people ride in trains,” observed Gillis “there ain’t one in a thousand that knows what it costs in sufferin’ and lives to make it so’s they can ride in comfort.”
By mid-afternoon they came to the vanguard of the army of workers, the men who were clearing the right-of-way. At intervals they could hear the long-drawn cry of the choppers as the top of a giant tree shivered and then with a great rending crash fell to earth with a resounding roar. Here they came to the end of the new road, and with a feeling of relief they plunged into the cool shadow of the virgin woods. After the great clamour, the forest, through which the trail wandered deviously, seemed steeped in primal calm. The roar of the blasts no longer came in definite crashes, but was smothered by the distance to a muffled rumble.
A rider jogging down the trail reined in his horse and shouted a cheery greeting in true Western style. He was a clean-limbed, alert young man, with a frank smile, and seemed elastic with the sword-keen health of outdoors. He swung easily from the saddle and introduced himself.
“My name is Wilkinson. I am the District Ranger. It’s getting a bit dry in spots, so I want you to be careful about your fires.”
When Douglas told him the object of their trip to Summit Lake the Ranger smiled apologetically.
“My warning was unnecessary, then. I took you for a party of campers. I’m following the construction work, so will probably see you again before long.”
He mounted his cayuse, waved his hand in farewell, then galloped down the trail.
The narrow path wound around the boles of enormous trees towering high above them, some of the tallest being nearly two hundred feet in height. Gillis appraised them with a critical eye. He was thinking of them as logs, calculated in terms of board feet, but over Donald their beauty and nobility cast a strange spell. How long had these monarchs enjoyed the repose so soon to be broken by puny man? Probably some of them were good-sized trees when Columbus discovered America.
The solemnity of the forest was at times broken by the sharp “ka-a-a-a-a-h” of startled deer as they caught their scent, or the sudden hum of wings as big blue-grouse shot up from their path. Once the horses pricked their ears and snorted in fear as a bear crashed his way through the deep woods.
As daylight abandoned the forest and twilight made eerie shadows on the dusky trail, they swung to an open space on the banks of the roaring Cheakamus River, and made camp for the night.
At daybreak they began the upward climb, and by noon felt the buoyancy of the air in the higher altitude. They crossed rushing streams and skirted the shores of small lakes on whose waters rested flocks of ducks in gregarious raft-like formations. The cayuses with their enormous packs showed signs of fatigue, and Gillis called frequent halts as the trail grew gradually steeper.
“We are nearly there,” cried Douglas eagerly.
A few minutes later they topped a heavily-wooded hill and swung in to a narrow path on their right. There was no need to guide the horses, as they knew that here were rest and food for them.
There was a sudden quickening along the line. Donald’s horse broke into a run, with Andy’s close behind, the latter holding to the rear of his saddle and making a wry face.
“I wish I knew ’ow to keep this ’ere blinkin’ saddle from comin’ up and hittin’ me in the seat,” said Andy querulously.
Donald reined in his eager horse as they emerged from the woods and an enchanting scene burst on his view.
“This blinkin’ ’orse is. . . .” Andy stopped as his gaze followed Donald’s. Both sat spell-bound, and the others joined them quietly.
The panorama spread before them was singularly wild and impressive. Below them stretched a lake of emerald hue, rippled here and there by occasional cat’s-paws, but for the most part, placid enough to reflect the shores with mirror-like clearness. To their right lay an open valley, through which ran a crystal clear mountain stream, its banks fringed with willow, alder and cottonwood, with frequent splashes of the early blooming labrador tea. A rustic bridge of logs crossed the rushing stream to a cluster of well-built log cabins that were fenced in by a palisade of cedar posts. Inside the enclosure a patch of freshly ploughed soil stood out rich and dark against the carpet of green.
Under an azure sky, dotted with fleecy clouds, a brilliantly white sky-line of ice-covered mountains, whose peaks flashed in the setting sun, circled this beautiful mountain valley.
From below were wafted the odours of an awakening earth. The sweet perfume of the newly-opened and sticky buds of the balm-of-gilead, the delicious aroma of the spruce and pine, the heavy, sweet smell of the water plants and the white orchis; all this fragrance was borne on the crisp, sparkling mountain air. Involuntarily the travellers filled their lungs with this life-giving atmosphere.
A beautiful gold-eye drake and his drab-coloured mate swam along the shore in search of a safe place to nest. From the centre of the lake a loon sent out its weird cry, echoing and re-echoing from the wooded hills like wild, demoniacal laughter. A quick rush of wings overhead, then a mallard duck struck the water with a loud splash and immediately set up a sustained quacking until answered by a more gentle note from the reeds, whence emerged a hen-mallard. The two met amid a great bobbing of heads. Gabbling in an undertone they swam down the lake together.
The elusive hooting of male blue-grouse came from the tree-tops of the rocky slopes. A willow grouse moved from a clump of bushes with a haughty step to show her finery by ruffling the feathers of her neck and spreading her fan-like tail. There was a sharp “plop” as a rainbow trout curved gracefully on the surface to leave a widening circle of ripples on the calm water. All through this sun-washed valley was the soft murmur of a land at peace—at peace because unspoiled by man.
Donald drew a long breath.
“Strike me pink!” breathed Andy in an awed tone.
“Holy mackerel! but ain’t she a pretty spot?” came excitedly from Gillis.
As they rumbled across the bridge a man came to the door of the log cabin, ran swiftly to the fence and swung the gate open. With a hand held to his brow to shade his eyes from the slanting rays of the setting sun, he peered up at the horsemen. His eyes lighted up as he recognized Douglas.
“Hello, ol’ timer!” he shouted cheerily.
John Hillier filled the dual rôle of trapper and road-house keeper. His fantastic dress of deerskin, the six-shooter slung at his hip, and the big sombrero that topped his shaggy grey head gave him almost a sinister appearance.
Old John’s face was savage and wild, but his bristly moustache hid a mouth as tender as a woman’s. Great shaggy brows beetling out over his grey mountaineer eyes could not conceal the softness that crept into them so often. His gentle eyes seemed out of place in that homely, battle-scarred face. It was like finding a touch of romance in a treatise on trigonometry.
He was known under several sobriquets: “Trapper” John, “Coffee” John, and “Mahogany” John. “Coffee” John for the excellence of his brew of that beverage, and of which he drank enormous quantities. His call to meals: “Come and throw your feet under the mahogany,” supplied the reason for the cognomen of “Mahogany” John.
With the assistance of their host they unsaddled the tired horses and turned them into the pasture, where they rolled luxuriously on their backs for a moment, and then started feeding hungrily on the rich clover.
A wind shook the tree-tops and turned the surface of the lake dark with ripples. High in air, streaming dark clouds scudded swiftly by.
“Got here jest in time,” said the old trapper, as he looked up at the sky. “It’s a goin’ to rain. Come inside.”
John had served as cook in a cowboy camp in Texas. He never overlooked an opportunity to make ostentatious display of his skill in the culinary art.
“Jest set my bread this mornin’,” he explained, “so I’ll hev’ ter make a bannock.”
Taking a tin pan from the shelf, he threw it the full length of the room to the table. He tossed the cooking utensils about like a practised juggler. Soon the bannock swelled to the rim of the frying-pan, the edges showing brown and crisp. He lifted the heavy dish from the stove, and with a dexterous twist of his wrist threw the bannock to the ceiling and caught it neatly in the centre of the pan as it came down. He dipped a half dozen trout in the yolk of eggs, rolled them in flour, then tossed them with apparent carelessness, but with deadly aim, one at a time, to the sizzling pan. From a shelf he took two glass jars and turned their contents into an earthenware dish on the stove. Immediately the room was filled with an aroma that caused the newcomers to sniff hungrily.
“Mr. Hillier,” began Andy, “what. . . .”
“Mr. Hillier! Hell! My name’s John,” exploded the trapper.
“I was goin’ to ask you what kind o’ meat that is that smells so good,” grinned Andy.
“Muskrat.”
“What?”
“Muskrat,” repeated their host, turning to the astonished Australian. “Did ye ever eat any?”
“No,” returned Andy weakly, “I don’t care much for meat anyway.”
“They’re darn good eatin’,” affirmed the trapper. “Reason folks won’t try ’em is because they think that they are a rat. Their right name is musquash, and they live on vegetable food only. Did any of you fellers ever see ‘Diamond Back Terrapin’ on a bill-of-fare in restaurants?”
“I have, many times,” answered Donald.
“Well, ’bout half the time when the waiter hands ye what ye think is turtle he’s givin’ you musquash,” stated the trapper as he speared a cube of butter with a long fork and shot it accurately to the debated dish.
Andy laughed outright. “Strike me fair, John, you’ve got anythin’ I ever see beat a block for slingin’ grub.”
John was pleased. “Oh, I’m fair to middlin’ good,” he admitted.
John served the dinner in the pots and pans in which the food had been cooked, and piled the table with enough to serve a dozen men. “Like to see lots of grub in sight,” smiled the old trapper. He placed a big steaming coffeepot in the centre of the table, and then sent out his original dinner-call. “Throw your feet under the mahogany!” he roared.
The party needed no second call. The mountain air had given them wolfish appetites and they made huge inroads on the trapper’s well-cooked dinner. With the exception of Andy, they ate and enjoyed the musquash; the meat being fine-grained and tender. John was visibly disappointed by Andy’s refusal to try this delicacy.
“Try it, ol’ timer,” he insisted, as he pushed the steaming pan across the table.
Andy made a wry face. “Don’t feel jest hungry to-night,” he mumbled.
Dinner finished, Donald pushed back his chair and lighted a cigarette. “John, that was a dandy meal, and your coffee sure is a nectar fit for the gods.”
The trapper was justly proud of his cooking. Donald’s praise brought a deeper tinge of colour to his bronzed face. He refilled the tin cups and they sat quietly smoking and sipping the fragrant coffee.
After the day in the open and the excellent meal it was pleasant to sit in the genial warmth of the cabin while the storm which had been gathering broke overhead and the incessant patter of rain sounded on the roof.
Between Andy and John there sprang up a comradeship based on the peculiar brotherhood which often exists between small men. Each found in the other traits that amused him.
“Comical little duck,” was John’s opinion of Andy.
“Strike me pink! He’s the funniest old geezer that I ever saw in me life,” Andy confided to Donald.
Together they washed the dishes and tidied up the room. When they had finished Andy dragged in his duffle-bag, rummaged through the contents, and produced a flask of rum. The trapper’s face brightened.
“I brought this for medicinal purposes,” stated Andy. “How are you feelin’, John?”
The mirth wrinkles around the trapper’s eyes deepened. “My misery is purty bad to-night, ol’ timer.”
Andy poured liberally into a tin cup. The pungent odour of rum filled the room. Old John sniffed the contents. “Whuff!” he yowled, “good licker!”
The old trapper, standing in the centre of the room, presented a figure wild and strange. His coat of buckskin was open at the throat to expose a hairy chest. His mane-like mass of wiry hair stood straight out and shook with every movement of his body. A veritable wild man of the woods he looked as he grasped the cup and held it up to his admiring gaze.
The storm had reached the height of its fury. The wind roared and moaned like a famished wild thing denied its kill. Occasionally a venturesome gust would find its way down the chimney to send thin puffs of smoke to linger in the air and fill the cabin with the sweet perfume of the burning alder.
“Give us a toast, John,” begged Andy.
The trapper raised his cup on high:
“I’m the trapper of the mount’n top,
A ring-tail-snorter an’ a dead-sure shot.
I’m wild, I’m woolly an’ full o’ fleas,
I’ve never bin’ curried below the knees,
I live on the fruit o’ the prickly pear,
An’ I play in the brush with the grizzly bear.”
“Here’s hopin’ ye’ll never see the back o’ yer neck,” he added. Then placing the cup to his lips he drained the contents with one great gulp. John’s jaws were well-nigh toothless, and as the fiery liquor scorched his throat his leathery cheeks folded and unfolded like the pleats of an accordion.
“Wow!” he yelped, “she’s sure got a kick.”
The humorous toast and the trapper’s facial contortions sent Andy into paroxysms of laughter.
“Strike me blind!” he gasped, as he held his sides. “I never——” His eyes rested again on the trapper’s convulsed features. Speech failed him and he sank writhing to a chair.
When finally they climbed the ladder to their bunks the rain had ceased and a brilliant moon flooded the valley with a white light.
Donald awakened as the first grey streaks of dawn brightened the dusty windows of the loft. The air was suddenly filled with the sweet song of birds. Wild-fowl quacked and splashed in the waters of the lake. The aroma of coffee and frying bacon and the pungent odour of wood smoke was wafted strongly from below.
Suddenly the trapper’s shaggy head protruded through the opening at the top of the ladder. “Get out o’ the hay an’ let the sun shine on ye!” he boomed.
“Now, let’s get busy,” said Gillis, when breakfast was over. “The first thing to do is to find a good spot to pitch our tent.”
“You’ll find a deserted cabin at t’other end o’ the lake that’ll be a whole lot more comfortable nor a tent,” informed the trapper.
The cabin of cedar logs proved to be in good repair and the location excellent.
“A couple of days’ work,” observed Gillis, “an’ I can fix her up so’s we’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug.”
John had spent the forenoon in baking. Cakes, pies, doughnuts and cookies were placed at regular intervals on the shelves in platters and tins tipped at an angle to make the display more effective. It was an exhibit of pastry that any housewife might envy. The unstinted praise of his guests was like music to the trapper’s ears.
For dessert they had a savoury mince-pie, steaming hot from the oven. Andy waxed most eloquent in his praise of this culinary delight.
“Have another piece, ol’ timer,” insisted John, his face beaming.
“You bet I will,” was Andy’s quick response as he transferred a big slice to his plate.
“Like it, do ye?” asked John.
“U-m-m,” mumbled Andy as he devoured the last crumb and settled back with a sigh of content.
John’s wrinkled old face spread into a wide grin. From his lips came a cackling laugh.
“What’s the joke?” queried Andy.
“I thought I’d get that muskrat into ye somehow,” chortled the trapper.
“Well, it’s not so durned bad, after all,” philosophized Andy.
On the third day after their arrival they moved to the cabin at the head of the lake. There followed days of arduous toil, days spent in “blazing” lines through almost impassable swales, up steep hillsides and through canyons. Days of strenuous exercise in the stimulating air, when the bright sunshine tanned their faces to a deep brown, brought the glow of perfect health to their eyes, and gave to their muscles the resiliency and strength of steel springs.