CHAPTER X
THE MUSKEG
A fortnight later the party entered a hollow between two low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and lay in tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it; and as they plodded through the morass they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still, Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.
They were wet to the waist, and their temper began to give way under the strain. When they lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights, Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed by a touch of malarial fever. He had suffered from it in India, and now it had attacked him again, in his weakened condition due to the hardships of the march. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake shivering for hours. Saying nothing to his companions, however, he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of a depressing weakness.
The ground grew softer as they proceeded. The creek no longer kept within its banks, but spread in shallow pools; and the rotting trees were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The valley had turned into very wet muskeg. It was shut in by hills whose rocky sides were seamed by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was almost impossible to force a passage.
After making several attempts to get out of the valley, the men plodded on through the muskeg, tramping down the wiry grass, often stumbling over a partly submerged tree-trunk.
Then one day Blake felt his head reel. He staggered, and dropped down heavily.
"Sorry!" he mumbled. "Malaria!"
His companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed; his eyes glittered; and he lay limply among the grass. He looked seriously ill. Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled himself together.
"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on yonder hummock, and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can stand up and lean on us, we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few minutes."
Blake did not move. Instead, he lay gazing up at them and mumbling to himself. With much trouble, they got him to a small, stony knoll, where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to lie on. Then he spoke, in a faint and listless voice.
"Thanks! I think I'll go to sleep. I'll feel better to-morrow."
He fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, gray afternoon, with a cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet muskegs, which they could not cross with a sick companion, shut them off from all help. Their provisions were not plentiful; and the rigorous winter would soon set in.
They scarcely spoke to each other as the afternoon wore away. When supper time came, Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank again into a restless sleep. His companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled drearily, and even the splash of the ripples on a neighboring pool was depressing. As in turn they kept watch in the darkness their hearts sank.
The next morning Blake was obviously worse. He insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a day or two, but the others felt dubious.
"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said.
"You needn't look so glum."
"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man———"
"You overdo the thing," Blake interrupted crossly; "and the way Benson grins at your thread-bare jokes would worry me if I were well! Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria! I've had it several times; but it doesn't bother you when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram—very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father. If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me!"
He paused a moment, looking around him dazedly.
"Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back; but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."
Lying down, he turned away from them, and during the next few hours he dozed intermittently.
Late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighborhood. His tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said, quarrelsome people.
Harding looked interested.
"Ask the fellow where the village is!"
When Benson had interpreted the Indian's answer, Harding lighted his pipe and thought keenly for a long time. Rain had begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place for a fever patient; and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure, and he felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill, and something must be done to save him; but for a while Harding could not see how help could be obtained. Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the locality. When they were answered, he began to see his way; but he waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.
It was getting dark and raining hard. Blake was asleep; the Indian sitting silent; and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering light against the surrounding gloom.
"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding began.
"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him; though I can't blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.
"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that Clarke's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality farther west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."
"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."
"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must admit it's curious that when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we could have got north with much less trouble had we headed farther west."
"That has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.
"Well, I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase in value as the settlement grows—and sooner or later they are bound to bring in a railroad. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two, if you keep steady and work hard; but while you were in his clutches that looked very far from probable."
"You might have put it more plainly—I was drinking myself to death." Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that that is what the fellow wished?"
"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his statements, he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."
Benson started.
"I believe he would stick at nothing! But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"
"That," said Harding evasively, "is not so clear."
He glanced at his companion searchingly, and seeing that he suspected nothing, he decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse after his return to the settlement, and betray the secret in his cups. Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history, and had seen a chance for extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of wishing to ascertain whether the latter were willing to seek redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at Clarke's mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified. Harding meant, however, to make a determined effort to save his comrade.
"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.
"It's this—I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these muskegs, where we'd have no chance for renewing our provisions, and he misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach. Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble; now he has to help us out. The fellow is a doctor."
Benson looked up eagerly.
"You're going to bring him here? It's a daring plan, because it will be difficult to make him come."
"He'll come it he values his life," Harding said resolutely. "The
Indian will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I
offer him enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies.
I'll have to drop in upon the doctor late at night, when none of his
Indian friends are about."
"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."
"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his partner."
"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested. "You know how I'm indebted to
Blake."
"It's your place," Harding insisted. "Try to arrange the thing with the Indian."
It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone, because of some quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.
"All right; that's settled. We start at daybreak," said Harding.
"I'll lie down now; it's your watch."
Five minutes later he was sound asleep, and awoke, quietly determined and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the cities, bred to civilized life, but he had a just appreciation of the risks attached to his undertaking. He meant to abduct the doctor, who himself was dangerous to meddle with, from an Indian village where he apparently was held in great esteem. The Stonies, living far remote, had escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit from the patrols of the North-West Police; they knew nothing of law and order. Moreover, there was a possibility that Clarke might prove too clever for his abductor.
It was certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but Harding believed that his comrade would perish unless help could be obtained. He shook hands with Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and then, with the Indian leading, struck out through the muskeg toward the shadowy hills.