The Timber Treasure

by Frank Lillie Pollock

Under the threat of the rifle McLeod tossed the paddle ashore. With a long pole Tom gave the canoe a strong shove out into the current. It went drifting out into the Wawista, turning helplessly end for end, down the current till it was a hundred yards away. Then McLeod snatched up his gun and fired both barrels.

Tom heard the buck-shot rattle on the leaves around him, and impulsively he fired back, almost without aim. It was a perfectly bloodless duel, and in another minute the canoe went out of sight behind the trees of a bend in the stream.

With a sense of triumph and of infinite relief, Tom launched his canoe again, and proceeded up the river. He no longer felt uneasy; that strange instinct of danger was quiet now. He knew that McLeod could never catch up with him. The rest of the journey should be easy and safe, and he was impatient to reach the end of it.

Travel up the Fish River was not so easy, however. It was a smaller, swifter stream than the Wawista, and more broken by rapids. For an hour at a time he had to discard the paddle for a pole in going up swift water, and portages were so frequent that he thought he walked almost as much as he floated. He did not expect to reach Roswick that day, but he began to look out for signs of mining-camp work or prospecting. It was a district of rock and stunted woods, a mineral country by its look, but he detected no trace of man, and all that day he pushed on, “bucking the river,” paddling, poling, and carrying. It was almost sunset when the appearance of a formidable rapid just ahead brought him to a stop.

He had gone far enough for that day. He landed, looking about for a good camp ground; then he determined to carry the canoe and outfit up to the head of the rapid and camp there, so as to be ready for the start next morning. After a short rest he made the portage, unpacked his supplies, and lighted a fire; and the idea came to him of trying to pick up some small game for supper. He was growing very tired of fried salt pork.

Leaving the kettle on the fire, he turned into the woods from the river. Usually it was easy to find rabbits or partridges almost anywhere, but he wandered about for a full half-hour, and then, seeing a rabbit sitting up in the twilight, he missed it cleanly.

Disgusted at his clumsiness, he turned down parallel with the river, but the bad luck lasted. He found no game, and dusk was deepening. Veering out to strike the shore, he found himself a long way below the big rapid, and he began to walk rapidly up the stream.

He heard the rapid roaring ahead, and he had almost come to it when he stopped with a shock. There was a canoe lying at the shore, a battered Peterboro that he recognized well.

He sprang back into the shadow of the trees, but another glance showed him that nobody was by the boat. Rage boiled up in him at this persistent trailing. There was a paddle in the canoe; he should have remembered that McLeod was sure to have a spare paddle lashed in the canoe. But this time he would cripple him effectually. With a strong shove he sent the canoe whirling down the stream. It would take a day to overtake it on foot, unless it were smashed against a rock, and Tom stood with cocked rifle, grimly waiting for its owner to appear.

Looking up and down the shore he could see nothing of McLeod. He grew uneasy. He was about to scout up toward his camp when a canoe—his own canoe—appeared shooting down the rapid.