“That’s the last of it,” said Conacher sadly.
They climbed the stony hill. As they rounded the top, a hoarse, throaty bellowing buffeted their ears; and a moment later a wild welter of white water was spread before their eyes. They had seen nothing like this. After rounding the hill the stream straightened out, and narrowing down to a quarter of its usual width tumbled down as steeply as a flight of stairs between high wooded banks. The impression of power was overwhelming. The water was forced into great, regular billows which looked to be fifteen feet high. Each billow or ridge of water converged to a point in the middle; and the effect as one looked downstream was of a series of blunt white arrows pointing up. No boat could have lived in that turmoil. The raft—or what was left of it—was already out of sight. The three looked at each other with scared and thankful faces. A close call!
They now had to adjust their minds to traveling on foot again—and this would not be anything like the rolling prairie! The first thing was to roll up their packs, and strap them on their backs. They then descended into the gorge; but found it impossible to make headway along the steep side, impeded with stones and down timber. They were forced to climb a hundred feet or so to level ground. This was scarcely better. Only those who have tried to make their way through a trackless virgin forest can appreciate the difficulties that faced them in the shape of undergrowth, fallen trees and holes in the earth. The débris of ages was heaped in their path. They guided themselves by the sound of the cascade upon their left.
In a mile or so (which had all the effect of ten) the river fell quiet again, and they pushed back to its bank. It was an open question which was the more difficult going. Along the edge of the stream the dead timber brought down by the freshets was left stranded in inextricable tangles. Conacher finally chose a course parallel with the river bank, and a few yards back from the edge. Here they were at least sure of a supply of water. All day long it was a case of climbing over obstacles or through them or chopping a way. Heart-breaking work. They camped while it was still early, completely tired out.
For day after day this continued. There was no lack of dead timber to make another raft: but the rapids followed each other in such close succession that it seemed a waste of time. It was exasperating to have to undergo such crushing labor with the stream running alongside ready to carry them in the desired direction. “If I only had a dug-out!” Conacher groaned a dozen times a day. But even if they could have taken the time to make a dug-out, there was no suitable timber in that stony land. The noise of their progress through the bush scared away all game; and they would soon have gone hungry, had it not been for the smoked meat which Mary-Lou had thoughtfully provided. Presently this gave out, and they had to lay over for a day, while Conacher hunted a bear, along the river. Their clothes were in rags.
In ten days Conacher figured that they had made about fifty miles: but this was pure guesswork. It was now within two or three days of the time when the surveying outfit was due at the mouth of the Mud River.
The three travelers were sitting gloomily on the shore of the river in a spot where it flowed as smoothly and prettily between poplar and birch-covered shores as a river in a civilized land where picnics might be held. The view downstream was blocked by a graceful island. Suddenly around that island came poking the nose of a birch-bark canoe with a single paddler.
To those three that sight was like a blow between the eyes. They glanced fearfully at each other for confirmation. It was a month since they had seen others of their kind. They stared at the approaching canoe with open mouths. Then Conacher jumped to his feet and hailed. The paddler was arrested in mid-motion. He was no less startled by the meeting than they. After a moment he came paddling gingerly towards them. They saw that it was a white man, an odd, withered, brownish specimen, whose skin was all of a color with his battered hat, and faded khaki jacket.
He grounded his canoe gently in the mud, and stepped out. An old smoked pioneer with a comically injured look which never varied. They shook hands gravely all around before a word was spoken.
“Who are you?” demanded Conacher and Loseis simultaneously.