CHAPTER XII
YOUTH SUPREME
The silence of the night was broken by the sounds of youthful voices, and the gentle splash of the driving paddles. There was laughter, and the passing backwards and forwards of care-free, light-hearted banter. Now and again came the deeper note of strong men’s voices, but for the most part it was the shriller treble of early youth that invaded the serene hush of the night.
The two small canoes glided rapidly up the winding ribbon of moon-lit waters. They were driven by eager, skilful hands, hands with a life-training for the work. And so they sped on in that smooth fashion which the rhythmic dip of the paddle never fails to yield.
The Kid was at the foremost strut of the leading canoe with Big Bill Wilder at the stern. Their passenger was the irrepressible Perse, who lounged amidships on a folded blanket. Behind them came the sturdy form of Chilcoot Massy guiding the destiny of the second vessel which carried the youth, Clarence, and the sedate form of Mary Justicia lifted, for the moment, out of the sense of her responsibility, which years of deputising for her mother in the care of her brothers and sisters had impressed upon her young mind.
Hearts were light enough as they glided through the chill night air. Even Chilcoot Massy, so perilously near to middle life—and perhaps because of it—found the youthful gaiety of his guests irresistible. It was a journey of delighted, frothing spirits rising triumphant over the dour brooding of the cold heart of the desolate territory which had given them birth.
The cold moon had driven forth the earlier bankings of snow-clouds. It lit the low-spread earth from end to end, a precious beacon, which, in the months to come, would be the reigning heavenly light. The velvet heavens, studded with myriads of sparkling jewels, and slashed again and again from end to end with the lightning streak of shooting stars, were filled with a superlative vision of dancing northern light. The ghostliness of it all was teeming with a sense of romance, the romance which fills the dreams of later life when the softening of recollection has rubbed down the harshnesses of the living reality.
The delight of this sudden break in the crudeness of life waxed in the hearts of these children of the North. There were moments when silence fell, and the hush of the world crowded full of the ominous threat which lies at the back of everything as the winter season approaches. But all such moments were swiftly dismissed, as though, subconsciously, its dampening influence were felt, and the moment was ripe for sheer rebellion. It was an expression of the sturdy spirit which the Northland breeds.
There was no thought of lurking danger other than the dangers they were bred to. How should there be? Was not this Caribou River, with its spring floodings, with its summer meanderings, with its winter casing of ice, right down to the very heart of its bed, their very own highway and play ground? Did not these folk know its every vagary from the icy moods of winter, to its beneficent summer delights? How then could it hold for them the least shadow of terror on a night to be given up to a gaiety such as their lives rarely enough knew?
Yet the shadow was there, a grim, voiceless shadow, soundless as death, and as unrelenting in its pursuit. A kyak moved over the silvery bosom of the water hard behind the rear-most canoe of the revellers, driven by a brown hand which made no sound as the paddle it grasped passed to and fro, without lifting, through the gleaming water.