A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE
Bill Wilder and Chilcoot moved slowly up from the water’s edge. The outlook was grey and the wind was piercing. The river behind them was ruffled out of its usual oily calm, and the two small laden canoes, lying against the bank, and the final stowing of which the men had been engaged upon, were rocking and straining at their raw-hide moorings.
The change of season was advancing with that suddenness which drives the northern man hard. Still, however, the first snow had not yet fallen, although for days the threat of it had hung over the world. The ground was iron hard with frost, and each morning a skin of ice stretched out on the waters of the river from the low, shelving banks. But the grip of it was not permanent. There was still melting warmth in the body of the stream, and, each day, the ice yielded up its hold.
It was three days since the camp had witnessed the gathering of children about its camp fire. Three days which Bill had devoted to those preparations, careful in the last detail, for the rush down to Placer before the world was overwhelmed by the long winter terror. Now, at last, all was in readiness for the start on the morrow. All, that is, but the one important matter of Red Mike’s return to camp. Until that happened the start would have to be delayed.
Everything had been planned with great deliberation.
Clarence McLeod had even been called upon to assist, in view of the race against time which the task these men had set themselves represented. Three days ago he had been despatched up the river to recall the Irishman. His immediate return was looked for. Chilcoot had hoped for it earlier. But this third day was allowed as a margin in case the gold instinct had carried Mike farther afield than was calculated.
The last of the brief day was almost gone. And only a belt of grey daylight was visible in the cloud banks to the south-west. Half way up to the camp Wilder paused and gazed out over the ruffled water, seeking to discover any sign of the man’s return in the darkening twilight. He stood beating his mitted hands while Chilcoot passed on up to the camp fire.
There was no sign, no sound. And a feeling of keen disappointment took possession of the expectant man. So much depended on Mike’s return. Under ordinary circumstances the season was not the greatest concern, and Wilder would have been content enough to wait. But the circumstances were by no means ordinary. There was that lying back of his mind which disturbed him in a fashion he was rarely disturbed. And it was a thought and concern he had imparted to no one, not even to his loyal partner, Chilcoot.
He moved on up to the camp, and the keenness of his disappointment displayed itself in his eyes, and in the tone of his voice as he conveyed the result of his search to his comrade.
“Not a dam sight of ’em,” he said peevishly.