But even then he had been incapable of rising to the pitch of desire which had stirred him the night before. Perhaps it was the balance of sanity reasserting itself. Perhaps it was the result of that long, deep sleep which had robbed him of the night vision of the movements of the men of the Aurora Clan. Whatever it was, he decided definitely that his vengeance upon Ivor McLagan could wait. There was all the summer for that, and meanwhile, there was urgent work lying ahead of him in another direction. Perhaps a year more of these solitudes and his work would be finished. Yes, in that time he would have completed everything. And the while, McLagan would have forgotten and lulled himself into a sense of security. Then, at his leisure——
So he had gone about his simple preparations. He prepared his boat down on the river. He loaded it with his camp outfit and provisioned it. Then he turned his ponies loose to fend for themselves on such mountain feed as they could find in his absence. And his trail dogs he treated in similar fashion. These creatures were subsidiary. His boat was the thing he knew and understood.
But this more temperate mood had been in the early morning. Since then there had been hours of labour on his journey downstream. And the work of it had lightened the dullness of his earlier inspiration. By high noon he had been completely flung back upon his desire for the life of the man he had encountered in Beacon.
So he stood before the great bend of the river where the angry waters beat impotently against the foot of the mountain and raced away to the south in search of the outlet they refused to be denied. And all his passion for revenge was burning deep behind his soulless eyes.
Why should he wait? Why should he deny himself? There was all summer for the rest as well as for that other. Why not reverse the thing? The rest could wait, far more easily wait than the vengeance he desired. It would be better so. For just so long as Ivor McLagan lived, he, Liskard, would never know peace of mind. What was it? At the most a ten or twelve mile portage to the north of that hill. He had made it before when he had looked to discover for what purpose his neighbours were around. Yes. And the Alsek was an easy river. He could pass down it at his leisure until he came to the oil camp. He could cache his boat while he searched the place for the man whose life he desired. Then, if he were not there but down at the river mouth where he had built his crazy home on the cliffs, he could pass on down beyond the camp in the night and stalk his quarry.
It would be easy—so easy. There would be no need to take chances. His rifle could do the job at his leisure. The man’s home was perched up for long-range shots. He could remain under cover——
Yes, the rest could wait. It must wait. His desire was overwhelming, irresistible. He would eat at once and pass over to the landing he knew of at the foot of the mountain. The water was turbulent enough there. There were rapids of no mean proportions to be negotiated. But they were nothing to him—nothing this river could show him could match his watercraft.
He moved back from the water’s edge. His decision was final. So he prepared a fire for his noon meal.