The Lure of the North Part 6

He found watching dreary and got very cold. The pines roared about the shack and the lamp flickered in the draughts, but the wind was falling and between the gusts one could hear the river. Drift-ice churned in the rapid and broke with jarring crashes upon the rocks. Once or twice Thirlwell thought the sound disturbed Driscoll, because he moved and muttered brokenly. Thirlwell, however, could not hear what he said, and getting drowsy with the dry warmth of the stove, struggled to keep awake. He was not sure that he altogether succeeded, for now and then his head fell forward and he roused himself with a jerk, but did not think he really went to sleep. For all that, some hours had pa.s.sed when he moved his chair and looked at his watch. It was quieter outside and the roar of the river had got distinct. Then Thirlwell heard a blanket thrown back and glanced at the bunk.

Driscoll had turned his head and the light touched his face, which glistened with sweat. His eyes were wide open, his lips moved as if he tried to speak, and Thirlwell thought his brain was clear, but saw next moment that Driscoll was not watching him. He had a curious, strained look and gazed at the door, as if somebody had come in. The strange thing was that he looked afraid.

"I couldn't stop her with the back-stroke," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "She rolled over as she swung across the stream."

Thirlwell shivered, because it was obvious that the sick man was going over what had happened the night Strange was drowned. His manner hinted that he was trying to excuse himself for something he had done.

Shrinking back in the bunk, he resumed in a stronger voice: "I couldn't stop her! The stream was running fast."

Then he was silent for a time and Thirlwell heard the river rolling through its ice-bound channel and the dreary wailing of the pines. He felt disturbed; something in Driscoll's voice and look had jarred his nerves, and it cost him an effort not to waken Father Lucien. It was not time yet and the priest needed sleep. Driscoll lay quiet with his eyes shut, but presently moved and began to mutter. Thirlwell, leaning forward, caught the words: "I never had the thing; he took it with him."

The strained voice broke, Driscoll drew a hard breath, and feebly turned his face from the light. After this Thirlwell, whose curiosity was excited, had less trouble to keep awake, and at length roused Father Lucien, as he had been told. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, the fire had sunk, and the shack was very cold. The wind had fallen and the bush was silent; one could hear the loose snow dropping from the boughs.

Father Lucien crossed the floor and after standing for a time beside the bunk came back and sat down by the stove.

"You can put in fresh wood; it won't disturb him now," he said. "He's sleeping well. I think the danger's over."

The cord wood snapped and crackled, the front of the stove got red, and sitting in a corner out of the draughts, they began to talk in low voices.

"Driscoll was delirious; he talked strangely," Thirlwell remarked. "Is a sick man's raving all such stuff as dreams?"

"Ah," said Father Lucien, "we know little yet about the working of the disordered brain, but the imagination sometimes centers on and distorts things that have happened. Did you get a hint of intelligence in what Driscoll said?"

"I did. He said he _never had the thing_. Somebody--Strange, perhaps--_took it with him_."

"Why do you think he meant Strange?"

"Because his mind was obviously dwelling on the night Strange's canoe capsized. He said it was an accident--he could not stop her swinging across the stream--as if he were answering somebody who accused him. The disturbing thing was that although delirious he looked horribly afraid."

Father Lucien was silent and Thirlwell went on: "You have been with him for three nights. Has he talked like this before?"

"Yes," said Father Lucien, quietly. "You can be trusted. I think he is afraid."

"Ah!" said Thirlwell, looking hard at him. "Then I wonder why the canoe capsized. Were they drunk, or was there a quarrel? But perhaps you know and cannot tell!"

"I do not know. Driscoll is not of my flock. He is ill and it is my business to cure his sickness, but I can go no farther. If he has other troubles, he would refuse my help."

"That is so," Thirlwell agreed. "There's a mystery about the capsize, and I'm curious. You see, I met Strange's daughter and she believes in the lode."

Father Lucien hesitated, and then went to a shelf.

"I will show you something," he said, and gave Thirlwell a small Russian leather wallet. It was well made, but worn and stained as if it had been soaked in water. "I found this when I undressed Driscoll," he went on.

"It is not a thing you would expect a rude prospector to carry. But I found something else."

He held out a piece of broken stone and Thirlwell as he took it moved abruptly. He knew something about ore and saw that the stone had come from the same vein as the specimen Agatha had given him.

"I think Strange found the silver," Father Lucien said quietly.

Thirlwell knitted his brows. He had dark suspicions, but after all they had no solid foundation, and he thought it best to copy the missionary's reserve.

"We know Driscoll's character, and may have been mistaken about one thing. Is it logical to imagine that such a man would feel afraid?"

"Fear sometimes comes without remorse," said Father Lucien.

"Superst.i.tious fear, working on a brain disordered by liquor and illness?"

"We will not argue about the proper name. It may be superst.i.tion, or something greater. I believe that retribution follows the offense."

Thirlwell looked hard at the other. "Well, I doubt if we will ever know the truth about Strange's death."

"It is possible," Father Lucien agreed. "Perhaps it is not important whether we know or not. One thing is certain: if wrong has been done, it will be made right, if not by the way we would choose, by another. I think we may leave it there."

"We must," said Thirlwell dryly. "There is nothing else to do. In the meantime, if I can't be useful, I'm going to sleep."

Day was breaking when he wakened and Father Lucien told him that Driscoll was better, but would need careful nursing for a time.

"Then Scott must come to-night," Thirlwell replied. "I've had enough of watching Steve, and don't mind admitting that your charity is greater than mine."

When he reached the shack he told Scott nothing about what he had heard, because he thought Father Lucien would sooner he did not. The latter knew when to be silent and it would do no good to talk about the matter unless something happened to throw a light upon the mystery. On the whole, he was relieved when Driscoll, who soon recovered, set off up river with a half-breed and a loaded hand-sledge.

CHAPTER VI

FATHER LUCIEN'S ADVENTURE

The snow was firm and the rivers were frozen hard when Thirlwell left the mine with two _Metis_ trappers to examine an outcropping reef that one of the half-breeds had told him about. He was not very hopeful, but agreed with Scott, who thought it might be worth while to look at the reef, since the specimens the _Metis_ had brought showed traces of silver and lead. Then Father Lucien had gone to visit some of his people who had camped for their winter trapping far up in the bush, the shack was lonely, and the frost hindered the work at the mine.

Winter is not a good time for prospecting, but travel is often easier then, for the hand-sledges run smoothly on the snow that covers fallen trunks and underbrush and levels the hollows. The muskegs are frozen and one can make fast marches along the rivers and across the lakes.

Thirlwell had no tent, but it is not a great hardship for a well-fed man, wrapped in furs, to sleep beside a big fire behind a bank of snow, and he had no misadventures as he pushed into the wilds. The ore proved to be worthless, and soon after he started back he met an Indian who said he had seen Father Lucien going south with a dog-team two days before, and had found the trail of another white man near the spot where he and his friends had camped.

The clear, cold weather broke when Thirlwell began his homeward march.

The sky was low and leaden, and a biting wind blew from the south. It drove the snow-dust into the men's smarting faces and froze their breath on their furs. Their hands stiffened on the sledge-traces and their feet got numb. The cold got worse when snow began to fall and when they camped one night Thirlwell noted that they had used more food than he thought. The transport of provisions is perhaps the main difficulty of a winter journey in the bush, for men who brave the arctic cold must be generously fed. Thirlwell, however, expected to reach the mine before their stores ran out, and set off at daybreak next morning in heavy, driving snow.

At dusk he camped in a clump of dry willows by a river. The snow had stopped, but a bitter wind blew down the valley and the cold was intense. When he had eaten a meal Thirlwell sat with his back to a snow bank and a big fire in front, holding up a moccasin to the blaze. This was necessary because moccasins absorb moisture during a long day's march, and the man who puts them on while damp risks getting frozen feet.

He was lighting his pipe when the _Metis_ he had sent out for wood came back with an armful of branches and said he had seen a light up the river. Thirlwell put on his half-dried moccasins and reluctantly left the camp. He had met n.o.body but an Indian on the trail and was curious to know who was camping in those solitudes. Besides, it was possible that he might be able to get some supplies.

As he pushed through the willows the savage wind pierced him to the bone. The dry branches rattled and the pines upon the ridge above wailed drearily. The sky was clear and the frozen river, running back, white and level, through the dusky forest, glittered in the light of a half moon. This was all that Thirlwell saw for a few minutes, and then a twinkling light in the distance fixed his attention. It flickered, got brighter, and faded, and he knew it was a fire.

After a time he and the _Metis_ left the river and climbed the steep bank. The fire had vanished, but the pungent smell of burning wood came down the biting wind, and by and by trails of smoke drifted past the scattered pines. Then as they struggled through a brake of wild-fruit canes a blaze leaped up among the the rocks and he saw an indistinct figure crouching beside a fire. The figure got up awkwardly and a few moments later Father Lucien gave Thirlwell his hand. The light touched his thin frost-browned face, which was marked by lines that pain had drawn.

"It's lucky you came, but, if you don't mind, we'll sit down," he said.

"If you're alone, you had better come back to our camp," Thirlwell replied. "Where's your truck and the dogs?"

Father Lucien indicated the torn blue blanket that hung from his shoulder. "All gone except this! But it's a long story and I can't walk."