"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to Harding.

The American looked doubtful.

"We could do with another white man; but I guess your friend isn't the kind we want. He may give us trouble; and you can't count on much help from a whisky-tank. However, if you wish it, you can bring him."

Soon afterward Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.

"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made any unfortunate allusions, you must overlook them. You must have seen that I wasn't altogether responsible."

"I did," Blake answered curtly. "If we are to remain friends, you'd better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the matter you talked about."

"Sorry," responded Benson, giving him a keen glance. "Though I don't think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."

"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to the northern bush."

"Thanks," said Benson, shaking hands with Harding. "I wonder what use you think I would be?"

"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any use or not. The trip will brace you up, and you look as if you needed it."

Benson's face grew red.

"Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous and respectable people sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which degenerates like myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come too late."

"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being respectable," Blake answered with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to come with us."

Tilting back his chair, Benson looked heavily about.

"When I was new to the country, I often wished to go North," he said. "There are caribou and moose up yonder; great sights when the rivers break up in the spring; and a sled trip across the snow must be a thing to remember! The wilds draw me—but I'm afraid my nerve's not good enough. A man must be fit in every way to cross the timber belt."

"Why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the life and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"

"You hit hard, but I deserve it, and I'll try to explain."

Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness. Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity; but two or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room" painted on its dirty windows. All round, the rolling prairie stretched back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and gray. The prospect was dreary and depressing.

"This place," Benson said grimly, "hasn't much to offer one in the way of relaxation; and, for a man used to something different, life at a lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's apt to go to bits."

"Then, why don't you quit?" Harding asked.

"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't the means to follow is not of much use at home; and all my money is sunk in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned to Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster for which I wasn't responsible stopped my allowance, and I was in debt. Eventually, about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck; and I came here with that, feeling badly hipped. Perhaps that was one reason why I took to whisky; and Clarke, who engaged to teach me farming, saw that I got plenty of it. Now he has his hands on all that's mine; but he keeps me fairly supplied with cash, and it saves trouble to leave things to him."

When Benson stopped, Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He must have unflinching courage and stubbornness, and be able to dispense with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year he must toil unremittingly from dawn till dark, and depend upon his own resources through the long, bitter winter. For society, he may have a hired hand, and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement, which is often a day's ride away; and they are not, as a rule, men of culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body, it is nevertheless a healthful life; but Benson was not of sufficiently tough fiber.

"Now, see here," said Harding. "I'm out for money, and this is a business trip; but Blake wants to take you, and I'm agreeable. If you can stand for two or three months' hard work in the open, and very plain living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get back. Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like myself how you stand, if you'd rather not, I know something of business and might see a way out of your difficulties."

Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his troubles as a text for improving remarks, for he fully appreciated his failings. What he desired was a means for escaping their consequences; and the American seemed to offer it. He began an explanation and, with the help of a few leading questions, made his financial position fairly clear.

"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you; but I guess it's possible to shake him on. As things stand, however, it seems to me he has something to gain by your death."

"He couldn't count on that—to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so far; but there's some truth in what you say."

Benson looked disturbed and irresolute, but after a few moments he abruptly threw his cigar away and leaned forward with a decided air.

"If you'll have me, I'll go with you."

"You're wise," Harding said quietly.

Shortly afterward Benson left them, and Harding turned to Blake.

"Now you had better go along and see if you can learn anything from Clarke about our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't make him useful. If he can help us, pay him. But be careful what you say. Remember that he was watching you at the hotel in Montreal, and I've a suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs when Benson talked last night."

Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a well-kept, prosperous look. He found its owner in a small room furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western Provinces hung on one wall; and Clarke was seated at a handsome American desk. He wore old overalls, and the soil on his boots suggested that he had been engaged in fall plowing.

As Blake entered, Clarke looked up and the light fell on his face. It was deeply lined and of a curious dead color, but, while, it bore a sensual stamp and something in it hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake felt, the face of a clever and determined man.

"Ah!" said Clarke. "You have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you. Have a cigar."

Blake took one and explained his errand. Clarke seemed to consider; then he took out a small hand-drawn map and passed it to his visitor.

"I won't ask why you are going north, as I dare say it's a secret. However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it to you, this will show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared one end of the desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of the country."

It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it carefully.

"I'll give you a few directions," Clarke went on, "and you had better take them down. You'll want a canoe and one or two Indians. I can enable you to get them, but I think the service is worth fifty dollars."

"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously. "It's possible that we might not find the Indians; and we might leave the water and strike overland."

"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions before you go. But there's another matter I want to talk about." He fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner?"

"I am; but I can't see what connection this has——"

Clarke stopped him.

"It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were a lieutenant of engineers and served in India, where you left the army."

"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."

"So I imagined," Clarke said dryly. "Still, I'd like to say that there is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You have my sympathy."

"Thank you. I must remind you, however, that I have given you no grounds for offering it."

"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"

"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know about the matter—or how it concerns you."

"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."

Blake's face set sternly.

"It's hard to understand how you arrived at that flattering conclusion."

"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke replied, watching him keenly. "One would imagine that the most important matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and were sent here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with your lot? Haven't you the courage to insist on being reinstated?"

"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.

"It would be at the expense of——"

Blake stopped him with a gesture. He would have left the house only that he was curious to learn where Clarke's suggestions led, and how much he knew.

There was a moment's silence, and then Clarke went on:

"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a choice of careers in England; and there's another point to be considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the question now."

"It will no doubt remain so," Blake replied, with the color creeping into his set face.

"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and added significantly: "In fact, I could show you a way in which the matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your confidence."

Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials; but he had no intention of changing it. This was an old resolve, but it was disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to meddle with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the possibility of putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake shrank from the suggestion; it was not to be thought of.

"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It must be dropped."

Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humoredly, after a keen glance at him.

"As you wish. However, that needn't prevent my giving you the directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are you taking him?"

Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed; but he admitted that Benson was going.

"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," Clarke said in a tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I tell you."

Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, a curious smile came over Clarke's face. Blake had firmly declined to be influenced by his hints; but Clarke had half expected that, and he had learned enough about the young man's character to clear the ground for a plan that had formed and grown in his clever mind.



CHAPTER VIII

TROUBLE

Darkness was settling down over the edge of the timber belt that cuts off the prairie from the desolate barrens. In the fading light the straggling wood wore a dreary, forbidding look. The spruces were gnarled and twisted by the wind, a number of them were dead, and many leaned unsymmetrically athwart each other.

Blake and Harding found no beauty in the scene as they wearily led two packhorses through the thin, scattered trees, with Benson lagging a short distance behind. They had spent some time crossing a wide stretch of rolling country dotted with clumps of poplar and birch, which was still sparsely inhabited; and now they were compelled to pick their way among fallen branches and patches of muskeg, for the ground was marshy and their feet sank among the withered needles.

Blake checked his pony and waited until Benson came up. The man moved with a slack heaviness, and his face was worn and tense. He was tired with the journey, for excess had weakened him, and now the lust for drink which he had stubbornly fought had grown overwhelming.

"I can go no faster. Push on and I'll follow your tracks," he said in a surly tone. "It takes time to get into condition, and I haven't walked much for several years."

"Neither have I," Harding answered cheerfully. "I'm more used to riding in elevators and streetcars, but this sort of thing soon makes you fit."

"You're not troubled with my complaint," Benson grumbled; and when Blake started the pony, he deliberately dropped behind.

"He's in a black mood; we'll leave him to himself," Harding advised. "So far he's braced up better than I expected; when a man's been tanking steadily, it's pretty drastic to put him through the total deprivation cure."

"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by careless handling."

"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"

"Yes; but there's a difference between that and the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, so to speak, because we tried to get something in return—a rebel hill fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in breaking a horse, or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."

Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed, he was rather casual, as a rule; but Harding was shrewd, and he saw beneath the surface a love of order and a constructive ability.

"I guess you're right; but your speaking of India, reminds me of something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one. He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."

"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."

"Suppose the fellow goes to work without you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."

"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it won't stand for a moment after I deny it."

"True," agreed Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd have a free hand. As you wouldn't join him, you're a serious obstacle."

Blake laughed.

"I'm glad I am; and as I come of a healthy stock there's reason to believe I'll continue one."

Harding said nothing more, and they went on in silence through the gathering darkness. The spruces were losing shape and getting blacker, though through openings here and there a faint line of smoky red glowed on the horizon. A cold wind wailed among the branches, and the thud of the tired horses' feet rang dully among the shadowy trunks. Reaching a strip of higher ground, the men pitched camp and turned out the hobbled horses to graze among the swamp grass that lined a muskeg. After supper they sat beside their fire in silence for a while; and then Benson took his pipe from his mouth.

"I've had enough of this; and I'm only a drag on you," he said. "Give me grub enough to see me through, and I'll start back for the settlement the first thing in the morning."

"Don't be a fool!" Blake replied sharply. "You'll get harder and feel the march less every day. Are you willing to let Clarke get hold of you again?"

"Oh, I don't want to go; I'm driven—I can't help myself."

Blake felt sorry for him. He imagined that Benson had made a hard fight, but he was being beaten by his craving. Still, it seemed unwise to show any sympathy.

"You want to wallow like a hog for two or three days that you'll regret all your life," he said. "You have your chance for breaking free now. Be a man and take it. Hold out a little longer, and you'll find it easier."

Benson regarded him with a mocking smile.

"I'm inclined to think the jag you so feelingly allude to will last a week; that is, if I can raise money enough from Clarke to keep it up. You may not understand that I'm willing to barter all my future for it."

"Yes," said Harding grimly; "we understand, all right. Yours is not a singular case; the trouble is that it's too common. But we'll quit talking about it. You can't go."

He was in no mood to handle the subject delicately; they were alone in the wilds and the situation made for candor. There was only one way in which they could help the man, and he meant to take it.

Benson turned to him angrily.

"Your permission's not required; I'm a free man."

"Are you?" Harding asked. "It strikes me as a very curious boast. Improving the occasion's a riling thing, but there was never a slave in the world tighter bound than you."

"That's an impertinence!" Benson exclaimed with a flush, as unsatisfied longing drove him to fury. "What business is it of yours to preach to me? Confound you, who are you? I tell you, I won't have it! Give me food enough to last until I reach Sweetwater, and let me go!"

As he spoke, a haughty ring crept into his voice. Benson would not have used that tone in his normal state, but he belonged by right of birth to a ruling caste, and no doubt felt that he had been treated with indignity by a man of lower station. Harding, however, answered quietly.

"I am a paint factory drummer who has never had the opportunities you have enjoyed; but so long as we're up here in the wilds the only thing that counts is that we're men with the same weaknesses and feelings. Because that's so, and you're hard up against it, my partner and I mean to see you through."

"You can't unless I'm willing. Man, don't you realize that talking's of no use? The thing I'm driven by won't yield to words. What's more to the purpose, I didn't engage to go all the way with you. Now that I've had enough, I'm going back to the settlement."

"Very well. You were right in claiming that there was no engagement of any kind. So far, we have kept you in grub; but we're not bound to do so, and if you leave us, you must shift for yourself."

There was a tense silence for a moment or two. Benson, his face marked with baffled desire and scarcely controlled fury, glared at the others. Blake's expression was pitiful, but his lips were resolutely set; and Harding's eyes were very keen and determined.

A curious look crept into Benson's face, and he made a sign of resignation.

"It looks as if I were beaten," he said quietly. "I may as well go to sleep."

He wrapped his blanket round him and lay down near the fire, and soon afterward Blake and Harding crept into the tent. Benson would be warm enough where he lay, and they felt it a relief to get away from him.

Day was breaking when Blake rose and threw fresh wood on the fire, and as a bright flame leaped up, driving back the shadows, he saw that Benson was missing. This, however, did not disturb him, for the man had been restless and they had now and then heard him moving about at night. When the fire had burned up and he had filled the kettle, without seeing anything of his friend, he began to grow anxious. He called loudly, but there was no answer, and he could hear no movement in the bush. The dark spruces had grown sharper in form; he could see some distance between the trunks, but everything was still.

"You had better see if the horses are there," Harding suggested, coming out of the tent.

Blake failed to find them near the muskeg, but as the light got clearer he saw tracks leading through the bush. Following these for a distance, he came upon the Indian pony, still hobbled, but the other, a powerful range horse, was missing. Mounting the pony, he rode back to camp, where he found Harding looking grave.

"The fellow's gone and taken some provisions with him," he said. "He left this for us."

It was a strip of paper, apparently torn from a notebook, with a few lines expressing Benson's regret at having to leave them in such an unceremonious fashion, and stating that he would leave the horse, hobbled, at a spot about two days' ride away.

"He seems to think he's showing us some consideration in not riding the beast down to the settlement," Blake remarked with a dubious smile, feeling strongly annoyed with himself for not taking more precautions. With the cunning which the lust for drink breeds in its victims Benson had outwitted him by feigning acquiescence. "Anyway," he added, "I'll have to go after him. We must have the horse, for one thing; but I suppose we'll lose four days. This is rough on you."

"Yes," agreed Harding, "you must go after him; but don't mind about me. The man's a friend of yours, and I like him; I wouldn't feel happy if we let him fall back into the clutches of that cunning brute. Now we'll get breakfast; you'll need it."

"If you don't mind waiting," Blake said, while they made a hasty meal, "I'll follow him half-way to Sweetwater, if necessary. You see, I haven't much expectation of overtaking him before he leaves the horse. It's faster than the pony; and we don't know when he started."

"That's so. Still, you're tough; and I guess the first hard day's ride will be enough for your partner."

Five minutes later Blake was picking his way as fast as possible through the woods. It was a cool morning, and when he had gone a few miles the ground was fairly dear. By noon he was in more open country, where there were long stretches of grass, and after a short rest he pushed on fast. Bright sunshine flooded the waste that now stretched back to the south, sprinkled with clumps of bush that showed a shadowy blue in the distance. Near at hand, the birch and poplar leaves glowed in flecks of vivid lemon among the white stems; but Blake rode hard, his eyes turned steadily on the misty skyline. It was broken only by clusters of small trees; nothing moved on the wilderness of grass and sand ahead of him.

He felt tired when evening came, but he pressed on to find water before he camped. Benson was a weakling, who would no doubt give them further trouble; but they had taken him in hand, and Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon his failings.

It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he checked the jaded pony. Then he dismounted and, picketing the animal, moved cautiously around the edge of the woods. Passing a projecting tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting beside the fire. Blake stopped a moment to watch him. The man's face was weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led had unfitted him for a long, hard ride. He looked forlorn and dejected; but as Blake moved forward, he roused himself, and his eyes had an angry gleam.

"So you have overtaken me! I thought myself safe from you!" he exclaimed.

"You were wrong," Blake replied quietly. "If it had been needful, I'd have gone after you to Clarke's. But I'm hungry, and I'll cook my supper at your fire." He glanced at the provisions scattered about. "You haven't had much of a meal."

"It's a long drink I want," Benson growled.

Blake let this pass. He prepared his supper, and offered Benson a portion.

"Try some of that," he urged, indicating the light flapjacks fizzling among the pork in the frying-pan. "It strikes me as a good deal more tempting than the stuff you have been eating."

Benson thrust the food aside, and Blake ate in silence. Then he took out his pipe.

"Now," he said, "you can go to sleep when you wish. You're probably tired, and it's a long ride back to camp."

"You seem to count upon my going back with you," Benson replied mockingly.

"Of course!"

"Do you suppose it's likely, after I've ridden all this way?"

Blake laid down his pipe and leaned forward, where the firelight flickered on his face.

"Benson, you force me to take a strong line with you. Think a moment. You have land and stock worth a good deal of money which my partner believes can be saved from the rogue who's stealing it from you. You are a young man, and if you pull yourself together and pay off his claims, you can sell out and look for another opening wherever you like; but you know what will happen if you go on as you are doing a year or two longer. Have you no friends or relatives in England to whom you owe something? Is your life worth nothing, that you're willing to throw it away?"

"Oh, that's all true," Benson admitted irritably. "Do you think I can't see where I'm drifting? The trouble is that I've gone too far to stop."

"Try!" persisted Blake. "It's very well worth while."

Benson was silent for a few moments, and then he looked up with a curious expression.

"You're wasting time, Dick," he said. "I've sunk too far. Go back in the morning, and leave me to my fate."

"When I go back, you are coming with me."

Benson's nerves were on edge, and his self-control broke down.

"Confound you!" he cried. "Let me alone! You have reached the limit; once for all, I'll stand no more meddling!"

"Very well," Blake answered quietly. "You have left me only one recourse, and you can't blame me for taking it."

"What's that?"

"Superior strength. You're a heavier man than I am, and ought to be a match for me, but you have lost your nerve and grown soft and flabby with drink. It's your own doing; and now you have to take the consequences. If you compel me, I'll drag you back to camp with the pack lariat."

"Do you mean that?", Benson's face grew flushed and his eyes glittered.

"Try me and see."

Savage as he was, Benson realized that his companion was capable of making good his promise. The man looked hard and very muscular, and his expression was determined.

"This is insufferable!" he cried.

Blake coolly filled his pipe.

"There's no other remedy. Before I go to sleep, I'll picket the horses close beside me; and if you steal away on foot during the night, I'll ride you down a few hours after daybreak. I think you understand me. There's nothing more to be said."

He tried to talk about other matters, but found it hard, for Benson, tormented by his craving, made no response. Darkness wrapped them about and the prairie was lost in shadow. The leaves in the bluff rustled in a faint, cold wind, and the smoke of the fire drifted round the men. For a while Benson sat moodily watching his companion, and then, wrapping his blanket round him, he lay down and turned away his head. Blake sat smoking for a while, and then strolled toward the horses and chose a resting-place beside their pickets.

Waking in the cold of daybreak, he saw Benson asleep, and prepared breakfast before he called him. They ate in silence, and then Blake led up the pony.

"I think we'll make a start," he said, as cheerfully as he could.

For a moment or two Benson hesitated, standing with hands clenched and baffled desire in his face; but Blake looked coolly resolute, and he mounted.



CHAPTER IX

A SUSPICIOUS MOVE

When Benson and Blake rode into the camp, apparently on good terms with each other, Harding made no reference to what had occurred. He greeted them pleasantly, and soon afterward they sat down to the supper he had been cooking. When they had finished, they gathered round the fire with their pipes.

"A remark was made the other night which struck me as quite warranted," Benson said. "It was pointed out that I had contributed nothing to the cost of this trip."

"It was very uncivil of Harding to mention it," Blake answered. "Still, you see, circumstances rather forced him."

"Oh, I admit that; indeed, you might put it more harshly with truth. But I want to suggest that you let me take a share in your venture."

"Sorry," said Harding promptly; "I can't agree to that."

Benson sat smoking in silence for a moment.

"I think I understand," he said, "and I can't blame you. You haven't much cause for trusting me.

"I didn't mean——"

"I know," Benson interrupted. "It's my weakness you're afraid of. However, you must let me pay my share of the provisions and any transport we may be able to get. That's all I insist on now; if you feel more confidence in me later, I may reopen the other question." He paused, and continued with a little embarrassment in his manner: "You are two good fellows. I think I can promise not to play the fool again."

"Suppose we talk about something else," Blake suggested.

They broke camp early the following morning; and Benson struggled manfully with his craving during the next week or two, which they spent in pushing farther into the forest. It was a desolate waste of small, stunted trees, many of which were dead and stripped of half their branches, while wide belts had been scarred by fire. Harding found the unvarying somber green of the needles strangely monotonous; but the ground was comparatively clear, and the party made progress.

Then, one evening, when the country grew more broken, they fell in with three returning prospectors.

"If you'll trade your horses, we might make a deal," said one when they camped together. "You can't take them much farther—the country's too rough—and we could sell them to one of the farmers near the settlements."

Blake was glad to come to terms.

"We've been out two months on a general prospecting trip," the man informed them. "It's the toughest country to get through I ever struck."

His worn and ragged appearance bore this out; and Benson looked somewhat dismayed.

"Are there minerals up yonder?" Harding asked. "We're not in that line; it's a forest product we're looking for."

"We found indications of gold, copper, and one or two other metals, besides petroleum, but we didn't see anything that looked worth taking up. Considering the cost of transport, you want to strike it pretty rich before what you find will pay as a business proposition."

"So I should imagine. Petroleum's a cheap product to handle when you're a long way from a market, isn't it?"

"Give us plenty of it and we'll make a market. It's an idea of mine that there's no part of this country that hasn't something worth working in it if you can get cheap fuel. Where the land's too poor for farming, you often find minerals, and ore that won't pay for transport can be reduced on the spot, so long as you have natural resources that can be turned into power. With an oil well in good flow, we'd soon start some profitable industry and put up a city that would bring a railroad in. Show our business men a good opening, and you'll get the money. And there are men across the frontier who have a mighty keen scent for oil."

"Have you done much prospecting?" Harding asked.

The man smiled.

"Whenever I can get money enough for an outfit I go off on the trail. There's a fascination in the thing that gets hold of you—you can't tell what you may strike, and the prizes are big. However, I'll admit that after seven or eight years of it I'm poorer than when I started at the game."

Blake made a sign of comprehension. He knew the sanguine nature of the Westerner and his belief in the richness of his country; and he himself had felt the call of the wilderness. There was, in truth, a fascination in the silent waste that drew the adventurous into its rugged fastnesses; that a number of them did not come back seldom deterred the others.

"We want to get as far north as the timber limit, if we can," Harding said. "I understand that there are no Hudson Bay factories near our line, but we were told we might find some Stony Indians."

"There's one bunch of them," the prospector replied. "They ramble about after fish and furs, but they've a kind of base-camp where a few generally stop. They're a mean crowd, and often short of food, but if they've been lucky you might get supplies. Now and then they put up a lot of dried fish and kill some caribou."

He told Blake roughly where the Indian encampment lay; and after talking for a while they went to sleep. The next morning the prospectors took the horses and started for the south, while Blake's party pushed on north with loads that severely tried their strength. After a few days' laborious march they reached a stream and found a few Indians who were willing to take them some distance down it. It was a relief to get rid of the heavy packs and rest while the canoe glided smoothly through the straggling forest, and the labor of hauling her across the numerous portages was light compared with the toil of the march.

Blake, however, had misgivings. They were making swift progress northward; but it would be different when they came back. Rivers and lakes would be frozen then. That might make traveling easier, if they could pick up the hand sleds they had cached; but there was a limit to the provisions they could transport, and unless fresh supplies could be obtained they would have a long distance to traverse on scanty rations in the rigors of the arctic winter.

After a day or two the Indians, who were going no farther, landed them, and they entered a belt of very broken country across which they must push to reach a larger stream. The ground was rocky, pierced by ravines, and covered with clumps of small trees. There were stony tracts across which they painfully picked their way, steep ridges to be clambered over, and belts of quaggy muskeg they must skirt. Benson, however, gave them no trouble; the man was getting hard and was generally cheerful; and when he had an occasional fit of moroseness, as he fought with the longing that tormented him, they left him alone. Still, at times they were daunted by the rugged sternness of the region they were steadily pushing through, and the thought of the long return journey troubled them.

One night, when it was raining, they sat beside their fire in a desolate gorge. A cold wind swept between the thin spruce trunks that loomed vaguely out of the surrounding gloom as the red glare leaped up, and wisps of acrid smoke drifted about the camp. There was a lake up the hollow, and now and then the wild and mournful cry of a loon rang out. The men were tired and somewhat dejected as they sat about the blaze with their damp blankets round them. A silence had fallen upon them; but suddenly Blake looked up, startled.

"What was that?" he exclaimed.

The others could hear nothing but the sound of running water and the wail of the wind. Since leaving the Indians they had seen no sign of life and believed that they were crossing uninhabited wilds. Blake could not tell what had suddenly roused his attention, but in former days he had developed his perceptive faculties by close night watching on the Indian frontier, where any relaxing of his vigilance might have cost his life. Something, he thought, was moving in the bush, and he felt uneasy.

A stick cracked, and Harding called out as a shadowy figure appeared on the edge of the light. Blake laughed, but his uneasiness did not desert him when he recognized Clarke. The fellow was not to be trusted, and he had come upon them in a startling manner.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me," Clarke said, moving coolly forward and sitting down by the fire.

"We are," Harding answered briefly.

Benson's face wore a curious, strained expression, but he did not speak.

"Well," Clarke laughed, as he filled his pipe, "I dare say I made a rather dramatic entrance, falling upon you, so to speak, out of the dark."

"I've a suspicion that you enjoy that kind of thing," Harding said. "You're a man with the dramatic feeling; guess you find it useful now and then."

Clarke's eyes twinkled, but it was not with wholesome humor. His eyes were keen, but he looked old and forbidding as he sat with the smoke blowing about him and the ruddy firelight on his face.

"There's some truth in your remark, and I take it as a compliment; but my arrival's easily explained. I saw your fire in the distance and curiosity brought me along."

"What are you doing up here?"

"Going on a visit to my friends, the Stonies. Though it's a long way, I look them up now and then."

"From what I've heard of them, they don't seem a very attractive lot," Blake interposed. "But we haven't offered you any supper. Benson, you might put on the frying-pan."

"No, thanks," said Clarke. "I'm camped with two half-breeds a little way back. The Stonies, as you remark, are not a polished set; but we're on pretty good terms, and it's their primitiveness that makes them interesting. You can learn things civilized men don't know much about from these people."

"In my opinion, it's knowledge that's not worth much to a white man," Harding remarked contemptuously. "Guess you mean the secrets of their medicine-men? What isn't gross superstition is trickery."

"There you are wrong. They have some tricks, rather clever ones, though that's not unusual with the professors of a more advanced occultism; but living, as they do, in direct contact with nature in her most savage mood, they have found clues to things that we regard as mysteries. Anyway, they have discovered a few effective remedies that aren't generally known yet to medical science."

He spoke with some warmth, and had the look of a genuine enthusiast; but Harding laughed.

"Medical science hasn't much to say in favor of hoodoo practises, so far as I know. But I understand you are a doctor?"

"I was pretty well known in London."

"Then," Harding asked bluntly, "what brought you to Sweetwater?"

"If you haven't heard, I may as well tell you, because the thing isn't a secret at the settlement." Clarke turned and his eyes rested on Blake. "I'm by no means the only man who has come to Canada under a cloud. There was a famous police-court affair that I figured in. Nothing was proved against me, but my practise afterward fell to bits. As a matter of fact, I was absolutely innocent of the offense. I had acted without much caution, out of pity, and laid myself open to an attack that was meant to cover the escape of the real criminal."

Blake thought he spoke the truth, and he felt some sympathy; but Clarke went on:

"In a few weeks I was without patients or friends; driven out from the profession I loved and in which I was beginning to make my mark. It was a blow that I never altogether recovered from; and the generous impulse which got me into trouble was the last that I ever yielded to."

His face changed, growing hard and malevolent, and Blake now felt strangely repelled. It looked as if the man had been soured by his misfortunes, and had turned into an outlaw who took a vindictive pleasure in making such reprisals as he found possible upon society at large. This conclusion was borne out by what Blake had learned at the settlement.

No one made any comment, and there was silence for a few minutes while the smoke whirled about the group and the drips from the dark boughs above fell upon the brands. Then, after a little casual talk, Clarke rose to go.

"I shall start at daybreak, and your way lies to the east of mine," he said. "You'll find traveling easier when the snow comes. I wish you good luck."

Though the loneliness of the wilds had now and then weighed upon them, they all felt relieved when he left. After Benson went to sleep, Blake and Harding continued talking for a while.

"That's a man we'll have to watch," the American declared. "I suppose it struck you that he made no attempt to get your friend back?"

"I noticed it. He may have thought it wouldn't succeed, and didn't wish to show his hand. Benson already looks a different man; I saw Clarke studying him."

"He could have drawn him away by the sight of a whisky flask, or a hint of a jag in camp. My opinion is that he didn't want him."

"That's curious," said Blake. "He seems to have stuck to Benson pretty closely, no doubt with the object of fleecing him; and you think he's not altogether ruined yet."

"If what he told me is correct, there are still some pickings left on him."

"I don't suppose the explanation is that Clarke has some conscience, and feels that he has robbed him enough."

Harding laughed.

"He has about as much pity as a hungry wolf; in fact, to my mind, he's the more dangerous brute, because I've a feeling that he delights in doing harm. There's something cruel about the man; getting fired out of his profession must have warped his nature. Then there was another point that struck me—why's he going so far to stay with those Indians?"

"It's puzzling," Blake answered thoughtfully. "He hinted that he was interested in their superstitions, and I think there was some truth in it. Meddling with these things seems to have a fascination for neurotic people, and as the fellow's a sensualist he may find some form of indulgence that wouldn't be tolerated near the settlements. All this, however, doesn't quite seem to account for the thing."

"I've another idea," said Harding. "Clarke's known as a crank, and he takes advantage of it to cover his doings. At first, I thought of the whisky trade; but taking up prohibited liquor would hardly be worth his while; though I dare say he has some with him to be used for gaining his Indian friends' good will. He's on the trail of something, and it's probably minerals. What the prospector told us suggested it to me."

"You may be right. Anyway, it doesn't seem to concern us."

"Well," said Harding gravely, "I'm troubled about his leaving Benson alone. The fellow had some good reason—I wish I knew."

He rose to throw more wood on the fire, and they changed the subject.



CHAPTER X

THE MUSKEG

A fortnight later the party entered a hollow between two low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and lay in tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it; and as they plodded through the morass they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still, Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.

They were wet to the waist, and their temper began to give way under the strain. When they lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights, Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed by a touch of malarial fever. He had suffered from it in India, and now it had attacked him again, in his weakened condition due to the hardships of the march. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake shivering for hours. Saying nothing to his companions, however, he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of a depressing weakness.

The ground grew softer as they proceeded. The creek no longer kept within its banks, but spread in shallow pools; and the rotting trees were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The valley had turned into very wet muskeg. It was shut in by hills whose rocky sides were seamed by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was almost impossible to force a passage.

After making several attempts to get out of the valley, the men plodded on through the muskeg, tramping down the wiry grass, often stumbling over a partly submerged tree-trunk.

Then one day Blake felt his head reel. He staggered, and dropped down heavily.

"Sorry!" he mumbled. "Malaria!"

His companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed; his eyes glittered; and he lay limply among the grass. He looked seriously ill. Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled himself together.

"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on yonder hummock, and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can stand up and lean on us, we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few minutes."

Blake did not move. Instead, he lay gazing up at them and mumbling to himself. With much trouble, they got him to a small, stony knoll, where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to lie on. Then he spoke, in a faint and listless voice.

"Thanks! I think I'll go to sleep. I'll feel better to-morrow."

He fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, gray afternoon, with a cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet muskegs, which they could not cross with a sick companion, shut them off from all help. Their provisions were not plentiful; and the rigorous winter would soon set in.

They scarcely spoke to each other as the afternoon wore away. When supper time came, Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank again into a restless sleep. His companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled drearily, and even the splash of the ripples on a neighboring pool was depressing. As in turn they kept watch in the darkness their hearts sank.

The next morning Blake was obviously worse. He insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a day or two, but the others felt dubious.

"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said. "You needn't look so glum."

"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man———"

"You overdo the thing," Blake interrupted crossly; "and the way Benson grins at your thread-bare jokes would worry me if I were well! Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria! I've had it several times; but it doesn't bother you when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram—very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father. If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me!"

He paused a moment, looking around him dazedly.

"Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back; but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."

Lying down, he turned away from them, and during the next few hours he dozed intermittently.

Late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighborhood. His tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said, quarrelsome people.

Harding looked interested.

"Ask the fellow where the village is!"

When Benson had interpreted the Indian's answer, Harding lighted his pipe and thought keenly for a long time. Rain had begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place for a fever patient; and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure, and he felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill, and something must be done to save him; but for a while Harding could not see how help could be obtained. Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the locality. When they were answered, he began to see his way; but he waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.

It was getting dark and raining hard. Blake was asleep; the Indian sitting silent; and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering light against the surrounding gloom.

"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding began.

"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him; though I can't blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.

"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that Clarke's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality farther west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."

"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."

"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must admit it's curious that when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we could have got north with much less trouble had we headed farther west."

"That has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.

"Well, I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase in value as the settlement grows—and sooner or later they are bound to bring in a railroad. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two, if you keep steady and work hard; but while you were in his clutches that looked very far from probable."

"You might have put it more plainly—I was drinking myself to death." Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that that is what the fellow wished?"

"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his statements, he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."

Benson started.

"I believe he would stick at nothing! But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"

"That," said Harding evasively, "is not so clear."

He glanced at his companion searchingly, and seeing that he suspected nothing, he decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse after his return to the settlement, and betray the secret in his cups. Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history, and had seen a chance for extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of wishing to ascertain whether the latter were willing to seek redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at Clarke's mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified. Harding meant, however, to make a determined effort to save his comrade.

"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.

"It's this—I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these muskegs, where we'd have no chance for renewing our provisions, and he misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach. Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble; now he has to help us out. The fellow is a doctor."

Benson looked up eagerly.

"You're going to bring him here? It's a daring plan, because it will be difficult to make him come."

"He'll come it he values his life," Harding said resolutely. "The Indian will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I offer him enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies. I'll have to drop in upon the doctor late at night, when none of his Indian friends are about."

"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."

"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his partner."

"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested. "You know how I'm indebted to Blake."

"It's your place," Harding insisted. "Try to arrange the thing with the Indian."

It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone, because of some quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.

"All right; that's settled. We start at daybreak," said Harding. "I'll lie down now; it's your watch."

Five minutes later he was sound asleep, and awoke, quietly determined and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the cities, bred to civilized life, but he had a just appreciation of the risks attached to his undertaking. He meant to abduct the doctor, who himself was dangerous to meddle with, from an Indian village where he apparently was held in great esteem. The Stonies, living far remote, had escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit from the patrols of the North-West Police; they knew nothing of law and order. Moreover, there was a possibility that Clarke might prove too clever for his abductor.

It was certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but Harding believed that his comrade would perish unless help could be obtained. He shook hands with Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and then, with the Indian leading, struck out through the muskeg toward the shadowy hills.



CHAPTER XI

KIDNAPPED

Harding had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint, and the low ground streaked with haze, as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upward over banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where the stones were large and they stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and afterward got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was labored, and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upward, without slackening his pace, for he knew there was no time to be lost.

It was exhausting toil, and trying to the man who, until he entered that grim country, had undergone no physical training and had seldom tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even playing outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and a comrade. There was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing; but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore, he braced himself for the arduous task.

In the afternoon they reached a tableland where traveling was slightly easier; but when they camped without a fire among the rocks, one of Harding's feet was bleeding, and he was very weary. Walking was painful for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but after walking a while his galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly followed the Indian up and down deep ravines and over rough stony slopes. Then they reached stunted timber: thickly massed, tangled pines, with many dead trees among them, a number which had fallen, barring the way. The Indian seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his muscles having been toughened into something different from ordinary flesh and blood. He was feeling great distress; but for the present there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to march. He saw it clearly with his shrewd sense; and though his worn-out body revolted, his resolution did not flinch.

They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks, passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted them as they crossed the height of land. Harding's side ached, and his feet were bleeding, but the march went on. Just before dark there opened up before them a wide valley, fading into the blue distance, with water shining in its midst and gray blurs of willows here and there. However, it faded swiftly, and Harding found himself limping across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting mist. Half an hour afterward he threw himself down, exhausted, beside a fire in a sheltered hollow.

Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched up to it, with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and the blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapor. The night was dark but still, and Harding knew that a sound would carry some distance. He felt his heart beat tensely, but there was nothing to be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther south and he was afraid now of hearing a warning bark; but nothing broke the silence, and he concluded that Clarke's friends were unable to find food enough for sled-teams. This was reassuring, because the odds against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the Indian's sense of hearing is remarkably keen.

Making certain that his magazine pistol was loose, he motioned to his guide and they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately clear, and their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts of dry grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him alarming distinctness. Still, nobody challenged them, and creeping up to the center of the village they stopped again. The nearest of the tepees was only thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into the mist. As Harding stood listening, with tingling nerves, he clearly recognized the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there was nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied; and it was highly undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an Indian from his slumbers. Then, it was possible that the man shared a tepee with one of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself at the Indian's mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and his Stony friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous habits. Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still, and he could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude.

Fortune favored them, for as Harding made toward a tepee, without any particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart from the others, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the curtain. This suggested that it was occupied by the white man; and it was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept forward, with his heart beating painfully, and stopped a moment just outside the entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but he could not tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, creeping silently up behind him, dragged the doorway open. Harding jumped quickly through the entrance, and stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung up, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

The tent had an earth floor, with a layer of reeds and grass thrown down on one side. It was frail, and hinted at changing times and poverty, for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with the products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour-bags and old sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles, which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not recognize it.

As Harding entered, Clarke looked up from where he was bending over the case. It was, Harding thought, a good test of his nerve; but his face was imperturbable and he showed no surprise. There was silence for a moment, while the Indian stood motionless, with his ax shining as it caught the light, and Harding's lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke spoke.

"So you have turned back! You found the muskeg too difficult to cross? I suppose this fellow showed you the way here."

Harding felt worn out; he crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and sat down facing Clarke.

"We have come for you," he announced abruptly; "and we must start at once. My partner is very sick—fever—and you'll have to cure him."

Clarke laughed, without mirth.

"You're presuming on my consent."

"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't be wise of you to refuse."

"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends, and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better understand that nobody troubles about what goes on up here—and I believe I'm a person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide. "I don't know what this fellow's doing in this neighborhood, but he belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I think you have been somewhat rash."

"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken a lot of chances in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let that go. The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he gets proper treatment—and gets it mighty soon."

Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile.

"It's a matter of indifference to me whether Blakes dies or not."

"Oh, no!" said Harding. "On the whole, you would rather he did die. He's in the way."

He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.

"If you're right, it seems strange that you should urge me to prescribe for him."

"There are precautions I mean to take," Harding informed him dryly. "However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't possibly get through. You expected us to be held up there until our provisions ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would no doubt have moved on. Well, part of what you wished has happened; but the matter is taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us into difficulties—and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay means danger. Get ready to start."

The Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the tepee with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke, turning his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked at Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight. His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke broke into a faint smile.

"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you were in some danger—and the danger isn't over."

Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy minded man of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.

"Understand this!" he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I've staked my life on doing so. But I've said enough. You're coming with me—now—and if you make any attempt to rouse your friends, you'll have a chance to learn something about the other world at first hand a few seconds afterward."

Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.

"I'm ready."

The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm, and Harding took out his pistol and extinguished the lamp.

"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly reminded Clarke.

He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards' distance. He could see the dark gap of the doorway, and had a nervous fancy that eyes were following his movements; for now that he had succeeded in the more difficult part of his errand, he was conscious of strain. Indeed, he feared that he might grow limp with the reaction; and the danger was not yet over. Unless they reached camp in the next few days, he thought Blake would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one. Still, he was determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who had betrayed them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law and social conventions; but now, under heavy stress, he had suddenly become primitive.

They approached the only remaining tepee. The tension on Harding's nerves grew severe. As the Indian, holding tightly to their prisoner's arm, picked his way noiselessly past the open flap, Clarke made a queer noise—half cough, half sneeze—very low, but loud enough to be heard by any one in the tent. Like a flash, Harding threw up his pistol, ready for use. As he did so, his foot tripped on a broken bottle lying in front of the dark entrance. The pistol did not go off, but Harding, trying wildly to regain his balance, fell with a crash against the tepee.



CHAPTER XII

THE FEVER PATIENT

When Harding scrambled to his feet, with his pistol still aimed, Clarke laughed.

"You're not only very rash—and very clumsy—but you're lucky. That's the only vacant tepee in the whole village. And my friends don't seem to have heard you."

They moved on very quickly and cautiously, and when they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, Harding felt easier.

It was noon when they stumbled into camp, Harding ragged and exhausted, and Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The doctor had suffered badly from the hurried march; but his conductor would brook no delay, and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to put forth his utmost exertion.

Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick, strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once."

Then his face grew troubled as he turned to Benson.

"How long has he been like that?" he asked.

"The last two days. I'm afraid he's very bad."

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache; he could scarcely hold himself upright; and his heart was very heavy. He would miss Blake terribly. It was hard to think of going on without him; but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man; but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.

"Did you have much trouble?" Benson asked, as he laid out a meal.

"No; I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."

"I don't see how you overcame his objections."

Harding broke into a dry smile.

"In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends on how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."

"You mean your life? Of course, I know you were in some danger; but was it so serious?"

"It would have been if I'd shot him; and I think he saw I meant that. What's more, I may have to do so yet."

Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that, even before he had weakened it by excess, his nerve had never been so good as this young American's.

"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake, and I recognize my debt to him; we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this; but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you. In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us. But if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."

He called Clarke to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face, and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily, without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.

"Well," Benson asked, "what's your opinion?"

"Your friend's state is dangerous. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate, I can't determine; and, after all, it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."

"And the remedy?"

"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are risky."

"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly reminded him.

Clarke made a contemptuous gesture, which was not without a touch of dignity. His manner now was severely professional.

"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find; it's drastic treatment, and sometimes effective, but there's a strong probability of its killing him."

"You had better mention the other."

"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course, and in case of success recovery is slower."

Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man, and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.

"I must leave you to decide; but I warn you that I'll hold you responsible if the result's unfortunate."

"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith, why do you put your partner in my charge?"

"I have some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding answered. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."

Clarke gave him a curious glance.

"I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now," he said. "There is no time to lose."

He moved toward Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle and carefully let a few drops fall into a spoon. With some trouble, he got the sick man to swallow them; and then he sat down and turned to Harding.

"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."

Harding lighted his pipe, and, though he found it strangely hard to sit still, he smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied, and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humor had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out be had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more; and Harding felt that, if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.

Benson seemed to find the suspense equally trying, but he made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face. Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster; but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy gray sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence.

At last, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke glanced at his watch and reopened the small bottle.

"We'll try again," he said gravely; and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.

The dose was given; and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming back after a while, he looked at Clarke. The doctor merely shook his head, though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten through. He gathered from Clarke's expression that they would soon know what to expect, and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was growing cool; his eyes were very stern, and his lips had set in an ominously determined fashion. Benson, glancing at him once or twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly. The American had a ruthless air.

At last Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing. Harding leaned forward eagerly. Blake seemed less restless; his face, which had been furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and sighed; and then, turning his head weakly, he closed his eyes.

A few moments later Clarke stood up, stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.

"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said, "He must sleep as long as he is able."

Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the swamp and plowed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard.

When he returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw that Blake was sleeping soundly. With a sense of thankfulness too deep for expression, he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he could eat with appetite.

Before he and Benson had finished their supper, Clarke joined them.

"I believe the worst danger's over," he said; "though there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for several days."

"Longer, I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your mind to stay while it strikes us as necessary."

"My time's valuable, and you run some risk in keeping me. You must recognize that there's a strong likelihood that the Stonies will pick up my trail."

"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have any use for," Harding replied. "However, I told our guide, who seems pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions; and I understand that he fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find, and made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your friends' superstitions, they may not find anything remarkable in your disappearing mysteriously."

"You're a capable man," Clarke laughed. "Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it. By the way, how long is it since he left India?"

Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's connection with India.

"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he was afterward in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for it. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or two."

"Did he ever speak of having malaria here? It is apt to return within a rather elastic period."

"Not so far as I can recollect," said Harding.

Seeing that he could extract no useful information from him, Clarke abandoned the attempt and discussed the case from a medical point of view. Then he rose, wearily.

"As we're not out of the wood yet, and I don't expect I'll be needed for a while, I'd better get some sleep," he said. "You must waken me if there's any sign of a change."

Drawing his blanket round him, he lay down on a bed of branches and reeds, and his deep, regular breathing soon indicated that he was asleep.

Harding looked at Benson.

"I guess he'll do all that's possible, for his own sake. It strikes me he's a pretty good doctor."

"I understand that he once promised to become a famous one," Benson replied. "Though I left you to deal with the matter, I kept my eye on him; and my idea is that, while he wouldn't have scrupled much about letting Blake die if it had suited his purpose, as soon as you showed him the danger of that course, his professional feelings came uppermost. In fact, I believe Blake couldn't have got better treatment in Montreal or London. Now that the fellow has taken his case up, he'll effect a cure. But I'll keep the first watch—you need a rest."

In a few minutes Harding was fast asleep; and when he relieved Benson late at night, he found Clarke at his post. Shortly afterward Blake opened his eyes and asked a few intelligent questions in a weak voice before he went to sleep again; and the next morning he was obviously improving. Although a strong man often recovers rapidly from an attack of malarial fever, Clarke stayed several days, and gave Harding a number of careful instructions on parting.

"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the face.

"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke laughed.

"That's so," returned Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp, I lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian for a guide, and he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village; and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything, that's all the fee I need offer you."

"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.

"What about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with us?"

Clarke smiled in an ironical manner.

"Why do you ask, when you mean to keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you going on?"

"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more to say. I wish you a safe journey. Good-morning."

He turned back toward the fire, while Clarke stood a moment with clenched hand and a malignant look creeping into his eyes; then, following the Indian, the doctor silently moved forward across the muskeg.



CHAPTER XIII

A STAUNCH ALLY

On a dark November morning, when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows, Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favorite gun in the room he called his study, at Hazlehurst, in Shropshire. The shelves on the handsome paneled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing-rods and the table at which Foster was seated had a vise clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious gun-room, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, as Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the Field.

Foster laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.

"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.

"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch. Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good at a gun."

"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."

"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart after he collapsed in the woods. But it wasn't my fault; he was keen on coming."

Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant Walters, lately invalided home from India.

"Perhaps you were not so much to blame; but that was not what I came to talk about," she said.

"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead with any arrangements you wish to make, but, as far as possible, leave me out. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants more plentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted to leave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we've cleared out the vermin——"

"Oh, never mind the pheasants!" his wife broke in. "You would talk about such things all day. The question is——"

"It strikes me it's when are we going to have the house to ourselves? Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying for a hotel-keeper."

"You have been unusually patient, and I'm getting rather tired of entertaining people, but Margaret Keith says she'd like to come down. You don't mind her?"

"Not a bit, if she doesn't insist on bringing a menagerie. It was cats last time, but I hear she's gone in for wild animals now. If she turns up with her collection, we'll probably lose Pattinson; he had all he could stand on the last occasion. Still, Meg's good fun; ready to meet you on any ground; keen as a razor."

After a little further talk, Mrs. Foster left him; and a few days later Mrs. Keith and Millicent arrived at Hazlehurst. Lieutenant Walters was sitting in a recess of the big hall when Mrs. Foster went forward to greet them. The house was old and the dark paneling formed a good background for Millicent's delicate beauty, which was of the blond type. Walters studied her closely. He liked the something in her face that hinted at strength of character; and he noted her grace as she accompanied her hostess up the broad stairs.

When Mrs. Keith and Millicent returned to the hall a half-hour later, tea was being served.

"Colonel Challoner is eager to see you, Margaret," Mrs. Foster said, after they had chatted a while. "He excused himself for not coming this evening because Greythorpe is staying with him for a day or two, but he made me promise to bring you over to-morrow."

Mrs. Keith acquiesced heartily, for she was fond of the Colonel.

The evening passed pleasantly at Hazlehurst, for Mrs. Foster made a charming hostess. Foster, who as a rule was indifferent to women's society, livened the party by matching wits with Margaret Keith; and Lieutenant Walters found Mrs. Keith's pretty companion very interesting.

At Sandymere, three miles away, Colonel Challoner sat in his library with his guest. It was a large and simply furnished room, but there was a tone of austere harmony in all its appointments. The dark oak table, the rows of old books in faded leather bindings, the antique lamps, and the straight-backed chairs were in keeping with the severe lines of the somber panels and the heavy, square molding of the ceiling. Three wax candles in an old silver holder stood on a small table by the wide hearth, on which a cheerful wood fire burned, but most of the room was shadowy.

The sense of empty space and gloom, however, had no effect on the two elderly men who sat with a cigar box and decanter in front of them, engaged in quiet, confidential talk. Challoner was white-haired, straight, and spare, with aquiline features and piercing eyes; Greythorpe broad-shouldered and big, with a heavy-jawed, thoughtful face. They had been fast friends since their first meeting a number of years ago, when Challoner was giving evidence before a parliamentary commission.

"So you have not heard from Blake after the day he came here," Greythorpe said.

"Never directly," Challoner replied. "On the whole, it is better so, though I regret it now and then. A weakness on my part, perhaps, but I was fond of Dick and expected much from him. However, it seems that Bertram and Margaret Keith met him in Montreal, and she is coming here to-morrow."

"A very sad affair." Greythorpe mused. "A promising career cut short and a life ruined by a moment's failure of nerve. The price paid for it was a heavy one. Still, I found the matter difficult to understand, because, so far as I could tell, there was nothing in Blake's character that made such a failure possible. Then it's known that personal courage was always a characteristic of your family."

"His mother was my sister. You have seen her portrait."

Greythorpe made a sign of assent. He knew the picture of the woman with the proud, determined face.

"And the other side? Was the strain equally virile?" he asked.

"You shall judge," said Challoner. "You and Margaret Keith are the only people to whom I have ever spoken freely of these things. I am sure of your discretion and sympathy."

He crossed the floor and, opening a cabinet, came back with a photograph, which he gave to his companion.

"Dick's father. He was famous as a daring rider across an Irish, stone-wall country, and was killed when taking a dangerous leap."

Greythorpe studied the face, which was of Irish type, with bold eyes in which a reckless twinkle showed. On the whole, it suggested an ardent and somewhat irresponsible temperament.

"No sign of weakness there," he said. "Though he might be careless and headstrong, this man would ride straight and stand fire. I can't hint at an explanation of his son's disaster, but I imagine that one might have been found if it had been diligently searched for. My opinion is that there's something hidden; but whether it will ever come out is another matter. But—your nephew hasn't forfeited my liking. If I can ever be of any service."

"Thanks; I know," responded Challoner. "It looks as if he meant to cut loose from all of us. While I'm sorry, I can't say that he's wrong or that it's not a proper feeling. And now I think we'll let the subject drop."

The next afternoon was bright and mild, and soon after Mrs. Foster and her party arrived Challoner offered to show them his winter shrubbery.

"I have lately planted a number of new specimens which you and Margaret have not seen," he said; "and you may be interested to learn what effects can be got by a judicious mingling of bushes remarkable for the beauty of their berries and branch-coloring among the stereotyped evergreens."

They went out and Millicent thought the front of the old house with its mullioned windows, its heavy, pillared coping, and its angular chimney stacks, made a picturesque background for the smooth-clipped yew hedges and broad sweep of lawn. Behind it a wood of tall beeches raised their naked boughs in pale, intricate tracery against the soft blue sky. The shrubs proved worth inspection, for some were rich with berries of hues that varied from crimson to lilac, and the massed twigs of others formed blotches of strong coloring. The grass was dry and lighted by gleams of sunshine, the air only cold enough to make movement pleasant.

When Challoner and his guests returned to the house, he showed them the best bits of the old carved oak with which it was decorated and some curious works of art he had picked up in India, and then he took them to the picture gallery which ran round the big square hall. A lantern dome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck through a window looking to the southwest and fell in long bright bars on polished floor and somber paneling. On entering the gallery, Challoner took out a case of miniatures and, placing it on a small table, brought a chair for Mrs. Keith.

"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interests you, and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were last here."

Mrs. Keith sat down and picked up a miniature.

"Millicent would enjoy that picture of the hills at Arrowdale," she said. "It's near her old home in the North."

Challoner and the girl moved away down the gallery, and he showed her a large painting of gray hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed between folds of rolling vapor. Millicent was stirred to keen appreciation.

"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "And so full of life! One can see the mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's because I know the tarn that I like the picture so much; but it makes one realize the rugged grandeur and the melancholy charm of the place. That is genius! Who is the painter?"

"My son," said the Colonel quietly.

Millicent saw that he was troubled, though she could not imagine the reason.

"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I met only once; but it is obvious that he has talent. You would rather have him a soldier?"

"Very much rather."

"But he is one! I understand that he has distinguished himself. After all, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one ability—music or painting, for example. Real genius, the power of understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be successful at whatever he undertakes."