Chapter XI: A Meeting

Alongside a vast inland sea whose further shores were lost under the horizon, a tall young white man was cooking his supper in the open. The meal was going to be better than usual, for, having been camped in the same spot for a week, he had been able to secure game. On a spit before an ingeniously constructed fireplace of stones, a wild goose was roasting. The young man turned the spit, and basted his fowl. He kept the wooden spit from catching fire by the simple expedient of basting that also. At a little distance two Indians looked on with covert scorn at their master’s elaborate arrangements. What a lot of trouble to take to eat! They had been content to impale their goose for awhile on a stick inclined over the fire; whence they snatched it scorched on one side and raw on the other.

The young man, while taking an innocent pleasure in his own ingenuity, was thinking how unsatisfactory it was to cook your own dinner. When it first began to sizzle you became weak with hunger; but the continued spectacle took the fine edge off your appetite long before the meat was done.

A dug-out nosed its slender length around a near point, and a shrill hail electrified them all.

“Conacher, thank God!” cried the young man.

The two Indians ran down to the water’s edge; but their master would not leave his goose which was browning beautifully.

From the dug-out landed an exactly similar outfit; that is to say a tall young white man and two Indians. The two white men clasped hands, and their eyes beamed on each other. However, they were shy of betraying emotion before the reds, and their greeting was distinctly casual.

“Hello, old bean! Where the hell you been? The boss has gone down the lake, leaving me to fetch you. Do you know that you’ve held up the whole blooming survey?”

“It’s a long story,” said Conacher. “Oh boy! is that a roast goose I see? Let me get my teeth into it, and then I’ll tell you.”

When they had thoroughly discussed the goose, they lighted their pipes; and Alec Jordan invited Conacher to fire away. Jordan was about three years older than Conacher; and they were tried friends. The Indians around their own fire, were out of earshot.

“What delayed you?” said Jordan. “It was downstream work all the way.”

“Gad! it’s good to have a white man to talk to!” said Conacher. “I’m damn thankful it’s you, old scout. I couldn’t have told the others.”

“But why this emotion?” asked Jordan humorously.

“Well, it concerns a woman,” said Conacher, looking away.

His friend’s face hardened. “An Indian?” he asked.

“No, damn you!” cried Conacher indignantly. “What do you think I am?”

Jordan opened his eyes. “But between here and the Rocky Mountains,” he said, “around Blackburn’s Lake, and down Blackburn’s River, what else is there?”

“There is Blackburn’s daughter?” murmured Conacher.

“Oho!” cried Jordan. “I forgot about her. . . . Indeed, I thought she was still a little girl.”

“Don’t josh it!” muttered Conacher. “This is the real thing.”

“I’m sorry, old man,” said Jordan, touching his shoulder.

“Blackburn is dead,” said Conacher.

“I knew it,” said Jordan. “The boss knew it, too. But it never occurred to us to connect your delay with his death. We figured you would have been past his Post before the date of his death.”

“I was,” said Conacher. “But I went back.”

He went on to tell the whole story; how he had first come to Blackburn’s Post, of the trader’s ungracious reception and the daughter’s scornful one; how he had gone on down the river; how the little raft had come floating by his camp with the pathetic black streamer; and how, yielding to an impulse that he had scarcely understood, he had hastened up-stream. He ended his story with the coming of Andrew Gault to Blackburn’s Post.

“I could leave her then with an easier mind,” he said. “Gault knew everything to do.”

“Sure,” said Jordan; but in so uncertain a tone, that Conacher asked him sharply:

“What’s the matter?”

Jordan looked at him queerly; and the lover’s anxious heart was filled with alarm.

“What are you keeping back?” he demanded.

“I don’t know as I ought to tell you,” said Jordan slowly.

“Why not?”

“It’s just gossip. We’ve got our work to do.”

“Do you put me or our work first?” demanded Conacher.

“Well, since you put it that way, you!” said Jordan.

“Then tell me.”

“But what can you do, now?”

“Never mind. You tell me, and I’ll make up my mind what I can do. I’m a grown man.”

“Well,” said Jordan, “when you told me that Gault had come to the aid of Blackburn’s daughter I couldn’t help but think it was like the wolf coming to save the lamb.”

“Yes, I know,” said Conacher impatiently, “something of that sort occurred to me, but hang it all! no white man could be blackguard enough to take advantage of a young girl in that situation!”

Jordan smiled affectionately at his friend. “You’re young, my son,” he murmured. “I don’t know as I would put it by Gault. . . . I suppose you’ve never heard the full story of Blackburn and Gault?”

“No, how should I?” said Conacher. “Coming from the mountains.”

“True, this is your first season. I’ve been in the country three summers, and I’ve picked up all the gossip. It’s one of the stock stories of the country how Blackburn and Gault have been fighting each other for twenty years, and Blackburn has beaten out Gault at every turn. Gault had to obtain financial assistance outside. But here’s a new piece of information that came to me pretty straight. Nothing can be hidden in this country. It seems that Ogilvie, Gault’s backer, told Gault on his last visit to Fort Good Hope that the Company would fire him if he didn’t succeed in putting Blackburn out of business.”

Conacher’s face darkened with anxiety. “I wish I had known that!” he muttered. “How did you hear of Blackburn’s death?”

“Yesterday, before the boss pulled out, we got mail from Good Hope by the half-breed Modest Capeau. When he left the fort the news of Blackburn’s death had come; and Gault had gone over there. . . .” Jordan hesitated, with an embarrassed glance at his friend.

“Well, out with it!” said Conacher sharply.

Jordan shrugged. “According to the gossip at Fort Good Hope, Gault said that he was going to marry the girl.”

Conacher jumped up. “Oh, my God!” he cried agitatedly. “That old man! What the devil will I do!”

Jordan followed him. “How about the girl?” he asked.

“She loves me, Alec,” said Conacher simply.

Jordan gripped his shoulder. “Old fellow . . . you deserve to be happy!” he said warmly.

“Happy!” cried Conacher bitterly. “I never should have left her!”

“But you had to leave her.”

“Oh hell, what does the government matter in a case like this. . . . Wait a minute. I must try to think this out. How far can you trust this gossip?”

“Well I’m bound to say this is more than common gossip,” admitted Jordan. “It was Joe Moale, the man closest to Gault, who told the fellows he had heard Gault swear that he would marry the girl. . . . But she won’t have him, of course. No doubt everything will be all right.”

“Oh, God! don’t try to smooth things down!” cried Conacher. “She is completely in his power. The only Indian who could speak English was murdered . . . Of course she’ll reject him! And then what? Then what? Oh, my God! think of the girl being left in the power of the man she had turned down! . . . I never should have left her. But how could I stay with all you waiting for me? . . . Well, it’s different now. I’ve done the bit of work that was entrusted to me. I can put all the data in your hands. After this they can get along without me if they have to. . . .”

“My God! Paul, what are you talking about?”

“I’m going back,” said Conacher quietly.

“You _can’t_ go back! Think of the row that would be kicked up!”

“I’ll have to face it.”

“You’ll lose your job. Where will you get another?”

“It’s true, nobody wants a geologist but the government. But I’m young; I’ll make out somehow.”

“Oh, my God! this is terrible!” cried Jordan. “We’re so shorthanded already!”

“Do you blame me?” demanded Conacher.

Jordan’s expression changed. “No, I don’t blame you, really,” he said. “Go on back, and God bless you! . . . But it’s me that’s got to face the boss. You know what he is. At the first mention of a girl he will think the worst. He’s depending on your Indians, too.”

“Take them,” said Conacher. “Your dug-out is big enough to carry all five. I couldn’t pay them anyhow. All I want of the government is enough grub to see me through.”

“It’s foolhardy to travel alone!” cried Jordan.

“That’s all right,” said Conacher. “I’m not going to break a leg this trip. I can’t afford to. The only thing that bothers me is, it’s all up-stream work. I can’t make but twenty miles a day.”

“I wish it was me,” said Jordan enviously.