Part 6 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Why do you think he meant Strange?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Lucien hesitated, and then went to a shelf.

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

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

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

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

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