Part 14 (1/2)

CHAPTER XII

ON THE TRAIL

Thirlwell had been to the railroad settlement, and returning with Father Lucien, camped on the trail not far from the mine. The day had been unusually warm and at noon the pines dripped in the sun and the snow got damp. At dusk it began to freeze and a haze hung about the woods and obscured the moon, but, by contrast with the rigors of winter, Thirlwell sitting by the camp-fire, felt almost uncomfortably warm. Father Lucien had taken off his furs and sat with a blanket over his shoulders on a bundle of dry twigs. Both had hung their moccasins up to dry near the heap of snapping branches. Wreaths of aromatic smoke slowly drifted past and faded in the mist.

”One feels spring coming,” said Father Lucien. ”We have had a foretaste to cheer us while winter lasts. The sun is moving north, and up here, it always thrills me to watch the light drive back the dark. One could make a homily on that.”

”The dark soon returns,” Thirlwell remarked, ”I hate the long nights.”

”There are men who like the dark, in spite of the terrors it has for some.”

”I wonder whether you are thinking of a particular example,” Thirlwell suggested, remembering a night watch he had kept while the blizzard raged about Driscoll's shack.

”One does think of examples. Perhaps we generalize too much. It is easy to let an individual stand for a type.”

”If the individual is Black Steve Driscoll, I hope he's an uncommon type.”

Father Lucien made a sign of agreement. ”Driscoll was in my thoughts. A strange man; dogged and sullen, with a heart that kindness cannot touch.

Yet one feels he is afraid.”

”He was afraid when he was ill; I wonder why. The fellow has no religious or moral code. But he drinks hard and perhaps he's superst.i.tious.”

”What is superst.i.tion?” the missionary asked with a smile. ”The old atavistic fear of the dark and the mysterious dangers that threatened our savage ancestors? Or is it an instinctive knowledge that there are supernatural powers, able to punish and reward?”

”I don't know,” said Thirlwell, who mused and watched the smoke drift past.

The bush was very quiet; he could hear nothing but the crackle of the fire. Now and then a blaze leaped up and pierced the shadows among the pine trunks. A few yards away, the trees got blurred and melted into the encircling gloom. In one place, however, there was an opening, and when he turned his back to the light, he saw a faint glimmer in the mist that indicated the frozen lake. Although he was used to the wilds, he felt the silence and desolation.

”It's easy to be superst.i.tious here,” he resumed. ”One feels that human power is limited and loses one's confidence. I expect something of the kind accounts for Driscoll's nervous fears. In the city, he would have no time to brood; he'd spend his days in a noisy workshop and his evenings in a crowded tenement or saloon. But if he's scared of the dark and loneliness, why doesn't he pull out?”

”Human nature's stubborn. A man with a compelling object may be afraid and fight his fears.”

”I'd like to know what Driscoll's object is. Since the night in his shack, when the fellow was sick, I've wondered why Strange's canoe capsized. Strange was a clever _voyageur_; so's Black Steve.”

Father Lucien looked at him curiously and there was a hint of shrinking in his eyes. ”I cannot tell; perhaps we shall never know! But if there was foul play, what would Driscoll gain?”

”It's hard to see,” Thirlwell agreed. ”I could understand it if Steve had afterwards staked a claim, but n.o.body has found the ore yet. There's another curious thing; I don't see what he'd gain by leaving you to starve, as I think he meant to do.”

”No,” said Father Lucien sharply, ”that is impossible! Besides, Driscoll was trapping some distance off.”

”A white man stood looking down at you and then stole away, although he saw you had no camp outfit,” Thirlwell insisted.

”He may have been short of food and came to borrow. Seeing I had none, he was perhaps afraid to share any he had left with me.”

Thirlwell shook his head. ”I haven't met a prospector who would let a white man starve; they're a rough but generous lot. In fact, the only man I know who's capable of the thing is Driscoll.”

Father Lucien did not answer and presently lay down, but Thirlwell sat for a time, thinking while he dried his moccasins. The missionary was something of an idealist, although he knew the weaknesses of human nature, but Thirlwell was practical. Somehow he had got entangled in the complications that sprang from Strange's supposit.i.tious discovery of the ore, but he did not want to break loose. Agatha Strange needed him; she had admitted that there was n.o.body else to whom she could look for help and advice. So far, he could find no clue to the web of mystery that surrounded the matter and had caught them both, but he meant to search.