Part 1 (1/2)
Vane of the Timberlands.
by Harold Bindloss.
CHAPTER I
A FRIEND IN NEED
A light breeze, scented with the smell of the firs, was blowing down the inlet, and the tiny ripples it chased across the water splashed musically against the bows of the canoe. They met her end-on, sparkling in the warm sunset light, gurgled about her sides, and trailed away astern in two divergent lines as the paddles flashed and fell. There was a thud as the blades struck the water, and the long, light hull forged onward with slightly lifted, bird's-head prow, while the two men swung forward for the next stroke with a rhythmic grace of motion. They knelt, facing forward, in the bottom of the craft, and, dissimilar as they were in features and, to some extent, in character, the likeness between them was stronger than the difference. Both bore the unmistakable stamp of a wholesome life spent in vigorous labor in the open. Their eyes were clear and, like those of most bushmen, singularly steady; their skin was clean and weather-darkened; and they were leanly muscular.
On either side of the lane of green water giant firs, cedars and balsams crept down the rocky hills to the whitened driftwood fringe. They formed part of the great coniferous forest which rolls west from the wet Coast Range of Canada's Pacific Province and, overleaping the straits, spreads across the rugged and beautiful wilderness of Vancouver Island. Ahead, cl.u.s.ters of little frame houses showed up here and there in openings among the trees, and a small sloop, toward which the canoe was heading, lay anch.o.r.ed near the wharf.
The men had plied the paddle during most of that day, from inclination rather than necessity, for they could have hired Siwash Indians to undertake the labor for them, had they been so minded. They were, though their appearance did not suggest it, moderately prosperous; but their prosperity was of recent date; they had been accustomed to doing everything for themselves, as are most of the men who dwell among the woods and ranges of British Columbia.
Vane, who knelt nearest the bow, was twenty-seven years of age. Nine of those years he had spent chopping trees, driving cattle, poling canoes and a.s.sisting in the search for useful minerals among the snow-clad ranges. He wore a wide, gray felt hat, which had lost its shape from frequent wettings, an old s.h.i.+rt of the same color, and blue duck trousers, rent in places; but the light attire revealed a fine muscular symmetry. He had brown hair and brown eyes; and a certain warmth of coloring which showed through the deep bronze of his skin hinted at a sanguine and somewhat impatient temperament. As a matter of fact, the man was resolute and usually shrewd; but there was a vein of impulsiveness in him, and, while he possessed considerable powers of endurance, he was on occasion troubled by a shortness of temper.
His companion, Carroll, had lighter hair and gray eyes, and his appearance was a little less vigorous and a little more refined; though he, too, had toiled hard and borne many privations in the wilderness. His dress resembled Vane's, but, dilapidated as it was, it suggested a greater fastidiousness.
The two had located a valuable mineral property some months earlier and, though this does not invariably follow, had held their own against city financiers during the negotiations that preceded the floating of a company to work the mine. That they had succeeded in securing a good deal of the stock was largely due to Vane's pertinacity and said something for his ac.u.men; but both had been trained in a very hard school.
As the wooden houses ahead rose higher and the sloop's gray hull grew into sharper shape upon the clear green s.h.i.+ning of the brine, Vane broke into a s.n.a.t.c.h of song:
”Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly Just for to-night to the Old Country.”
He stopped and laughed.
”It's nine years since I've seen it, but I can't get those lines out of my head. Perhaps it's because of the girl who sang them. Somehow, I felt sorry for her. She had remarkably fine eyes.”
”Sea-blue,” suggested his companion. ”I don't grasp the connection between the last two remarks.”
”Neither do I,” admitted Vane. ”I suppose there isn't one. But they weren't sea-blue; unless you mean the depth of indigo when you are out of soundings. They're Irish eyes.”
”You're not Irish. There's not a trace of the Celt in you, except, perhaps, your habit of getting indignant with the people who don't share your views.”
”No, sir! By birth, I'm North Country--England, I mean. Over there we're descendants of the Saxons, Scandinavians, Danes--Teutonic stock at bottom, anyhow; and we've inherited their unromantic virtues. We're solid, and cautious, respectable before everything, and smart at getting hold of anything worth having. As a matter of fact, you Ontario Scotsmen are mighty like us.”
”You certainly came out well ahead of those city men who put up the money,” agreed Carroll. ”I guess it's in the blood; though I fancied once or twice that they would take the mine from you.”
Vane brought his paddle down with a thud.
”Just for to-night to the Old Country,--”
He hummed, and added:
”It sticks to one.”
”What made you leave the Old Country? I don't think you ever told me.”
Vane laughed.
”That's a blamed injudicious question to ask anybody, as you ought to know; but in this particular instance you shall have an answer. There was a row at home--I was a sentimentalist then, and just eighteen--and as a result of it I came out to Canada.” His voice changed and grew softer. ”I hadn't many relatives, and, except one sister, they're all gone now. That reminds me--she's not going to lecture for the county education authorities any longer.”