Part 21 (1/2)
In the grey dawn of the next morning Maurice was astir, his horses were being well fed, his mail bags packed securely, his gun looked over sharply. Then came the savory smells of bacon and toast for breakfast, the hurried good-byes, the long, persistent whistle for Royal, the deer hound, his constant chum in all things, then the whizzing crack of the young driver's ”blacksnake” whip, a bunching together of the four horses' st.u.r.dy little hoofs, a spring forward, and the ”mountain mail”
was away--away up the yawning canyon, where the peaks lifted on every side, where the black forests crowded out the glorious sunrise, away up the wild gorge, where human foot rarely fell and only the wild things prowled from starlight to daylight the long years through; where the trail wound up and up the steeps, losing itself in the clouds which hung like great festoons of cobwebs half-high against the snow line. In all that vast world Maurice drove on utterly alone, save for the pleasant companions.h.i.+p of his four galloping horses and the cheering presence of Royal, who panted at the rear wheels of the mail coach, and wagged his tail in a frenzy of delight whenever his human friend spoke to him.
The climb was so precipitous that it was hours before he could reach the summit, and he was yet some miles from being half way when his well-trained eye caught indications of coming disaster. A thousand trivial things announced that a mountain storm was brewing; the clouds trailed themselves into long, leaden ribbons, then swirled in circles like whirlpools. The huge Douglas firs began to murmur, then whisper, then growl. The sky grew thick and reddish, the gleaming, snow-clad peaks disappeared.
Maurice took in the situation at once. With the instinct of a veteran mail carrier, his first care was to roll his mail bags in a rubber sheet, while the registered sack, doubly protected, he never allowed for a moment to leave its station beneath his knees under the seat. These simple precautions were barely completed before the storm was upon him. A blinding flash set his horses on edge, their sensitive nerves quivering in every flank. Maurice gathered the lines firmly, seized his ”blacksnake,” and, with a low whistle, urged his animals, that bounded forward, snorting with fear as a crack of thunder followed, booming down the gorges with deafening echoes. In another moment the whole forest seemed alive. The giant pines whipped and swayed together, their supple tips bending and beaten with the fury of the tempest. Above the wild voices of the hurricane came the frequent crash of falling timber; but, through it all, the boy drove on without thought of himself or of shelter, and through it all the splendid animals kept the trail, responding as only the horse can respond to the touch of a guiding rein or the sound of the mountaineer's whistle. But the end came for Maurice, when, upon rounding an abrupt steep, his four animals reared in terror, then seemed to crouch back upon their haunches. The rude log bridge they should have dashed across was gone--in its place gaped a huge fissure, its throat choked with wreckage of trestle and planking.
The unexpected halt nearly pitched Maurice from the wagon, but he steadied first his nerve, then his hands, then his eyes. Why had the bridge gone down, was his first thought. The storm was of far too brief duration to have done the mischief. Then those keen young eyes of his saw beyond the tempest and the ruined bridge. They saw about the useless supports and wooden props fresh chips from a recent axe. In a second his brain grasped the fact that the bridge had been cut away on purpose. His thoughts flew forward--for what purpose was it destroyed? Like a dream seemed to come the captain's voice in his ears: ”Better take a gun with you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!” And he heard himself reply, ”I'll land the mail at the mines all right.”
”And I'll do it, too!” he said, aloud. Then, above the hoa.r.s.e voices of the storm, he heard a low, long, penetrating whistle. Quick as a flash the boy realized his position. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the registered mail bag from between his knees. ”Royal! Royal! Good dog!” he called, softly, and the poor, wet, storm-beaten creature came instantly, reaching pathetically toward his young master, his forefeet pawing the wagon wheels, his fine, keen nose sniffing at the mail sack outheld by Maurice.
”Royal, you must watch!” said the boy. ”Watch, Royal, watch!” Then, with a strengthy fling of his arm, he hurled the precious bag of registered mail over the rim of the precipice, far down into the canyon, two hundred feet below. For an instant the dog stood rigid. Then, like the needle to the north, he turned, held his sensitive head high in the air for a moment, sniffed audibly and was gone. Then again came that low, long whistle. The horses' ears went erect, and Maurice sat silent, grasping the reins and peering ahead through the now lessening rain.
But, with all his young courage, his heart weakened when a voice spoke directly behind him. It said:
”Who are you?”
He turned and faced three men, and, looking directly into the eyes of the roughest-seeming one of the trio, he replied, quietly:
”I think you know who I am.”
”Humph! Cool, I must say!” answered the first speaker. ”Well, perhaps we can warm you up a bit; but maybe you can save us some trouble by telling us where old Delorme is.”
”At home,” said Maurice.
”And you've brought the mall in place of Delorme, I suppose? Well, so much the better for us. I'll trouble you to hand me out that bag of registered stuff.”
The man ceased speaking, his hand on the rim of the front wheel.
”I have no registered stuff,” the boy answered, truthfully. ”Just six common mail bags. Do you wish them? As I am only one boy against three men, I suppose there is not much use resisting.” Maurice's lip curled in a half sneer, and his eyes never left the big bully's face.
”A lie won't work this time, young fellow!” the man threatened. ”Boys, go through that wagon! go over every inch of it now; you'll find the stuff all right.”
The other two men emptied the entire load into the trail, then turned and stared at their leader.
”This is a bluff! Rip open those bags!” he growled. And the next moment the contents of the six bags were sprawling in the mud. They contained nothing but ordinary letters and newspapers.
”Sold!” blurted out the man. ”We might have known that any yarn 'Sat.u.r.day Jim' told us would be a lie. He couldn't give a man a straight tip to save his life! Come on, boys! There's nothing doing this trip!”
And, swinging about, he turned up an unbroken trail that opened on some hidden pa.s.s to the ”front.” His two pals followed at his heels, muttering sullenly over their ill success.
”No,” said Maurice to himself. ”You're quite right, gentlemen! There's nothing doing this trip!” But, aloud, he only spoke gently to his wearied horses as he unhitched and secured them to the rear of the wagon, gathered the scattered mail, and then scanned the sky narrowly.
The storm was over, but the firs still thrashed their tops in the wind, the clouds still trailed and circled about the mountain summit. For a full hour Maurice sat quietly and thought things. What was to be done?
The bridge was gone, the registered mail at the bottom of the canyon, and the day growing shorter every moment. Only one course lay before him. (He would not consider, even for a second, that any way lay open to him behind.) He must get that mail to the mines, or he could never look his father in the face again. He walked cautiously to the brink of the precipice and looked over. It was very steep. Nothing was visible but broken rock, boulders and bracken. No sign of either Royal or the mail bag; but he knew that somewhere, far below, the dog was keeping watch; that his four wise, steady feet had unerringly taken him where his animal instinct had dictated; and Maurice argued that, where his four feet could go, his two could follow. He must recover the bag, select his fleetest horse, and ride bareback on to the mines.
The descent was a long, rough, dangerous business, but Maurice had learned many a climbing trick from the habits of the mountain goat, and at last he stood at the canyon's bottom, a tired, lonely but courageous bit of boyhood, ready to suffer and dare anything so long as he could prove himself worthy of the trust that his father had placed in his strong young hands.
He stood for a moment, awed by the wonder of the granite walls that rose like a vast fortress, towering above him, silent and motionless. Then he gave one clear whistle, then listened. Almost within stone's throw came the response the half-sad, wholly eager whine of a dog. Maurice was beside him in a twinkling, patting and hugging the beautiful animal, who lay, with s.h.i.+ning eyes and wagging tail, his forepaws resting on the coa.r.s.e canvas which bore, woven redly into its warp and woof, the two words: ”Canada Mail.”
What a meeting it was! Boy and dog, each with a worthy trust, worthily kept. But it was one, two, three hours before Maurice, footsore, exhausted, and with bleeding fingers, followed by Royal, panting and thirsty, regained the trail where the horses stood, ready for the onward gallop, three of them failing to understand why they were to be left in the lonely forest, while the fourth was quickly bridled, packed with the mail sacks and Maurice, and told to ”be careful now!” as he picked his way down and around the bridgeless gorge and ”hit the trail” on the opposite side.