Part 14 (1/2)
”Tell me about it,” he said at last, casually. ”I was thinking of making a boat and going down on a prospecting trip.”
”I'll tell you about it, and then I think you'll change your mind. The first cataract is the one just above where we first saw the river--coming in; then there's this mile of quiet water. From that point on the Yuga flows into a gorge--or rather one gorge after another; and sometime they'll likely be almost as famous as some of the great gorges of your country. The walls are just about straight up on each side, and of course are absolutely impa.s.sable. I don't know how many miles the first gorge is--but for nearly two hundred miles the river is considered impa.s.sable for boats. Two hundred and fifty miles or so below there is an Indian village--but they never try to go down the river from here. A few white men, however, have tried to go down with canoe-loads of fur.”
”And all drowned?” Ben asked.
”All except one party. Once two men went down when the river was high--just as it is now. They were good canoeists, and they made it through. No one ever expected they would come out again.”
”And after you've once got into the rapids, there's no getting out--or landing?”
”Of course not. I suppose there are places where you might get on the bank, but the gorge above is impa.s.sable.”
”You couldn't follow the river down--with horses?”
”Yes, in time. Of course it would be slow going, as there are no trails, the brush is heavy, and the country is absolutely unexplored. You see it has never been considered a gold country--and of course the Indians won't go except where they can go in canoes. Some of the hills must be impa.s.sable, too. I've heard my father speak about it--how that if any criminal--or any one like that--could take down this river in a canoe in high water--and get through into that great, virgin, trackless country a hundred miles below, it would be almost impossible to get him out.
Unless the officers could chase him down the same way he went--by canoe--it would take literally weeks and months for them to get in, and by that time he could be hidden and located and his tracks covered up.”
”And with good ambushes, able to hold off and kill a dozen of them, eh?”
Ben's hands shook, and he locked them behind him. ”They call that country--what?”
”'Back There.' That's all I've ever heard it called--'Back There.'”
”It's as good a name as any. Of course, the reason they were able to make it through in high water was due to the fact that most of the rocks and ledges were submerged, and they could slide right over them.”
”Of course. Many of our rivers are safer in high water. But you seriously don't intend to take such a trip--”
He looked up to find her eyes wide and full upon his. Yet her concern for him touched him not at all. She was his enemy: that fact could never be forgotten or forgiven.
”I want to hear about it, anyway. I heard in town the river is higher than it's been for years--due to the Chinook--”
”It _is_ higher than I've ever seen it. But it's reached its peak and has started to fall, and it won't come up again, at least, till fall.
When the Yuga rises it comes up in a flood, and it falls the same way.
It's gone down quite a little since this morning; by the day after to-morrow no one could hope to get through Devil's Gate--the first cataract in the gorge.”
”Not even with a canoe? Of course a raft would be broken to pieces.”
”Not a canoe, either, in two or three days, if the river falls like it usually does. But tell me--you aren't serious--”
”I suppose not. But it gets my imagination--just the same. I suppose a man would average better than twenty miles an hour down through that gorge, and would come out at _Back There_.”
Their talk moved easily to other subjects; yet it seemed to Ben that some secondary consciousness held up his end of the conversation. His own deeper self was lost in curious and dark conjectures. Her description of the river lingered in his thoughts, and he seemed to be groping for a great inspiration that was hovering just beyond his reach--as plants grope for light in far-off leafy jungles. He felt that it would come to him in a moment: he would know the dark relation that these facts about the river bore to his war with Neilson. It was as if an inner mind, much more subtle and discerning than his normal consciousness, had seen great possibilities in them, but as yet had not divulged their significance.
”I must be going now,” the girl was saying. ”Father pretty near goes crazy when I stay away too long. You can't imagine how he loves me and worries about me--and how fearful he is of me--”
His mind seemed to leap and gather her words. It was true: she was the joy and the pride and the hope of the old man's life. All his work, his dreams were for her. And now he remembered a fact that she had told him on the outward journey: that Ray Brent, the stronger of Neilson's two subordinates, loved her too.
”To strike at them indirectly--through some one they love--” such had been his greatest wish. To put them at a disadvantage and overcome his own--to lead them into his own ambushes. And was it for the Wolf to care what guiltless creatures fell before his fangs in the gaining of his dreadful ends? Was the gratification of his hate to be turned aside through pity for an innocent girl? Mercy and remorse were two things that he had put from him. It was the way of the Wolf to pay no attention to methods, only to achieve his own fierce desires. He stood lost in dark and savage reverie.
”Good-by,” the girl was saying. ”I'll see you soon--”
He turned toward her, a smile at his lips. His voice held steady when he spoke.