Part 29 (2/2)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CAMP-LIFE IN THE FAR WEST.

Scene: In the backwoods of British America. Kenneth, Archie, and Harvey are seen sitting around the camp fire. It is a whole hour after sunset, and yet there is plenty of light in the sky. There are rocks and pine trees around, a brawling stream not far off. There is a tall rugged mountain in the distance; its highest peaks are snow-clad. Southwards away, grey clouds are heaped up on the horizon, a slight scimitar-shaped moon is s.h.i.+ning in the north-west, and ominous little dark clouds are drifting over it. It is not from this moon that the light comes, but from a strange yellowish after-glow, which tinges all the western horizon, and, mingling with the blue above, evolves a peculiar shade of green.

”Heap more wood on the fire, Archie,” said Kenneth. ”I'm growing quite an old man, I think. It is only a year since we left Africa and rounded the Horn, hardly nine months since we bade adieu to civilisation, and became wanderers and vagabonds in this wild dreary land, gold-hunting as usual, and yet it seems to me an age.”

Kenneth pulled his blanket closer round his shoulders as he spoke, and Archie rose to replenish the fire, laughing as he did so.

”When _you_ die of old age,” he said, ”I shall make my will, Kennie boy.”

”Oh! but we are sure to find gold,” put in Harvey.

”Well, I don't know, but it seems to me that this searching for gold is like chasing a wild goose or a will-o'-the-wisp. Don't you think, Archie, we had better settle down to something more certain if more slow?”

”_I do_ think so,” replied Archie; ”and after what Harvey here has told us, that he is the son of poor old Laird McGregor, and rightful heir to the McGregor estates, _he_ ought to go straight away home, turn that old Yankee tyrant out, and regain possession of his own. You cannot break an entail, you know.”

”Heigho!” sighed Harvey, ”I have repented my quarrel with my dear old father all my life. It was my proud Highland blood that caused it in the first instance. I rushed away to sea, I changed my name, I made myself out as dead. I thought not of the kind heart I was breaking, of the grey hairs I was bringing down in sorrow to the grave. And how has fate rewarded me? I have been a rover ever since, a wanderer and a vagabond; thrice have riches been within my grasp, thrice has Fortune dashed the cup aside. And am I to go now that my father is in his long home and claim my patrimony? My pride forbids; I'd rather be a ghillie on the old estate, or a keeper, than proud laird of it all.”

”Stay,” said Kenneth, laying his hand kindly on Harvey's shoulder. ”Not for your own sake should you do this thing, but remember you have a mother and sister, still alive it is to be hoped. Do you never think of them?”

Harvey's hands now covered his face, his form was bent forward, but the heaving of his chest told of the grief that was rending him.

”Think, too, of the Clachan restored, of the old church bell once more calling the people of the glen to wors.h.i.+p on the Sabbath mornings.

Steve the Yankee, from all accounts, is a tyrant, an oppressor, and a villain. Harvey McGregor, think of seeing your old mother once more in the dear old-fas.h.i.+oned pew.”

”Kenneth McAlpine!” cried Harvey, starting up, ”no more of this now, you irritate, you madden me!

”But,” he added, in a more softened tone of voice, ”I may promise you just one thing. If we fail this time, if _I_ fail to find fortune, I will return to my mother like the prodigal son I have been. Though fain, oh! how fain I would be to return full-handed, _rich_!”

”Thank you, Harvey, thank you for this promise. And now for your sake and for all our sakes I trust that fortune will at length favour us.”

The conversation then wandered back to the old, old theme; home at Glen Alva. A strange life these three adventurers had led for the last nine months and over. Wandering from place to place, sleeping by night in the open air when the weather was fine, in caves or huts of pine-wood branches when wet, and sojourning with trappers or even in the wigwams of the Indian when snow covered the ground and the storm winds were howling.

Wandering from place to place prospecting, wandering on and on in search of gold. A strange wild life was theirs, but it suited their tastes; then there was an ever-present hope that had not yet deserted them, a hope and an ambition to become suddenly wealthy as many a man had done before them. Yes, it is true, many a one had found gold and silver, but tens of thousands had found an early grave in searching for it.

Harvey, or let us call him now Harvey McGregor, was in a manner of speaking a genius. He possessed originality of thought, and he never hesitated to put his ideas to the test. He felt sure of one thing, namely, that gold and silver mines were not entirely confined to the southern states of North America. He had found treasure among the mountains of British Columbia, and he meant, so he said, to find it again in such quant.i.ties that both he and his friends would be ”millionaires in a month.” But luck seemed long of coming. They had wandered all the way from California, and encountered every imaginable danger, in moor and mountain, forest, flood, and fall; and here they were to-night, with no other worldly wealth than the blankets they would presently roll themselves up in, and their guns with a modic.u.m of ammunition.

Only they had youth and health on their side, though even these seemed pa.s.sing away from poor McGregor. Grief had done its turn; it had hollowed his cheek, and though barely twenty-five, silver threads were already appearing in his brown beard.

”Now pile more wood on the fire, Archie dear lad, and we will go to sleep like good boys, and dream we are back in our dear old glen.”

Archie did as told, and before long all three were sound asleep. They did not care even to do sentry duty. They trusted all to fate.

Silence now, except for the wind soughing through the tall mysterious-looking pine trees, or the occasional bark of fox or scream of night bird. A great cinnamon bear about midnight came snuffing around; he could have rent our sleeping heroes in pieces, but there was nothing cooking to lure him towards the fire. A stray wolf came next, and actually leapt over Kenneth's legs. He was picking up some sc.r.a.ps of food when McGregor moaned and tossed, and away went the wolf.

”I had such a dream,” cried McGregor next morning. ”I say, boys, I told you there was a bank of gold up here, and I for one start digging to-day.”

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