ralph wriggled his body back upon the unstable raft, and snatched up the paddle. the clumsy float responded but sluggishly to his desperate strokes. the current was running five miles an hour, and its tendency is to draw all floating objects into the centre of the stream. even as he worked, he was carried around a point out of sight of nahnya and charley. the water flew from his blade in a cascade, and still he appeared to be gaining nothing on the shore. the resisting logs and the unresisting water combined to defeat him. it was like fighting feathers. he could have wept with rage at the insensate indifference of matter to his desire.
he was carried down a third of a mile before he could land. drawing up the raft, he ran back over the stones like a man distracted. rounding the point, he saw that nahnya and charley had disappeared. without giving himself a pause for breath he commenced to claw his way up the towering height of gravel, which continually gave way under him, dropping him back. he felt as if all nature was in league against him.
when he finally rose over the top, in all the wide expanse of grass there was no sign of the two he sought. he flung himself down then, abandoned to despair. it was as if he had been given a glimpse of heaven, only to be thrust deeper than ever into the pit. perspiration was streaming from him, and his heart was staggering. a heart has its limitations; he had forgotten that, making that fearful climb.
when the pain subsided, and his brain was able to work again, he thought it all out. it was useless for him to pursue the two if they did not wish to be caught. he had not the woodcraft to find their tracks in the grass. true, he was pretty sure they had gone back into the hills over the way they had come, but before he could find the beaten trail they would have several miles start. long before he could overtake them they would recover their boat. he had no food, nor firearms by which to obtain any. despondency seized upon him. he lay inert and indifferent.
by and by hope began to stir, as it has to do in a healthy young breast. after all, matters were not as bad as before. she loved him. that being so, what a poor thing he was to give up. he sat up again. what was to prevent him from getting a proper outfit at the nearest trading-post, and returning? how thankful he was that an instinct had kept him from promising not to return. the summer was young; june had not completed her course. if nahnya loved him, she would not stop loving him in a week or a month.
he stood up, ashamed of his weakness. he made his way back to the raft.
by this time the sun was giving a grateful warmth. taking off his outer clothes, he spread them to dry on the stones. his pack had likewise been partly wetted, and he opened that to dry. he was curious to see what nahnya had included in it. it was unlike her to set him adrift on an unknown river without preparing him for what was in store below. as he had half expected, the first thing he saw upon opening the bundle was a note in nahnya's nunlike hand. it was without salutation.
"there are no rapids in this river," it ran, "before you get to fort cheever. always keep in the middle of the river. you will come to fort cheever before the sun goes down. you will see the houses a long way. then you must keep close to the shore so you are not carried past. the steamboat come to fort cheever. good-bye. annie crossfox."
ralph read and reread this prosaic communication, searching wistfully between the lines for some intimation to reassure him of her love. there was nothing of the kind. "under the circumstances what else could she write?" he asked himself, with fine reasonableness. but his heart sunk unreasonably. he carefully stowed the letter away.
within the bundle was a small store of rice-cakes and cold roasted moose-meat, also a little copper pot with tea and sugar. the sight of the last items encouraged ralph. tea was worth more than gold to them; sugar they denied themselves altogether. besides the food he saw his medicine case, and everything else that belonged to him; his eye passed over it carelessly. a fat little moosehide bag sharply arrested his attention. lifting it, he had no need to look inside. it was gold, a respectable weight to lift, two thousand dollars, he guessed.
an angry pain contracted his breast. "she pays me, and turns me off," he thought bitterly. "does she think i did it for this?"
his first impulse was to drop it in the river. a better thought restrained him. he tried to put himself in nahnya's place. "she's conscientious," he thought. "even though she might guess it would hurt my feelings, she would feel obliged to pay me. but she shouldn't have given me so much."
as he continued his reflections, with a hand upon the little, swollen bag, his eyes began to shine. "i know how to get square with her," he was thinking "i will buy her a magnificent present with it. she's a woman after all. she can't be indifferent to beautiful things!"
throughout the day ralph had all the time there was to reflect upon what had happened. hour after hour he sat on the little raft nursing his knees, his eyes, generally observant enough, turned within. he never could have told of that part of the journey, except to describe in general terms the unchanging flow of the jade-coloured river, with its endless procession of steep, grassy hills on either hand. the burden of his thoughts was: "you fool! to let her send you away! you should have seized her and held her and forced her to confess!"
when ralph climbed the bank at fort cheever, about eight o'clock that evening, he came face to face with a white man. years seemed to have rolled between him and his own race. in time it was eleven days. this man was a fine specimen; up-standing, broad, and lean, with a bearded, grim, whimsical countenance.
"make you welcome!" he cried, extending an enormous hand. "saw you coming from upstream."
there was something instantly likable in his strength and directness. ralph returned his greeting with a good will.
"sit down," the man said, pointing to a bench at the foot of the flag-staff. "soon as i saw you coming, i told the old woman to put on a bit of supper. she'll send one of the little lads down with it when 'tis ready." he looked at ralph with a strong and friendly interest. "you're young!" he said. "thought i knew everybody up and down the river. you must have come from across the mountains."
ralph nodded. this was safe.
"risky travelling alone," the man said, with a shake of the head. "it isn't done much." he offered ralph his tobacco pouch.
sitting side by side they filled their pipes. after the obvious commonplaces had been exchanged, a somewhat constrained silence fell between them. ralph had instantly perceived that this man had the instincts of a gentleman, and would not stoop to catechize him. for that very reason ralph felt obliged to give an account of himself. here he was in a pretty quandary. he did not even know the name of the river that flowed before them.
"i'm david cranston, the trader here," volunteered his host.
ralph gave his name, adding: "i'm a doctor, if it's any use to you, or any of your people here."
"sure!" said cranston heartily. "you shall sound us all! it will be a treat to them. you must stop here a while. i don't get many white men to talk to."
ralph beat his brains for an expedient whereby he might find out what he had to know, without making himself out a madman or an imbecile. finally he said: "i suppose i can get an outfit from you?"
"going back?" said cranston in surprise. "sure, you can get an outfit. i'm out of nearly everything at this moment, but i'm looking for the steamboat every day. she will bring me my year's stock."
here was a clue. "how far down the river does the steamboat run?" asked ralph carelessly.
"fort ochre," said cranston. "she was built there."
ralph was no wiser than before.
"how do you figure on going back?" asked cranston.
"that's what i've got to find out," said ralph.
"well, i can give you horses to carry all you want to the other side of the portage, with a couple of natives to drive them back. the trail is good. have you got a boat at the portage?"
ralph felt himself floundering. he did not know where the portage was. "no," he said.
cranston turned astonished eyes on him. "then how in sam hill do you expect to go back up the river?" he demanded to know.
ralph felt himself turning red. "thought i could make a boat," he said at a venture.
cranston shook his head strongly. "there isn't a grown cottonwood tree to make a dugout within twenty miles of the portage. it was all burned over eighteen years ago."
ralph tried another line. "have you got a map?" he asked.
cranston shook his head. "only in my head," he said. "i've been in this country thirty years. do you mean to say you rafted it down the upper river?" cranston asked presently. "how did you make the grumbler rapids?"
ralph turned red again. he did not know how to answer. at the same time he began to understand that the two rivers he had travelled upon were one and the same, and that the well-beaten trail must be the portage cranston had referred to.
cranston, observing his confusion, said quickly:
"there, it's none of my business. i don't want to pry into your affairs. an old-timer like me can't help but feel concerned seeing a youngster trying to make his way, without knowing what he is up against."
ralph was naturally of a candid disposition, and his inability to respond to the other man's generous advances made him very uncomfortable. "look here," he said impulsively, "you naturally wonder where i've come from, and what i'm doing up here. i can't tell you. it's not on my own account, you understand. there are others in it. will you take me as you find me?"
"fairly spoke!" cried cranston in his great voice. he insisted on shaking hands again. "i never want a man's story, so he speaks from his chest and looks me in the eye!"
"that's decent of you," murmured ralph, much relieved.
"belike you and your pals have struck something rich up there," cranston went on. "i know the stuff's there somewhere, but it doesn't keep me awake nights. i've seen too many disappointments. i'd liever raise horses."
two dark-skinned little boys, whom their father addressed as gavin and hob, brought ralph's supper from the house, and having bashfully delivered it, stood off regarding the stranger with a mighty curiosity. cranston sat by smoking and watching ralph satisfy his appetite. he radiated a hospitable pleasure.
"if you're wanting to go back from here," said cranston, "i'll tell you straight, it can't be done. of course it was a regular company route in the old days, but they thought nothing of taking a crew of thirty iroquois to track them upstream. a man couldn't do it alone. why, the current runs seven mile an hour."
"i've got to go back," said ralph, with a sinking heart. "what can i do?"
"make the big swing around, and go in from the other side," said cranston. "it's a long trip, but shortest in the end. take the steamboat from here down to the crossing; then by freighter's wagon ninety miles to caribou lake; then by boat down the lake and down the little river and the big river to the landing; then another hundred miles overland to town."
"what town?" asked ralph desperately.
"prince george, of course," said cranston.
at last ralph began to have a glimmering of his whereabouts. "then this is the spirit river!" he cried, off his guard.
cranston glanced at him with a twinkle under his bushy brows. "what did you think it was?" he asked dryly, "the rhine?"
ralph blushed. "i didn't know there was any river that flowed right through the rockies," he muttered.
"you don't want a guide," said cranston, with grim good nature. "you want a nurse. take my advice: as soon as you get to town buy a geography primer!"
ralph, in his relief upon obtaining a bit of definite information, could afford to take cranston's jibes in good part.
"from prince george you take the branch railway down to blackfoot," cranston continued, "then by the main line westward over the mountains to yewcroft, and north up the campbell valley to fort edward. from fort edward——"
"i'm at home there," ralph interrupted.
"i'm glad of that," said cranston ironically. "else i might think you were a visitor from the skies!"
cranston sent the little boys back to the house with the dishes. it was growing dark, and he built a fire on the edge of the bank "for sociability," he said.
"sorry i cannot ask you into my house," cranston said, with a kind of honest diffidence. "there are nine of us, and we are overcrowded."
ralph suspected from his manner that he had other reasons. he hastened to reassure him.
the two men sat until late smoking and talking by the fire. the progress of intimacy beside a campfire cannot be gauged by civilized usages. cranston was a lonely man, and for his part, ralph, after the overwhelming emotional experiences of the past few days, needed a sane friend to lean upon. ralph could not talk of his affairs, but it was good to him to have cranston beside him.
the trader's talk was all of the country. "there's only one thing bad about it," he said. "that's the mixed marriages."
ralph pricked up his ears.
"if you're coming back," cranston went on, "if you're going to settle here, be on your guard against the pretty native girls. take the word of an old-timer: it is always fatal!"
a hot colour crept into ralph's cheeks, but the flickering firelight did not betray him. he was on fire to refute cranston, to crush him with arguments, but he fought it down, fearful of betraying his secret.
cranston went on all unconscious: "you can't blame either party. the young fellow is lonely of course, and he thinks he is cut off from the women of his own race. as for the girl, she thinks she is made if she gets a white husband. he forgets the long procession of the generations ending in him, and she doesn't know anything about it. you cannot reconcile the two strains. generally the man gives in. he forgets his past and sinks to her level; becomes 'smoked,' as we say.
"once in a way the man turns out to be of harder fibre and then it is worse. for she cannot rise to him, she is made conscious of her own deficiencies, and all the hateful, stubborn qualities of the red race come to the fore. when you look to a woman for more than she can give, and she knows it, it turns her into a devil. suppose this couple has children, and the man tries to teach them of their white heritage. the children become strangers to their mother, and who can blame her for going mad with rage? what is this father going to do with his children who are neither red nor white when they begin to grow up? what with the girls? what with the boys? that question is unanswerable."
ralph remembered the two engaging little dark-skinned boys with the scotch names, and his heart warmed toward their father. "poor devil!" he thought. "he's been unlucky!" the story came no nearer to ralph himself, for to him nahnya was an exception, and of different clay from every other woman in the world.
while the two men were talking a woman suddenly appeared within the firelight. they had not heard her come. she was a half-breed, still handsome in a savage way, though verging upon middle age. her features were distorted with rage, and she opened a torrent of withering invective in her own tongue upon cranston, with malignant side shafts in ralph's direction.
cranston coolly knocked the ashes out of his pipe and arose. "go back to the house, my girl!" he said, with a curious compound of firmness and patience.
the woman clutched at her hair in hysterical fury. her voice rose to a scream.
"go to the house!" repeated cranston, with a commanding gesture.
their eyes struggled for the mastery. hers fell, and her voice died away. she turned, and the darkness swallowed her again.
cranston looked deprecatingly at ralph. "i didn't want you to learn my story here," he said. "you'd hear it soon enough down the river. i suspect my case is notorious. very like the good lord intended me for an object lesson," he went on, with characteristic grim irony. "take warning from me! good night to you, my lad!"
as an object lesson it was a failure, for ralph fell asleep gloating upon how different nahnya was.
