Bindloss Harold
Blake's Burden

CHAPTER XXI
A NEW PERSECUTOR

Soon after Greythorpe's visit Mrs. Chudleigh went away, leaving Challoner unpleasantly uncertain about the course she might take. He was still without news of Blake; he could not question his son, whose integrity he tried hard to believe in, and he spent a few anxious weeks. Then one evening when he came home from a neighbour's house he was told that a man who had called to see him some time earlier was in the library. Challoner glanced at the card his servant gave him.

"Clarke? I don't know anybody of that name," he said and then started as he saw the word Sweetwater in small type at the bottom of the card.

Taking off his coat he went up the staircase with some eagerness. The lamps had been lighted in the library and a good fire burned on the hearth, near which his visitor was comfortably seated in a big leather chair. He rose as Challoner entered, and the latter was not favourably impressed by him. There was a hint of grossness about the fellow which repelled the Colonel, who was of an ascetic type; besides, he was badly and carelessly dressed, and Challoner was fastidious in such matters. Also the man had an irritating air of assurance.

"Colonel Challoner, I presume?" he said.

Challoner bowed. "You have brought me some news of my nephew, Richard Blake?"

This disconcerted Clarke, who had not imagined that his object would be known and had counted upon Challoner's being surprised when he heard it and thrown off his guard. It, however, looked as if the Colonel had been making inquiries about Blake, and Clarke wished he could guess his reason, because it might affect the situation.

"That is correct," he said. "I have a good deal to tell you and it may take some time."

Signing him to be seated, Challoner rang a bell, and wine and cigars and hothouse fruit were brought in. These he offered his guest, who helped himself freely and then said, "Your nephew spent a week in the settlement where I live, preparing for a journey to the North. Though his object was secret, I believe he went in search of something to make varnish of, because he took a young American traveller for a colour factory with him, besides another man."

"I know this," Challoner replied. "I heard about his American companion; who was the other?"

"We will come to him presently. There is still something which I think you do not know."

"Then I should be glad to be informed. But, first of all, could you find Blake if it were necessary?"

"I'm doubtful; the thing would be difficult," Clarke answered in a significant tone. "He hadn't returned when I left, and the country he meant to cross is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below."

"I suppose it could be traversed by a properly equipped expedition?"

Though Challoner's face was calm, Clarke inferred some anxiety to find his nephew, and answered cautiously: "It would be possible, but whether a party sent up could strike the others' trail is a different matter."

"Very well," said Challoner; "we'll talk of it again. Go on with what you wished to say."

He was suspicious, for his visitor's looks were not in his favour, and the man gave him a keen glance.

"It concerns your nephew's earlier history."

"That is of most importance to himself and me. It can't interest you."

"It interests me very much," Clarke rejoined with an ironical smile. "I must ask you to let me tell you what I know."

Challoner, who thought he had better learn it, consented, and Clarke gave him what he admitted was a very accurate account of the action on the Indian frontier.

"Now," he concluded, "the question, Who gave the order to retreat? is of vital importance to you."

"In a sense, it has been answered."

"I think incorrectly."

"Then if you differ from the general opinion on the matter, you can let me have your theory of what occurred."

It took Clarke some minutes to give it and Challoner's heart sank, for the man carefully arranged his points and the damaging inference could hardly be shirked. On the whole, his account agreed with Mrs. Chudleigh's, although it was more cleverly worked out, but there was nothing to be learned from Challoner's expression. He was now not dealing with a woman who had the excuse that she was acting in her lover's interest.

"Your suggestions are plausible, but you can't seriously expect me to attach much weight to them," he remarked. "Besides, you seem to have overlooked the important fact that at the regimental inquiry the verdict was that nobody in particular was to blame.

"Oh! no," Clarke rejoined with a harsh laugh. "I merely question its validity. I imagine that reasons which would not be officially recognized led the court to take a lenient view; but what of that? Blake had to leave the army, a ruined man, and I've good reason for knowing what an acquittal like his is worth." He paused a moment. "I may as well tell you candidly, because it's probable that you'll make inquiries about me. Well, I'd won some reputation as a medical specialist when I became involved in a sensational police case – you may recollect it."

Challoner started. "Yes," he said. "So you are the man! I think nothing was actually proved against you."

"No," said Clarke drily; "there was only a fatal suspicion. As it happens, I was innocent, but I had to give up my profession and my life was spoiled. There's no reason why you should be interested in this, and I mentioned it merely because a similar misfortune has befallen Richard Blake. The point, of course, is that it has done so undeservedly. I think you must see who the real culprit is."

"I'll admit that you have told me a rather likely tale. As you don't speak of having been in India, who gave you the information?"

"Blake's companion, the man I've mentioned, a former Indian officer called Benson."

"His full name, please."

Clarke gave it him and Challoner, crossing the floor, took a book from a shelf and turned it over by a lamp.

"Yes; he's here. What led him to talk of the thing to an outsider?"

"Drink," said Clarke. "I'll own to having taken advantage of the condition he was often in."

Challoner, sitting down, coolly lighted a cigar. His position seemed a weak one, but he had no thought of surrender.

"Well, you have given me some interesting information; but there's one thing you haven't mentioned, and that is your reason for doing so."

"Can't you guess?"

"I shouldn't have suspected you of being so diffident, but I daresay you thought this was a chance of earning some money easily."

"Yes," said Clarke. "For five thousand pounds I'll undertake that no word of what I've told you will ever pass my lips again."

"You're not flattering. Do you suppose I'd pay five thousand pounds to see my nephew wronged?"

"I believe you might do so to save your son."

Challoner, who wished to lead the man on and learn something about his plans, made a negative sign.

"Out of the question."

"Then I'll make you an alternative offer, and it's worth considering. Take, or get your friends to subscribe for, ten thousand pounds worth of shares in a commercial syndicate I'm getting up, and you'll never regret it. If you wish, I'll make you a director so you can satisfy yourself that the money will be wisely spent. You'll get it back several times over."

Challoner laughed. "This is to salve my feelings; to make the thing look like a business transaction?"

"No," said Clarke, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. "It's a genuine offer, and I'll ask your attention for a minute or two. Canada's an undeveloped country; we have scarcely begun to tap its natural resources, and there's wealth ready for exploitation all over it. We roughly know the extent of the farming land and the value of the timber, but the minerals still to a large extent await discovery, while perhaps the most readily and profitably handled product is oil. Now I know a belt of country where it's oozing from the soil and with ten thousand pounds I'll engage to bore wells that will give a remarkable yield."

His manner was impressive, and though Challoner had no cause to trust him he thought the man sincere.

"One understands that in Canada all natural commodities belong to the State and any person discovering them can work them on certain terms. It seems to follow that if your knowledge of the locality is worth anything, it must belong to you alone. How is it that nobody else suspects the belt contains oil?"

"A shrewd objection, but easily answered. The country in question is one of the most rugged tracts in Canada, difficult to get through in summer, while the man who enters it in winter runs a serious risk. Now I'll allow that what you know about me is not likely to prejudice you in my favour, but on your promise to keep it secret I'll give you information that must convince you."

"Why don't you make your offer to some company floater or stockjobber?"

Clarke smiled in a pointed manner. "Because I've a damaging record and no friends to vouch for me. I came here because I felt I had some claim on you."

"You were mistaken," said Challoner drily.

"Hear me out; try to consider my proposition on its merits. For a number of years I've known the existence of the oil and have tried to prospect the country. It was difficult; to transport enough food and tools meant a costly expedition and the attracting of undesirable attention. I went alone, living with primitive Russian settlers and afterwards with the Indians. To gain a hold on them I studied the occult sciences and learned tricks that impose upon the credulous. To the white men I'm a crank, to the Indians something of a magician, but my search for the oil has gone on, and now while I already know where boring would be commercially profitable, I'm on the brink of tapping a remarkable flow."

"What will you do if it comes up to your expectations?" Challoner asked, for he had grown interested.

"Turn it over to a company strong enough to exact good terms from the American producers or, failing that, to work the wells. Then I'd go back to London where with money and the standing it would buy me I'd take up my old profession. I believe I've kept abreast of medical progress and could still make my mark and reinstate myself. It has been my steadfast object ever since I became an outcast; I've schemed and cheated to gain it, besides risking my life often in desolate muskegs and the Arctic frost. Now I ask you to make it possible, and you cannot refuse."

Challoner was silent for a minute or two while Clarke smoked impassively. The former knew he had a determined man to deal with and believed moreover that he had spoken the truth. Still, the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice. There was something malignant in his face that testified against him, and, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the price of his connivance in a wrong.

"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.

"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable, but I can't say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money. If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."

Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way he knitted his brows.

"Think! Have you gauged the consequences of your refusal?"

"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."

"Ah!" said Clarke with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it."

"You suggest Blake's innocence, but you must be content with doing so. You cannot prove it in the face of his denial."

To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.

"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have an opportunity of denying it. He left for the North very badly equipped, and he has not come back yet." Then he rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I must try some other market, and while I think you have made a grave mistake that is your affair."

Challoner let him go and afterwards sat down to think. There had been nothing forcible or obviously threatening in the man's last few remarks, but their effect was somehow sinister. Challoner wondered whether he had done well in suggesting that Blake's denial would prove Clarke's greatest difficulty. After all, he had a strong affection for his nephew, who might be in danger, and knew that the wilds of Northern Canada might prove deadly to a weak party unprovided with proper sledges and stores. Still, something might, perhaps, be done, and by and by he wrote a letter to a friend who had once made an adventurous journey across the frozen land.

CHAPTER XXII
CLARKE MODIFIES HIS PLANS

A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was Arctic when Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western sky and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke, who had lately returned from England, that the place looked very dreary.

He walked on with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on his furs, and on reaching the homestead went first to the stable. It was built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawn lumber, and, lighting a lantern, he fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales and lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a successful farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals and implements led to economy, though it was said he seldom paid the full market price for them. He had walked home because it was impossible to keep warm driving, and felt tired and morose. The man had passed his prime and was beginning to find the labour he had never shirked more irksome than it had been, while he dispensed with a hired hand in winter, when there was less to be done. Clarke neglected no opportunity of saving a dollar.

When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house, which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London where he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone, though he remembered that for a number of years he had not noticed this. Walls and floor were uncovered and roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber; the stove was rusty and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs.

Clarke lighted his pipe and drawing his seat as near the stove as possible opened an English newspaper, which contained some news that interested him. A short paragraph stated that Captain Bertram Challoner, then stationed at Delhi, had received an appointment which would shortly necessitate his return from India. This, Clarke imagined, might be turned to good account, but the matter demanded thought, and for a time he sat motionless, deeply pondering. His farming had prospered, though the bare and laborious life had tried him hard, and he had made some money by more questionable means, lending to unfortunate neighbours at extortionate interest and foreclosing on their possessions. No defaulter got any mercy at his hands and shrewd sellers of seed and implements took precautions when they dealt with him.

His money, however, would not last him long if he returned to England and attempted to regain a footing in his profession, and he had daringly schemed to increase it. Glancing across the room, his eyes rested on a bookcase, with a curious smile. It contained works on hypnotism, telepathy, and psychological speculations in general, and he had studied some with ironical amusement and others with a quickening of his interest. Amidst much that he thought of as sterile chaff he saw germs of truth, and had once or twice been led to the brink of a startling discovery. There the elusive clue had failed him, though he felt that strange secrets might be revealed some day.

After all, the books had served his purpose, as well as kept him from brooding when he sat alone at nights while the icy wind howled round his dwelling. He passed for a sage and something of a prophet with the primitive Dubokars, his Indian friends regarded him as a medicine man, and both had unknowingly made his search for the petroleum easier. Then, contrary to his expectations, he had found speculators in London willing to venture a few hundred pounds on his scheme, but the amount was insufficient and the terms were exacting. It would pay him better to get rid of his associates. He was growing old; it would be too late to return to his former life unless he could do so soon, but he must make a fair start with ample means. The man had no scruples and no illusions; money well employed would buy him standing and friends. People were charitable to a man who had something to offer them, and the blot upon his name must be nearly forgotten.

First of all, however, the richest spot of the oil field must be found and money enough raised to place him in a strong position when the venture was put on the market. He had failed to extort any from Challoner, but he might be more successful with his son. The man who was weak enough to allow his cousin to suffer for his fault would no doubt yield to judicious pressure. It was fortunate that Bertram Challoner was coming to England, because he could be more easily reached. This led Clarke to think of Blake, since he realized that Challoner was right in pointing out that the man was his greatest difficulty. If Blake maintained that the fault was his, nothing could be done; it was therefore desirable that he should be kept out of the way. There was another person to whom the same applied; Clarke had preyed on Benson's weakness, but if the fellow had overcome it and returned to farm industriously, his exploitation would be no longer possible. On the other hand, if he failed to pay off his debts, Clarke saw how he could with much advantage seize his possessions. Thus both Blake and Benson were obstacles, and now they had ventured into the icy North it would be better if they did not reappear.

Clarke refilled his pipe and his face wore a sinister look as he took down a rather sketchy map of the wilds beyond the prairie belt. After studying it for a time he sank into an attitude of concentrated thought. The stove crackled, its pipe glowing red, driving snow lashed the shiplap walls, and the wind moaned drearily about the house. Its occupant was, however, oblivious to his surroundings and sat very still in his chair, with pouches under his fixed eyes and his lips set tight. He looked malignant and dangerous, and perhaps his mental attitude was not quite normal. Close study and severe physical toil, coupled with free indulgence, had weakened him; there were drugs he was addicted to which affected the brain, and he had long been possessed by one fixed idea. By degrees it had become a mania, and he would stick at nothing that might help him to carry his purpose out. When at length he got up with a shiver to throw wood into the stove as the room grew cold, he thought he saw how his object could be secured.

A month before Clarke spent the evening thinking about them, Blake and his comrades camped at sunset in a belt of small spruces near the edge of the open waste that runs back to the Polar Sea. They were worn and hungry, for the shortage of provisions had been a constant trouble and such supplies as they obtained from Indians, who had seldom much to spare, soon ran out. Once or twice they had feasted royally after shooting a big bull moose, but the frozen meat they were able to carry did not last long, and again they were threatened with starvation.

It was a calm evening with a coppery sunset flaring across the snow, but intensely cold, and though they had wood enough and sat close beside a fire with their ragged blankets wrapped round them they could not keep warm. Harding and Benson were openly dejected, but Blake had somehow preserved his cheerful serenity. As usual after finishing their scanty supper, they began to talk, for during the day conversation was limited by the toil of the march. By and by Harding took a few bits of resin out of a bag.

"No good," he said. "It's common fir gum, such as I could gather a carload of in the forests of Michigan. Guess there's something wrong with my theory about the effects of extreme cold." Then he took a larger lump from a neat leather case. "This is the genuine article, and it's certainly the product of a coniferous tree, while the fellow I got it from said it was found in the coldest parts of North America. Seems to me we have tried all the varieties of the firs, but we're as far from finding what we want as when we started."

"Hard luck!" Benson remarked gloomily.

Harding broke off a fragment and lighted it. "Notice the smell. It's characteristic."

"The fellow may have been right on one point," said Blake. "When I was in India I once got some incense which was brought down in small quantities from the Himalayas, and, I understood, came from near the snow-line. The smell was the same, one doesn't forget a curious scent."

"That's so. Talking about it reminds me that I was puzzled by a smell I thought I ought to know when I brought Clarke out of the tepee. I remembered what it was not long since and the thing's significant. It was gasoline."

"They extract it from crude petroleum, don't they."

"Yes; it's called petrol on your side. Clarke's out for coal-oil, and I guess he's struck it."

"Then he's lucky, but his good fortune doesn't concern us and we have other things to think about. What are you going to do, now we don't seem able to find the gum?"

"It's a difficult question," Harding answered in a troubled voice. "I'd hate to go back, with nothing accomplished and all my dollars spent, and take to the road again. Marianna's paying for this journey in many ways, and I haven't the grit to tell her we're poorer than when I left. She wouldn't complain, but when you have to live on a small commission that's hard to make, it's the woman who meets the bill."

Blake made a sign of sympathy. He had never shared Harding's confidence in the success of his search and had joined in it from love of adventure and a warm liking for his comrade.

"Well," he said, "I've no means except a small allowance which is so tied up that it's difficult to borrow anything upon it, but it's at your disposal as far as it goes. Suppose we keep this prospecting up."

"If Clarke's mortgage doesn't stop me, I might raise a few dollars on my farm," Benson remarked. "I'll throw them in with pleasure, because I'm pretty deep in your debt."

"Thanks," said Harding. "I'm sorry I can't agree, but I wouldn't take your offer when you first made it, and I can't do so now my plan's a failure. Anyway, we're doing some useless talking, because I don't see how we're to go on prospecting or get south again when we have only three or four days' food in hand."

He stated an unpleasant truth which the others had characteristically shirked, for Blake was often careless and Benson had taken the risks of the journey with frank indifference, though they had the excuse that after nearly starving once or twice they had succeeded in getting fresh supplies. Now, however, their hearts sank as they thought of the expanse of frozen wilderness that lay between them and the settlements.

"Well," said Blake, "there's a Hudson's Bay factory somewhere to the east of us. I can't tell how far off it is, though it must be a long way, but if we could reach it, the agent might take us in."

"How are you going to find the place?"

"I don't know, but a Hudson's Bay post is generally fixed where there are furs to be got, and there will, no doubt, be Indians trapping in the neighbourhood. We must take our chances of hitting their tracks."

"But we can't make a long march without food," Benson objected.

"The trouble is that we can't stay here without it," Blake rejoined with a short laugh.

This was undeniable, and neither of his companions answered. They were unkempt, worn out, and ragged, and had travelled a long way through fresh snow on short rations in the past week. Ahead of them lay a vast and almost untrodden desolation; behind them a rugged wilderness which there seemed no probability of their being able to cross. Lured by the hope of finding what they sought they had pushed on from point to point, and now it was too late to return.

By and by Blake got up. "Our best chance is to kill a caribou, and this is the kind of country they generally haunt. Since the sooner we look for one the better, I may as well start at once. There'll be a moon to-night."

He threw off his blanket and picking up a Marlin rifle, which was their only weapon, strode out of camp, and as he was a good shot and tracker they let him go. It was getting dark when he left the shelter of the trees and the cold in the open struck through him like a knife. The moon had not risen yet and the waste stretched away before him, its whiteness changed to a soft blue-grey. In the distance scattered bluffs rose in long dark smears, but there was nothing to indicate which way he should turn, and he had no reason to believe there was a caribou near the camp. As a matter of fact, they had found the larger deer remarkably scarce. He was tired after breaking the trail since sunrise, and the snow was loose beneath his big net shoes, but he plodded towards the farthest bluff, feeling that he was largely to blame for the party's difficulties.

Knowing something of the country, he should have insisted on turning back when he found they could obtain no dog-teams to transport their supplies. Occasionally the Hudson's Bay agents and patrols of the North-West Police made long journeys in Arctic weather, but they were provided with proper sledges and sufficient preserved food. Indeed, Blake was astonished that he and his comrades had got so far. He had, however, given way to Harding, who hardly knew the risks he ran, and now he supposed must take the consequences. This did not daunt him badly. After all, life had not much to offer an outcast, and though he had managed to extract some amusement from it he had nothing to look forward to. There was no prospect of his making money – his talents were not commercial – and the hardships he could bear with now would press on him more heavily as he grew older. These considerations, however, were too philosophical for him to continue. He was essentially a man of action and feeling unpleasantly hungry, and he quickened his pace, knowing that the chance of his getting a shot at a caribou in the open was small.

The moon had not risen when he reached the bluff, but the snow reflected a faint light and he noticed a row of small depressions on its surface. Kneeling down, he examined them, but there had been wind during the day and the marks were blurred. He felt for a match, but his fingers were too numbed to open the watertight case, and he proceeded to measure the distance between the footprints. This was an unreliable test because a big deer's stride varies with its pace, but he thought the tracks indicated a caribou. Then he stopped, without rising, and looked about.

Close in front the trees rose in a shadowy wall against the clear blue sky; there was no wind, and it was oppressively still. He could see about a quarter of a mile across the open, but the darkness of the wood was impenetrable and its silence daunting. The row of tracks was the only sign of life he had seen for days.

While he listened a faint howl came out of the distance and was followed by another. After the deep silence, the sound was startling and there was danger in it, for Blake recognized the cry of the timber wolves. The big grey brutes would make short work of a lonely man and his flesh crept as he wondered whether they were on his trail. On the whole, it did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him, and, rising to his feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he set off at his highest speed.

The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound behind him, but that somehow increased his uneasiness and now and then he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-grey shadow and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with that the wolves were capable of making. At length it was with keen satisfaction he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of a bluff ahead and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into camp.

"You haven't stayed out long," Benson remarked. "I suppose you saw nothing."

"I heard wolves," Blake answered drily. "You had better gather wood enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up my trail. However, it's a promising sign."

"I guess we could do without it," Harding broke in. "I've no use for wolves."

"They must live on something," Blake rejoined. "Since they're here, there are probably moose or caribou in the neighbourhood. I'll have another try to-morrow."

"But the wolves."

"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyhow, it seems to me we must take some risks."

This was obvious, and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.