Burned Bridges By Bertrand W. Sinclair, Ralph P. Coleman pptx

Burned Bridges Bertrand W. Sinclair Illustrated by Ralph P. Coleman BURNED BRIDGES BY BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR AUTHOR OF NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE, Etc. FRONTISPIECE BY RALPH P. COLEMAN Published, August, 1919 He felt with an odd exaltation the quick hammer of her heart against his breast. Frontispiece. CONTENTS I. THE FIRST PROBLEM II. THE MAN AND HIS MISSION III. THE DESERTED CABIN IV. IN WHICH MR. THOMPSON BEGINS TO WONDER PAINFULLY V. FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE VI. CERTAIN PERPLEXITIES VII. A SLIP OF THE AXE VIII. —AND THE FRUITS THEREOF IX. UNIVERSAL ATTRIBUTES X. THE WAY OF A MAID WITH A MAN XI. A MAN’S JOB FOR A MINISTER XII. A FORTUNE AND A FLITTING XIII. PARTNERS XIV. THE RESTLESS FOOT XV. THE WORLD IS SMALL XVI. A MEETING BY THE WAY XVII. THE REPROOF COURTEOUS (?) XVIII. MR. HENDERSON’S PROPOSITION XIX. A WIDENING HORIZON XX. THE SHADOW XXI. THE RENEWED TRIANGLE XXII. SUNDRY REFLECTIONS XXIII. THE FUSE— XXIV. —AND THE MATCH THAT LIT THE FUSE— XXV. —AND THE BOMB THE FUSE FIRED XXVI. THE LAST BRIDGE XXVII. THOMPSON’S RETURN XXVIII. FAIR WINDS XXIX. TWO MEN AND A WOMAN XXX. A MARK TO SHOOT AT Burned Bridges 1 CHAPTER I THE FIRST PROBLEM Lone Moose snaked its way through levels of woodland and open stretches of meadow, looping sinuously as a sluggish python—a python that rested its mouth upon the shore of Lake Athabasca while its tail was lost in a great area of spruce forest and poplar groves, of reedy sloughs and hushed lakes far northward. The waterways of the North are its highways. There are no others. No wheeled vehicles traverse that silent region which lies just over the fringe of the prairies and the great Canadian wheat belt. The canoe is lord of those watery roads; when a man would diverge therefrom he must carry his goods upon his back. There are paths, to be sure, very faint in places, padded down by the feet of generations of Athabascan tribesmen long before the Ancient and Honorable Company of Adventurers laid the foundation of the first post at Hudson’s Bay, long before the Half Moon’s prow first cleft those desolate waters. They have been trodden, these dim trails, by Scotch and French and English since that historic event, and by a numerous progeny in whose veins the blood of all three races mingles with that of the native tribes. But these paths lead only from stream to stream and from lake to lake. No man familiar with the North seeks along those faint trails for camp or fur posts or villages. Wherever in that region red men or white set up a permanent abode it must of necessity be on the bank of a stream or the shore of a lake, from whence by canoe and paddle access is gained to the network of water routes that radiate over the fur country. Lone Moose Creek was, so to speak, a trunk line. The ninety miles of its main channel, its many diverging branches, tapped a region where mink and marten and beaver, fox and wolf and lesser furs were still fairly plentiful. Along Lone Moose a dozen Cree and half- breed families disappeared into the back country during the hazy softness of Indian summer and came gliding down in the spring with their winter’s catch, a birch-bark flotilla laden indiscriminately Burned Bridges 2 with mongrel dogs and chattering women and children and baled furs and impassive-faced men, bound for Port Pachugan to the annual barter. Up Lone Moose some twenty-odd miles from the lake the social instinct had drawn a few families, pure-blooded Cree, and Scotch and French half-breeds, to settle in a permanent location. There was a crescent-shaped area of grassy turf fronting upon the eastern bank of Lone Moose, totaling perhaps twenty acres. Its outer edge was ringed with a dense growth of spruce timber. In the fringe of these dusky woods, at various intervals of distance, could be seen the outline of each cabin. They were much of a sort—two or three rooms, log-walled, brush laid upon poles, and sod on top of that for a roof, with fireplaces built partly of mud, partly of rough stones. Folk in such circumstances waste no labor in ornamentation. Each family’s abiding place was purely utilitarian. They cultivated no land, and the meadow during the brief season supplied them with a profusion of delicate flowers a southern garden could scarcely excel. Aside from a few trees felled about each home site, their common effort had cleared away the willows and birch which bordered the creek bank, so that an open landing was afforded the canoes. There was but one exception to the monotonous similitude of these several habitations. A few paces back from the stream and standing boldly in the open rose a log house double the size of any other there. It contained at least four rooms. Its windows were of ample size, the doors neatly carpentered. A wide porch ran on three sides. It bore about itself an air of homely comfort, heightened by muslin at the windows, a fringe of poppies and forget-me-nots blooming in an orderly row before it, and a sturdy vine laden with morning-glories twining up each supporting column of the porch roof. Between the house and the woods an acre square was enclosed by a tall picket fence. Within the fence, which was designed as a barricade against foraging deer, there grew a variety of vegetables. The produce of that garden had grown famous far beyond Lone Moose village. But the spirit and customs and traditions of the gardener’s neighbors were all against any attempt to duplicate it. They were Burned Bridges 3 hunters and trappers and fishermen. The woods and waters supplied their every need. Upon a blistering day in July, a little past noon, a man stepped out on the porch, and drawing into the shadiest part a great, rude homemade chair upholstered with moosehide, sat down. He had a green-bound book in his hand. While he stuffed a clay pipe full of tobacco he laid the volume across his knees. Every movement was as deliberate as the flow of the deep stream near by. When he had stoked up his pipe he leaned back and opened the book. The smoke from his pipe kept off what few mosquitoes were abroad in the scorching heat of midday. A casual glance would at once have differentiated him from a native, held him guiltless of any trace of native blood. His age might have been anywhere between forty and fifty. His hair, now plentifully shot with gray, had been a light, wavy brown. His eyes were a clear gray, and his features were the antithesis of his high-cheekboned neighbors. Only the weather-beaten hue of his skin, and the scores of fine seams radiating from his eyes told of many seasons squinting against hot sunlight and harsh winds. Whatever his vocation and manner of living may have been he was now deeply absorbed in the volume he held. A small child appeared on the porch, a youngster of three or thereabouts, with swarthy skin, very dark eyes, and inky-black hair. He went on all fours across Sam Carr’s extended feet several times. Carr remained oblivious, or at least undisturbed, until the child stood up, laid hold of his knee and shook it with playful persistence. Then Carr looked over his book, spoke to the boy casually, shaking his head as he did so. The boy persisted after the juvenile habit. Carr raised his voice. An Indian woman, not yet of middle age but already inclining to the stoutness which overtakes women of her race early in life, appeared in the doorway. She spoke sharply to the boy in the deep, throaty language of her people. The boy, with a last impish grin, gave the man’s leg a final shake and scuttled indoors. Carr impassively resumed his reading. Burned Bridges 4 An hour or so later he lifted his eyes from the printed page at a distant boom of thunder. The advanced edge of a black cloudbank rolling swiftly up from the east was already dimming the brassy glare of the sun. He watched the swift oncoming of the storm. With astonishing rapidity the dark mass resolved itself into a gray, obscuring streak of rain riven by vivid flashes of lightning. Carr laid down his book and refilled his pipe while he gazed on this common phenomenon of the dog-days. It swept up and passed over the village of Lone Moose as a sprinkling wagon passes over a city street. The downpour was accompanied by crashing detonations that sent the village dogs howling to cover. With the same uncanny swiftness of gathering so it passed, leaving behind a pleasant coolness in the air, clean smells of the washed earth arising. The sun blazed out again. A million rain-pearls hung glistening on the blades of grass in the meadow before Sam Carr’s house. With the passing of the thunder shower, before Carr left off his contemplation of the freshened beauty of meadow and woods, a man and a woman emerged from the spruce forest on the farther side of the meadow. They walked a little way in the open, stopped for a minute, facing each other. Their conversation ended with a sudden quick gesture by the man. Turning, they came on again toward Carr’s house. Sam Carr’s clear gray eyes lit up. The ghost of a smile hovered about his bearded lips. He watched them approach with that same quizzical expression, a mixture, if one gauged his look aright, of pleasure and pride and expectation. They were young as years go, the pair that walked slowly up to the cabin. The man was certainly still in his twenties, of medium height, compactly muscular, a good-looking specimen of pure Anglo-Saxon manhood. The girl was a flower in perfect bloom, fresh-colored, slender and pliant as a willow, with all of the willow’s grace in every movement. For all the twenty-odd years between them, and the gulf of sex differentiation, there was in her glance and bearing much of the middle-aged man who sat on the porch with a book across his knees and a clay pipe in his mouth. It did not lie in facial [...]... when they went 16 Burned Bridges wrong, had not struck these two hardy children of the solitudes as other than a side-splitting joke “He rises i’ the mornin’,” MacDonald continued, “win’ a word frae the Book aboot the Lord providin’, an’ he’d starve if nabody was by t’ cook his meal He canna build a fire wi’oot scorchin’ his fingers He lays hold o’ a paddle like a three months’ babby He bids ye pit... Mike said to his partner once when Thompson was out of earshot “Hees ask more damfool question een ten minute dan a man hees answer een t’ree day W’at hees gon’ do all by heemself here Ah don’ know ‘tall, Mac Bagosh, no!” 28 Burned Bridges By midafternoon all that was possible in the way of settling their man had been accomplished, even to a pile of firewood sufficient to last him two weeks MacDonald contributed... pleasure just to be near him Would you enjoy his daily and hourly presence then, in the most intimate relation a man and a woman can hold to each other?” 8 Burned Bridges “Why, I wouldn’t live with him at all,” the girl said positively “I simply couldn’t I know.” “You might have to,” Carr answered gently “You have never yet run foul of circumstances over which you have no more power than man has over the run... route What few miles he had to travel beyond the post would lie along the lake shore, and the lake reassured him with its smiling calm Having never seen it harried by fierce winds, pounding the beaches with curling waves, he could not 13 Burned Bridges visualize it as other than it was now, glassy smooth, languid, inviting Over the last twenty miles of the river his guides had strained a point now and... till she was seated He had no more than greeted Carr before he lifted his old felt hat to her “I’ll be paddling back while the coolness lasts,” said he “Good -by. ” “Good -by, Tommy,” the girl answered “So long,” Carr followed suit “Don’t give us the go -by too long.” “Oh, no danger.” He walked to the creek bank, stepped into a red canoe that lay nose on to the landing, and backed it free with his paddle Ten... pity under cover of the gathering dusk MacLeod smoked a pipe Thompson chewed the cud of reflection 18 Burned Bridges “And so,” the factor began suddenly, “ye are a missionary to the Lone Moose Crees It will be a thankless task; a tougher one nor I’d care to tackle I ha’ seen the job undertaken before by folk who— beggin’ your pardon—ha’ little conception of the country, the people in it, or the needs... ha’ time or inclination to praise the Lord an’ his grace an’ bounty when their life’s one long struggle wi’ hardships an’ adversity The God ye offer them disna mitigate these things Forbye that, the Indian disna 19 Burned Bridges want to be Christianized When ye come to a determination of abstract qualities, his pagan beliefs are as good for him as the God of the Bible What right ha’ we to cram oor speeritual... muttered under his breath 22 Burned Bridges Lone Moose Creek emptied into Lake Athabasca some forty miles east of Fort Pachugan The village of Lone Moose lay another twenty-five miles or so up the stream Thompson’s canoemen carried with them a rag of a sail This they hoisted to a fair wind that held through the morning hours Between that and steady paddling they made the creek mouth by sundown There they... off her feet With you, your mind, as you just put it, acts as a brake on your feelings Can’t you guess why?” 7 Burned Bridges “No,” she said quietly “I can’t I don’t understand myself and my shifts of feeling It makes me miserable.” “Look here, Sophie girl,” Carr reached over and taking her by the hand drew her up on the low arm of his chair, “you’re asking yourself a more or less important question... had appointed him to perform But if he failed to convict these two of sin, he convinced them of discourtesy Even a rude voyageur has his code of manners Thereafter they invariably swore in French 12 Burned Bridges They bore on in a northerly direction, keeping not too far from the lake shore, lest the combination of a sudden squall and a heavyloaded canoe should bring disaster When Mike Breyette’s “twotree” . Burned Bridges Bertrand W. Sinclair Illustrated by Ralph P. Coleman BURNED BRIDGES BY BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR. atmosphere, reflected piercingly upward from the water, had played havoc with him. His first act upon landing was to seat himself upon a flat- topped