Blake's Burden Part 11

"Told me he was a philologist, when I asked him; then he allowed two or three of them were mystics and he was something in that line. He was a doctor once and got fired out of England for something he shouldn't have done. Anyhow, the Dubokars are like the rest of us, good, bad, and pretty mixed, and the crowd back of Sweet.w.a.ter belong to the last.

At first some of them didn't believe it was right to work horses and made the women drag the plough, and they'd one or two other habits that brought the North-West Police down on them. After that they've given no trouble, but they get on a jag of some kind now and then."

Blake nodded. He knew that the fanatic with untrained and unbalanced mind is liable under the influence of excitement to indulge in crude debauchery; but it was strange that a man of culture, such as Clarke appeared to be, should take a part in these excesses. He had, however, no interest in the fellow and turned the talk on to other matters, and when it got cold they went to sleep.

Starting early next morning, they reached Sweet.w.a.ter after an uneventful journey and found it by no means an attractive place. South of it rolling prairie ran back, greyish white with withered gra.s.s, to the skyline; to the north straggling poplar bluffs and scattered Jack-pines crowned the summits of the ridges. A lake gleamed in a hollow, a slow creek wound across the foreground in a deep ravine, and here and there in the distance one could see an outlying farm. A row of houses followed the crest of the ravine, the side of which formed a dumping ground for domestic refuse. Some were built of small logs, and some of s.h.i.+plap lumber which had cracked with exposure to the sun, but all had a neglected and poverty-stricken air. The land was poor and the settlement located too far from a market. With leaden thunderclouds hanging over it, the place looked as desolate as the sad-coloured waste.

Following the deeply-rutted street, which had a narrow, plank sidewalk, they reached the Imperial hotel; a somewhat pretentious, double-storeyed building of unpainted wood, with a verandah in front of it. Here Gardner took the pony from them and gave them a room which had no furniture except a chair and two rickety iron beds. Before he went out he indicated a printed list of the things they were not allowed to do. Harding studied it with a sardonic smile.

"I don't see much use in prohibiting folks from was.h.i.+ng their clothes in the bedrooms when they don't give you any water," he remarked.

"This place must be about the limit in the way of cheap hotels."

"It isn't cheap," said Blake; "I've seen the tariff, but on the whole I like the fellow who keeps it."

They found their supper better than they had reason to expect, and afterwards sat out on the verandah with the proprietor and one or two of the settlers who boarded at the hotel. The sun had set and now and then a heavy shower beat upon the s.h.i.+ngled roof, but the western sky was clear and flushed with vivid crimson, towards which the prairie rolled away in varying tones of blue. Lights shone in the windows behind the verandah, and from one which stood open a hoa.r.s.e voice drifted out, singing in a maudlin fas.h.i.+on s.n.a.t.c.hes of an old music-hall ditty.

"It's that fool Benson--Clarke's Englishman," Gardner explained.

"Found he'd got into my bed with his boots on after falling down in a muskeg. It's not the first time he's played that trick; when he gets worse than usual he makes straight for my room."

"Why do you give him the liquor?" Harding inquired.

"I don't," said Gardner drily. "He's a pretty regular customer, but he never gets too much at this hotel."

"And there isn't another."

"That's so," Gardner agreed, but he offered no explanation and Blake changed the subject.

"Unless you're fond of farming, life in these remote districts is trying," he remarked. "The loneliness and monotony are apt to break down men who are not used to it."

"Turns some of them crazy and kills off a few," agreed a farmer, who appeared to be well educated. "After all, worse things might happen to them."

"It's conceivable," said Blake. "But what particular things were you referring to?"

"I was thinking of men who go to the devil while they're alive.

There's a fellow in this neighbourhood who's doing something of the kind."

"Rot!" exclaimed a thick voice, and a man's figure appeared against the light at the open window. "Devil'sh a myth; allegorolical gentleman, everybody knowsh. Hard word that--allegorolical. Bad word too, reminds you of things in the rivers down in Florida. Must be some in the creek here; seen them in my homestead."

"You go to bed," said Gardner sternly.

"Nosh a bit," replied the other. "Who you talking to?" He leaned forward in danger of falling through the window. "Lemme out."

"It's not all drink," Gardner explained. "He has something like shakes and ague now and then. Says he got it in India."

The other disappeared and a few moments afterwards reeled out of the door and held himself upright by one of the verandah posts.

"Now I'm here, don't let me interrupt," he said. "Nice place if this post would keep still."

Warned by a sign from Gardner, the others ignored him, and Harding remarked to the farmer, "You hadn't finished what you were saying when he disturbed you."

"I don't know that it was of much importance; speaking of degenerates, weren't we? We have a curious example of the neurotic here: a fellow who makes a good many dollars by victimizing farmers who are forced to borrow when they lose a crop, as well as young fools from England, and by way of amus.e.m.e.nt studies modern magic and indulges in refined debauchery. It strikes me as a particularly unhallowed combination."

"No sensible man has any use for hoodoo tricks and the folks who practise them," Harding said. "They're frauds from the start."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Benson broke in. "Not all tricks! Seen funny things in the East; thingsh decent men better leave alone."

Letting go the post, he lurched forward and as the light fell upon his face Blake started. He had been puzzled by something familiar in the voice, and now he knew the man, whom he had no wish to meet. He was too late in hitching his chair back into the shadow, for Benson had seen him and stopped with an excited cry.

"Blake of the sappers! Want to cut your old friendsh? Whatsh you doing here?"

"It's a mutual surprise, Benson," Blake replied, and the other, holding on by a chair back, smiled at him genially.

"Often wondered where you went to after you left Peshawur, old man.

Though you got the sack for it, it wasn't your fault the ghazees broke our line that night. Said so to the Colonel--can see him now, sitting there, looking very sick and cut up, and Bolsover, acting adjutant, blinking like an owl."

"Be quiet!" Blake said in alarm, for the man had been a lieutenant of native infantry when they had met on the hill campaign.

Benson, however, was not to be deterred and addressed the rest: "This gentleman old friend of mine; never agreed with solemn old Colonel, but they wouldn't listen to me. Very black night in India; ghazees coming yelling up the hill; nothing would stop them. Rifles cracking, Nepalese comp'ny busy with the bayonet, and in the thick of it the bugle goes----"

Raising a hand to his mouth, he gave a shrill imitation of the call "Cease fire!" and then lost his balance and fell over the chair with a crash.

"Leave him to me," said Gardner, who seized the fallen man and with some difficulty lifted him to his feet. After he pushed him through the door there were sounds of a scuffle and two or three minutes later Gardner came back with a bruise upon his face.

"He's quiet now and the bartender will put him to bed," he said.

There was silence for the next few moments, for the group on the verandah had been impressed by the scene; then a man came up the steps.

He was dressed in old brown overalls and carried a riding quirt, but Harding recognized him as the man they had met at the _Windsor_ in Montreal.

"Have you got Benson here?" he asked.

"Sure," said Gardner. "He's left his mark on my cheek. Why don't you look after the fool? Anyhow, you must have come pretty quietly; I didn't hear you until you were half way up the steps."

"Light boots," Clarke answered, smiling; "I bought them from you. I don't know that I need hold myself responsible for Benson, but I found he wasn't in when I rode past his place and it struck me that he might get into trouble if he got on a jag."

He turned and nodded to Blake. "So you have come up here! I may see you to-morrow, but if Benson's all right I'm going home now."

He went into the hotel and soon afterwards they heard him leave by another door.

CHAPTER IX

CLARKE MAKES A SUGGESTION

At breakfast next morning Blake and Harding found the farmer, who had spent the night at the hotel, at their table and afterwards sat for a time on the verandah talking to him. When they mentioned their first objective point and asked if he could give them any directions for reaching it he looked thoughtful.

"I only know that it's remarkably rough country; thick pine bush on rolling ground, with some bad muskegs and small lakes," he said. "You would find things easier if you could hire an Indian or two and a canoe when you strike the river. The boys here seldom go up so far, but Clarke could help you if he liked. He's been north and knows the Indians."