Masterman and Son Part 24

"Yes. I want a ranch called Bundy's."

"Bundy. Let me see. I don't know of any Bundy here."

"He isn't here. It's his ranch I want to find."

"Did he tell you where it was?"

"Poplar Point."

"Ah! now I know. If you'll come with me, I think I can show you whereabouts it is." He took him to the landing-stage, and pointed out a deep fold in the hills. "You make for that," he said. "Unless I disremember, Bundy's ranch is there or thereabout. But people are always going and coming here. These 'ere ranches are always changing hands. Young fellows like you come out, and get tired of the work at the end of the summer, and sell out. They're the plague of Nelson.

Quitters, we call 'em. I hope you ain't a quitter."

"I don't think I am. I've come here to live."

"Well, sir, you've come to a good place. But let me give you a word of warning. It's only hard work that pays here, and you'll have to work hard and wait long if you want to do anything in fruit. This is no place for quitters."

He went on to give him many brief histories of the obnoxious tribe of quitters. They were all looking out for a soft job--that was what was the matter with them. Mamma's darlings--that's what they were. Did he know what it was to handle an axe. No, he thought not. Land had to be cleared--did he know what that meant?

"But mine is cleared," Arthur interrupted. "At least, fifty acres are."

At this he looked puzzled.

"I never heard of fifty acres of cleared land anywheres near Poplar Point," he observed.

There happened to come along the landing-stage at that moment a somewhat extraordinary-looking old man. He wore blue jeans, a red wool sweater, and a battered felt hat. His hair and beard were unkempt, and both were gray. A beggar could not have been worse dressed, and yet there was about him something of the dignity that marks the open-air man.

"That's Jim Flanagan," remarked Smith; "he ought to know. Here, Jim, I want to speak to you."

The old man came towards them in silence.

"Jim, do you know a ranch at Poplar Point called Bundy's? You know most of the places up and down the lake, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it. It lies back a quarter of a mile or so, on a bench."

"Cleared, is it?"

"Not much. It was once, but most of it's growed up again."

"Well, this gentleman's going there. Maybe you could give him pointers."

"Going to live there?" asked Flanagan.

"Yes, I'm going to live there," said Arthur.

"Well, I don't know but what you can. There's a pretty good log-house.

I'm living not far away myself."

"Can't you row me over?"

"No, I can't do that. It wouldn't be no good if I did. You can't live there without a good bit of preparation. There ain't no shops at Poplar Point, and there ain't no hotel," he remarked with a grin.

"Now I'll tell you what I would do, if I was you," said the landlord.

"You just let Jim give you some pointers. He'll treat you right, will Jim."

"I'll be glad to do anything I can," said the old man. "I've got an hour to spare, any way."

Arthur took Flanagan up to the hotel with him, and was soon interested in his strange preceptor. It seemed he was an old hunter and prospector, a man of infinite adventures, with a dislike of civilisation, which was perhaps his most marked characteristic. There was no remote solitude of the surrounding woods with which he was not acquainted.

"As for this ranch of yours, I guess you've been expecting too much,"

he remarked. "It's good enough land, that I believe. And I won't say but what it has been planted all right once. But it's been let grow up. I kind of remember a man called Bundy bought it--took it for a debt, 'twas said. But he's never been here, not a I remember. And I've been here and hereabout a matter of a dozen years."

So it appeared that Bundy had let the light of his imagination gild Kootenay Lake with a delusive splendour, as it did all those "propositions" which engaged his ardent rhetoric. But Arthur was in no mood to judge his benefactor critically. The land was there--that was something; and it would go hard with him if he could not make it all that Bundy had imagined it. He might have known that Bundy had never seen it for himself. The story of his having taken it for a debt had the accent of truth. The mouth of the gift-horse must not be too closely examined, but at least he was a veritable beast. And in spite of the pa.s.sing shadow of disappointment, Arthur's spirits rose at the menace of unexpected difficulty.

"Well," said Flanagan. "I must be getting along. When will you be coming out?"

"Immediately. Some time this afternoon."

"In that case you'll have to get a move on. You've a lot to do."

Flanagan thereupon sat down again and gave him a series of elaborate instructions. He must first of all buy a boat; he'd need one, any way.

There was a boat he knew of that might be had second-hand for twenty dollars. Then he'd want to buy an axe or two, a grub-hoe, a sack of flour, sugar, rice, tea, coffee, tinned milk, and may be a side of bacon and a case of eggs. That would do for a beginning.

The boat was duly bargained for upon the wharf. It was an interesting ruin: the paint had long since disappeared, it had no rudder, and it leaked like a sieve. Its owner, remarking Arthur's innocence, wished to raise the price, but Jim kept him to the twenty dollars.

"That or nothing," he said sternly. "And put a couple of baling-tins in. They'll be needed."

Arthur looked upon this ancient tub with frank dislike and with some dismay. The beauty of the rose-tinted morn was over; the sky was gray, and a rising north-west wind was making more than ripples on the lake.

"How far is Poplar Point?" he asked.

"Five miles," Jim answered. "But I guess you'll do it. You look strong."

"It isn't myself I'm thinking of; it's the boat. Do you think she can do it?"

"I've seen worse," said Jim. "Not many of them, though. But she'll do it, never fear. That there old boat have been on the lake ever since I knowed it."

Which, under the circ.u.mstances, was scarcely a recommendation.

By one o'clock, somehow or other, Arthur had got through his preparations. His story had got about; he found himself stared at in the streets as a greenhorn; but every one had shown him civility, and some a rough kindness. At the bank a great surprise awaited him. He found that Bundy had telegraphed a considerable sum of money to his credit, more than enough to give him a fair and even generous start.

Willing hands helped him to pack his goods. They were all there--the axes, the grub-hoe (with whose uses he was totally unacquainted), the sack of flour, and the various provisions. His valise was shoved under the stern seat, and with it half a dozen pamphlets on fruit-growing which he collected in the town. Flanagan had gone two hours earlier, with the promise that he would look out for him at Poplar Point.

"Keep your eye on the gap in the hills," was his final instruction, "then push up the creek to the left; and if it's dark, I'll burn a flare."

He had no sooner left the landing than he began to feel the force of the wind. It blew with a steady and increasing violence, dead ahead; pull as he would, he made little progress, and, to add to his discomfiture, he had to be continually baling. The moment he stopped to bale, the boat swung round or was driven backward. His hands were soon blistered, his muscles ached, yet toil as he would the far-off gap in the hills seemed no nearer. The water ran black and foam-flecked in short, choppy waves; the sky had darkened rapidly, and presently a cutting hail fell. In ordinary circ.u.mstances he would have turned back, but he had a lively recollection of Smith's stinging phrases, and had no mind to be written down a mamma's darling or derided as a quitter. This was, in its way, his first test, and to succ.u.mb would be to lose nerve for future difficulties. He was now in the very centre of the lake, and a thrill of apprehension seized him as he saw how small an object this crazy boat appeared in that loneliness of angry water. Black water, black forests, and on the upper hills pale rays of watery sunset--that was what he saw, and himself scarcely more noticeable than a bird, buffeted by the impending storm. But he toiled on, and at last got a little shelter from the sh.o.r.e. More than three hours had pa.s.sed since he left Nelson; and in this deep fissure of the hills the night had already camped. The darkness deepened rapidly. It was five o'clock when he rounded the point of the creek. Here the water was smoother, and he could pull more leisurely; but it was now quite dark. All his hopes were fixed on Flanagan. For another hour he searched the sh.o.r.es eagerly for any sign of light. Nothing met his eye but the tiny twinkling of a lamp here and there in the window of some unseen house. At last, just when he had made up his mind to spend the night upon the lake and wait for dawn, a sudden shaft of red flame soared up not a hundred yards away. A voice hailed him, and never did a human voice sound sweeter. Ten minutes later Flanagan's hand grasped his, and he stepped ash.o.r.e.

"The old boat's done it, then," said Flanagan. "I rather guessed she would. Now you come right along with me."

"So it was only a guess, was it?"