Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Chapter 1 (The First Problem) Pg 1

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

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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 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

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Against Any Attempt To Duplicate It. They Were 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.

 

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

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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 Resemblance. It Was

More Subtle Than Likeness Of Feature. Perhaps It Was Because Of Their

Eyes,  Alike Deep Gray,  Wide And Expressive,  Lifted Always To Meet

Another's In Level Unembarrassed Frankness.

 

They Halted At The Edge Of The Porch. The Girl Sat Down. The Young Man

Nodded To Carr. Though They Had But Lately Been Fair In The Path Of The

Thunderstorm They Had Escaped A Wetting. The Girl's Eyes Followed Her

Father's Glance,  Seemed To Read His Thought.

 

"We Happened To Find A Spruce Thick Enough To Shed The Rain," She

Smiled. "Or I Suppose We'd Have Been Soaked Properly."

 

The Young Fellow Tarried Only 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 Strokes Of The

Blade Drove Him Out Of Sight Around The First Brushy Bend Upstream.

 

The Girl Looked Thoughtfully After Him. Her Face Was Flushed,