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

Into The Wilderness,  To Repay In The

Spring With Furs.                                     

 

So,  By Degrees,  The Free-Trader's Stock Approached Depletion,  Until

There Remained No More Than Two Good Dog Teams Could Haul. With That On

Sleds,  And A Few Bundles Of Furs Traded In By Trappers Whose Lines

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 63

Radiated From The Porcupine,  Thompson And Joe Lamont Came Back To Fort

Pachugan.

 

The Factor Seemed Well Pleased With The Undertaking. He Checked Up The

Goods And Opined That The Deal Would Show A Rare Profit For The Company.

 

"Ye Have A Hundred An' Twenty-Six Dollars Due,  Over An' Above A Charge

Or Two Against Ye," He Said To Thompson When They Went Over The

Accounts. "How Will Ye Have It? In Cash? If Ye Purpose To Winter At Lone

Moose A Credit Maybe'll Serve As Well. Or,  If Ye Go Out,  Ye Can Have A

Cheque On The Company At Edmonton."

 

"Give Me The Hundred In Cash," Thompson Decided. "I'll Take The Twenty

Odd In Grub. I'm Going To Lone Moose,  But I Don't Know How Long I'll

Stay There. There's Some Stuff Of Mine There That I Want To Get. After

That--I'm A Bit Undecided."

 

In Those Long Nights At The Porcupine He Had Done A Good Deal Of

Pondering Over His Next Move. He Had Not Yet Come To A Fixed Decision.

In A General Way He Knew That He Was Going Out Into The World From

Whence He Had Come,  With An Altogether Different Point Of View,  To Work

Out His Future Along Altogether Different Lines. But He Had Not Made Up

His Mind To Do This At Once. He Was Clearly Conscious Of One Imperative

Craving. That Was For A Sight Of Sophie Carr And A Chance To Talk To Her

Again. His Heart Quickened When He Thought Of Their Parting. He Knew She

Was Anything But Indifferent. He Was Not An Egotist,  But He Knew She

Harbored A Feeling Akin To His Own,  And He Built Hopes On That,  Despite

Her Blunt Refusal,  The Logical Reasons She Had Set Forth. He Hoped

Again. He Saw Himself In The Way Of Becoming Competent--As The North,

Which Is A Keen Judge,  Appraises Competence. He Had Chucked Some Of His

Illusions About Relative Values. He Conceived That In Time He Might

Approximate To Sophie Carr's Idea Of A Man.

 

He Wanted To See Her,  To Talk With Her,  To Make Her Define Her Attitude

A Little More Clearly. Looking Back With His Mind A Great Deal Less

Confused By Emotion,  He Wondered Why He Had Been So Dumb,  Why He Had Not

Managed To Convey To Her That The Things She Foresaw As Denying Them

Happiness Or Even Toleration For Each Other Were Not A Final State In

Him,  That His Ideas And Habits And Pursuits Were In A State Of Flux That

Might Lead Him Anywhere. She Had Thrown Cold Water On The Flame Of His

Passion. But He Remembered With A Glow Of Happiness That She Had Kissed

Him.

 

He Pondered Deeply Upon This,  Wondering Much At The Singular Attraction

This Girl Held For Him,  The Mystery Of That Strange Quality That Drew

Him So. He Lacked Knowledge Of The Way And Power Of Women. It Had Never

Touched Him Before. It Was Indeed As If He Had Been Asleep And Had

Wakened With A Start. He Was Intensely Curious About That,  Curious To

Know Why He,  Who Had Met Nice Girls And Attractive Women By The Score,

Had Come Into The North Woods To Be Stirred Out Of All Reason By A Slip

Of A Girl With Yellow Hair And Expressive Gray Eyes And A Precocious

Manner Of Thinking.

 

He Looked Forward Eagerly To Seeing Her Again. He Somehow Felt A Little

More Sure Of Himself Now. He Could Think Of A Number Of Things He Wished

To Ask Her,  Of Ideas He Wanted To Expand Into Speech. The Hurt Of Her

Blank Refusal Had Dulled A Little. He Could Anticipate A Keen Pleasure

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 64

Just In Seeing Her.

 

In The Morning He Set About Outfitting. He Had Come Down From Porcupine

With Dogs. He Had Seen Dog Teams Bearing The Goods And Chattels Of

Innumerable Natives. He Perceived The Essential Usefulness Of Dogs And

Snowshoes And Toboggans In That Boundless Region Of Snow. Canoes When

The Ice Went Out,  Dogs And Toboggans When Winter Came Again To Lock

Tight The Waterways. So During His Stay At Porcupine He Had Accepted The

Gift Of A Dog From A Cree,  Traded Tobacco For Another,  And He And Lamont

Had Whiled Away The Long Evenings In Making Two Sets Of Harness And A

Small Toboggan. A Four-Dog Team Will Haul A Sizable Load. Two Would Move

All The Burden Of Food And Gear That He Had In His Possession. He Had

Learned Painfully To Walk Upon Snowshoes--Enough So That He Was Over The

Poignant Ache In The Calf Of The Leg Which The North Calls _Mal De

Racquette_. Altogether He Felt Himself Fully Equal To Fare Into The

Wilderness Alone. Moreover He Had None Of That Intangible Dread Of The

Wilderness Which Had Troubled Him When He First Came To Lone Moose.

 

Then It Seemed Lonely Beyond Expression,  Brooding,  Sinister. It Was

Lonely Still--But That Was All. He Was Beginning To Grasp The Motif Of

The Wilderness,  To Understand In A Measure That To Those Who Adapted

Themselves Thereto It Was A Sanctuary. The Sailor To His Sea,  The

Woodsman To His Woods,  And The _Boulevardier_ To His Beloved Avenues!

Thompson Did Not Cleave To The North As A Woodsman Might. But The

Natural Phenomena Of Unbroken Silences,  Of Vast Soundlessness,  Of Miles

Upon Miles Of Somber Forest Aisles Did Not Oppress Him Now. What A Man

Understands He Does Not Fear. The Unknown,  The Potentially Terrible

Which Spurs The Imagination To Horrifying Vision,  Is What Bears Heavy On

A Man's Soul.

 

Thompson's Preparation For The Trail Was Simple. That Lesson He Had

Learned From Two Months' Close Association With Joe Lamont. He Had

Acquired A Sleeping Bag Of Moosehide,  Soft Tanned. This,  His Gun And

Axe,  The Grub He Got From The Pachugan Store,  He Had Lashed On The

Toboggan And Put His Dogs In Harness At Daybreak. There Would Be Little

Enough Day To Light His Steps. Dusk Came At Midafternoon.

 

When He Had Tied The Last Lashing He Shook Hands With Macleod And Set

Out.

 

He Traversed The Sixty Miles Between Pachugan And Lone Moose In Two

Days,  By Traveling Late The First Night,  Under A Brilliant Moon. It Gave

Him A Far Vision Of The Lake Shore,  Black Point After Black Point

Thrusting Out Into The Immense White Level Of The Lake. Upon That Hard

Smooth Surface He Could Tuck The Snowshoes Under His Lashings And Trot

Over The Ice,  His Dogs At His Heels,  The Frost-Bound Hush Broken By The

Tinkle Of A Little Bell Joe Lamont Had Fastened On The Lead Dog's

Collar. It Rang Sweetly,  A Gay Note In That Chill Void.

 

That Night He Drew Into A Spruce Grove,  Cleared A Space For His Fire And

Bed,  Fed Himself Hot Tea And A Bannock,  And The Hindquarters Of A Rabbit

Potted By His Rifle On The Way. He Went To Sleep With Drowsy Eyes

Peeping At The Cold Stars From Under The Flap Of His Sleeping Bag,  At

The Jagged Silhouette Of Spruce Tops Cut Sharp Against The Sky.

 

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 65

He Drew Up Before The Mission Quarters In The Gray Of The Next Dusk,  And

Stood Again After Nigh Three Months At His Own Door. The Clearing Was A

White Square,  All Its Unlovely Litter Of Fallen Trees And Half-Burned

Stumps Hidden Under The Virgin Snow. The Cabin Sat Squat And

Brown-Walled Amid This. On All Sides The Spruce Stood Dusky-Green.

Beyond,  Over In Lone Moose Meadow,  Thompson,  Standing A Moment Before He

Opened The Door,  Heard Voices Faintly,  The Ringing Blows Of An Axe. Some

One Laughed.

 

The Frost Stirred Him Out Of This Momentary Inaction. In A Few Minutes

He Had A Fire Glowing In The Stove,  A Lamp Lighted,  The Chill Driven

From That Long Deserted Room. Except For That Chill And A Slight

Closeness,  The Cabin Was As He Had Left It. Outside,  His Two Dogs

Snarled And Growled Over Their Evening Ration Of Dried Fish,  And When

They Had Consumed The Last Scrap Curled Hardily In The Snow Bank Near

The Cabin Wall.

 

Thompson Had Achieved A Hair-Cut At Pachugan. Now He Got Out His Razor

And Painstakingly Scraped Away The Accumulated Beard. He Had Allowed It

To Grow Upon Joe Lamont's Assertion That "De Wheesker,  She's Help Keep

Hout De Fros',  Bagosh." Thompson Doubted The Efficiency Of Whiskers As A

Protection,  And He Wanted To Appear Like Himself. He Made That

Concession Consciously To His Vanity.

 

He Did Not Waste Much Time. While He Shaved And Washed,  His Supper

Cooked. He Ate,  Drew The Parka Over His Head,  Hooked His Toes Into The

Loops Of His Snowshoes And Strode Off Toward Carr's House. The Timidity

That Made Him Avoid The Place After His Fight With Tommy Ashe And

Subsequent Encounter With Sophie Had Vanished. The Very Eagerness Of His

Heart Bred A Profound Self-Confidence. He Crossed The Meadow As

Hurriedly As An Accepted Lover.

 

For A Few Seconds There Was No Answer To His Knock. Then A Faint

Foot-Shuffle Sounded,  And Carr's Indian Woman Opened The Door. She

Blinked A Moment In The Dazzle Of Lamp Glare On The Snow Until,

Recognizing Him,  Her Brown Face Lit Up With A Smile.

 

"You Come Back Lone Moose,  Eh?" She Said. "Come In."

 

Thompson Put Back The Hood Of His Parka And Laid Off His Mitts. The Room

Was Hot By Comparison With Outdoors. He Looked About. Carr's Woman

Motioned Him To A Chair. Opposite Him The Youngest Carr Squatted Like A

Brown Billiken On A Wolfskin. Every Detail Of That Room Was Familiar.

There Was The Heavy,  Homemade Chair Wherein Sam Carr Was Wont To Sit And

Read. Close By It Stood Sophie's Favorite Seat. A Nickel-Plated Oil Lamp

Gave Forth A Mellow Light Under A Pale Birch-Bark Shade. But He Missed

The Old Man With A Pipe In His Mouth And A Book On His Knee,  The

Gray-Eyed Girl With The Slow Smile And The Sunny Hair.

 

"Mr. Carr And Sophie--Are They Home?" He Asked At Length.

 

The Indian Woman Shook Her Head.

 

"Sam And Sophie Go 'Way," She Said Placidly. "No Come Back Lone Moose

Long