When Stannard reached the settlements he was again examined by the police. He knew where frankness paid and was frank, but he owed something to trooper Simpson's narrative and something to his personal charm. A magistrate ordered him to pay a rather heavy fine and give up the big-horn heads, and then let him go, but Stannard doubted if the police were altogether satisfied. The officer who examined him was remarkably keen.

On the evening Stannard returned to the hotel, Laura and Dillon occupied chairs at the table on the terrace. Electric lights burned on the veranda, for the days got short, but the sunset was not altogether gone. Dillon saw Laura's face in profile against the fading reflections. She looked away from him to the north, where pines and rocks and snow were all deep, soft blue. Her arm was on the table, her body was partly turned, and Dillon thought her strangely beautiful. All the same, he wanted her to look round.

"You are quiet," he remarked.

"I'm thinking about Jimmy in the wilds. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Dillon declared. "When Jimmy was around the hotel, I had no use for the fellow; now he's in the mountains, I'm bothered about him. Somehow one likes Jimmy, and if I knew how I could help, I'd start."

Laura turned her head and gave him a curious glance.

"Why do you like Jimmy? He's English and you're frankly American."

"That is so. To begin with, I've no pick on Jimmy because he loved you; if he had not loved you, I'd have known his blood wasn't red. Then, although he's English, in a sense he's our type. He's sincere; we are sincere, you know, and perhaps, from your point of view, we don't use much reserve. You can move us and when we're moved we talk and get busy. Well, Jimmy's like that; he's marked by something generously human, but I doubt if he got it at London clubs. Maybe it's his inheritance from the folks who built the cotton mill."

Laura said nothing. She doubted if Frank's willingness to state his grounds for liking Jimmy altogether accounted for his rather unusual effort. Indeed, she imagined he labored to get a light on a subject that puzzled him.

"Well," he resumed, "to know Deering went after Jimmy is some comfort. If Jimmy gets up against it in the rocks, Deering will see him through."

"Your trust in Deering is remarkable!"

"He's a white man," said Dillon with a smile. "To be his friend cost me high, but now I've cut out bets and cards, I'd sooner he'd got my money than another. You see, I got something back. The fellow's big."

Laura was annoyed. She wanted to feel Deering was her antagonist and had exploited Frank's trust. The trouble was, she could not altogether do so, but she dared not admit that Stannard shared his guilt and perhaps his reward. To chastise Deering, so to speak, exculpated her father.

"He is certainly muscular, and rather gross," she remarked.

"He's flesh and blood. I doubt if you quite get us yet. In the West, we haven't cultivated out rude emotions; we like a fellow who plunges at an obstacle, sweats and laughs, and sometimes gets mad. We're up against savage Nature and our job is a man's first job, to satisfy human needs. Well, you know my father; he's a pretty good Western type. When he started in, his food was frugal and his clothes were overalls. Now he's moving forests, and architects come to study the office block he built; but if things go wrong in the woods, his superintendents know he can use their talk and handle a cant-pole. His power springs from the primitive streak."

"We'll let it go," said Laura, and indicated the long rows of pines melting into the gloom. "Dark now comes soon."

"Before long the frost will come and in the mountains the cold is pretty fierce. On Puget Sound the soft Chinook blows and the white Olympians stand between you and the winds from the Rockies. The old man's keen for me to bring you back. What about our starting?"

Laura blushed, for she had agreed to marry Dillon soon, but she said, "My father cannot go yet. So long as Jimmy is in the mountains and the warden cannot tell his story, I think he will remain in Canada. Perhaps he ought to remain."

"Oh, well; you can reckon on Mr. Stannard's taking the proper line," Dillon agreed rather moodily. "You feel the thing's mechanical. Mr. Stannard is like that."

"Mechanical?" said Laura, lifting her brows.

"His taking the proper line's mechanical. He doesn't bother about it. In the West, his correctness is somehow exotic."

"If my father is exotic, I expect I am exotic."

"Sure! You are like a bird of paradise or a flower from the tropics. We are a rude lot of hustlers and your grace and beauty carry us away."

"You're romantic, but sometimes you're rather nice," Laura remarked with a smile. "All the same, if my father resolves to remain in Canada, it is not a mechanical resolve but because he feels he ought."

"I expect that is so," Dillon agreed, and lighted a cigarette.

He thought Stannard ought to stay, and since he meant to do so, to doubt him was not logical; yet Dillon did doubt. For one thing, the fellow was Jimmy's friend, but when Jimmy started for the rocks Deering, not the other, went after him. Then Stannard's narrative was puzzling. Jimmy had run away and his going indicated that he was accountable for the warden's getting shot. If Jimmy imagined he had shot at a deer, he ought to have stayed. Moreover, Bob had run away, and if he had hit the warden, it was obvious that Jimmy had not. Stannard's tale was not plausible, and since Stannard was clever Dillon imagined he had not told all he knew.

But Dillon began to see his vague antagonism had another foundation. He was frankly Western and Stannard's type was new, although some people in down-East cities cultivated his qualities. On the Pacific slope, men were highly-strung, optimistic, and rather boyishly keen. They plunged into big risky undertakings, sweated, and fought. In fact, where Nature was not yet conquered, their part was protagonist. Dillon owned that he himself was loafing, but he had not loafed long and would soon return to his proper occupation.

Stannard had not an occupation and Dillon thought the grounds for his distrust were there. Moreover, he had not a bank-roll, although he lived extravagantly and indulged his fastidiousness. His habit was to strike exactly the proper note, but sometimes its monotonous accuracy jarred. Fastidious cultivation was for women. Yet Stannard was not at all womanly; Dillon began to sense in him a hard, calculating vein. For all that, he must not exaggerate, and Laura was not like her father.

"You could of course join my folk, although Mr. Stannard would sooner wait," he said.

"I think not. My father planned the excursion to the mountains and led the party. Until people are satisfied about the shooting accident, I must not go to your house."

"Now you are ridiculous!" Dillon declared.

"All the same, I will not go," said Laura firmly.

"Then, I'm going to stay with you. I'd like to stay, but if Jimmy wants me, I'm his man."

"I don't expect Jimmy will need you. Father imagines he's a long way off and will soon reach the plains," said Laura and began to talk about something else.

Jimmy was not steering for the plains; he had, in fact, known for some time that he could not get there. The morning after Deering joined him was calm and cold. The sun touched the high rocks and in places a pine branch sparkled with dew, but a thousand feet below the camp the mist was like a level floor. One could not see the valley, and the turmoil of a river came up with a faint hoarse throb as if from a long way off. Jimmy's fatigue and gloom were gone; he felt fresh and to see Deering fry pork was comforting. He got a rather frugal breakfast and lighted his pipe.

"What are our plans for to-day?" he asked.

"We must try to get a deer. Fresh venison's most as tough as rawhide, but, if you put the roasted meat in a bag with salt, after a week or two you can eat the stuff. How many cartridges have you got?"

"Six," said Jimmy and Deering smiled.

"You started for the plains with six shells! Well, I've got a box of twenty-five, but somebody has taken out ten or twelve. Looks as if we want to shoot straight. The pork won't hold up long."

"Where do we go when we have got a deer?"

"I reckon we'll go north," said Deering thoughtfully. "They talk about new railroads, but so far the only line of communication between the Rockies and the sea is the C. P. R. track. The settlements follow the line, and when you pull out of the narrow belt you're in the wilderness. The police will, no doubt, reckon on your trying to make Vancouver. We'll stop in the wilds and let them watch the railroad until they get tired."

"But if they find I haven't gone to Vancouver, won't they try the bush?"

"Look at Stannard's map," said Deering, with a smile. "Note the row of ranges and valleys running north and south. But the big ridges and furrows are not even; they're broken by high bench country and cut up by cross-spurs. Pretty awkward ground to search for two fellows' tracks! Our trouble's not to hide, but to get supplies. All the food they use in British Columbia comes in by the C. P. R."

Jimmy studied the map and agreed. Moreover, he was young and the wilds called. To plunge into the great desolation was something of an adventure and Deering claimed to know the bush.

"What about your hired man? Did you trust the fellow?" Deering resumed.

"I had no grounds to doubt him," Jimmy replied in a thoughtful voice. "Bob was rather inscrutable and didn't attract me, but he could chop and this was all I wanted."

"So far as you can calculate, he hadn't a pick on you?"

"Not at all. I think he was satisfied with his pay, and since I generally let him plan the work we did not dispute. All the same, sometimes I imagined he gave me a queer moody look."

"Do you think he was, in any sense, Stannard's man?"

"Certainly not," said Jimmy, with some surprise. "Anyhow, I don't see – "

"I don't see," Deering admitted. "I'm looking for a light, but don't get much yet. Well, when you have smoked your pipe we'll hit the trail."

They got off a few minutes afterwards, and at noon reached the bottom of the hill. A high spur blocked the valley behind them, and the echoes of small avalanches rolled across the rocks. Deering declared the sliding snow would cover their tracks at the neck, but their line was to some extent obvious, and until they could break it, they must push on as fast as possible.

To push on fast was hard. Fallen trees and tangled brush blocked the gaps in the rows of trunks, but by and by Jimmy, looking through an opening, saw the woods shine with reflected light. The trees were like silver trees; they sparkled as if touched by frost, and for a few moments Jimmy was puzzled. Then he said, "Rampikes?"

Deering nodded. "A big burn! I expect it has cleared some ground for us."

A short distance farther on, the brushwood vanished. Underfoot was a soft carpet of ashes from which the trunks rose like columns. Their branches were gone and the smooth, round logs reflected the light. For a time to get free from entangling vines and thorns was a relief, but the ash was soft and when one disturbed it, went up in clouds. The black dust stuck to Jimmy's hot skin and he labored across the clogging stuff. Then the desolation began to react on him. The birds were gone and the feathery ash was not broken by the tracks of animals. It was obvious they would not find a deer. All was dead, and but for the noise of falling water the silence was daunting. At length Jimmy stopped and leaned against a trunk.

"Come off!" said Deering. "Sit down, if you like, although I'd sooner keep on my feet. You don't want to lean against a rampike."

Jimmy was tired and sat in the ashes.

"How do the fires start?" he asked.

"It's puzzling. The forestry people claim they're not spontaneous," Deering replied. "Around the settlements, a fire sometimes starts from a burned slashing and the police get after the homesteader. All the same, you hit brûlés in country the Indians and prospectors leave alone. Anyhow, I guess we're lucky because there's not much wind, and while our luck is good we'll push along."

They set off and some time afterwards the roar of an avalanche broke the brooding calm. The noise swelled and rolled about the valley, as if great rocks were coming down, and then Jimmy heard a near, sharp crash. He jumped mechanically, and looking back, saw a pillar of dust float up like smoke from a blasting shot. In the dust, a big rampike slanted, broke, and plunged. Another went and Deering pushed Jimmy.

"We'll pull out!" he shouted and they began to run.

When Jimmy stopped to get his breath the echoes had died away and all was quiet, but he felt he had had enough of the burned forest. After studying the rocks and gravel on the hillside he turned to Deering.

"You talked about breaking our line, and I expect we could get over the spur in front," he said. "Let's try."

XVIII
THE CARTRIDGE BELT

Jimmy's clothes were torn and he was bothered about his boots. He rather thought clothes and boots that would long bear the strain of a journey across the rocks were not made. At all events, one could not buy them at a Canadian settlement store. Then the things were wet and the morning was cold.

For all that, he must not grumble. The deer did not like the heavy dew and their habit was to come out on the rocks and get the sun. The Indian thought he had found a spot they haunted, and after breakfast led the others across a small tableland. By and by he stopped and Jimmy got down in the fern. In front, the timber was thin and a short distance off was a smooth rock. Jimmy saw the rock and the trees on the other side, but for a few moments this was all. A deer's soft color harmonizes with stones and trunks, and, when its outline is broken, to distinguish the animal is hard.

The Indian frowned and signed, and Jimmy imagined the small patch of light color cutting a pine trunk was a head. For one thing, it moved, and the crooked line below it looked like a leg. Jimmy did not see the deer's back, but the top of the leg indicated where its shoulder was, and he rested his rifle on a branch. He got the sights where he wanted, braced his muscles, held his breath, and steadily pulled the trigger.

The deer jumped and a thin streak of smoke floated in front of Jimmy's eyes. The animal was not on the rock, but after a moment or two he saw it rise from a thicket and go over some tangled branches a man's height from the ground. Yet he thought the leap awkward and the deer came down in the fern before it ought. His heart beat and he waited for another shot, until he saw Deering a few yards off and remembered that their cartridges were not numerous. Deering's body was firmly poised, his head was bent forward and he balanced his rifle half-way to his shoulder as if it were a gun. Jimmy knew he could use it like a gun.

When the deer broke from the fern at the edge of the tableland Jimmy did not shoot. The animal's leap carried it across a clump of tall raspberries, but it would vanish in a moment and the brush in front was thick. Deering's rifle jerked, and the graceful body, carried by its speed, plunged into the brush. Jimmy heard a crash and the deer was gone. He thought it had gone over a rock and putting down his rifle he ran.

A minute or two afterwards he stopped at the top of a precipitous slope. A stream, however, cut the mountain-side, and in places small trees were rooted in the stones. A hundred feet below, the deer lay on a shelf by a waterfall.

"I think I can reach it," said Jimmy, and went cautiously down.

They needed the venison, but when he had got down a short distance he knew he was rash, for it looked as if the rocks on the other side of the waterfall were perpendicular. Then, although he might perhaps reach the shelf, to carry the deer back was another thing.

Using the small trees for support, he got to a slab above the shelf. The slab was wet and dotted by greasy moss, but a few cracks and small stones broke its surface and Jimmy trusted his luck. When he came down the ground shook and he saw the shelf was not, as he imagined, a solid block but two or three large stones embedded in boggy soil. At one end the cascade had scooped out a small basin and the deer's hind quarters were in the pool. Jimmy seized its fore legs, and bracing his feet against a stone, began to pull. He pulled hard, but although he felt he moved, the deer did not. Then his foot went down, and letting go the animal, he threw himself back.

The deer rolled over and vanished. Water splashed, and Jimmy saw the stones plunge down the face of the cliff. For a moment or two he was rather angry than alarmed. They wanted the meat but the deer was gone. Then he saw he ran some risk of going down the cliff and he began to study the ground. Scratches on the stone indicated how he had reached the spot, but he had let himself go because the shelf was in front. The pitch was very steep and the rock was mossy. Not far off a small tree grew in a crack, but he could not reach the trunk and rather thought to try would send him over the precipice.

He heard a shout and nailed boots rattled. Deering was coming down, although he was not yet in Jimmy's line of view. After a time, Jimmy, lying against the rock, turned his head and saw Deering had got hold of the tree.

"I'm anchored," said Deering. "Can you reach my hand?"

The effort was risky, but Jimmy tried and Deering seized his wrist. Deering pulled him up for a foot or two, and then stopped and gasped.

"Jamb yourself against the slab; I've got to let go."

Jimmy's boots slipped on the smooth stone and his hands were wet; he could not get a proper hold and the moss was slimy under his knees. Spreading out his arms, he let himself go slack and trusted his limp body would not slip back. He could not now see Deering and did not know what he did. After a moment or two he felt him seize his cartridge belt.

"Use your knees. When I lift grab the tree."

The cartridge belt got tight and Jimmy, using its support, reached the trunk. His jacket felt slack, as if something were gone, but this was not important and he heard Deering's labored breath.

"Thanks!" he said, rather dully. "We have lost the deer."

"We have used two shells," said Deering. "Let's get up."

They got up, and at the top Jimmy put his hand to his waist.

"Hello! Where's my belt?"

"Now I think about it, when I held you up I felt something give. I guess the buckle was pulling out. Well, we ought to see the brown leather."

They did not see it and Jimmy said, "All the cartridges I had are gone. How many have you got?"

"Twelve," said Deering, rather grimly. "Anyhow, I'm not going down again."

Jimmy nodded. He thought the belt had gone over the cliff.

"I brought about six pounds of pork from the camp."

"My load's flour, desiccated fruit, and a few cans of meat. Looks as if we had got to eat salmon."

"In the Old Country, one doesn't grumble about eating salmon," Jimmy remarked.

"Oh, well," said Deering, "I was raised in the bush and am not fastidious, but if we can't get salmon, I'll be resigned. The trouble is, since food's short we can't push back too far from the settlements. Well, we must try to hit a creek."

In the evening they came down to a small river and pitched camp on the bank. The Indian cut and trimmed a straight fir branch, but left a fork at the thinner end. Then he pulled out two cleverly-carved bone barbs, which he fitted on the forks and fastened by sinews to the staff.

"You could carry the business part of his outfit in your pocket," Deering remarked. "I expect his folks have used barbs like that for a thousand years. An Indian's tools are standardized, but when he thinks them good enough he stops. All the same, I reckon he gets most as far as a man can get alone. He's an artist, but we beat him by cooperating to make machines. Anyhow, the fellow doesn't want you. Take a smoke and let him spear a fish."

Jimmy lighted his pipe and looked about. A few yards off, the current splashed against the stones. The water was green, and the line of driftwood and dead leaves on the bank indicated that the frost was stopping the muddy streams from the glaciers. Some distance down the river, the Indian balanced on a rock in a pool at the tail of a rapid. For a time he did not move and Jimmy thought his quietness statuesque. The fellow was like the herons he had studied with his glasses by a pool on the Scottish border. Then his body bent and the spear went down. The thrust and recovery were strangely quick and Jimmy rather doubted if the man had moved.

"It looks as if he missed his stroke," he said.

"He's using a fir branch. An Indian spear is beautifully modeled," Deering replied.

A few minutes afterwards, the Indian bent backwards and a shining object struck the bank. Coming to the fire, he put down the fish and Jimmy's appetite was blunted. The salmon was lean and battered. Its color was dull and its tail was broken. Rows of scales were rubbed off; the fins were worn from the supporting ribs.

"I'm not as hungry as I was. Are all like that?" he said.

"It depends on when you get them," Deering replied. "A June steelhead, fresh from the sea, is pretty good, but a salmon that has pushed through to head waters in the fall is another thing. When you think about it, the salmons' journey inland is remarkable. They bore against the autumn floods when the melted snow comes down; they force tremendous rapids, whirlpools, and roaring falls. Where the water's calm in the valleys, eagles and fish-hawks harry them, and the mink hunts them in the shallows. But they can't be stopped; they follow Nature's urge and shove on across all obstacles for the distant gravel banks. Then they spawn, where they were hatched, and the bears eat their spent carcasses. The trouble is, I'm not a bear, but I've got to eat salmon."

When the Indian had fried two or three thick steaks, Jimmy sympathized with Deering. The flesh was soft and its taste was rank. For all that, he thought if he had not seen the salmon he might have had a better appetite. At the hotel he had eaten because his food tempted him; now he ate because he must. By and by he threw down his tin plate.

"I've had enough. If we can find a deer, we must risk another cartridge. We have got twelve."

"You can't reckon on getting a deer for every shot, and although, as a rule, the deer are pretty numerous about the small clearings, in some belts of back country you can't find one. I expect they're attracted by the crops. In fact, the wild animals and large birds aren't much afraid of the ranchers; they quit when the automobiles and city sports arrive."

"But if we stop in the neighborhood of a settlement, the police may get on our trail," Jimmy rejoined.

"The police are smart and I allow they're obstinate. All the same, to search the rocks from Banff to Revelstoke is a big job. You can give yourself away by two things, shooting and smoke, but we can fix the smoke and we're not going to shoot much. As soon as we hit a proper spot, we'll build a shack."

"By and by our supplies will run out."

"That is so," Deering agreed. "In the meantime, we're baffling the police. Just now I expect they're busy looking for our tracks, but they have got other jobs and can't keep it up. Well, when we think they're forced to quit, we'll find a plan – "

He stopped and the Indian turned his head. A faint, hoarse bark came from the distance and echoed across the valley. Jimmy jumped up and looked about. The light was going and the pines were blurred.

"A dog?" he said.

"A timber wolf," said Deering. "He's not alone. I hear another."

A howl, pitched on a high mournful note, pierced the gloom and Jimmy shivered. The noise was strangely dreary.

"Will the wolves bother us?"

"I think not," said Deering and talked in Chinook to the Indian, who nodded. "The fellow agrees," he resumed. "In North Ontario we watch out for wolves when the snow is on the ground, but as a rule in British Columbia they leave the ranchers alone. Sometimes they take a sheep; I reckon that's all. The trouble is, they kill deer, and when the wolves start hunting the deer pull out."

Jimmy got down on his blanket by the fire. He felt the wilds were daunting and to see the flame leap about the branches was some comfort. Now and then a wolf howled in the distance, but by and by all was quiet and he went to sleep.