Part 8 (2/2)
Larry s.n.a.t.c.hed it, cras.h.i.+ng down the sh.o.r.e in the vain hope of reaching the drifting body. The canoe was up in the woods where they had dropped it at the sound of Jack's gunshots. He could not begin to get near enough with that twenty-foot rope. There was but one hope left--a huge overhanging pine tree a little above the falls--perhaps he could help the struggling man from its branches. But before he could even reach the tree, let alone crawl out above the river, the dark, drifting ma.s.s, with its struggling arms and white face, had already been sucked far past its furthest branches. Beside Jack, whose straining eyes watched for the inevitable end, stood Fox-Foot, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze riveted on the drifting speck. Then both boys shuddered, for the swirling speck seemed suddenly to stand erect, then plunged feet foremost over the brink.
Larry returned very slowly, his legs lagging heavily at every step. All day they searched in the river far below the falls, but not a trace could be found of the man in the mackinaw.
”Is there a particle of chance that the poor fellow _could_ escape death?” asked Larry of Fox-Foot that night, when, wearied and thoroughly played out, they pitched their camp for the last night in the forest.
”Yes; one chance in fifty. My father he knows two men escape long time ago.”
”It strikes me,” said Larry, grimly, ”that if there is a ghost of a chance he'll get it.”
”I hope so,” declared Jack, fervently. ”My neck will be purple from his claws for some time yet, but, oh! I _hope_ he escaped.”
”Yes,” echoed Larry, solemnly, ”it would be miserable to think that I had secured this gold at the price of a man's life, no matter how degraded that man may be. No, I would not want the gold at that price.”
So with this shadow surrounding them, their last day in the wilds was very quiet, and, when at last they paddled into the little settlement, it was with a sigh of both regret and relief that Matt Larson lifted his gold sacks from the canoe.
The Hudson's Bay trader greeted them cordially. ”Got any furs for me, Larry?” was the first thing he asked.
Then Matt Larson threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in days. He had forgotten all about that old tale that he was going north for ”furs.” So now he related all his story, showing his gold to the bluff, old, honest trader.
”You're lucky to get it to the front,” said that person. ”There's been one of our notorious Northern 'bad men' up in the bush for weeks. If you'd come across him now, you would never have got those nuggets here safely. But you're all right from now on. He drifted in here to-day and took the noon train west.”
All three adventurers sprang to their feet.
”_What_!” yelled Larry. ”Came here _to-day_! What did he look like?”
”Looked more like mincemeat than any human being I ever saw,” replied the trader. ”Tall, dark, evil-looking man. Wore a mackinaw, was wringing wet to the skin, had one arm in a sling made of a wild grapevine, face slit up in ribbons as if he'd been fighting bears, limped as if he had stringhalt. Said he was going to the hospital at Port Arthur.”
Larry's reply was an odd one. He turned abruptly to Fox-Foot. ”Boy,” he said, ”you're coming East with us to-night. Right now! Don't say 'no,'
for I tell you you're coming. After the tricks you played on that villain your life would not be worth the smallest nugget in those sacks if you stayed here. We'll come back after a time, but you are coming with me, _now_!”
Jack Cornwall found he could not speak a word, but just held out both hands to the Chippewa. And that night as the three sat together in the cozy sleeper, while the train thundered its way eastward, Jack wondered why he was so wonderfully happy. Was it because he had proved himself a man on this strange, wild journey? Was it because of those heavy sacks beside him, filled with the King's Coin, which Larry declared he was to share? He could hardly define the reason, until, glancing up suddenly, he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes of very rare beauty.
Then he knew that this strangely happy feeling came from the simple fact that there were to be no ”good-byes,” that Fox-Foot was still beside him.
A Night With ”North Eagle”
A Tale Founded on Fact.
The great transcontinental express was swinging through the Canadian North-West territories into the land of the Setting Sun. Its powerful engine throbbed along the level track of the prairie. The express, mail, baggage, first-cla.s.s and sleeping coaches followed like the pliant tail of a huge eel. Then the wheels growled out the tones of lessening speed.
The giant animal slowed up, then came to a standstill. The stop awoke Norton Allan, who rolled over in his berth with a peculiar wide-awake sensation, and waited vainly for the train to resume its flight towards the Rockies. Some men seemed to be trailing up and down outside the Pullman car, so Norton ran up the little window blind and looked out.
Just a small station platform, of a small prairie settlement, was all he saw, but he heard the voices very distinctly.
”What place is this?” someone asked.
”Gleichen, about sixty miles east of Calgary,” came the reply.
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