Harold Bindloss - The Ghost of Hemlock Canyon

Marvin’s pipe had gone out. The tobacco did not taste good, and although he rebelled, the mirror drew his brooding glance. He thought he saw blue smoke curl about the big trunks and the stiff pines roll down the gulch. They had portaged the canoe round a rapid and left her on the gravel by a pool. To reach the spot was awkward; one must scramble down a precipitous ravine, and then plow across the stones and driftwood between the rocks and the water.

They began their supper, but Marvin was not at ease. He thought the rapid’s turmoil ominously loud, and the rumbling note got sharper. All day the sun was scorching, and he knew the snow on the high peaks melted.

“The river might come down, Tom,” he said. “I’m through, and if you have had enough, I’ll help you pack our truck to camp. Then we ought to haul the canoe farther up the bank.”

“You’re not a restful camp-mate,” Aylward rejoined with a laugh. “Anyhow, you pitched the tent, cut the beds, and cooked supper; but I undertook to be accountable for the canoe and outfit. Division of labor’s useful, although I admit your habit is to carry out two-thirds of the job; mine is not to worry but let you go ahead. The important thing is, you’re a bully cook and your flapjacks are remarkably good. You might give me another and shove across the drips.”

Perhaps it was strange, but Marvin thought he accurately recaptured Aylward’s words. At all events, his reply was much like that, and it annoyed him. Sometimes Tom loafed for half an hour over a meal; Marvin thought ten minutes was long enough. The thing, of course, was a small thing, but for most of the day he had waded in glacier-water and tracked the canoe upstream.

“You are not taking supper while the band plays at a London restaurant,” he remarked. “We are in the woods, and our blankets and breakfast are down the gulch. If you go for them now, I’ll pack half the load, although I have done my share. If you wait until you’re forced you can carry up the lot.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Aylward tranquilly. “I’ll promise not to bother you, but I hate to hurry after supper, and I’m not going yet.”

In the quiet room at the ranch-house, Marvin reflected that Tom was obstinate. For all his easy cheerfulness, you could not hustle him. Then sometimes his humorous English politeness jarred. In Canada one did not use Old Country rules, but Marvin admitted a sort of jealousy. He supplied the labor and driving-force; Aylward, so to speak, spread himself and talked. Yet the boys liked Tom, and as far as possible left Marvin alone. Well, he was not a good mixer, and anyhow, for two or three months, he had borne a cruel strain.

He thought the rapid got angrier, but for a time Aylward calmly smoked his pipe. Then a floating tree crashed against a rock and a fresh turmoil throbbed across the woods. A rotten glacier’s foot perhaps had caved; perhaps the hot sun had suddenly released a flood. Anyhow, the river was coming down, and Marvin jumped to his feet.

“Now you have got to go,” he said.

“It looks like that,” Aylward agreed. “All the same, I mustn’t bother you. I undertook the job.”

“Oh, shucks!” shouted Marvin. “Don’t talk. Come on!”

The need for speed was obvious. A week’s supply of food, their blankets, rifle, and a small bag of gold were on board the canoe. As a rule, when the snow-fields melt, the river’s rise is swift, and sometimes the flood rolls down a canyon in a high, curling wave.

Plunging across sharp stones, and sliding where the pitch was steep, they reached the bottom of the ravine. The water lapped the driftwood stranded by other floods, the canoe was a hundred yards off, and Marvin doubted if they could get there. He, however, meant to try, and Aylward did not hesitate.

When they stopped by the canoe, the water was round their boots and the noise up the canyon was like the roar of a big freight-train. Aylward seized the bow, but Marvin pushed him back.

“We can’t save her. Get hold of the camp-truck!”

He gathered up their blankets, the rifle, and the gold. He could carry more, but when he reached for something else Aylward stopped him.

“Shove off with your load. Since I ought to have gone before, I’ll bring the heavy stuff.”

Marvin refused to go and waited sullenly. Tom’s firmness annoyed him, but after all he had declared he would not help. Aylward seized the cotton bag in which they carried their flour and pork and groceries. The bag, slung by Marvin’s old braces, went on one’s back, but after Aylward pushed his arms through the straps he stopped to pick up some other articles, and when they started the flood was near their knees.

For all that, Marvin, who was in front, did not go as fast as he might. Tom had meant to be nasty; he ought to have given him half the load. Moreover, had he not refused to go at the proper time, they might have saved the canoe. The big bag was heavy, and so long as his partner could not make much speed, Marvin was not going to run, but he was willing for him to sweat. He hated to be baffled by an obstinate loafer, and his jealousy and their small disputes, so to speak, had culminated in a savage moodiness.

Although Marvin did not hurry, he began to be afraid. The water was rising fast, and until they reached the spot where they had scrambled down, they could not climb the rocks. For a time he heard Aylward gasp and splash; and then the current got shallower, and they reached a narrow belt of gravel and driftwood. Aylward was three or four yards behind; his thick hiking boots rattled on the stones and sometimes rotten branches smashed. Then the road in the canyon drowned the noise he made.

Twenty yards off, a broken slab went up to a ledge from which the climb to the top was not hard. Marvin wanted to stop and hustle Aylward along, but there was not time to take part of his load. They must make the spot before the flood covered the gravel. Marvin was at the bottom a few moments in front; his impulse was to wait and shove the other up the awkward slab, but if he boosted Tom, he must throw down the rifle, and the Winchester was nearly new. Besides, the obstinate fool’s loafing had entangled them, and he would perhaps refuse to be helped. At the top of the slab Marvin could throw the stuff he carried on the ledge and pull him up.

Balancing his load awkwardly, he pushed his boot into a crack and began to climb. He knew he ought to wait, but he did not hurry altogether because he was afraid; he was rather moved by sullen stubbornness than fear. In fact, had Tom not been nasty, he would have stopped.

He climbed for two or three yards; and then a roar deafened him and a white wave rolled furiously down the channel. A broken pine rode on its crest; battered trunks and white, peeled branches tossed in the flood. Marvin’s boots were in the water and he let the blankets go; but, mechanically gripping the rifle, he crawled on to the ledge. Although the effort cost him much, he turned and looked back. The muddy green torrent swirled across the slab, but Tom was gone.

Five minutes afterwards, Marvin, breathless and trembling, reached the camp. Breakers crashed in the rapid, broken trees struck the rocks, and thirty pounds of camp supplies were strapped to Aylward’s back. Marvin’s skin was wet by sweat and his big hands shook. Had he firmly seized his proper load, had he but stopped for a moment at the bottom of the slab, Tom might have made the camp. Moreover, Marvin knew he had not got rattled; he had consciously indulged his moodiness. All he had thought was, Tom had refused to go when he might and must take his punishment.

In the morning the river fell and for two horrible days Marvin searched the rocks and pools. He knew there was no use in searching, but until he had done so he dared not start. Then at daybreak he threw the rifle on his shoulder and took the mountain trail. He hated his load; to some extent it accounted for the tragedy at the slab, but he had two or three cartridges of the proper size and he might find a deer. The nearest settlement was some distance off, and all his food was a hard bannock.