Chapter IX: A Fruitless Search
They had wandered far through the ranges, and camped beside several
lonely lakes, none of which, however, proved to be the one for which
they were searching, when Weston rose one morning from his lair among
the dewy fern. He did it reluctantly, for during the past week he had
carried Grenfell's load as well as his own, and it would have pleased
him to lie still a little longer. His shoulders were aching, and the
constant pressure of the pack-straps had galled them cruelly; but in
one respect it would not have troubled him if his burden had been
heavier, for their provisions were running out rapidly. There was a
river close by, but he no longer felt the least inclination for a
morning swim, or, indeed, for any occupation that was not obviously
necessary. He had lived very sparingly of late, and had contrived that
Grenfell got rather more than his share of the cut-down rations. It
was clear to him that the older man's strength was rapidly failing.
He kicked the embers of the fire together, and, after laying on a few
resinous billets split the night before, placed an inch or two of pork
in the frying-pan, and then carefully shook out a double handful of
flour from the almost-empty bag. This he beat up with water and poured
into the hot pan when the pork was done. He watched it until it
hardened a little on one side, when he flung it up into the air and
caught it in the pan again. There is an art in making palatable
flapjacks out of nothing but flour and water. When the meager
breakfast was ready, he awakened Grenfell, who sat up grumbling.
"It's time we made a start. This is our last day," said Weston.
Grenfell, who did not answer, made his toilet by buttoning his jacket
and stretching himself, after which he blinked at his companion with
watery eyes.
"There are no marble basins or delicately perfumed soaps in the bush," he said.
Weston laughed.
"I don't remember having seen them at the muskeg camp. In the
meanwhile, breakfast's ready. I'm sorry there isn't a little more of
it."
His companion glanced at the frying-pan.
"A scrap of rancid pork, and a very small flapjack—burnt at that! To
think that human intelligence and man's force of will should be
powerless without a sufficiency of such pitiable things. It's
humiliating."
Then, with a grimace of disgust, he stretched out his hand for the
blackened pannikin.
"Green tea is a beverage that never appealed to me, and I feel abject
this morning. Now, if I had a little Bourbon whisky I could laugh at
despondency and weariness. That golden liquid releases the mind from
the thraldom of the worn-out body."
"It depends on one's knees," said Weston, with a trace of dryness. "Yours have a habit of giving out unexpectedly, and I shouldn't like to carry you up this valley. Anyway, breakfast's ready, and we have to find that lake to-day or give up the search."
They set about breakfast, and again it happened that Grenfell got
rather more than his share. Then Weston, who carried also the heavy
rifle, strapped the double burden on his shoulders, and they started
on their march, walking wearily. The valley that they followed, like
most of the others, was choked with heavy timber, and they pressed on
slowly through the dim shadow of great balsams, hemlocks, and Douglas
firs, among which there sprang up thickets of tall green fern that
were just then dripping with the dew. The stiff fronds brushed the
moisture through the rags they wore and wet them to the skin; but they
were used to that. It was the fallen trees that troubled them most. These lay in stupendous ruin, with their giant branches stretching far on either side, and, where tangled thickets rendered a detour inadmissible, it now and then cost them half an hour's labor with the ax to hew a passage through. Then there were soft places choked with willows where little creeks wandered among the swamp-grass in which they sank to the knees; but they pushed on resolutely, with the perspiration dripping from them, until well on in the afternoon.