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Page 9
Stretching out his arms, he cried: "My old river--it's me--Johnny
Keith! I've come back!"
And the river, whispering, seemed to answer him: "It's Johnny Keith!
And he's come back! He's come back!"
IV
For a week John Keith followed up the shores of the Saskatchewan. It
was a hundred and forty miles from the Hudson's Bay Company's post of
Cumberland House to Prince Albert as the crow would fly, but Keith did
not travel a homing line. Only now and then did he take advantage of a
portage trail. Clinging to the river, his journey was lengthened by
some sixty miles. Now that the hour for which Conniston had prepared
him was so close at hand, he felt the need of this mighty, tongueless
friend that had played such an intimate part in his life. It gave to
him both courage and confidence, and in its company he could think more
clearly. Nights he camped on its golden-yellow bars with the open stars
over his head when he slept; his ears drank in the familiar sounds of
long ago, for which he had yearned to the point of madness in his
exile--the soft cries of the birds that hunted and mated in the glow of
the moon, the friendly twit, twit, twit of the low-flying sand-pipers,
the hoot of the owls, and the splash and sleepy voice of wildfowl
already on their way up from the south. Out of that south, where in
places the plains swept the forest back almost to the river's edge, he
heard now and then the doglike barking of his little yellow friends of
many an exciting horseback chase, the coyotes, and on the wilderness
side, deep in the forest, the sinister howling of wolves. He was
traveling, literally, the narrow pathway between two worlds. The river
was that pathway. On the one hand, not so very far away, were the
rolling prairies, green fields of grain, settlements and towns and the
homes of men; on the other the wilderness lay to the water's edge with
its doors still open to him. The seventh day a new sound came to his
ears at dawn. It was the whistle of a train at Prince Albert.
There was no change in that whistle, and every nerve-string in his body
responded to it with crying thrill. It was the first voice to greet his
home-coming, and the sound of it rolled the yesterdays back upon him in
a deluge. He knew where he was now; he recalled exactly what he would
find at the next turn in the river. A few minutes later he heard the
wheezy chug, chug, chug of the old gold dredge at McCoffin's Bend. It
would be the Betty M., of course, with old Andy Duggan at the windlass,
his black pipe in mouth, still scooping up the shifting sands as he had
scooped them up for more than twenty years. He could see Andy sitting
at his post, clouded in a halo of tobacco smoke, a red-bearded,
shaggy-headed giant of a man whom the town affectionately called the
River Pirate. All his life Andy had spent in digging gold out of the
mountains or the river, and like grim death he had hung to the bars
above and below McCoffin's Bend. Keith smiled as he remembered old
Andy's passion for bacon. One could always find the perfume of bacon
about the Betty M., and when Duggan went to town, there were those who
swore they could smell it in his whiskers.
Keith left the river trail now for the old logging road. In spite of
his long fight to steel himself for what Conniston had called the
"psychological moment," he felt himself in the grip of an uncomfortable
mental excitement. At last he was face to face with the great gamble.
In a few hours he would play his one card. If he won, there was life
ahead of him again, if he lost--death. The old question which he had
struggled to down surged upon him. Was it worth the chance? Was it in
an hour of madness that he and Conniston had pledged themselves to this
amazing adventure? The forest was still with him. He could turn back.
The game had not yet gone so far that he could not withdraw his
hand--and for a space a powerful impulse moved him. And then, coming
suddenly to the edge of the clearing at McCoffin's Bend, he saw the
dredge close inshore, and striding up from the beach Andy Duggan
himself! In another moment Keith had stepped forth and was holding up a
hand in greeting.
He felt his heart thumping in an unfamiliar way as Duggan came on. Was
it conceivable that the riverman would not recognize him? He forgot his
beard, forgot the great change that four years had wrought in him. He
remembered only that Duggan had been his friend, that a hundred times
they had sat together in the quiet glow of long evenings, telling tales
of the great river they both loved. And always Duggan's stories had
been of that mystic paradise hidden away in the western mountains--the
river's end, the paradise of golden lure, where the Saskatchewan was
born amid towering peaks, and where Duggan--a long time ago--had
quested for the treasure which he knew was hidden somewhere there. Four
years had not changed Duggan. If anything his beard was redder and
thicker and his hair shaggier than when Keith had last seen him. And
then, following him from the Betsy M., Keith caught the everlasting
scent of bacon. He devoured it in deep breaths. His soul cried out for
it. Once he had grown tired of Duggan's bacon, but now he felt that he
could go on eating it forever. As Duggan advanced, he was moved by a
tremendous desire to stretch out his hand and say: "I'm John Keith.
Don't you know me, Duggan?" Instead, he choked back his desire and
said, "Fine morning!"
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