The Gold Trail | Page 8

the construction foreman
had been influenced only by a desire to get rid of a man who was to
some extent incapacitated. As a matter of fact, Miss Stirling, who had
been rather pleased with the part he had played two days ago, had,
when her father insisted on her taking a white man as well as the
Indians, given Cassidy instructions that he should be sent. Still, she
naturally did not mention this, and indeed said nothing of any account
while they went on to the canoes.
It was slacker water above the rapid; and all afternoon they slid slowly
up on deep, winding reaches of the still, green river. Sometimes it
flashed under dazzling sunshine, but at least as often they moved
through the dim shadow of towering pines that rolled, rank on rank,
somber and stately, up the steep hillside, while high above them all rose
tremendous ramparts of eternal snow. Then, as the sun dipped behind
the great mountain wall, the clean, aromatic fragrance of pine and fir
and cedar crept into the cooling air, and a stillness so deep that it
became almost oppressive descended upon the lonely valley. The
splash of pole or paddle broke through it with a startling distinctness,
and the faint gurgle at the bows became curiously intensified. The pines
grew slower, blacker and more solemn; filmy trails of mist crawled out
from among the hollows of the hills; and the still air was charged with
an elixir-like quality when Weston ran his canoe ashore.
While he and the Indians set about erecting a couple of tents, he saw
Miss Kinnaird standing near him and gazing up across the misty pines
toward the green transparency that still hung above the blue-white
gleam of snow.
"This," she said to Miss Stirling, "is really wonderful. One can't get
hold of it at once. It's tremendous."
The smallest of the pines rose two hundred feet above her; and they ran
up until they dwindled to insignificance far aloft at the foot of a great
scarp of rock that rose beyond them for a thousand feet or so and then
gave place in turn to climbing fields of snow.

The girl, who was an artist, drew in her breath.
"Switzerland and Norway. It's like them both--and yet it grips you
harder than either," she added. "I suppose it's because there are no
hotels, or steamers. Probably very few white people have ever been
here before."
"I really don't think many have," said Ida Stirling.
Then Miss Kinnaird laughed softly as she glanced at her attire.
"I must take off these fripperies. They're out of key," she said. "One
ought to wear deerskins, or something of that kind here."
Weston heard nothing further, and remembered that, after all, the girl's
sentiments were no concern of his. It was his business to prepare the
supper and wait on the party; and he set about it. Darkness had
descended upon the valley when he laid the plates of indurated ware on
a strip of clean white shingle, and then drawing back a few yards sat
down beneath the first of the pines in case they needed anything further.
A fire blazed and crackled between two small logs felled for the
purpose and rolled close together, and its flickering light fell upon him
and those who sat at supper, except at times when it faded suddenly and
the shadows closed in again. He was then attired picturesquely in a
fringed deerskin jacket dressed by some of the Blackfeet across the
Rockies. Kinnaird, who had once or twice glanced in his direction,
gazed hard at him.
"Have you ever been in India?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Weston in a formal manner, though "sir" is not often
used deferentially in western Canada.
Kinnaird appeared thoughtful.
"Well," he said, "I can't help thinking that I have come across you
somewhere before. I have a good memory for faces, and yours is
familiar."

"I have never seen you until to-day," said Weston. "I don't remember
your name, either."
"The curious thing," persisted Kinnaird, "is that while I can't quite
locate you I am almost sure I am right. What makes me feel more
certain is that, though you were younger then, you have grown into the
man I should have expected you to." Then he laughed. "Anyway, it's
clear that you don't remember me."
He turned to the others, and Miss Kinnaird asked for more coffee, after
which Weston, who brought it, sat still again to wait until he could take
away the plates. It was evident that his presence placed no restraint on
the conversation. At length he became suddenly intent. Kinnaird was
contrasting Canada and England for Miss Stirling's benefit.
"Of course," he said, "we have nothing like this, but in the