The Valley of Silent Men | Page 9

to lean
out of his window and shout a last good-by. For the brigade--a
Company brigade, the brigade that had chanted its songs up and down
the water reaches of the land for more than two hundred and fifty
years--was starting north. And he knew where it was going--north, and
still farther north; a hundred miles, five hundred, a thousand--and then
another thousand before the last of the scows unburdened itself of its
precious freight. For the lean and brown-visaged men who went with
them there would be many months of clean living and joyous thrill
under the open skies. Overwhelmed by the yearning that swept over
him, Kent leaned back against his pillows and covered his eyes.
In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly the
things he was losing. Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and the
river brigade would still be sweeping on--on into the Grand Rapids of
the Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding valiantly the rocks
and rapids of the Grand Cascade, the whirlpools of the Devil's Mouth,
the thundering roar and boiling dragon teeth of the Black Run--on to
the end of the Athabasca, to the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, until the
last rock-blunted nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of the Arctic
Ocean. And he, James Kent, would be DEAD!
He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he
looked forth once more. There were sixteen scows in the brigade, and
the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand. He could fancy
Pierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre's wife was
waiting for him a thousand miles away. The scows were caught steadily
now in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched them
go, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroaching
monsters of steel. Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, and
his soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent.
He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chanting
oarsmen were lost in the distance. Again he listened to the lazy hum of
the sawmill, and over his head he heard the velvety run of a red squirrel

and then its reckless chattering. The forests came back to him. Across
his cot fell a patch of golden sunlight. A stronger breath of air came
laden with the perfume of balsam and cedar through his window, and
when the door opened and Cardigan entered, he found the old Kent
facing him.
There was no change in Cardigan's voice or manner as he greeted him.
But there was a tenseness in his face which he could not conceal. He
had brought in Kent's pipe and tobacco. These he laid on a table until
he had placed his head close to Kent's hearty listening to what he called
the bruit--the rushing of blood through the aneurismal sac.
"Seems to me that I can hear it myself now and then," said Kent.
"Worse, isn't it?"
Cardigan nodded. "Smoking may hurry it up a bit," he said. "Still, if
you want to--"
Kent held out his hand for the pipe and tobacco. "It's worth it. Thanks,
old man."
Kent loaded the pipe, and Cardigan lighted a match. For the first time
in two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent's lips.
"The brigade is starting north," he said.
"Mostly Mackenzie River freight," replied Cardigan. "A long run."
"The finest in all the North. Three years ago O'Connor and I made it
with the Follette outfit. Remember Follette--and Ladouceur? They both
loved the same girl, and being good friends they decided to settle the
matter by a swim through the Death Chute. The man who came through
first was to have her. Gawd, Cardigan, what funny things happen!
Follette came out first, but he was dead. He'd brained himself on a rock.
And to this day Ladouceur hasn't married the girl, because he says
Follette beat him; and that Follette's something-or-other would haunt
him if he didn't play fair. It's a queer--"

He stopped and listened. In the hall was the approaching tread of
unmistakable feet.
"O'Connor," he said.
Cardigan went to the door and opened it as O'Connor was about to
knock. When the door closed again, the staff-sergeant was in the room
alone with Kent. In one of his big hands he clutched a box of cigars,
and in the other he held a bunch of vividly red fire- flowers.
"Father Layonne shoved these into my hands as I was coming up," he
explained, dropping them on the table. "And I--well--I'm breaking
regulations to come up an' tell you something, Jimmy. I never called
you a liar in my life,