with terrible force outside. “It isn’t that I don’t like it. But when a man gets cooped up in these 27 hills he’s like to run out of it, and then it’s uncomfortable. I’ve taken on a native weed which does me for smoking when I need it––which isn’t often. It grows hereabouts and isn’t likely to give out. Guess I won’t smoke now.”
Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could be fool enough to reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was not the sort of man to press him. He was intolerant of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood sucked luxuriously at his pipe and thought big things.
The blue smoke clouds curled insinuatingly about the heads of the smokers, and rose heavily upon the dense atmosphere of the hut. The two men stretched themselves indolently upon the ground, sometimes speaking, but, for the most part, silent. These wayfarers thought little of time. They had a certain task to perform which, the elements permitting, they would carry out in due course. In the meantime it was storming, and they had been fortunate in finding shelter in these wastes of snow and ice; they were glad to accept what comfort came their way. This enforced delay would find a simple record in Leslie Grey’s report to his superiors. “Owing to a heavy storm, etc.” They were Government servants. The routine of these men’s lives was all very monotonous, but they were used to it, and use is a wonderful thing. It so closely borders on content.
Cards were produced later on. Mr. Zachary Smith resisted the blandishments of “cut-throat” euchre. He had no money to spare for gambling, he informed his guests; he would look on. He sat over the stove whilst the others played. Later on the cards were 28 put away, and the travellers, curling themselves into their blankets, composed themselves to sleep.
The lean figure sat silently blinking at the red sides of the fire-box. His legs were crossed, and he nursed his knee in a restful embrace. For nearly an hour he sat thus, and only the slow movement of his great rolling eyes, and an occasional inclination of his head told of the active thought which was passing behind his mask-like features.
As he sat there he looked older by half a score of years than either of his companions, but, in reality, he was a young man. The furrows and hollows upon his face were the marks of privation and exposure, not of age. His bowed figure was not the result of weakness or senility, it was chiefly the result of great height and the slouching gait of one who has done much slow tramping. Mr. Zachary Smith made an interesting study as he sat silently beside his stove.
His face was the face of an honest man––when his eyes were concealed beneath their heavy lids. It was a good face, and refined; tough, vigorous, honest, until the eyelids were raised. Then the expression was utterly changed. A something looked out from those great rolling eyeballs which was furtive, watchful, doubtful. They were eyes one sometimes sees in a madman or a great criminal. And now, as he sat absorbed in his own reflections, their gaze alternated between the two brass-bound chests and the recumbent figure of Leslie Grey.
So he sat, this self-styled Zachary Smith, trapper.
29
CHAPTER III
MR. ZACHARY SMITH SMOKES
It was the third morning of the travellers’ sojourn in Mr. Smith’s dugout. Two long idle days had been spent in the fœtid atmosphere of the trapper’s half-buried house. During their enforced stay neither Grey nor his subordinates had learnt much of their reticent host. It is doubtful if they had troubled themselves much about him. He had greeted them with a sort of indifferent hospitality, and they were satisfied. It was not in the nature of their work to question the characters of those whom they encountered upon their journey. To all that he had Mr. Zachary Smith had made them welcome; they could expect no more, they needed no more. Now the day had arrived for their departure, for the storm had subsided and the sun was shining with all its wintry splendour.
The three men leisurely devoured an early morning breakfast.
Mr. Smith was quite cheerful. He seemed to be labouring under some strange excitement. He looked better, too, since the advent of his guests. Perhaps it was the result of the ample supplies of canned provisions which the two men had lavished unsparingly upon him. His face was less cadaverous; the 30 deep searing furrows were less pronounced. Altogether there was a marked improvement in this solitary dweller in the wild. Now he was discussing the prospects of the weather, whilst he partook liberally of the food set before him.
“These things aren’t like most storms,” he said. “They blow themselves out and have done with it. They don’t come back on you with a change of wind. That isn’t the way of the blizzard. We’ve got a clear spell of a fortnight and more before us––with luck. Now, which way may you be taking, gentlemen? Are you going to head through the mountains for the main trail, or are you going to double on your tracks?”
“We are going back,” said Grey, with unpleasant emphasis. Any allusion to his mistake of the road annoyed him.
Chillingwood turned his head away and hid a smile.
“I think you will do well,” replied the trapper largely. “I know these hills, and I should be inclined to hark back to where you missed the trail. I hope to cover twenty miles myself to-day.”
“Your traps will be buried, I should say,” suggested Robb.
“I’m used to that,” replied the tall man quietly. “Guess I shan’t have much difficulty with ’em.” He permitted himself the suspicion of a smile.
Grey drew out his pipe and leisurely loaded it. Robb followed suit. Mr. Zachary Smith pushed his tin pannikin away from before him and leaned back.
“Going to smoke?” he asked. “Guess I’ll join you. No, not your plug, thanks. I’m feeling pretty 31 good. My weed’ll do me. You don’t fancy to try it?”
“T. and B.’s good enough for me,” said Grey, with a smile. “No, I won’t experiment.”
Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.
“Can I?”
Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.
“Guess not, thanks. What’s good enough for my chief is good enough for me.”
The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide pouch of native workmanship. He emptied out a little pile of greenish-brown flakes into the palm of his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff, suggestive of discoloured bran. This he poured into the bowl of a well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which he carefully and with accuracy adjusted into the corner of his mouth.
“If you ever chance to have the experience I have had in these mountains, gentlemen,” he then went on slowly, as gathering into the palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, “I think you’ll find the use of the weed which grows on this hillside,” with a jerk of his head upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, “has its advantages.”
“Maybe,” said Grey contemptuously.
“I doubt it,” said Robb, with a pleasant smile.
