_ CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HARVEST OF BATTLE
The sun rose on a scene of great activity. It was the garnering of the harvest of battle. The light of day smiled down on this oasis on a barren foreshore of Bell River and searched it from end to end. It was so small in the immensity of its surroundings. Isolated, cut off from all outside help, it looked as though a deep breath of the Living Purpose of Life must have swept it away like some ant heap lying in the path of a thrusting broom. Yet it had withstood the shock of battle victoriously, and those surviving were counting the harvest.
But there was no smile in the heart of man. A hundred dead lay scattered on the foreshore. They congested the defences of the camp. They had even breathed their last agony within the precincts which they had sought to conquer. Mean, undersized, dusky-skinned, half-nude creatures sprawled everywhere, revealing in their attitudes something of that last suffering before the great release. Doubtless the price had been paid with little enough regret, for that is the savage way. It was for their living comrades to deplore the loss, but only for the serious depletion of their ranks.
The victorious defenders had no thought beyond the blessings of the harvest. They had no sympathy to waste. These dead creatures were so much carrion. The battle was the battle for existence which knows neither pity nor remorse.
So the dead clay was gathered and thrown to its last rest on the bosom of the waters, to be borne towards the eternal ice-fields of the Pole, or lie rotting on barren, rock-bound shores, where only the cries of the wilderness awaken the echoes. There was no reverence, no ceremony. The perils of existence were too near, too real in the minds of these men.
With the last of the human sheaves disposed of the real work of the day began under the watchful eyes of the leaders. The garrison was divided in half. One-half slept while the other half labored at the defences. Only the leaders seemed to be denied the ease of body their night's effort demanded. Picks and shovels were the order of the day, and all the shortcomings of the defences, discovered during battle, were made good. The golden "pay dirt" which had drawn the sweepings of Leaping Horse into the service of John Kars was the precious material of salvation.
The fortifications rose on all sides. The river front was no longer neglected. None could say whence the next attack would come. None could estimate for sure the subtleties of the bastard white mind which had so long successfully manipulated the secret of Bell River.
Not a man but had been impressed by the battle of the night. Not a man but knew that the losses in defence had been detrimentally disproportionate. Life to them was sweet enough. But even greater than the passionate desire to live was lust for possession of the treasure upon which their feet trod.
So they worked with a feverish effort. Nothing must be spared. Nothing neglected that could make for security.
The leaders conferred, and planned. And the result was concrete practice. Kars was the guiding spirit, and Abe Dodds was the machine-like energy that drove the labor forward. Bill took no part in the work. His work lay in one direction only, and it was a work he carried out with a self-sacrifice only to be expected from him. His hospital was full to overflowing, and for all his skill, for all his devotion, five times, during the day, bearers had to be summoned to carry out the cold remains of one of their comrades.
The question in all minds was a speculation as to whether a fresh attack would mature on the second night. This speculation was confined to the rank and file of the outfit. The clearer vision of the leaders searched their own understanding of the position. It was pretty definitely certain there would be no attack in force. The enemy had hoped for a victory as the result of surprise and overwhelming odds. It had failed. It had failed disastrously. The Indians were supposed to be five hundred strong. They had lost a fifth of their force without making any apparent impression on the defenders. There could be no surprise on the second night. It would take longer than twelve hours to spur the Indians to a fresh attack of a similar nature.
No, there would be no attack of a serious nature--yet. And Kars unfolded the plans he had so carefully thought out long months ago. He set them before his three companions late in the afternoon, and detailed them with a meticulous care and exactness which revealed the clarity of vision he had displayed in their construction.
But they were not plans such as these men had expected. They were daring and subtle, and they involved a risk only to be contemplated by such a nature as that of their author. But they promised success, if fortune ran their way. And in failure they would be left little more embarrassed than they now stood.
The meeting terminated as it was bound to terminate with Kars guiding its council. Joe Saunders, whose mentality limited him to a good fight, and the understanding of a prospector's craft, had neither demur nor suggestion. Bill admitted he had no better proposition to offer, and only stipulated that his share in the scheme should be completely adequate. Abe protested at the work imposed upon him, but admitted its necessity.
"Sit around this layout punchin' daylight into the lousy carcases of a bunch of neches, while you an' Doc here get busy, seems to me a sort o' Sunday-school game I ain't been raised to. It's a sort of pie that ain't had no sweetenin', I guess. An' my stomach's yearnin' for sugar. That play of yours has got me itching to take a hand. Still, I guess this darn ol' camp needs holding up, an' if you need me here you can count me in to the limit."
Kars nodded unsmilingly. He knew Abe, second only to his knowledge of Bill Brudenell. That limit was a big one. It meant all he desired.
"It had to be you or Bill, Abe," he said. "I fixed on you because you got the boys of this camp where you need them. You'll get all the fight out of them when you want it. The Doc, here, can dope 'em all they need, but he hasn't spent half his days driving for gold with an outfit of scallawags same as you have. Hold this camp to the limit, boy, and when the work's through I don't guess your share in things'll be the least. I'm going to bank on you as I've never banked before. And I don't worry a thing."
It was a tribute as generous as it was diplomatic, and its effect was instantaneous.
"It goes, chief," exclaimed the engineer, with the nearest approach to real enthusiasm he ever permitted himself. "The limit! An' they'll need a big bank roll of fight to call my hand."
Half an hour later Peigan Charley was surprised into wakefulness under the southern embankment, where he had fallen asleep over his pipe. His boss was standing over him, gazing down at him with steady, gray, unsmiling eyes. The scout was sitting up in a moment. He was not yet certain what the visitation portended.
"Had a good sleep, Peigan?" Kars demanded,
"Him sleep plenty, boss."
"Good."
Kars turned and glanced out over the great volume of water passing down the river in a ponderous tide. Peigan Charley waited in mute, unquestioning fashion for what was to come.
Presently Kars turned back to his trusted henchman. He began to talk rapidly. And as he talked the scout thrust his pipe away into a pocket in his ragged coat, which had once formed part of his boss's wardrobe. He stood up. Nor did he interrupt. The keen light in his big black eyes alone betrayed any emotion. There was no doubt as to the nature of that emotion. For the sparkle in them grew, and robbed them of the last shadow of their native lack of expression.
Following upon his boss's words came the Indian's brief but cordial expression of appreciation. Then came a few minutes of sharp question, and eager reply. And, at last, came Kars' final injunctions.
"Well, you'll get right up to the cook-house and eat your belly full. Get fixed that way good. Maybe you'll need it. Then start right in, when it's dark, and don't pass word to a soul, or I'll rawhide you. Get this good. If the neches get wise to you the game's played, and we've lost."
The Indian's reply came on the instant, and it was full to the brim of that contempt which the mention of his race never failed to arouse.
"Damn fool neche not know," he said icily.
Kars watched him set out for the cook-house. Then he moved over to the hospital where Bill was at work.
He passed within the crude storehouse. He had not come out of any curiosity. He had not come to contemplate the havoc wrought on the bodies of this flotsam of dissolute life. He had come for the simple purpose of offering some cheer in the darkness of suffering.
For all the ruggedness of exterior displayed by this man when the call of the northern wilderness claimed him, deep in his heart there were warm fires glowing which the bond of loyal comradeship never failed to fan. These Breeds and scallawag Indians were no less to him for their color, or their morals. They were fighters--fighters of the trail like himself. It was enough.
A desultory rifle fire played over the camp. It was the signal of passing day. It was a reminder that the day's cessation of hostilities marked no abatement in the enemy's purpose. The defence was at its post. A long line of rifles held their vicious muzzles searching for a target that would repay. Wastage of ammunition was strictly forbidden. The night, like its predecessor, was obscure. The targets were far off, and, as yet, invisible. So the defence remained unanswering, but ready.
Beyond the new defences on the river front a shadowy figure was stirring. His movements were stealthy. His moccasined feet gave out no sound. But there was sound. It was the muffled grating of something being slid over the gravelly beach at the water's edge. Then came a gentle splash of water. It was scarcely more than the sound of a leaping fish. After that came the lapping of the stream against an obstruction to its course.
The figure stood up, tall and slim. The rawhide rope in his hand strung taut. A moment later he secured the end of it by the simple process of resting a small boulder upon its knotted extremity.
The canoe had swung to the stream and lay in against the river bank. The silent figure stooped over its gunwale and deposited various articles within its shallow depths. It was the merest cockle-shell of stoutly strutted bark, a product of the northland Indian which leaves modern invention far behind in the purpose for which it is designed.
The sound of a footstep on the beach drew the crouching figure to its full height. Then, at the sound of a familiar voice, all suspicion died out.
"All fixed right, Charley?"
"Sho', boss. Him fix plenty good."
"Got sow-belly an'--hardtack? Maybe you'll need him. Gun? Plenty cartridge?"
"Him plenty--all thing."
"Good. Say, you need to get around before daylight. Good luck."
The Indian grunted his reply while he stooped again to release the rawhide painter. Then, with a nice sense of balance, he sprang lightly into the shell-like vessel.
John Kars waited only till he heard the muffled dip of the paddle. Then he withdrew, a sigh escaping him, an expression of pent feeling which had hope and doubt closely intermingling for its inspiration. He passed up to the defences for his second night's vigil. He had arranged that Abe should sleep unless emergency demanded otherwise.
The night passed without incident. Kars was thankful. It was so much valuable time gained. The labors had been hard following upon the night of battle. The whole garrison had needed rest. This had been achieved by systematic relief, which was almost military in its method. But sleep had been taken at the defences. There had been no relaxing of vigilance. Nor had the enemy any intention of permitting it. His loose fire went on the whole time, stirring the echoes of the gorge in protest at the disturbance of the night.
Towards morning Kars and Bill were at the water's edge, searching the black distance, while they strained for a sound other than the echoes of the spasmodic rifle fire.
"Charley'll find a trail, if he hasn't broken his fool neck," Kars said. "Guess he'd find a trail in a desert of sand that's always shifting. This darn gorge must be scored with them. If he don't, why, I guess we'll need to chance it up-stream past those workings."
"Yes."
Bill sat on the boulder Charley had used as a mooring. He had had his sleep, but a certain weariness still remained.
"You'd stake a roll on Charley," he said, with an upward glance of amusement that was lost in the darkness.
"Sure." Kars gave a short laugh. "He's a mascot. It's always been that way since I grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a Breed gal. Charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues. But he's got virtues of a diff'rent sort. They're sometimes found in white folk."
"You mean he's loyal."
"That's it. Every pocket he's got is stuffed full of it. He'll find a trail or break his fool neck--because I'm needing one. He's the sort of boy, if I needed him to shoot up a feller, it wouldn't be sufficient acting the way I said. He'd shoot up his whole darn family, too, and thieve their blankets, even if he didn't need 'em. He's quite a boy--when you got him where you need him. I----"
Kars broke off listening acutely. He turned his head with that instinct of avoiding the night breeze. Bill, too, was listening, his watchful eyes turned northward.
The moments grew. The splutter of rifle fire still haunted the night. But, for all its breaking of the stillness, the muffled sound of a paddle grew out of the distance. Kars sighed a relief he would not have admitted.
"Back to--schedule," he said. "Guess it needs a half hour of dawn."
There was no muffle to the sound of the paddle now, and the waiting men understood. The Indian was up against the full strength of the heavy stream, and, light as was his craft, it was no easy task to breast it. For some minutes the rhythmic beat went on. Then the little vessel grated directly opposite them, with an exactness of judgment in the darkness that stirred admiration. A moment later Peigan Charley was giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of which he considered himself a perfect master.
"Charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "Him mak' plenty trail. Much climb. Much ev'rything. So." _