CHAPTER III
MANHOOD
An-ina watched them pass out of the store together, her dark eyesfollowing them until they vanished beyond the range of the doorway. Herregard for both was intense. The untamed Indian heart knew noreservations. She had no thought for anything in the world but these twomen, and that which pertained to their well-being.
The depth of her devotion was unfathomable. Only its quality varied witheach. For the one it was the devotion of the wife. For the other it wasthe devotion of the mother.
She made no comparison between them. How could she? Each in his way wasperfect in her eyes. Young Marcel's superb manhood had no greater claimupon her woman's admiration than had the sturdy set of Steve's broadshoulders. The boy's sunny smile, and often humorous eyes, were nogreater source of delight to her than the steady, honest purpose whichwas in every line of the older man's strong face. Age and temperamentwere far enough apart, but, to An-ina, they were children of a greatmother heart.
At the lean-to store-house, built against the stockade wall, designed bythe dead chemist to hold the bulk of Adresol he had hoped some day todiscover and which had never yet been called upon to fulfil its originalpurpose, Steve came to a halt. The melting snow lay heavy upon thesloping thatch of the roof, which was battened secure by heavy logs. Itwas banked against the door. It was laden upon the sills of the one longwindow. Steve kicked it clear of the door and took down the fasteningswhich secured it. He passed within, with Marcel close upon his heels.
"We're going to need it, boy--after all," Steve said, with a note in hisvoice and a light in his eyes that rarely found place in either. Helaughed shortly. "Yes. I think so."
"You think so?"
There was a quick glance of responsive eagerness in Marcel's eyes. Wellenough he knew the store had been built for one purpose only. He hadlong since dubbed it "The Poison House." Steve's words meant----
It had a long low interior, with a heavily raftered roof, and an earthenfloor. It was a shadowed, empty tunnel that was only half lit, andgloomily seemed to merit the name Marcel had chosen for it. At the farend stood a small unused baling machine, and beside it a set of ironscales. And on the bench, set up under the windows, stood a few oddmentsof appliances of a scientific nature. For the rest it was patheticallyempty. It was altogether a tragic expression of the failure of theliving as well as the dead.
Steve laughed again. It was the same short laugh.
"Maybe I'm crazy," he said. "If I'm not, and there's two cents of luckwaiting around on us, why, we'll need this old store-house after all.Yes, and I guess we'll need those poison masks your father made andfiggered to need sometime. The whole thing leaves me guessing andwondering at the sort of fool man I am not to see what's been looking mein the face for the last fourteen years."
The flash of excitement leapt into Marcel's eyes.
"You've--found the stuff?" he demanded, in a curious hushed tone. Thenwith a rush: "Where? On the road to Seal Bay? Or the shores of Hudson'sBay? It's the sort of thing for a coast like that. Guess it's likeseaweed. Where?"
Steve shook his head.
"Guess again," he said, with a smile of added confidence. "No, I haven'tseen it. I haven't found it. It's just a notion in my fool head." Hiseyes lapsed again into their wonted seriousness. "It's a notion I'vegot, and--it's right. Oh, yes. In my mind's eye I can see the stuffgrowing. And--I--know--where. It's just for me to locate the place andmake the journey----"
"For us, Uncle Steve."
Steve turned sharply and gazed up into the boy's handsome, determinedface. He studied the unsmiling blue eyes that returned his lookunflinchingly. And that which he read in them left him with arealization that a new chapter in the history of their companionship wasabout to open.
"We'll get along to your father's office, boy," he said quietly. "It'sbeen our refuge and schoolroom for fourteen years. Maybe it's still thebest place for us both to learn our lessons."
He led the way out without waiting for reply. And as they passed fromthe portals of the Poison House he again set up the fastenings.
Each had his own place in the simple room which Marcel's father haddedicated to the science which had been his whole life. For him it hadbeen all sufficient. The storming of the elements outside might havebeen the breathlessness of a tropical climate so far as he cared, onceabsorbed in the studies that claimed him. And in a measure theatmosphere of the room had a similar influence upon these two who cameafter him.
Steve occupied the chair at the desk. Marcel had taken possession of thechair which stood before a small table upon which he had been accustomedto pursue the simple studies Steve had been able to prepare for him. Hehad turned the chair about so that he sat with his feet upon the rail ofthe stove in which summer and winter the fire was never permitted to goout. He had come prepared to listen to the man who had always been hisguide and well-loved friend. But he had come also with the intention ofpressing those claims of manhood which were passionately crying outwithin him.
The room was changed only that the belongings of these men, accumulatedin fourteen years, predominated over those things which the dead man hadleft behind him. The room was intimate with the personalities of its newtenants, while it still retained full evidence of the man who hadmodelled its original character.
For some moments Steve searched amongst the drawers of the desk. Finallyhe produced a number of note books and well-worn diaries. These he seton the writing pad before him. Then he smilingly regarded the man whowas as a son to him.
"Guess I've got the things I need, boy," he said. "They're support forthe notion I'm going to tell you about. That's so you won't think I'mcrazy," he added, laying a hand on the books.
Marcel nodded keenly.
"Sure. And the notion?"
Steve understood the other's impatience.
"Ordinarily I'd hand you what's got into my mind right away," he said,still regarding the books. "But that way I couldn't convince anything.There's got to be arguments, and your father's got to hand us theargument."
He thrust his fur cap back from his forehead.
"Light a pipe, boy," he went on kindly. "I've got to make a big talk.And, for a while, anyway, you've got to listen."
Marcel laughed. He obeyed without demur. But Steve was in no way blindedto the fact that for all his excited interest there was lying, at theback of every thing, a tug-of-war coming between them, a tug-of-warwhich he was by no means sure he was equal to.
"I'm just glad about the big talk," Marcel said. "You see, Uncle Steve,there isn't much of the kid left in me. This country doesn't leave uskids long. I'm still ready to act when you say so, and mostly withoutquestion. But a whole heap of questions have been buzzing around in myhead lately, and they need to get out sometime. May as well be now. Talkall you need, an' I'll blow the pipe."
Steve nodded. He knew the rope for the tug was laid.
"I'll begin at the right start," he said. "That way I'll have to handyou things you already know. But I don't want to leave you guessinganywhere along the line, because you're going to tell me all you thinkwhen I've done. First we'll look right back. For fourteen years we'vechased over this territory where your father chased before us. We'vefollowed his notions to the letter set out in these old books. We'vegone further. We've tried tracking the Sleepers in the open season,which he reckoned was a bad play. The result? Nix. We've done all he'sdone and more, and we've no better result than he had. We've read andre-read his stuff. We've dreamed, and wondered, and guessed till we knowthe whole of Unaga like the pages of one of his books. We've failed tofind the growing ground of this darn Adresol, and, like your father,we've had to content ourselves with a trade in the dried stuff thesedopey rascals choose to hand us. In twice the years he had at hisdisposal we haven't advanced a step along the path he's handed to us."
He turned the pages of some of the notebooks while the smoke of Marcel'spipe distributed a pleasant haze about the room.
"Now your father was a heap more than a clever scienti
fic man," he wenton a moment later, "and I get that through his notes, which I well-nighknow by heart. He was a reasoner in those things that had nothing to dowith his science. Guess he was dead practical, too, well-nigh a geniusthat way. As for his courage and patience--well, I guess you've only gotto look around you at this old fort. You won't need my hot air to tellyou of it. So I'm left guessing at the wonder of it. _He just missed thewhole point of his own observations, and knowledge, and research._"
A smile crept into Steve's eyes as he made the final announcement. Itgrew into his characteristic short laugh.
"Oh, I'm not going to tell you how wise I am. I'm not going to tell youyour great old father was a fool man, and I'm the wise guy that'sfiggered out all he missed. I'm the fool man who's been handed a fool'sluck. I was sitting around over the camp-fire on the trail from Seal Baywith nothing better to do than to listen to the crazy dream of anignorant, superstitious neche. It was in that fool yarn I found theanswer to all the questions we've asked in fourteen years. As I tellyou, it was just a crazy notion till I started in to fit it to thearguments your father handed to us. Then I saw in a flash, and got thestart of my life. There's times that I'm still wondering if I'm notplumb crazed."
He indicated a notebook which he had opened. Its pages were scored withhis own pencilled notes.
"I don't need to worry you with all the stuff written here," he wenton. "You know it like I do. But I'm going to read a piece so you'll getthe full drift of my argument when I hand it you. First, though, we'llreconstruct some. The neches go out for this stuff in the open season.They start when the ice breaks, and don't get back to home till thingsfreeze up again. That's important. They bring the Adresol in _dried_.Like stuff dead for months. They don't bring it green, and dry itthemselves. They bring it _dried_. Now then, your father says that oneroot would yield a thousand per cent. more Adresol than the greenfoliage. And the green foliage five hundred per cent. more than thedried. Why then do the neches bring in the dried stuff in the opengrowing season? Do they prefer it that way?" He shook his headthoughtfully. "Guess it's not that. There's a reason though. These folkhave been using this stuff for ages. Yet they never bring it green. Theynever bring the root. Why not? Do they know about the yield of thefoliage, of the root? Maybe. But I don't think so. I'd like to say_they've never seen the stuff in its growing state_. Only dead!"
Steve picked up the notebook in front of him.
"I want to read this to you, boy. You've read it. We've both read it,but it's got a different meaning--now. Listen."
"Adresol has many features, interesting and deadly, foreign to all otherknown drug-producing flora. Aconite, digitalis, and the commonervarieties of toxins lie dormant in the producing plant. That is, thereare no exhalations of a noxious nature. In Adresol the drug isactive--violently active. Adresol extracted and duly treated (see noteX, Book C) for uses in medicine is not only harmless to the human bodyin critical stages of disease, but even beneficial to the whole systemin a manner not yet fully explored. But in its active, crude state inthe growing plant, it is of a very violent and deadly character. Itwould almost seem that an All-wise Creator has, for this reason, set itto flourish in climates almost unendurable to human and animal life, andin remotenesses almost inaccessible. No animal or human life could existwithin the range of the poison its deadly bloom exhales. The plantbelongs to the order Liliaceae and would seem from its general form to beclosely allied with the Lilium Candidum. This, however, only applies toits form, and by no means to its habit. Its magnificent bloom is deadwhite and of intense purity. A field of this strange plant in fullbloom, viewed from above, would probably give an appearance like thespread of a white damask table-cloth of giant proportions. The bloomsalmost entirely obscure the weed-like foliage. The danger lies in thepungent, sickly, but delicious perfume it exhales, which is so intense,that, coming up against the wind, it could be detected miles away.Before and after its blooming season it is only less deadly that it canbe safely approached. To cut or break the sappy stems and foliage wouldbe only to court prompt disaster without the use of adequate poisonmasks. The newly cut plant exhales the same deadly perfume as the bloom,one deep breath of which would frequently be fatal to human life. Thecuts in the foliage heal up quickly, however, and after a day's delayits transport could be safely undertaken. The reference here is totransport in the open air. The green harvest once stored in a confinedspace again becomes actively dangerous. All stores containing it shouldbe carefully locked up, and isolated, and should only be entered bythose with poison masks carefully adjusted. The only moment at whichAdresol, in its native conditions, is perfectly innocuous is in its deadseason, when the bulbous root lies dormant. The proportion of the drugcontained in the dried foliage, however, is infinitely small.'"
Steve looked up from his reading.
"That," he said, "is all we need to convince us of the Sleepers' lack ofunderstanding of the nature of the plant. I'd say right here they'venever seen the plant in growth. If they had they'd be scared to get nextit by a thousand miles. Whatever we don't know of Adresol, we do surelyknow Indians. But I guess there's a heap more importance in that writingthan that. How do these folk get the dead stuff in the growingseason--the blooming season? How can they face that deadly scent?They've no scientific poison masks. Yet year after year an outfit makesthe summer trail and they get back when things freeze up with enoughAdresol for their own doping, and a big bunch for trade to us. Yourfather doesn't answer that. He leaves us guessing, and thinking ofwinter when the whole darn country is covered feet thick in snow andice."
The interest in Marcel's eyes was profound, and he drew a deep breath asSteve paused. He had no question, however. He sat leaning forward in hischair expectantly, waiting, his pipe dead out and forgotten.
Steve's face suddenly lit with a smile.
"Now I'm going to give you a crazy man's answer to all those things. I'dhate for your father to hear me. I'm going to say the growing, bloomingseason of this queer stuff is _dead, hard winter_. At least up here. I'mgoing to say the foliage lies dead the whole of the open season, and theroot is dormant. I'm going to say these Sleepers don't know a thing butthe stuff they find, and never have known in all their history. Ibelieve that some where away back their ancestors found the dead weed,and maybe used it to smoke like other weeds some of the Northern Indiansuse. Maybe it doped them in the pipe. Maybe some bright squaw triedboiling it into a drink. It's a guess. You can't say how they came touse it as dope. Anyway the thing just developed, and has gone on withoutthem getting wise to any of the things your father knew."
"Oh, yes, it all sounds crazy," Steve hurried on as Marcel stirred."It's too crazy I guess for a scientific head like your father's. But hehadn't listened to Oolak's fool dream, and he never saw the thing I'veseen--twice."
"You've seen?"
Marcel could deny himself no longer. Intense excitement urged him. Steveshook his head.
"I haven't found it--yet," he said. "No. The thing I've seen you'veseen, too. You were just a bit of a kiddie and won't remember. I'll tryand fix up the picture of what I saw then in the far-away distance, andwhat I see now in my crazy mind's eye."
He paused. Then, with a swift movement that had something of excitementin it, he flung out an arm pointing while his voice took on a new note,and his words came rapidly.
"Somewhere out there," he cried. "A land of glacial ice, endless snowand ice. Hills everywhere, broken, bald, immense. A range of mountains.In the midst of 'em a giant hill bigger and higher than anything I'veever dreamed. A hill of blasting, endless fire. It never dies out. Itburns right along, belching the fiery heart out of the bowels of theearth. And everywhere about, for maybe miles, a blistering tropical heatthat defies the deadliest cold the Arctic hands out. Do you get it? Sureyou do. You're getting my crazy notion, that isn't so crazy. Well, whatthen? Winter. A temperature that turns a snowstorm into a pleasantsummer rain, and the buzzard into a summer gale. Vegetation starts intogrowth. I can't guess how the absence of sun fixes it. Maybe i
tgrows--_white_. But it grows--grows all the time, like those things ofthe folk who grow out of season. Then spring, and the sun again. Risingtemperature. The heat from this hell ripens the stuff quick, and the sunmakes it green again. This Adresol. A great field of dead white. Then,as swiftly, it dies. Dies before the Indians come. Burnt up by therising temperature of the advancing season _and the blistering volcanicheat_."
Marcel started up from his chair with an excited cry.
"You're right, Uncle," he cried, completely carried away. "But where?Where's this place? This old hill? I've seen it? Where?"
"It's north, boy. Away north. God knows how far."
Steve's voice had lost something of its note of inspiration before thehard facts which Marcel's question had brought home to him. He pausedfor a moment with his eyes hidden. Then, with a curious movement whichsuggested the determined squaring of his shoulders, he broke out again.
"Yes. It's miles--maybe hundreds of miles away north. It's somewhere inthe heart of Unaga. Some place explorers never hit. It's the great Spireof Unaga. The unquenchable Fires of Unaga. It's a living volcano thatsets all other volcanoes looking like two cents. I've seen it twice--inthe far-off distance. You've seen it once. The boys have seen it, too.It looked like a pillar propping up the roof of the heavens. A pillar offire. It set me nigh crazy with wonder. And it scared the boys to death.They guessed it was the breeding ground of all evil spirits. But it'sthere, and it grows our stuff. And I'm going right out after it."
"Yes!"
Marcel dropped back into his chair. His exclamation was a vent to theemotions which the force of Steve's words had stirred.
"Yes. Sure," he added a moment later. "We'll go right out after it."
"We?"
Steve looked up with a start.
The boy's excitement had passed. He regarded his foster-father with apair of challenging, smiling eyes that were full of humour. But thechallenge was definite. He re-lit his pipe.
"Why, yes, Uncle," he said promptly. "We'll go. That's how you said. I'mall in on this. I'm crazy to see all that wonderland can show me. Itdoesn't scare me a thing. You see, it's a winter trail. I guess I knowthe summer trail so I won't forget it. The winter trail's new and I'mcrazy for it. You'll need us all on this thing. I----"
Steve shook his head. Marcel broke off at the sign, and the smile passedout of his searching eyes as he sought to read what lay behind thatsilent negative.
"You mean--?" he went on, a moment later, a flush mounting to his cheeksand suggesting a sudden stirring of passionate protest.
"I don't mean a thing but that you can come right along if you thinkthat way."
The smile that accompanied Steve's words was gently disarming. There wasno equivocation. It was impossible for the boy to misread what he said.The capitulation had not waited for the passionate challenge Marcel hadbeen prepared to make.
"You--mean that, Uncle?"
"Surely. If you're yearning to take a hand, boy, I don't figger to getin your way." Steve closed up the books on his desk and dropped themback in the drawer from which he had taken them. Then he thrust backhis chair and prepared to join the other in a smoke. "I've got just twofeelings on this thing, Marcel," he went on, as he filled his pipe. "I'mglad you feel that way, but I'm kind of sorry to think you're goingalong with me. You see, I kind of think of you as my son. I've done allI know in fourteen years to teach you my notion of what a man needs tobe. I've done the best I know that way. And I'd have hated to find youshort of the grit I reckon this enterprise is going to need." Helaughed. "If you'd have turned out a sort of 'Squaw-man' I guess I'dhave hated you like a nigger. But there wasn't a chance of it, with afather and mother like you had. No." He lit his pipe, and settledhimself in his chair. "The way you've learned to beat the summer trail,your woodcraft. You're a 'great hunter and brave,' as An-ina says, andyou've got every Indian I've ever known left cold behind you. You'vegrown to all I've hoped, and I'm glad. And now--now this great lastenterprise is coming along, why, it just leaves me proud thinking thatyou couldn't listen to the yarn of it, even, without reckoning to be onthe outfit yourself. I'm glad--just glad."
Marcel's eyes shone. Steve's approval, unqualified, was something he hadnot hoped for. He had been prepared to battle for his rights as a man,and now--now the wonder of it. He was admitted to the task confrontingthem without question; with only cordial agreement. He remembered withregret his outburst to An-ina, when he had been waiting for Steve'sreturn from Seal Bay.
"You see," he burst out with impulsive frankness, "I was scared you'dhold me to the fort, Uncle, the same as it's been every winter. I wasjust getting mad thinking I was only fit for the open summer trail,chasing up pelts with a bunch of these doper neches. Oh, yes. It set memad. And I told An-ina. I'm not a kid, Uncle. Guess I'm all the manI'll ever be, and I just want to get busy on a man's work. I can't standfor seeing you doing these things for me. You don't get younger. AndI--I'm bursting with health and muscle, and my spirit's just crying outagainst being nursed like a kid. I came here to kick, Uncle, Idid--sure. To kick hard--if you'd refused me. But I needn't have thoughtthat way--with you. And I'm sore now that I did. By Gee! It's justgreat! That hill, those fires! We'll start to fix the whole thing. Andwe'll get right out in the fall."
"Sure." Steve nodded. His eyes were very tender, and their smile was thesmile he always held for the boy who had now become a man. "It'll befall--early fall. We can't start out too early, but it mustn't be tillthe dopers are asleep. You see, we've got to leave An-inabehind--without a soul to protect her."
"Yes." Marcel's happy eyes shadowed. But they brightened at once."Couldn't we leave Julyman? There'd still be the three of us."
"I s'pose we could."
Steve seemed to consider for a moment, his serious eyes turned on thestove. Marcel watched him anxiously. Presently the elder man looked up.To the other it seemed that all doubt had passed out of his mind.
"I'd best tell you what's in my mind," he said. "I got it from Leclercat Seal Bay. I got it, by inference, from my talks with Lorson Harris.The Seal Bay Co. are out after us all they know. They're out after ourstuff. Our secret. They've opened up Fort Duggan, and sent a crookcalled David Nicol there to run it. And he's out to jump our claim. Itcomes to this. This outfit is on the prowl. Their job is to locate us.Well? An-ina alone! Even Julyman with her! What then if this bunch hitsup against the fort while we're away? Oh, I'm not thinking of our'claim.' It's An-ina. The soul who's handed over her life to us. Thewoman who's nursed you ever since you were born. And who'd give up herlife any hour of the day or night if she guessed it would help you. Canwe leave her to Julyman? You best tell me how you think--just how youthink."
The expressive face of Marcel reflected the emotion which Steve's wordshad set stirring in his boyish heart. The delight at his contemplatedshare in the great adventure had been shining in his eyes. Now they wereshadowed with anxiety at the talk of Lorson Harris and his scouts. Amoment's disappointment followed. But this was swept away by a rush offeeling at the thought of his second mother left alone and unprotected,except by an Indian.
In a moment all that was loyal and generous in him swamped theselfishness of his own youthful desire. His passionate rebellion atbeing shut out from all he considered as man's work was completelyforgotten. He remembered only the gentle dusky creature who needed hisman's support.
"You needn't say a thing, Uncle Steve," the youngster cried. "I wascrazy to go. I'm that way still. But--well, I just can't stand forAn-ina being left. She's more than my second mother. She's the onlymother I remember."
Steve nodded.
"I guessed you'd feel that way boy, and--I'm glad."