Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗
- Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair
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Lone Moose Snaked Its Way Through Levels Of Woodland And Open Stretches
Of Meadow, Looping Sinuously As A Sluggish Python--A Python That Rested
Its Mouth Upon The Shore Of Lake Athabasca While Its Tail Was Lost In A
Great Area Of Spruce Forest And Poplar Groves, Of Reedy Sloughs And
Hushed Lakes Far Northward.
The Waterways Of The North Are Its Highways. There Are No Others. No
Wheeled Vehicles Traverse That Silent Region Which Lies Just Over The
Fringe Of The Prairies And The Great Canadian Wheat Belt. The Canoe Is
Lord Of Those Watery Roads; When A Man Would Diverge Therefrom He Must
Carry His Goods Upon His Back. There Are Paths, To Be Sure, Very Faint
Chapter 1 (The First Problem) Pg 2In Places, Padded Down By The Feet Of Generations Of Athabascan
Tribesmen Long Before The Ancient And Honorable Company Of Adventurers
Laid The Foundation Of The First Post At Hudson's Bay, Long Before The
_Half Moon's_ Prow First Cleft Those Desolate Waters. They Have Been
Trodden, These Dim Trails, By Scotch And French And English Since That
Historic Event, And By A Numerous Progeny In Whose Veins The Blood Of
All Three Races Mingles With That Of The Native Tribes. But These Paths
Lead Only From Stream To Stream And From Lake To Lake. No Man Familiar
With The North Seeks Along Those Faint Trails For Camp Or Fur Posts Or
Villages. Wherever In That Region Red Men Or White Set Up A Permanent
Abode It Must Of Necessity Be On The Bank Of A Stream Or The Shore Of A
Lake, From Whence By Canoe And Paddle Access Is Gained To The Network Of
Water Routes That Radiate Over The Fur Country.
Lone Moose Creek Was, So To Speak, A Trunk Line. The Ninety Miles Of Its
Main Channel, Its Many Diverging Branches, Tapped A Region Where Mink
And Marten And Beaver, Fox And Wolf And Lesser Furs Were Still Fairly
Plentiful. Along Lone Moose A Dozen Cree And Half-Breed Families
Disappeared Into The Back Country During The Hazy Softness Of Indian
Summer And Came Gliding Down In The Spring With Their Winter's Catch, A
Birch-Bark Flotilla Laden Indiscriminately With Mongrel Dogs And
Chattering Women And Children And Baled Furs And Impassive-Faced Men,
Bound For Port Pachugan To The Annual Barter.
Up Lone Moose Some Twenty-Odd Miles From The Lake The Social Instinct
Had Drawn A Few Families, Pure-Blooded Cree, And Scotch And French
Half-Breeds, To Settle In A Permanent Location. There Was A
Crescent-Shaped Area Of Grassy Turf Fronting Upon The Eastern Bank Of
Lone Moose, Totaling Perhaps Twenty Acres. Its Outer Edge Was Ringed
With A Dense Growth Of Spruce Timber. In The Fringe Of These Dusky
Woods, At Various Intervals Of Distance, Could Be Seen The Outline Of
Each Cabin. They Were Much Of A Sort--Two Or Three Rooms, Log-Walled,
Brush Laid Upon Poles, And Sod On Top Of That For A Roof, With
Fireplaces Built Partly Of Mud, Partly Of Rough Stones. Folk In Such
Circumstances Waste No Labor In Ornamentation. Each Family's Abiding
Place Was Purely Utilitarian. They Cultivated No Land, And The Meadow
During The Brief Season Supplied Them With A Profusion Of Delicate
Flowers A Southern Garden Could Scarcely Excel. Aside From A Few Trees
Felled About Each Home Site, Their Common Effort Had Cleared Away The
Willows And Birch Which Bordered The Creek Bank, So That An Open Landing
Was Afforded The Canoes.
There Was But One Exception To The Monotonous Similitude Of These
Several Habitations. A Few Paces Back From The Stream And Standing
Boldly In The Open Rose A Log House Double The Size Of Any Other There.
It Contained At Least Four Rooms. Its Windows Were Of Ample Size, The
Doors Neatly Carpentered. A Wide Porch Ran On Three Sides. It Bore About
Itself An Air Of Homely Comfort, Heightened By Muslin At The Windows, A
Fringe Of Poppies And Forget-Me-Nots Blooming In An Orderly Row Before
It, And A Sturdy Vine Laden With Morning-Glories Twining Up Each
Supporting Column Of The Porch Roof.
Between The House And The Woods An Acre Square Was Enclosed By A Tall
Picket Fence. Within The Fence, Which Was Designed As A Barricade
Against Foraging Deer, There Grew A Variety Of Vegetables. The Produce
Of That Garden Had Grown Famous Far Beyond Lone Moose Village. But The
Spirit And Customs And Traditions Of The Gardener's Neighbors Were All
Chapter 1 (The First Problem) Pg 3Against Any Attempt To Duplicate It. They Were Hunters And Trappers And
Fishermen. The Woods And Waters Supplied Their Every Need.
Upon A Blistering Day In July, A Little Past Noon, A Man Stepped Out On
The Porch, And Drawing Into The Shadiest Part A Great, Rude Homemade
Chair Upholstered With Moosehide, Sat Down. He Had A Green-Bound Book In
His Hand. While He Stuffed A Clay Pipe Full Of Tobacco He Laid The
Volume Across His Knees. Every Movement Was As Deliberate As The Flow Of
The Deep Stream Near By. When He Had Stoked Up His Pipe He Leaned Back
And Opened The Book. The Smoke From His Pipe Kept Off What Few
Mosquitoes Were Abroad In The Scorching Heat Of Midday.
A Casual Glance Would At Once Have Differentiated Him From A Native,
Held Him Guiltless Of Any Trace Of Native Blood. His Age Might Have Been
Anywhere Between Forty And Fifty. His Hair, Now Plentifully Shot With
Gray, Had Been A Light, Wavy Brown. His Eyes Were A Clear Gray, And His
Features Were The Antithesis Of His High-Cheekboned Neighbors. Only The
Weather-Beaten Hue Of His Skin, And The Scores Of Fine Seams Radiating
From His Eyes Told Of Many Seasons Squinting Against Hot Sunlight And
Harsh Winds.
Whatever His Vocation And Manner Of Living May Have Been He Was Now
Deeply Absorbed In The Volume He Held. A Small Child Appeared On The
Porch, A Youngster Of Three Or Thereabouts, With Swarthy Skin, Very Dark
Eyes, And Inky-Black Hair. He Went On All Fours Across Sam Carr's
Extended Feet Several Times. Carr Remained Oblivious, Or At Least
Undisturbed, Until The Child Stood Up, Laid Hold Of His Knee And Shook
It With Playful Persistence. Then Carr Looked Over His Book, Spoke To
The Boy Casually, Shaking His Head As He Did So. The Boy Persisted After
The Juvenile Habit. Carr Raised His Voice. An Indian Woman, Not Yet Of
Middle Age But Already Inclining To The Stoutness Which Overtakes Women
Of Her Race Early In Life, Appeared In The Doorway. She Spoke Sharply To
The Boy In The Deep, Throaty Language Of Her People. The Boy, With A
Last Impish Grin, Gave The Man's Leg A Final Shake And Scuttled Indoors.
Carr Impassively Resumed His Reading.
An Hour Or So Later He Lifted His Eyes From The Printed Page At A
Distant Boom Of Thunder. The Advanced Edge Of A Black Cloudbank Rolling
Swiftly Up From The East Was Already Dimming The Brassy Glare Of The
Sun. He Watched The Swift Oncoming Of The Storm. With Astonishing
Rapidity The Dark Mass Resolved Itself Into A Gray, Obscuring Streak Of
Rain Riven By Vivid Flashes Of Lightning. Carr Laid Down His Book And
Refilled His Pipe While He Gazed On This Common Phenomenon Of The
Dog-Days. It Swept Up And Passed Over The Village Of Lone Moose As A
Sprinkling Wagon Passes Over A City Street. The Downpour Was Accompanied
By Crashing Detonations That Sent The Village Dogs Howling To Cover.
With The Same Uncanny Swiftness Of Gathering So It Passed, Leaving
Behind A Pleasant Coolness In The Air, Clean Smells Of The Washed Earth
Arising. The Sun Blazed Out Again. A Million Rain-Pearls Hung Glistening
On The Blades Of Grass In The Meadow Before Sam Carr's House.
With The Passing Of The Thunder Shower, Before Carr Left Off His
Contemplation Of The Freshened Beauty Of Meadow And Woods, A Man And A
Woman Emerged From The Spruce Forest On The Farther Side Of The Meadow.
They Walked A Little Way In The Open, Stopped For A Minute, Facing Each
Chapter 1 (The First Problem) Pg 4Other. Their Conversation Ended With A Sudden Quick Gesture By The Man.
Turning, They Came On Again Toward Carr's House. Sam Carr's Clear Gray
Eyes Lit Up. The Ghost Of A Smile Hovered About His Bearded Lips. He
Watched Them Approach With That Same Quizzical Expression, A Mixture, If
One Gauged His Look Aright, Of Pleasure And Pride And Expectation.
They Were Young As Years Go, The Pair That Walked Slowly Up To The
Cabin. The Man Was Certainly Still In His Twenties, Of Medium Height,
Compactly Muscular, A Good-Looking Specimen Of Pure Anglo-Saxon Manhood.
The Girl Was A Flower In Perfect Bloom, Fresh-Colored, Slender And
Pliant As A Willow, With All Of The Willow's Grace In Every Movement.
For All The Twenty-Odd Years Between Them, And The Gulf Of Sex
Differentiation, There Was In Her Glance And Bearing Much Of The
Middle-Aged Man Who Sat On The Porch With A Book Across His Knees And A
Clay Pipe In His Mouth. It Did Not Lie In Facial Resemblance. It Was
More Subtle Than Likeness Of Feature. Perhaps It Was Because Of Their
Eyes, Alike Deep Gray, Wide And Expressive, Lifted Always To Meet
Another's In Level Unembarrassed Frankness.
They Halted At The Edge Of The Porch. The Girl Sat Down. The Young Man
Nodded To Carr. Though They Had But Lately Been Fair In The Path Of The
Thunderstorm They Had Escaped A Wetting. The Girl's Eyes Followed Her
Father's Glance, Seemed To Read His Thought.
"We Happened To Find A Spruce Thick Enough To Shed The Rain," She
Smiled. "Or I Suppose We'd Have Been Soaked Properly."
The Young Fellow Tarried Only Till She Was Seated. He Had No More Than
Greeted Carr Before He Lifted His Old Felt Hat To Her.
"I'll Be Paddling Back While The Coolness Lasts," Said He. "Good-By."
"Good-By, Tommy," The Girl Answered.
"So Long," Carr Followed Suit. "Don't Give Us The Go-By Too Long."
"Oh, No Danger."
He Walked To The Creek Bank, Stepped Into A Red Canoe That Lay Nose On
To The Landing, And Backed It Free With His Paddle. Ten Strokes Of The
Blade Drove Him Out Of Sight Around The First Brushy Bend Upstream.
The Girl Looked Thoughtfully After Him. Her Face Was Flushed,
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