Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

Tommy Looked At Him For A Second.

"Why Did You Get Out?" He Asked Bluntly.

"I'm Not Fitted For It," Thompson Returned. "I've Been Through Hell For

Four Months,  And I've Lost Something--Some Of That Sublime Faith That A

Man Must Have. I'm Not Certain About A Lot Of Things I Have Always Taken

For Granted. I'm Not Certain I Have An Immortal Soul Which Is Worth

Saving,  Let Alone Considering Myself Peculiarly Fitted To Save Other

People's Souls. I'd Be Like A Blind Man Leading People With Good Eyes.

It Has Come To Seem To Me That I've Been Trained For The Ministry As A

Carpenter Is Trained For His Trade. I Can't Go On Feeling Like That. I'm

Too Much Interested In My Own Personal Salvation. I'm Too Keenly

Conscious Of A Tremendous Ignorance About Tremendously Important Things

To Continue Setting Myself Up As A Finger Post For Other Men's Spiritual

Guidance. If I Stay With The Church Now It Seems To Me It Will Only Be

Because I Lack Courage To Get Out And Make My Living Along Lines That

Won't Be So Easy. I'd Despise Myself If I Did That. So I've

Resigned--Quite A While Ago,  To Be Exact. I've Been Working For The H.B.

Two Months. That's Why I Asked About The Trapping. I've Been Casting

About For What I'd Best Try Next."

Tommy Sat Silent. When He Did Speak He Touched Very Briefly On

Thompson's Confession Of Faith--Or Rather The Lack Of It.

"When A Man's Heart Isn't In A Thing," Said He,  "It's Better For Him To

Drop It. About The Trapping,  Now--I Don't Think You'd Do Much At That

With The Season So Far Along. This District Is Pretty Well Covered By

The Natives. You'd Get Into Difficulties Right Off The Bat Over Setting

Traps On Their Territory. They Have A Rude Sort Of Understanding About

Where Their Several Trap Lines Shall Run. And For Some Reason Or Other

Furs Are Getting Scarce. Up Where Young Lachlan And I Were It Was Pretty

Fair For Awhile. We Took Some Good Skins. Lately We Did A Lot Of

Trap-Tending For Nothing Much. I Got Fed Up With It. Fact Is,  I'm About

Fed Up With This Region. I Think I'll Pull Out."

"I've Been Thinking The Same Thing," Thompson Observed. "There Isn't

Much Here For A Man."

"Not Now," Tommy Amended. "I'd Have Been Gone Long Ago Only For Sophie

Carr. That Was The Magnet That Held Me. It Happens That I've Come To

Something Of Your Pass,  Right Now. I Can't Afford To Loaf Any Longer,

Living Off The Wilderness. I Had A Bit Of An Income To Keep Me In Loose

Change When I Wanted A Taste Of Towns. But That's Been Chopped

Off--Probably For Good. I'm Strictly On My Own Henceforth. Every Penny I

Spend Will First Have To Be Earned. And So," He Hesitated Briefly,  "I've

Considered A Move To The Coast,  The Pacific,  Y'know. Going Over The

Continental Divide While The Snow Makes A Dog Team Useful. Then I'd Go

Down The Western Streams By Boat--Dugout Canoe Or Bateaux,  Or Whatever

Simple Craft A Man Could Make Himself In The Woods. Probably Be The Last

Big Trip I'll Get A Chance At. I'll Have Roughed It Clear Across North

America Then,  And I Rather Fancy Winding Up That Way. But It's A Big

Undertaking Single-Handed. I'm Not So Partial To An Indian For Company;

Besides The Fact That I'd Have To Pay Him Wages And Dollars Count With

Me Now. A Fellow Likes Some One He Can Talk To. If You've Cut The Cloth

And Are At Loose Ends,  Why Not Come Along?"

Thompson Looked At Him A Second.

"Do You Mean It?" He Asked. "I'm Not What You'd Call A Good Hand On The

Trail. You Might Find Me A Handicap."

Tommy Grinned.

"I've Got The Impression You're A Chap That Can Hold His End Up," He

Drawled. "I've An Idea We'd Make A Go Of It,  All Right."

"I Believe We Would," Thompson Asserted Impulsively. "Hanged If I

Haven't A Mind To Take You At Your Word."

"Do," Tommy Urged Earnestly. "The Pacific Coast Has This Part Of The

Interior Frazzled When It Comes To Opportunities. That's What We're Both

After,  Isn't It? An Opportunity To Get On--In Plain English,  To Make

Some Money? It's Really Simple To Get Up The Peace And Through The

Mountains And On Down To Southeastern Alaska Or Somewhere In Northern

B.C. It Merely Means Some Hard Mushing. And Neither Of Us Is Very Soft.

You've Begun To Cut Your Eyeteeth On The Wilderness. I Can See That."

"Yes,  I Believe I Have," Thompson Assented,  "I'm Learning To Take As A

Matter Of Course A Good Many Things That I Used To Rather Dread. I Find

I Have A Hankering To Be On The Move. Maybe I'll End Up As A Tramp. If

You Want A Partner For That Journey I'm Your Man."

"Shake," Tommy Thrust Out His Hand With A Boyish Sort Of Enthusiasm.

"We'll Have No End Of A Time."

They Sat Up Till A Most Unseemly Hour Talking Over The Details Of That

Long Trek. Tommy Ashe Was Warmed With The Prospect,  And Some Of His

Enthusiasm Fired Thompson,  Proved Strangely Infectious. The Wanderlust,

Which Wesley Thompson Was Only Beginning To Feel In Vague Stirrings,  Had

Long Since Become The Chief Motif In Tommy's Life. He Did Not Unburden

Himself At Length. It Was Simply Through Stray References,  Offhand Bits

Of Talk,  As They Checked Up Resources And Distances,  That Thompson

Pieced Out The Four Years Of Ashe's Wanderings Across Canada--Four Years

Of Careless,  Happy-Go-Lucky Drifting Along Streams And Through Virgin

Forest,  Sometimes Alone,  Sometimes With A Partner; Four Years Of

Hunting,  Fishing,  And Camping All The Way From Labrador To Lone Moose.

Tommy Had Worked Hard At This Fascinating Game. He Confessed That With

Revenue Enough To Keep Him Going,  To Vary The Wilderness With An

Occasional Month In Some City,  He Could Go On Doing That Sort Of Thing

With An Infinite Amount Of Pleasure.

But Something Had Gone Wrong With The Source Of The Funds That Came

Quarterly. Tommy Did Not Appear To Regret That. But He Realized Its

Significance. He Would Have To Work. Having To Work He Meant To Work As

He Had Played,  With All His Heart And To Some Purpose. He Had An

Ambitious Idea Of Pressing Fortune To Her Lair. He Was Young And Very

Sanguine. His Cheerful Optimism Was The Best Possible Antidote For The

State Of Mind In Which He Found Thompson.

They Went To Bed At Last. With Breakfast Behind Them They Went Up To

Ashe's Cabin And Brought Down To Thompson's A Miscellaneous Collection

Of Articles That Tommy Had Left Behind When He Went Trapping. Tommy Had

Four Good Dogs In Addition To The Brown Retriever. By Adding Thompson's

Pair And Putting All Their Goods On One Capacious Toboggan They Achieved

A First-Class Outfit.

In The North When A Man Sets Out On A Winter Journey,  Or Any Sort Of

Journey,  In Fact,  His Preparations Are Speedily Made. He Loads His Sled,

Hitches His Dogs,  Takes His Rifle In Hand,  Hooks His Toes In His

Snowshoes And Goes His Way.

This Is Precisely The Course Tommy Ashe And Thompson Followed. Having

Decided To Go,  They Went,  And Neither Of Them Took It As A Serious

Matter That They Were On The First Leg Of A Twelve-Hundred-Mile Jaunt In

The Deep Of Winter Across A Primitive Land.

To Be Exact In Dates It Was February The First When They Touched At

Pachugan,  Where Tommy Traded In His Furs,  And Where They Took On A

Capacity Load Of Grub. West Of The Lake Head They Bore Across A Low,

Wooded Delta And Debouched Upon Peace River's Frozen Surface.

After That It Was Plod-Plod-Plod,  One Day Very Much Like Another,  Cold

With Coldness Of The Sub-Arctic,  The River A White Band Through Heavy

Woods,  Nights That Were Crisp And Still As Death,  The Sky A Vast Dome

Sprinkled With Flickering Stars,  Brilliant At Times With The Northern

Lights,  That Strange Glow That Flashes And Shimmers Above The Pole,  Now

A Banner Of Flame,  Again Only A Misty Sheen. Sometimes It Seemed An

Unreality,  That Silence,  That Immensity Of Hushed Forest,  Those Vast

Areas In Which Life Was Not A Factor. When A Blizzard Whooped Out Of The

Northern Quarter,  Holding Them Close To The Little Tent And The Tiny

Sheet-Iron Stove,  When They Sat For Hours With Their Hands Clasped Over

Their Knees,  Listening To The Voice Of The Wilderness Whispering

Sibilantly In The Swaying Boughs,  It Seemed Utterly Impossible That

These Frigid Solitudes Could Ever Know The Kindliness Of Summer,  That

Those Cold White Spaces Could Ever Be Warm And Sunny And Bright With

Flowers.

But There Were Compensations. Two Men Cannot Eat Out Of The Same

Pot--Figuratively Speaking--Sleep Huddled Close Together For The Warmth

That Is In Their Bodies,  Hear No Voices But Their Own,  Exert A Common

Effort To A Common End Day After Day,  Until The Days Become Weeks And

The Weeks Marshal Themselves Into Calendar Months--No Two Men Born Of

Woman Can Sustain This Enforced Intimacy Over A Long Period Without

Acquiring A Positive Attitude Toward Each Other. They Achieve A

Contemptuous Tolerance,  Or They Achieve A Rare And Lasting Friendship.

It Was The Fortune Of Tommy Ashe And Wesley Thompson To Cultivate The

Latter. They Arrived At It By Degrees,  In Many Forty-Below-Zero Camps

Along The Peace,  In The Shadow Of Those Towering Mountains Where The

Peace Cuts Through The Backbone Of North America. It Grew Out Of Mutual

Respect,  A Wordless Sense Of Understanding,  A Conviction That Each Did

His Best To Play The Game Fair And Square.

So That,  As They Worked Westward And Gave Over Their Toboggan On The

Waters Of A Stream Far Beyond The Rockies,  When Spring Began To Touch

The North With Her Magic Wand They Grew Merry,  Galvanized By The Spirit

Of Adventure. They Could Laugh,  And Sometimes They Could Sing. And They

Planned Largely,  With The Sanguine Air Of Youth. On The Edges--Not In

The Depths--Of That Wild And Rugged Land Where Manifold Natural

Resources Lay Untouched,  It Seemed As If A Man Had But To Try Hard

Enough In Order To Succeed. They Had Conquered An Ominous Stretch Of

Wilderness. They Would Conquer With Equal Facility Whatever Barriers