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

Abhorred Vain Repetition. Since It Takes Two To Keep An Argument Going,

Thompson's Beginning Was But The Beginning Of A Monologue Which

Presently Died Weakly Of Inattention. When He Gave Over Trying To Inject

A Theological Motif Into The Conversation,  He Found Macleod Responsive

Enough. The Factor Touched Upon Native Customs,  Upon The Fur Trade,  Upon

The Vast And Unexploited Resources Of The North,  All Of Which Was More

Or Less Hazy To Thompson.

His Men Had Intimated An Early Start. Their Journey Down The Athabasca

Had Impressed Thompson With The Wisdom Of That. Only So Could They

Escape The Brazen Heat Of The Sun,  And Still Accomplish A Fair Day's

Travel. So He Rose Immediately From The Breakfast Table,  When He Saw

Breyette And Macdonald Standing By The Canoe Waiting For Him. Macleod

Halted Him On The Verandah Steps To Give A Brusque Last Word Of Counsel.

"Look Ye,  Mr. Thompson," He Said. "An Honest Bit Of Advice Will Do Ye No

Harm. Ye're Startin' Out Wi' A Brave Vision O' Doin' A Great Good; Of

Lettin' A Flood O' Light Into Dark Places. Speakin' Out My Ain

First-Hand Experience Ye'll Be Fairly Disappointed,  Because Ye'll

Accomplish Nought That's In Yer Mind. Ye'll Have No Trouble Wi' The

Crees. If Ye Remain Among Them Long Enough To Mak' Them Understand Yer

Talk An' Objects They'll Listen Or Not As They Feel Inclined. They're A

Simple,  Law-Abidin' Folk. But There's A White Man At Lone Moose That

Ye'll Do Well To Cultivate Wi' Discretion. He's A Man O' Positive

Character,  And Scholarly Beyond What Ye'd Imagine. When Ye Meet Him,

Dinna Be Sanctimonious. His Philosophy'll No Gibe Wi' Your Religion,  An'

If Ye Attempt To Impose A Meenesterial Attitude On Him,  It's No Beyond

Possibility He'd Flare Up An' Do Ye Bodily Damage. I Know Him. If Ye

Meet Him Man To Man,  Ye'll Find He'll Meet Ye Half-Way In Everything But

Theology. He'll Be The Sort Of Friend Ye'll Need At Lone Moose. But

Dinna Wave The Cloth In His Face. For Some Reason That's To Him Like The

Proverbial Red Rag Tae A Bull. The Last Missionary Tae Long Moose Cam'

Awa Wi' A Lovely Pair O' Black Eyes Sam Carr Bestowed On Him. I'm

Forewarnin' Ye For Yer Ain Good. Ye Can Decry Material Benefits A' Ye

Like,  But It'll Be A Decided Benefit If Ye Ha' Sam Carr For A Friendly

Neighbor At Lone Moose."

"I Don't Deliberately Seek Religious Controversy With Any One," Thompson

Replied Rather Stiffly. "I Have Been Sent By The Church To Do What Good

I Am Able. That Should Not Offend Mr. Carr,  Or Any Man."

"Nor Will It," Macleod Returned. Then He Added Dryly,  "It A' Depends,  As

Ye May Discover,  On The Interpretation Others Put On Your Method O'

Doin' Good. However,  I Wish Ye Luck. Stop In Whenever Ye Happen Along

This Way."

"I Thank You,  Sir," Thompson Smiled,  "Both For Your Hospitality,  And

Your Advice."

They Shook Hands. Thompson Strode To The Beach. Mike Breyette And Donald

Macdonald Stood Bare-Footed In The Shallow Water. When Thompson Had

Stepped Awkwardly Aboard And Seated Himself Amidships,  They Lifted On

The Canoe And Slid It Gently Off The Shingle,  Leaped To Their Places

Fore And Aft And Gave Way. A Hundred Yards Off Shore They Lifted The

Dripping Paddles In Mute Adieu To Old Donald Mcphee,  Smoking His Pipe At

The Gable End Of His Cabin. Macleod Watched The Gray Canoe Slip Past The

First Point. When It Vanished Beyond That He Turned Back Into His

Quarters With A Shrug Of His Burly Shoulders,  And A Few Unintelligible

Phrases Muttered Under His Breath.

Lone Moose Creek Emptied Into Lake Athabasca Some Forty Miles East Of

Fort Pachugan. The Village Of Lone Moose Lay Another Twenty-Five Miles

Or So Up The Stream. Thompson's Canoemen Carried With Them A Rag Of A

Sail. This They Hoisted To A Fair Wind That Held Through The Morning

Hours. Between That And Steady Paddling They Made The Creek Mouth By

Sundown. There They Lay Overnight On A Jutting Sandbar Where The

Mosquitoes Plagued Them Less Than On The Brushy Shore.

At Dawn They Pushed Into The Sinuous Channel Of Lone Moose,  Breasting

Its Slow Current With Steady Strokes,  Startling Flocks Of Waterfowl At

Every Bend,  Gliding Hour After Hour Along This Shadowy Waterway That

Split The Hushed Reaches Of The Woods. It Was Very Still And Very Somber

And A Little Uncanny. The Creek Was But A Thread In That Illimitable

Forest Which Pressed So Close On Either Hand. The Sun At High Noon Could

Not Dissipate The Shadows That Lurked Among The Close-Ranked Trees; It

Touched The Earth And The Creek With Patches And Streaks Of Yellow At

Rare Intervals And Left Untouched The Obscurity Where The Rabbits And

The Fur-Bearing Animals And All The Wild Life Of The Forest Went

Furtively About Its Business. Once They Startled A Cow Moose And Her

Calf Knee-Deep In A Shallow. The Crash Of Their Hurried Retreat Rose

Like A Blare Of Brass Horns Cutting Discordantly Into The Piping Of A

Flute. But It Died As Quickly As It Had Risen. Even The Beasts Bowed

Before The Invisible Altars Of Silence.

About Four In The Afternoon Mike Breyette Turned The Nose Of The Canoe

Sharply Into The Bank.

The Level Of The Forest Floor Lifted Ten Feet Above Thompson's Head So

That He Could See Nothing Beyond The Earthy Rim Save The Tops Of Trees.

He Kept His Seat While Mike Tied The Bow To A Birch Trunk With A Bit Of

Rope. He Knew That They Expected To Land Him At His Destination Before

Evening Fell. This Did Not Impress Him As A Destination. He Did Not Know

What Lone Moose Would Be Like. The Immensity Of The North Had Left Him

Rather Incredulous. Nothing In The North,  Animate Or Inanimate,

Corresponded Ever So Little To His Preconceived Notions Of What It Would

Be Like. His Ideas Of The Natives Had Been Tinctured With The Flavor Of

Hiawatha And Certain Leatherstocking Tales Which He Had Read With A

Sense Of Guilt When A Youngster. He Had Really Started Out With The

Impression That Lone Moose Was A Collection Of Huts And Tents About A

Log Church And A Missionary House. The People Would Be Simple And

High-Minded,  Tillers Of The Soil In Summer,  Trappers Of Fur In Winter,

Humble Seekers After The Light He Was Bringing. But He Was Not A Fool,

And He Had Been Compelled To Forego That Illusion. Then He Had Surmised

That Lone Moose Might Be A Replica Of Fort Pachugan. Macleod Had Partly

Disabused His Mind Of That.

But He Still Could Not Keep Out Of His Mind's Eye A Somewhat Hazy

Picture Of Lone Moose As A Group Of Houses On The Bank Of A Stream,  With

Indians And Breeds--No Matter How Dirty And Unkempt--Going Impassively

About Their Business,  An Organized Community,  However Rude. Here He Saw

Nothing Save The Enfolding Forest He Had Been Passing Through Since

Dawn. He Scarcely Troubled To Ask Himself Why They Had Stopped. Breyette

And Macdonald Were Given To Casual Haltings. He Sat In Irritable

Discomfort Brushing Aside The Hordes Of Mosquitoes That Rose Up From The

Weedy Brink And The Shore Thickets To Assail His Tender Skin. He Did

Not Notice That Macdonald Was Waiting For Him To Move. Mike Breyette

Looked Down On Him From The Top Of The Bank.

"Well,  We Here,  M'sieu Thompson," He Said.

"What?" Thompson Roused Himself. "Here? Where Is The Village?"

Breyette Waved A Hand Upstream.

"She's 'Roun' De Nex' Bend," Said He. "Two-Three Hundred Yard. Dees

W'ere De Meeshonaire Have Hees Cabanne."

Thompson Could Not Doubt Breyette's Statement. He Recalled Now That Mike

Had Once Told Him The Mission Quarters Were Built A Little Apart From

The Village. But He Peered Up Through The Screen Of Birch And Willow

With A Swift Wave Of Misgiving. The Forest Enclosed Him Like The Blank

Walls Of A Cell. He Shrank From It As A Sensitive Nature Shrinks From

The Melancholy Suggestiveness Of An Open Grave,  And He Could Not Have

Told Why He Felt That Strange Form Of Depression. He Was Wholly

Unfamiliar With Any Form Of Introspective Inquiry,  Any Analysis Of A

Mental State. He Had Never Held Sad Intellectual Inquest Over A Dead

Hope,  Nor Groped Blindly For A Ray Of Light In The Inky Blackness Of A

Soul's Despair.

Nevertheless,  He Was Conscious That He Felt Very Much As He Might Have

Felt If,  For Instance,  His Guides Had Stopped Anywhere In Those Somber

Woods And Without Rhyme Or Reason Set Him And His Goods Ashore And

Abandoned Him Forthwith. And When He Crawled Over The Bow Of The Canoe

And Ascended The Short,  Steep Bank To A Place Beside Mike Breyette,  This

Peculiar Sense Of Being Forsaken Grew,  If Anything,  More Acute,  More

Appalling.

They Stood On The Edge Of The Bank,  Taking A Reconnaissance,  So To

Speak. The Forest Flowed About Them Like A Sea. On Thompson's Left Hand

It Seemed To Thin A Trifle,  Giving A Faint Suggestion Of Open Areas

Beyond. Beginning Where They Stood,  Some Time In Past Years A Square

Place Had Been Slashed Out Of The Timber,  Trees Felled And Partly

Burned,  The Stumps Still Standing And The Charred Trunks Lying All Askew

As They Fell. The Unlovely Confusion Of The Uncompleted Task Was

Somewhat Concealed By A Rank Growth Of Weeds And Grass. This

Half-Hearted Attack Upon The Forest Had Let The Sunlight In. It Blazed

Full Upon A Cabin In The Center Of The Clearing,  A Square,  Squat

Structure Of Logs With A Roof Of Poles And Dirt. A Door And A Window

Faced The Creek,  A Window Of Tiny Panes,  A Door That Stood Partly Open,

Sagging Forlornly Upon Its Hinges.

"Is _That_ The House?" Thompson Asked. It Seemed To Him Scarcely

Credible. He Suspected His Guides,  As He Had Before Suspected Them,  Of

Some Rude Jest At His Expense.

"Dat's Heem," Breyette Answered. "Let's Tak' Leetle More Close Look On

Heem."

Thompson Did Not Miss The Faint Note Of Commiseration In The

Half-Breed's Voice. It Stung Him A Little,  Nearly Made Him Disregard The

Spirit Of Abnegation He Had Been Taught Was A Christian's Duty In His

Master's Service. He Closed His Lips On An Impulsive Protest Against

That Barren Unlovely Spot,  And Stiffened His Shoulders.

"I Understand It Has Not Been Occupied For Some Time," He Said As They

Moved Toward