Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Frame Of Mind A Few Days Later When He

Borrowed A Canoe From Lachlan And Set Out For The Fort. He Had Kept

Away From Carr's For Nearly Five Weeks. Neither Sophie Nor Her Father

Had Come To His Cabin Again. Once Or Twice He Had Hailed Carr From A

Distance. In The Height Of His Loneliness He Had Traversed The Half-Mile

To Tommy Ashe's Shack Up Lone Moose,  Only To Find It Deserted. He

Learned Later That Lachlan's Oldest Son And Ashe Had Gone Partners To

Run A Line Of Traps Away To The North Of The Village. It Occurred To

Thompson That He Might Do The Same--If--Well,  He Would See About That

When He Got Home From Pachugan.

 

The Birch Bark Lachlan Let Him Have Occasioned Him Many A Rare Tussle

Before He Finally Beached It At The Fort. The Fall Winds Were Roughening

The Lake. It Was His First Single-Handed Essay With The Paddle. But He

Derived A Certain Satisfaction From Winning Alone Against Wind And

Water,  And Also Gained Food For Thought In The Odd Circumstance Of His

Growing Tendency To Get A Glow Out Of Purely Physical Achievements. It

Did Not Irk Nor Worry Him Now To Sweat And Strain For Hours On End.

Instead,  He Found In That Continued,  Concentrated Muscular Effort A

Happy Release From Troublesome Reflection.

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 59

His Cheque Was Waiting. As He Fingered The Green Slip Whose Face Value

Was One Hundred And Twenty Dollars,  One Fourth Of His Yearly Stipend,  He

Felt Relieved,  And At The Same Time Oddly Reluctant. Not Until Late In

The Evening Did He Get At The Root Of That Reluctance. Macleod Had

Hospitably Insisted On Putting Him Up. They Sat In The Factor's Living

Room Before A Great Roaring Fireplace. Their Talk Had Lapsed Into

Silence. Macleod Leaned Back In His Chair,  Pipe In Hand,  Frowning

Abstractedly.

 

"Man," He Said At Length,  His Bearded Face Wrinkled With A Smile,  "I

Wish Ye Were No A Preacher Wi' Labors I' The Vineyard Of The Lord Tae

Occupy Yer Time. I'd Have Ye Do A Job For Me."

 

"A Job?" Thompson Came Out Of His Preoccupation.

 

"Aye," Macleod Grunted. "A Job. A Reg'lar Man's Job. There'd Be A

Reasonable Compensation In't. It's A Pity," He Continued Dryly,  "That A

Parson Has A Mind Sae Far Above Purely Mateerial Conseederation."

 

"It May Surprise You," Mr. Thompson Returned Almost As Dryly,  "To Know

That I Have--To A Certain Extent--Modified My Views Upon What You Term

Material Considerations. They Are,  I Have Found,  More Important Than I

Realized."

 

The Factor Took His Pipe Out Of His Mouth And Regarded Thompson With

Frank Curiosity.

 

"Well," He Remarked Finally. "Yer A Young Man. It's No Surprisin'." He

Paused A Second.

 

"Would It Interest Ye--Would Ye Consider Givin' A Month Or Two Of Yer

Time To A Legitimate Enterprise If It Was Made Worth Yer While?" He

Asked Bluntly.

 

"Yes," Thompson Answered With Equal Directness. "If I Knew What It

Was--If It's Something I Can Do."

 

"I'm Just Marking Time At Lone Moose," He Went On After A Pause. There

Was A Note Of Discouragement In His Voice. "I'm--Well,  Completely

Superfluous There. I'd Be Tempted--"

 

He Did Not Go Farther. Nor Did Macleod Inquire Into The Nature Of The

Suggested Temptation. He Merely Nodded Understandingly At The First

Part Of Thompson's Reply.

 

"Ye Could Do It Fine,  I Think," He Said Thoughtfully,  "Wi' The Use Of

Yer Head An' The Bit Coachin' And Help I'd Provide. It's Like This.

Pachugan's No So Good A Deestrict As It Used Tae Be. The Fur Trade's

Slowin' Down,  An' The Company's No So Keen As It Was In The Old Days

When It Was Lord O' The North. I Mind When A Factor Was A Power--But

That Time's Past. The Company's Got Ither Fish Tae Fry. Consequently

There's Times When We're I' The Pickle Of Them That Had Tae Make Bricks

Wi'oot Straw. I Mean There's Times When They Dinna Gie Us The Support

Needful To Make The Best Of What Trade There Is. Difficulties Of

Transportation For One Thing,  An' A Dyin' Interest In A Decayin' Branch

Of Company Business. Forbye A' That They Expect Results,  Just The Same.

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 60

"Now,  I'm Short Of Three Verra Necessary Things,  Flour,  Tea,  And Steel

Traps. I Canna Get Them Frae Edmonton. They Didna Fully Honor My Fall

Requisitions,  An' It's Too Late I' The Season Now. Yet They'll Ask Why I

Dinna Get The Skins Next Spring,  Ye Understand. If The Indians Dinna Get

Fully Supplied Here,  They'll Go Elsewhere; They Can Do That Since

There's A French Firm Strung A Line O' Posts To Compete I' The Region,

Ye See.

 

"Now I Havena Got The Goods I Need An' I Canna Get Them Frae Company

Sources. But There's A Free Trader Set Himsel' Up Tae The North O' Here

Last Season. The North's No A Monopoly For The Company These Days,  Ye

Ken. They Canna Run A Free Trader Out I' The Old High-Handed Fashion.

But There's A Bit Of The Old Spirit Left--An' This Laddie's Met Wi'

Difficulties,  In A Way O' Speakin'. He's Discouraged Tae The Point Where

He'll Sell Cheap; An' He's A Fair Stock O' The Verra Goods I Want. I'd

Tak' Over His Stock To-Morrow--But He's Ninety-Odd Miles Away. I Canna

Leave Here I' The Height O' The Outfittin' Season. I Ha' Naebody I Can

Leave In Charge.

 

"The Job For Ye Wad Be Tae Go Up There,  Inventory His Stock,  Take It

Over,  An' Stay There Tae Distribute It Tae Such Folk As I'd Send Tae Be

Supplied In That Section. Wi' That Completed,  Transfer The Tag-Ends Doon

Here. I'd Furnish Ye A Breed Tae Guide Ye There An' Interpret For Ye,

An' Tae Pass On The Quality O' Such Furs As Might Offer. He'd Grade

Them,  An' Ye'd Purchase Accordin'. Do Ye See? It's No A Job I Can Put On

Anny Half-Breed. There's None Here Can Write And Figure."

 

"As It Sounds," Thompson Replied,  "I Daresay I Could Manage. You Said It

Would Be Worth My While. What Do I Gather From That?"

 

"Ye'd Gather Two Dollars A Day An' Everything Supplied," Macleod

Returned Dryly. "Will Ye Tak' It On?"

 

Thompson Stared Into The Fire For A Minute. Then He Looked Up At The

Factor Of Fort Pachugan.

 

"I'm Your Man," He Said Briefly.

 

"Good," Macleod Grunted. "An' When Ye Go Back Tae The Preachin' Ye'll

Find The Experience Has Done Ye No Harm. Now,  We'll Go Over The

Seetuation In Detail To-Morrow,  An' The Next Day Ye'll Start North,  Wi'

Joe Lamont. The Freeze-Up's Due,  An' It's Quicker An' Easier Travelin'

By Canoe Than Wi' Dogs."

 

They Talked Desultorily For Half An Hour,  Until Macleod,  Growing Drowsy

Before The Big Fire,  Yawned And Went Off To Bed,  After Pointing Out A

Room For His Guest And Employee-To-Be.

 

Thompson Shut The Door Of His Bedroom And Sat Down On A Stool. He Was

Warm,  Comfortable,  Well-Fed. But He Was Not Happy,  Unless The Look Of

Him Belied His Real Feelings. He Raised His Eyes And Stared Curiously At

His Reflection In A Small Mirror On The Wall. The Scars Of Tommy Ashe's

Fists Had Long Since Faded. His Skin Was A Ruddy,  Healthy Hue,  The

Freckles Across The Bridge Of His Nose Almost Wholly Absorbed In A Coat

Of Tan. But The Change That Marked Him Most Was A Change Of Expression.

His Eyes Had Lost The Old,  Mild Look. They Were Hard And Alert,  Blue

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 61

Mirrors Of An Unquiet Spirit. There Was A Different Set To His Lips.

 

"I Don't Look Like A Minister," He Muttered. "I Look Like A Man Who Has

Been Drunk. I Feel Like That. There Must Be A Devil In Me."

 

He Had Brought With Him From Lone Moose A Small Bag. Out Of This He Now

Took Paper,  Envelopes,  A Fountain Pen,  Changed His Seat To The Edge Of

The Bed,  And Using The Stool For A Desk Began To Write. When He Had

Covered Two Sheets He Folded Them Over The Green Slip He Had That Day

Received,  And Slid The Whole Into An Envelope Which He Addressed:

 

    Mr. A.H. Markham,

    Sec. M.E. Board Of Home Missions,

    412 Echo St.,

    Toronto,  Ont.

 

He Laid The Letter On The Bed And Regarded It With An Expression In

Which Regret And Relief Were Equally Mingled.

 

"They'll Say--They'll Think," He Muttered Disconnectedly.

 

He Got Up,  Paced Across The Small Room,  Swung About To Look At The

Letter Again.

 

"I've Got To Do It," He Said Aloud Defiantly. "It's The Only Thing I Can

Do. Burn All My Bridges Behind Me. If I Can't Honestly Be A Minister,  I

Can At Least Be A Man."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 (A Fortune And A Flitting) Pg 62

Christmas Had Come And Gone Before Thompson Finished His Job At

Porcupine Lake,  Some Ninety-Odd Miles,  As The Crow Flies,  North Of Fort

Pachugan. The Porcupine Was A Marshy Stretch Of Water,  The Home Of

Muskrat And Beaver,  A Paradise For Waterfowl When The Heavy Hand Of

Winter Was Lifted,  A Sheet Of Ice Now,  A White Oval In The Dusky Green

Of The Forest. Here The Free Trader Had Built A Fair-Sized Structure Of

Logs With Goods Piled In The Front And The Rearward End Given Over To A

Stove,  A Table,  And Two Bunks. In This Place Thompson And Joe Lamont

Plied Their Traffic. Macleod Sent Them Indian And Half-Breed Trappers

Bearing Orders For So Much Flour,  So Much Tea,  So Many Traps,  So Much

Powder And Ball And Percussion Caps For Their Nigh Obsolete Guns. They

Took Their "Debt" And Departed