The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over high mountain shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the canyon. True enough, there were a number of lift-outs and two rather long portages that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had skill with the paddle and knew the water he might avoid these by running the rapids. Men from the Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, like all true canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of the rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the canoeman happened to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet water by the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into the swift water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper of the stopping place at the Landing, said, "She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak one oiseau."
There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big Horn, and Dr. Bailey had been urgently summoned. The upper camp lay on the other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more from the steel. The lake itself was six miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at least twice that. Hence, though there would be some stiff paddling in the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his choice of route. He knew his canoe and loved every rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the woodsman's trick of going light.
A blanket, a tea pail which held his grub, consisting of some Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a little tea and sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so that he could make the portages in a single carry. Many a mile had he gone, thus equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up and down these valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the railroad, lumber, and tie camps, and more recently in the new-planted mining towns.
It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would help him in his fight with the current and coming down it would be glorious. The sun was just appearing over the row of pines that topped the low mountain range to the east when he packed his kit and blankets under the gunwale in the bow and slipped his canoe into the water. He was about to step in when a voice he had not heard for many days arrested him.
"Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday?
He was-- By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!"
It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked him swiftly apart.
"Ben," he said, in a low, stern voice, "not a word. I once did you a good turn?"
Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech.
"Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know now."
"But--but Miss Margaret and Dick--" gasped Ben.
"They don't know," interrupted the doctor, "and must not know.
Will you promise me this, Ben?"
"By Jove, Barney! I don't--I don't think--"
"Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?"
"Yes, by the livin'--"
"Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old days." The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl.
"You bet, Bar--Doctor!" he cried.
"Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad."
He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above the falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat.
"Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!" sang out Duprez. "You cache hup de preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night."
"What? Who?"
"De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp on de Beeg Fall, s'pose."
Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. "Went up last night, did he?"
"Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send for M'sieu Boyle."
"Did he go up alone?"
"Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe."
It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at all costs, he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his canoe, calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve. He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own ingenuity to avoid the meeting he dreaded.
"All right, Duprez! bon jour."
"Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' de portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?"
"No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her."
"Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur," answered Duprez, shrugging his shoulders. "Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!"
"Don't worry about me," cried the doctor. "Just watch me take this little riffle."
"Bien!" cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy and, with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point where the stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to the falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra weight on his paddle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigilance which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the cause, when the swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his strength and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream and going down the rapids.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot to the other. "A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come out on de heddy!"
The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy and gradually edged her into the quiet water.
"You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!" cried Duprez, as the doctor paddled slowly up the edge past him. "You bes' pass on de portage. Not many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca."
"All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all."
