Beyond the Wild River Page 12

  The main street, however, was being paved. ‘Behold! Progress,’ Rupert had remarked, gesturing to the labourers, some of whom were dark-skinned. ‘Civilisation—’ Then a group of tipsy young men had jostled past them speaking loudly in what he told her was Italian. ‘Better than the Midway Plaisance,’ he said, pulling her aside and shielding her from them.

  Much better, she thought, for here the exotic was real and these people were not exhibits to be stared at but had a purpose. She walked with the others along the boardwalk, past shops which sold everything from shovels to bonnets, past a land sales registry, an assay office, a livery stable, and several bars. She was attracted by the swagger and the brash confidence of the place, the billboards with their bold advertising, and the noise and the bustle, and she watched unescorted women striding along the wooden walkways, resolute and confident with their skirts swinging above their ankles. No one gave them a second glance— Some women ran boardinghouses and stores, Mr Larsen had told her, and one even owned a lumber yard. ‘So much for the murals in the Woman’s Building,’ she had replied, ‘with their sanctioned spheres of womanhood.’ And he had smiled.

  While Rupert’s company was entertaining, he occasionally displayed a rather patronising attitude, adopting a superior tone which she disliked. ‘It’s a new town, for goodness’ sake,’ she had countered to one of his remarks. ‘They’re still hacking it out of the forest. And look! There’s the electric streetcar coming! Not even Edinburgh has one of those.’ Rupert had laughed at her indignation, and Mr Larsen had insisted that they ride on it.

  ‘Not as exciting as the Ferris wheel, perhaps,’ he said as they clung to their seats, looking out to where men were surveying lots along newly laid-out streets which were filling the gap between Port Arthur and the old trading post at Fort William. ‘There are more shops at the terminus as well as hotels and bars, and it’s there, I regret, that I must leave you for an hour or so while I meet a business associate. Perhaps you might try one of the new ice cream parlours I’ve been told about.’ The streetcar screeched to a halt, and he had raised his hat and left them, strolling off towards a square brick building beside the railway sidings.

  ‘One of the ice cream parlours? I thought he was teasing!’ Evelyn said as Dalston propelled her through a swinging door. ‘How can there be ice cream, here in the back of beyond?’ He had laughed as she and Clementina hung over the selection of flavours, and she had chosen three different ones. They had eaten them at a small round table, and Rupert had leant forward to dab an errant blob of Lime Delight from her chin with his handkerchief saying, ‘What a greedy child it is, to be sure.’

  Larsen, sitting across the carriageway from Evelyn, was thinking that it would be a relief to hand her back to her father. His hand had been forced in regard to young Dalston, with George Melton persuading him to postpone his buffalo hunting, and Dalston thanking his host so profusely. It had been difficult to do anything other than extend the invitation, but better, perhaps, than provoking an awkwardness between well-acquainted families, and he was confident that Ballantyre would be able to handle the matter. He turned his head and caught part of the conversation from across the carriage where Dalston was regaling Melton with his exploits at the card table late into the night. A gambler, was he? His father had certainly been playing for high stakes—

  And losing. The train swayed as it rounded a bend and the rhythm of the wheels changed tone. From the window he had a brief glimpse of the lake and derelict buildings on the tiny Silver Islet just offshore, little enough to show for the frenzied activity there had once been there, and he mused a moment on how rapidly fortunes were made and lost. The train jolted again and his thoughts went back to the worrying news he had heard in Fort William. The newly completed Port Arthur, Duluth and Western railway, which had opened to a jubilant fanfare only a few months ago, was already losing money. Worse still, there were rumours that the corresponding American section would never be built; the mines it had been intended to serve were not proving profitable. He glanced again at Dalston; while both Ballantyre and himself had long since sold their railway stock, Dalston’s father had not and had invested heavily in the PAD & W. That investment, like so many others, had been quietly underwritten by Ballantyre, and if the rumours proved accurate, it could be disastrous for the earl – and any loss now would be the bank’s loss, and Ballantyre’s problem.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could only hope that having Dalston along would not prove to be an embarrassment for Ballantyre. He watched as Evelyn addressed the young man over her shoulder, laughing at his response as he leant forward, eyes a-glint, and Larsen wondered what forces he might have unleashed.

  James had been up early, helping the others to lower the big transport canoes into the water in readiness to go and meet the train at Nipigon station. The lake was like glass this morning, but there was the sharpness of autumn in the air—

  Ballantyre had accompanied Skinner down to the water’s edge and James had heard him trying to engineer it so that James remained at the lodge, telling Skinner that he would take his place in Louis’s canoe. It would give everyone more space, he had pointed out, as well as impress his daughter with his prowess with a paddle. Skinner had laughed but shaken his head, insisting they needed extra hands for all the luggage and stores, and Ballantyre had not pressed the point. But he had found an opportunity to draw James aside. ‘Keep your distance until I’ve had a chance to talk to my daughter,’ he said, ‘she’ll give you away otherwise.’ The words, spoken in his old stable-yard tone, had deepened James’s resentment.

  Last night he had lain sleepless in the dark, asking himself how he could even think of trusting the man again. And as dawn’s light filtered through the shutters he had risen, haggard and hollow-eyed, convinced that he was walking straight into a trap, and that there would be constables waiting for him on the jetty. He was half-tempted to confide in Louis but needed more time to think. Things were happening too fast, and yet he had buried the past so deeply that digging it up did not come easy. But Louis was no fool and had been giving James puzzled, slant-eyed glances. A silence had fallen when James had walked into their cabin last night, and the air had been heavy with suspicion. Louis must have said something to Marcel – neither had questioned him, though, deterred perhaps by the presence of the other guides. But it was only a matter of time before they cornered him and he would have to tell them something.

  Ballantyre had shown such a keen interest in the whereabouts of Achak! No wonder Louis was suspicious! And James had been completely thrown by that twist. Somehow rumours of the gold strike must have reached Ballantyre’s ears; card-table talk in Port Arthur, probably, there was always plenty of that. But, if so, then Ballantyre had come too late— James placed the paddles in the two canoes in readiness, conscious of a grim satisfaction at having stolen a march on the man.

  He felt Ballantyre’s presence behind him was like a goad as they paddled across Lake Helen, and James felt himself tensing as they passed under the railway viaducts and rounded the wooded island beyond. The town wharf came into view. It had been built years back when there had been expectations that Nipigon would become the railhead and a great port, but the railroad had pushed on to the head of the lake instead, and the track had been laid almost half a mile inland, taking the emerging town of Nipigon with it. So the wharf now served no greater traffic than the occasional side-wheeler and a growing number of commercial fishing boats.

  James felt the anxiety twisting in him as the canoe bumped against it a moment later, and the second canoe slid in behind them. He looked up as he saw a figure striding purposefully down the track, but it was only Stewart from the station office. He came out onto the wharf and reached down to steady the canoe. ‘You Mister Ballantyre?’ he asked, and held out another pink telegram envelope. ‘This came, and we’d no one to send with it.’

  Ballantyre took it, frowning slightly as he did, and turned away, ripping the envelope open. James was instantly susp
icious. He kept his eyes on him and saw him stop and stare down at the paper for a lot longer than it took to read it— Then he stuffed it into his pocket and walked on to the end of the wharf and stood there staring out across the river. It was all that James could do not to go after him—

  ‘Oi! You just going to stand there?’ Louis called out sharply and James turned. Above them two gulls dived, screeching as they fought over a scrap plundered from the riverbank, and he saw that the station wagon was approaching. ‘Ten minutes, sir,’ Louis called down the wharf, glancing again at James. Ballantyre did not move and Louis called again. ‘Mr Ballantyre! Ten minutes.’

  Ballantyre spun round. ‘What?’

  ‘The train, sir, it’ll be here in ten minutes.’

  Ballantyre’s face was a stony mask as he strode back down the wharf and past them, and he jumped up beside the waggoner without a word. The four guides climbed in behind him, and James sat there staring at his rigid back, anger battling fear.

  What the hell was going on—?

  A few minutes later the wagon pulled up outside the station and the men climbed out. ‘Just keep your distance,’ Ballantyre repeated in a low voice as he shouldered past James and out onto the platform.

  James went to sit on an upturned barrel against a snow fence, leaving Louis and the other guides to lounge beside the wagon, smoking or chewing. He had chosen his position carefully; from here, he had a clear view down the platform, and if he had to run, the train would serve to mask his escape. He could slip round the engine, cross over the tracks, and vanish into the dense scrub beyond.

  What had that telegram said?

  A distant rumble heralded the train’s approach. He wiped his palms on his thighs and pulled out his knife to have it handy, and began whittling the end of a twig, every muscle and nerve alert for trouble.

  Whatever it was it had unsettled Ballantyre.

  A cloud of steam and smoke appeared above the treetops and a moment later the engine broke cover with a series of mournful wails, and the brakes screeched like souls in agony as it slowed. The carriages came to a standstill directly in front of where Ballantyre was standing.

  James kept his eyes fixed on him—

  Almost at once the first carriage door opened and James watched Ballantyre step forward to greet a stout gentleman who descended to the platform. He was the usual type of wealthy sports fisherman, too much time and money to spare. Neither he nor Ballantyre looked towards James— Then a younger man emerged and turned back to hand down a slim, light-footed woman, and they too were greeted by Ballantyre: a handshake for the man and a kiss for the lady. Familiar types, well dressed and with that air of God-given assurance, the sort who used to come to Ballantyre House. James pulled at a loose piece of wood on the barrel and cursed as he drove a splinter into his thumb, and when he looked up again Ballantyre was handing down another young woman.

  Good God! Miss Evie – all grown up.

  He stared at her. Had he been away that long? She was a little taller, perhaps, but unmistakable. Hair worn up now, lighter in colour than he remembered, a neat trim little figure— But would he have known her if they passed on the street? Probably not. Then he saw her glance up and down the platform in her quick way, and dropped his head. But she was lovely—! And he thought of the thin terrified child, eyes wide with horror as they fixed on the knife blade in his hand. He spat to rid himself of the thought, and risked another glance.

  Ballantyre had greeted her with a kiss and now had a hand on her elbow, keeping her beside him as he shook hands with another figure who had emerged from the railway carriage. James stiffened. Skinner had said a party of five— The figures on the platform moved and James saw that it was another man, a young man, well dressed, same type – but not a lawman, by the looks of him. James remained still, waiting to see who else would leave the train, but the rest were second- or third-class passengers, locals for the most part, some he knew by sight, the others probably anglers. And then he saw that Ballantyre was leading his daughter away, down the platform, his hand still under her elbow, his head bent to her as he spoke.

  Meanwhile the luggage had been unloaded and the wagon was being brought forward. Louis whistled at James, gesturing at the pile of bags, and James got to his feet, taking his time, stretching elaborately, his eyes not leaving the couple at the end of the platform.

  As he put his knife away.

  He reached the pile of luggage as Ballantyre turned around and led his daughter back down the platform towards them. She walked stiffly, holding on to her father, her head averted as they approached him. James bent to pick up a leather valise.

  ‘Have a care, will you,’ a voice drawled beside him, ‘there’s breakables in it.’

  James looked up, and into a pair of startlingly clear blue eyes—

  It was all he could do to hang on to the straps of the valise. A pulse leapt in his throat, his breathing faltered, and he turned away, then heaved the bag onto the wagon in a blur of panic and rage. So it was a trap!

  ‘I said have a care, man!’ the voice snapped, but James was making for Ballantyre.

  Ballantyre saw him coming. He met his eyes with an expression of shock – horror almost – and stepped swiftly into his path, grabbing another bag which he thrust at him, winding him and stopping him in his tracks. ‘Keep your head, James,’ he said, then more loudly, ‘There’s only clothes in that one, I expect,’ and he brushed past James, propelling his daughter towards the wagon and swinging her up to sit beside the other woman, who was laughing, oblivious to the sudden tension, leaving James where he stood, clutching the bag to him, staring at the retreating train.

  Louis said something; he was not sure what. Then he came forward, took the bag from James, threw it up with the rest, and gave a shout to the driver. The old horse strained a little as it turned the wagon, churning up the dust, and set off back towards the landing. The guides walked alongside, but James still stood, stock still, watching it go.

  Louis dropped back. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He clicked back into the moment. ‘What? Nothing.’

  ‘Like hell.’ But James shook his head and strode off after the wagon, leaving Louis to follow.

  Somehow they got the guests and their luggage stowed aboard the canoes and passed down the stores, somehow they cast off from the wharf. Ballantyre had gripped his arm briefly, murmuring: ‘We must talk,’ and then he had stayed close to James, arranging things so that he, the stout man, and Miss Evie were put in the same canoe, together with Louis and James – the rest, including the blue-eyed man, in the other.

  They pushed off from the wharf, and James paddled blindly.

  The great railway viaduct cast a chill shadow as they slid past the great stanchions where the brook trout spawned. They emerged from beneath it, and James straightened his back, marshalling his disordered thoughts. Do you believe in destiny, Ballantyre had asked him yesterday and he had scoffed— But now he knew that Ballantyre had contrived all this for his own purpose, and yet in so doing had provided James with a God-given opportunity, for beyond the viaduct was Lake Helen, and beyond the lake was the Nipigon River— And James knew its ways. It was a wild river, and it would take them north through gorges and white water, away from the constraints of civilisation to where there was space enough to settle scores.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Yes, I see it.’ Evelyn gave a perfunctory glance in the direction that her father was pointing. A large black and white bird was swimming low in the water, moving fast away from them. It dived and she turned her face forward again to stare in disbelief at James Douglas’s back.

  He had a scarf knotted around his neck and wore a sort of shabby waistcoat over a shirt of some coarse material, dirty white, with sweat patches staining the underarms. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing sunburned forearms, and she saw the strength in them.

  James.

  He looked so very different – and yet the same.

  Unconsciously she rubbed her own
arm, feeling a bruise where her father had gripped it at the station. ‘Walk with me a moment, my dear,’ he had said, in a smooth but uncompromising tone, and had led her down the platform. ‘And don’t look back.’ She had looked at him and seen the muscles in his jaw clenched tight, and realised that he was in the grip of some powerful emotion. Instinctively she had half-turned her head, but he had tightened his clasp. ‘Don’t look back, I said.’

  Then he had explained.

  And as he spoke the world seemed to spin as the nightmare escaped its bonds and reared up in front of her, like an evil smoke. And she was a child again, leaning out of the study window, shaking with fear.

  ‘Here? But how is he here?’

  ‘He’s calling himself MacDonald—’

  ‘Did you know he was here?’

  ‘How would I?’ He had stared at her. ‘You’re trembling, my dear—? But listen! You mustn’t show that you know him. Not in any way. Do you understand?’

  She had looked up to meet his eyes, intent and very dark.

  ‘Why not?’

  But he had shaken his head and the old terror consumed her. She had tried to pull away, but he had held firm, his grip tightening painfully. ‘Listen! I will explain everything to you, when I can – every damn thing – but for now just do as I say. Discuss this with no one. Understand? No one! Not Clementina or Melton, not even Larsen, and not … Dalston. Don’t talk to James. Treat him as you do the other guides, like a stranger. He won’t address you.’

  ‘But I need—’

  ‘Enough! Not a word. Not a glance. Ready?’ And he had led her back down the platform towards the others, his hand still gripping her elbow.