The Land God Gave to Cain

by Innes, Hammond;

  “No,” I said. I didn’t know what an esker was and all I wanted was to get out of there before Lands arrived. I picked up my gloves and fur cap.

  But his companion stood between me and the door, a big, broad-shouldered youngster in a fur cap and scarlet-lined hunting parka. “What’s your job?” he demanded. He had an Irish accent.

  “Engineer,” I answered without thinking. And then I checked, for I knew I’d made a mistake. These men were engineers themselves.

  “Then you can probably tell us something about it,” Steel said. “All we’ve heard is that there’s talk of pushing a spur line in and starting a new ballast pit.”

  “I’m new here,” I said quickly. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  He nodded, his eyes fixed on my face. “Thought I hadn’t seen you before. Straight up from Base, are you?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know quite what to do. I felt that if I left now he’d be suspicious. And then Georges came in with the coffee and a heaped plate of doughnuts. “You like coffee, too?” he asked me, and I saw that there were three mugs on the tray.

  “You staying here or going on up the line?” Steel asked me, his mouth already full of doughnut.

  “Going on,” I said, gulping the coffee though it was scalding hot. I had to get out of here somehow before Lands arrived.

  “We can probably give you a lift as far as Head of Steel. Where are you bound for?”

  I hesitated. But it didn’t seem to matter. “Two-six-three,” I said.

  “Crazy Darcy, eh?” His companion gave a loud guffaw. “Jesus Christ! So they haven’t rumbled him yet, the old devil.”

  “What Paddy means,” Steel said, dunking his doughnut, “is that Ray is one of the old-timers on this railroad.”

  “What I mean is that he’s an old rogue and you’ll do all the work for him whilst he takes the credit—if you’re a hardworking, sober, God-fearing engineer, which is what we all are seeing this is the Wilderness and no Garden of Eden running with the milk of human kindness that comes from my native land.”

  “There’s no liquor allowed up here,” Steel said. “That’s what he means. It’s a subject of conversation that gets kind of boring after you’ve been up here a while.” He was looking at me curiously. “Your name wouldn’t be Ferguson, would it?”

  I nodded, my body suddenly tense, wondering what was coming.

  But all he said was, “Somebody was inquiring for you just as we left Head of Steel.”

  “Laroche?” The question seemed dragged out of me.

  “That’s the guy, yes. The pilot of that plane that crashed. You know him?”

  I nodded, thinking that now he was between me and Two-six-three.

  “Bad business, that crash,” Steel said. “Did he ever talk to you about it?”

  But all I could think of was the fact that Laroche had been on the supply train. “What did he want?” I asked. “Did he tell you what he wanted?”

  “No. Just asked if we’d seen you. But it seemed urgent.” And then he went back to the subject of the crash. “I guess it must’ve been a hell of a shock to him, both his passengers dead and then struggling out alone like that. Makes you realise what this country’s like soon as you get away from the grade.” And he added, “I heard he was engaged to Briffe’s daughter. Is that true?”

  The sound of a speeder came from the track outside and the Irishman jumped to his feet and went to the window. “Here’s Bill now.”

  Laroche at Head of Steel and now Lands. I felt suddenly trapped. The speeder had stopped outside the diner, the engine ticking over with a gentle putter that was muffled by the thick glass of the windows. Boots sounded on the iron grating at the end of the coach and then the door slammed back. I only just had time to turn away towards the window before Bill Lands was there.

  “You got my message then, Al.” His voice was right behind me as he came down the coach. “And you brought Paddy with you. That’s swell.”

  He was down by the stove now and I glanced at him quickly. He looked even bigger in his parka and the fur cap made his face look tougher, a part of the North. “You want some cawfee, Bill?” Steel was standing to make room for him.

  “Sure,” Lands said, his hands held out to the hot casing of the stove. “And some doughnuts. You know why I asked you and Paddy to meet me here?”

  “There was some talk about an esker—”

  “That’s it. Williams found it.” His voice was muffled by the doughnut he was wolfing down. “Thought it might solve our problem. That ballast coming up from One-three-four is starting to get froze. But if we could open up a ballast pit here, right behind Head of Steel …” He checked suddenly and said, “Hell! My speeder’s still on the track. Hey, you!”

  I knew he’d turned and was staring at my back. I couldn’t ignore him and at the same time I didn’t dare turn to face him. “Can you drive a speeder?” he demanded.

  It was the opportunity I’d been wanting, the excuse to get out without raising their suspicions. But I hesitated because the door seemed a long way off and I was afraid my voice might give me away.

  “I asked you whether you could drive a speeder.” His voice was impatient.

  “Sure,” I said, and started for the door.

  Maybe it was my voice or maybe I moved too quickly. I heard him say, “Who is that guy? “But he didn’t wait for an answer. He was already coming down the coach after me. “Just a minute!”

  I had almost reached the door where my suitcase stood and I might have made a dash for it then, but I hadn’t had time to think what the use of a speeder could mean to me. I just felt it was hopeless to try and get away from him, and so I turned and faced him.

  He had almost caught up with me, but when I turned and he saw my face, he stopped abruptly. “Ferguson!” There was a look of blank astonishment in his eyes as though he couldn’t believe it. “How the hell …” And then his big hands clenched and the muscles of his jaw tightened.

  It was the knowledge that he was going to hit me that made my brain seize on the one thing that might stop him. “Briffe is alive,” I said.

  He checked then. “Alive?”

  “At least he was when Laroche left him. I’m certain of that now.”

  “And what makes you so damned certain?” His voice was dangerously calm.

  “Laroche,” I said. “He came to my room last night and he virtually admitted—”

  “What room? Where?”

  “At One-three-four.”

  “One-three-four. That’s a lie. Bert’s at Seven Islands.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s at Head of Steel right now. Ask them.” And I nodded at the two engineers.

  That seemed to shake him for he said, “He followed you, did he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s scared and—”

  “So would I be scared. I’d be scared as hell if I knew some crazy fool—”

  “It’s not me that’s crazy,” I cried.

  He stared at me. “What do you mean by that?” His voice had suddenly gone quiet again.

  “It’s Laroche,” I said quickly. “For some reason he can’t get the Ferguson Expedition out of his mind. He crashed at Lake of the Lion and something happened there that’s driving him” He had taken a step forward and my voice trailed away, away.

  “Go on,” he said ominously. “You think something happened there? What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured. “But it’s preying on his mind.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeated. “That’s what I’ve got to find out. But he asked me whether I thought he’d killed them and then he said he was sure Baird was dead. He didn’t say—”

  “You damned little liar!” He had suddenly lost his temper. “First you say he left Briffe alive. Now you try to suggest he killed Baird. My God!” he cried, and I backed away from him into the open doorway. I was out on the steel platform then and below me was the track with the speeder standing there, its eng
ine ticking over. “You slip up the line,” he was saying, “and try to make people believe a lot of wild, lying accusations. Well, you’re not going any farther. Goddammit!” he added. “If you weren’t just a kid—”

  That was when I slammed the door in his face and leapt down on to the track and straight on to the speeder. I let go the brake and thrust it into gear, revving the engine, the way I’d seen the gang foreman do it, and I was just easing the belt on to its drive when he hit the ground beside me. He reached out and grabbed at the hand rail just as I got the speeder moving. He missed it and I heard him swear, and then his feet were pounding after me. But by then I was gathering speed, and after that I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of the engine and the beat of the wheels on the rail joints.

  I was clear of him. That was what the wind sang in my ears. Clear of him, and I had transport. I glanced back over my shoulder as I ran clear of the bunkhouse train. He was standing in the middle of the track shouting something and waving his arms. I didn’t know he was trying to warn me and I waved back out of sheer bravado, and then I pushed the throttle wide open, crouched low and riding the speeder like a motor-bike.

  The switch to the double track clattered under the wheels and beyond there was nothing but the twin rails streaming out ahead of me to a long curve where the speeder bucked and swayed. When I looked back again the double track and the bunkhouse train had vanished. I was riding alone, with nothing behind or in front but the track with the snow-spattered jackpine crowding it on either side.

  III

  For the first mile or two I was swept forward on a tide of exhilaration—the sense of speed, the illusion of power. I felt that nothing could stop me from reaching Lake of the Lion and finding Briffe still alive, and I drove the speeder full out, the wheel flanges screaming on the curves and the virgin country streaming past on either side.

  But the mood didn’t last. My fingers stiffened with cold where the gloves were worn, my feet became deadened lumps inside the chill casing of my boots and the wind on my face was a biting blast. I hit a bad patch, where the track had recently been ballasted and the steel was half buried in gravel, and I had to throttle down. I became conscious of the country then, the difficulties that faced me; Lands would phone Head of Steel and the whole organisation would be against me.

  I must have passed dozens of telegraph poles lying beside the track before it dawned on me that the linesmen hadn’t yet reached this section of the track. Lands couldn’t phone them. He’d have to get another speeder and come after me. I opened the throttle wide again, and as I did so there came the crack of a rifle and I ducked my head. But when I looked back over my shoulder, the track behind me was empty.

  I thought maybe it was a stone then, thrown up from the track. But the rifle cracked again, unmistakable this time, and suddenly I could hear wild human cries above the noise of the engine. They came from away to my left where a lake glimmered like pewter through a screen of trees. There was a canoe there and an Indian stood in the bows, a rifle to his shoulder, and close inshore a head and antlers thrust towards the shallows. There was a crashing in the undergrowth and the caribou broke cover a hundred yards ahead of me. It hesitated a moment, pawing at the steel of the track, and then with a quick terrified leap it was across and had vanished into the bush on the other side.

  I didn’t catch sight of the Indians again, for the track went into a long bend, There were levelling stakes beside the track here and in the stretch beyond I found the engineers who had put them there. They stood in a little group round their speeder, which had been lifted clear of the track, and as I rattled past them one of them shouted what sounded like “Attention!”

  He was a French Canadian with a round fur cap like a Russian and before I had worked out that it was a shout of warning I was into the next bend. It was ballast again and the speeder bucked violently as the gravel flew, and through the rattle of the stones came the lost hoot of an owl. And then I was round the bend, clear of the gravel, and there was something on the line ahead. I slammed on the brake as the weird owl-hoot sounded again, louder and clearer, suddenly unmistakable.

  Before the speeder had jerked to a halt I could see the yellow paintwork of the locomotive, could feel the rails trembling under me. There was no hope of getting the speeder off the track in time, not by myself. I did the only thing I could and flung the gear lever into reverse, opening the throttle wide and tearing back down the track, round the bend to where the little knot of engineers stood waiting.

  The instant I stopped they crowded round, the lifting bars were pulled out and then they dragged it clear just as the train came rumbling round the curve. The hooter wailed again, loud as a trumpet note between the enclosing walls of the jackpine, and then the heavy locomotive was on top of us, sliding by at walking pace with a smell of hot engine oil and a slow piston-beat of power. The driver leaned out and shouted down: “You want to commit suicide, just jump in the muskeg. Don’t pick on me.” He spat into the slush at my feet and went back to the controls. The beat increased with a roar like a power station and the diesel gathered way again, clanking a long line of empty rail flats. And behind the flats came two wooden coaches with men looking down at us incuriously from the windows.

  That was when I saw Laroche again. He was in the second coach and for an instant our eyes met. I saw him jump to his feet, and then the coach was past. The caboose followed and as it rattled by Laroche swung himself out of the coach doorway. I thought for a moment he was going to jump. But the train was light, gathering speed quickly. He hung there for a moment and then he thought better of it and disappeared into the coach again.

  I watched the train as it dwindled down the track and the only thought in my mind then was that the way was clear for me to get to Camp 263. Laroche was behind me now, and Lands, too, and as long as I kept ahead of them there’d be nobody who knew me at Head of Steel. I turned to the engineers and asked them to get my speeder back on the track.

  The French Canadian with the fur cap was looking at me curiously. “Why don’t you check when you enter this section?” he asked.

  “I was in a hurry,” I said, my voice a little unsteady because I was feeling badly shaken now.

  “You might have killed yourself.”

  “I was in a hurry,” I repeated. “I still am.”

  “Sure. So is everybody else. But Mr. Lands won’t thank you if you wreck his speeder.”

  I thought he was going to ask me why I was riding it then, but after staring at me a moment, he turned to his men and told them to get the speeder back on the track. “That’s the trouble with this outfit,” he grumbled. “Too much’ dam’ hurry.”

  Three miles farther on I was stopped by a ballast gang. Their gas cars had been dumped beside the track to let the supply train through, but the track-lifting and ballast-tamping machines were already back at work on the track and there was nothing for it but to abandon my speeder and continue on foot. Head of Steel, they told me, was two miles up the line.

  It was all new grade here, a long fill that ran out across a muskeg swamp. The line sagged in shallow waves where the muskeg sucked at the gravel embankment and the ties were covered with fresh ballast. It was hard walking, and the wind had swung into the north, so that it cut through my borrowed clothing and chilled the sweat on my body. Out across the marsh, where the black line of the scrub joined the iron-grey sky, I caught a glimpse of hills that were long-backed and bare, as though ground down to the bone by ice.

  It seemed a long time that I trudged across that desolate area of swamp, but at last I reached the shallow gravel rim that enclosed it, and round a bend I came on a gang of men working with drills and machine-operated spanners, bolting the rails together and driving spikes. The detached chassis and wheels of dismantled rail transporters lay beside the track, and up ahead were more men and machines, and beyond them the steel-laying train. Everywhere about me now there was a sense of movement, of drive and thrust and effort, so that Labrador seemed suddenly crowded
and full of life. The track, laid on the bare gravel without ballast, like toy rails in a sandpit, had a newness about it that showed that it hadn’t been there yesterday, and walking beside it, through all these gangs of men, I felt conspicuous.

  But they took no notice of me, though as I went by them, my gaze fixed self-consciously on the steel or the machines they operated, I felt that each one of them must know I’d no right to be there. I wondered who was in charge at Head of Steel and what Laroche had told him.

  It was better when I reached the train itself. There were no gangs working there, just the wagons full of ties and plates and bolts which men threw out beside the track each time the train moved forward. The train was in a steep cut and I was forced to walk close beside it, so that when I reached the bunkhouse section I was conscious of men lounging in the open doorways of the coaches, staring down at me. But nobody stopped me, and I went up past the engine and the rail transporters until at last I could see the steel-laying crane swinging with a length of rail. A whistle blew and the crane swung back, its claw empty. The train hooted and then moved forward a few yards. Another length of track had been laid.

  There was something so fascinating about the rhythmic thrusting of this train into the unknown that for the moment I forgot everything else and climbed half-way up the side of the cut to watch it. Each time, before the train had stopped, the crane was already swinging, another length of steel balanced in its claw grip. A man stood signalling with his hands to the crane-driver and shouting instructions to the steel-laying gang, and as the rail came down on to the grade, they seized hold of it, thrusting it into place on the ties and spiking it there with the balanced swing of sledge hammers.

  This was Head of Steel and I stood and watched with a sort of awe. And then I saw the bare grade stretched out ahead, naked except for the few ties laid at regular intervals, and my gaze lifted to the black line of the jackpine. The yellow slash of the bulldozed grade ran into it and was abruptly swallowed.