The Pathfinders by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spencer Ltd
Published: 1955-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Ben stayed behind with Wheeland for a while and Dan waited outside for him. It was late and the great fire had died to a mass of smoldering embers. The trappers, Indians and fort personnel were sprawled around the hot coals, sleeping mostly, some talking together, others cursing as they gambled with scraps of carved bone.

The night was very still. From the north, a thin wind blew promise of the winter to come and the pre-dawn air held a hint of the iron cold, which would soon be sweeping down to cover the land with snow and ice. Here, in the lowlands, the winter wouldn't be so bad but higher up in the mountains it would be as if every living thing had died.

Dan breathed deeply, letting the pine-scented air deep into his chest, holding it before letting it escape through his nostrils. Ben came towards him, a square of brightness behind him from the open door of the shack. It closed and darkness swept around them, darkness relieved only by the glittering light of the distant stars.

"Dan?"

"Here." Dan rose from where he had been sitting. "You finished with Wheeland?"

"Yes."

"Anything new?"

"Not much."

Ben led the way towards the fire, stepping between sleeping men. They looked as if dead, those men, they had eaten and drunk until they could eat and drink no more and then had fallen in an apparent stupor but, as the two men passed between them, they stirred, opened an eye, stared before sinking back into sleep again. They slept the light, aware sleep of the wild, ready to leap into immediate action at the hint of danger.

Ben loaded his pipe, reached for a coal, breathed smoke.

"What do you think of Wheeland, Dan?"

"Haven't thought about it." Dan shrugged. "Seems a tenderfoot to me."

"He ain't no tenderfoot," said Ben. "I stayed behind to talk to him and to settle a few things. He's wearing store clothing and he talks wild but he knows what he wants and nothing will stop him getting it. I've met his kind of man before. Jim Bridger is something like him. Jim sees a new mountain and he can't rest until he's seen what's on the other side. He'll hear a tale of a new river or a new trapping ground and off he goes to take a look. Wheeland's like that."

"I wouldn't have taken Wheeland for a trapper."

"Did I say he was?"

"You said he was like Jim Bridger. He's a trapper, ain't he?"

"Some of the time he is," admitted Ben. "Most of the time he's just a wanderer. I'll bet that Jim Bridger's seen more of this country than any man alive, including Indians."

"Wheeland ain't no wanderer."

"I didn't say that either." Ben drew at his pipe. "Sometimes there's a thing gets inside of a man and won't give him no rest. It's a kind of itching so that you've got to go on, he on the move, always doing something. Wheeland's like that. He's got an idea in his head and it's stinging him like a bee.

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