Campbell's Kingdom (6 page)

I must have dropped off into a sort of coma, for I woke up to find Jeff Hart bending over me, shaking me by the shoulders. ‘Christ! You gave me a turn,' he said. ‘Thought you'd never come round. You all right?'

‘Yes,' I murmured and forced myself to swing my feet off the bed. I sat there for a minute, panting and feeling the blood hammering in my ears.

‘Would you like me to fetch a doctor?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm all right.'

‘Well, you don't look it. You look like death.'

‘I'm all right,' I gasped, fighting for breath. ‘How high up are we here?'

‘About three thousand five hundred.' He was bending over me, peering at me. ‘You look real bad, Bruce.'

‘I tell you I'm all right,' I whispered peevishly.

‘Sure, sure. Here, take a look at yourself.'

I lifted my head from my hands. He had taken the mirror from the wall and was holding it in front of me. I stared at myself. My jaw seemed to have got bluer in my sleep, the veins of my forehead were more deeply etched, my lips were bloodless and my mouth open, gasping for breath. I struck out at the mirror, knocking it out of his hand. It shivered into a thousand splinters on the floor.

‘That'll cost you two bucks,' he said with an attempt at a laugh.

‘I'm sorry,' I murmured, staring rather foolishly at the broken glass.

‘That's all right. I'll go over and fetch the doctor.'

I got to my feet then and caught him by the arm. ‘No. There's nothing he can do about it.'

‘But goldarn it, man, you're ill.'

‘I know.' I crossed to the window and stared at the peak of Edith Cavell, now a white marble monument against the darkening shadows of night. ‘I've got anaemia. Something to do with the blood. I don't get enough oxygen.'

‘Then you'd better go to sleep again, I guess.'

‘No, I'll be all right,' I said. ‘Just wait while I wash and then we'll go down to the bar.'

As we went down a party of skiers came in. They were Americans and their gaily coloured wind-cheaters made a bright splash of colour in the drab entrance to the hotel. We went through into the saloon. It was a bare, rather utilitarian place full of small, marble-topped tables and uncomfortable chairs. It was about half full, workers from the railway yards mostly, their war surplus jackets predominating over the brighter pattern of lumber jackets and ski clothes. There were no women.

‘I sent word for Johnnie to meet us here,' Jeff Hart said. He glanced at his watch. ‘He'll be here any minute now.' The bartender came up. ‘Four beers.'

‘No,' I said. ‘This is on me. And I want a brandy. What about you—will you have a short?'

Jeff laughed. ‘Anybody can see he comes from the Old Country,' he said to the barman. ‘Let me put you wise on the drinking habits of Canadians out West. This is a beer parlour. No women are allowed, you may not drink standing up and you may not order more than a pint at a time. If you want hard liquor, you buy it at a Government liquor store and drink it in your room.' His gaze swung to the door. ‘Here's Johnnie now. Make it six beers, will you, George. Johnnie. This is Bruce Wetheral.'

I found myself looking at a slim-hipped man in a sheepskin jacket and a battered stetson. He had a kindly face, tanned by wind and sun, and his eyes had a faraway look as though they were constantly searching for a distant peak. His eyelids appeared devoid of lashes and were slightly puffed as though he had been peering into snow and wind since birth. ‘Understand you bin asking for me, Bruce?' He smiled and perched himself on a chair with the light ease of a man who sits on a horse most of his time. ‘Guess I ain't used to comin' to low-down places such as this.'

‘Don't pay any attention to him,' Jeff said. ‘The old coyote is here every night.'

‘What is it you're wanting—horses?' He had a soft, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his mouth and eyes.

‘I'm not here on business,' I said. ‘I just wanted to meet you.'

‘That's real nice of you.' He smiled and waited.

‘You knew an old man called Stuart Campbell, didn't you?'

‘King Campbell? Sure. But he's dead now.'

‘I know. You were one of the party that found his body.'

‘That's so, I guess.'

‘Would you tell me about it?'

‘Sure.' His eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned. ‘You a newspaper guy or somethin'?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm Campbell's grandson.'

His eyes opened wide. ‘His grandson!' He suddenly smiled. He had the softest, gentlest smile I've ever seen on a man's face. ‘Well, well—King Campbell's grandson.' He leaned across the table and gripped my hand. And Jeff Hart clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Why in hell didn't you say who you were? I'd never have let you stop off at the hotel if I'd known.'

The barman came with six half-pint glasses of beer. ‘Make it the same again, George,' the packer said as he distributed the beers.

‘You know the regulations, Johnnie.'

‘Sure I do, but we're celebrating. Know who this is, George? King Campbell's grandson.'

‘You don't say.' The barman wiped his hand on his apron and held it out to me. ‘Glad to know you. Why I mind the time old Campbell stopped off at Jasper—remember, Johnnie? There was a bad fall up beyond the Yellowhead. He had to stop over the Sunday and they got him to read the lesson.'

‘Sure, I remember. Reckon it was the only time they got me inside the place.'

‘Yeah, me too. An' about the only time they had to put the House Full notices up outside the door.'

‘That's for sure.' Johnnie Carstairs laughed. ‘Now bring those beers, George. We'll be finished by the time you're back.' He turned to me. ‘What's brought you up here? You his heir or somethin'?'

I nodded.

He smiled that lazy smile of his. ‘Reckon he didn't leave you much. What happens to the Kingdom? Do you own that now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, well.' The smile broadened into a puckish grin. ‘You got all the oil in the Rocky Mountains, Bruce.'

‘You were going to tell me how you found his body,' I reminded him.

‘Yeah.' He sat back, sprinkled salt into one of his glasses of beer and drank it. ‘Queer thing that,' he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘He was fine and dandy when we got up there. An' a week later he was dead.'

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘Well, it was this away. I'd bin totin' a couple of Americans round for the best part of two months. They were climbers and they did stuff for magazines back in the States.' He produced a little white cotton bag of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. ‘Well, we coralled our horses at Campbell's place and went south over The Gillie. We were away about a week and when we came down into the Kingdom again it was snowing hard. I figured somethin' was wrong as soon as I heard the horses. Besides, there weren't no smoke coming from any of the chimneys and no tracks in the snow outside either. The whole place had a dead look. The old man was lying face down on the floor just inside the door, like as though he was struggling to get outside and bring in some logs. Judging by the state of the stable I guess he'd been dead about three days.'

‘What do you think caused his death?' I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Old age, I guess. Or maybe he had a stroke and died of cold. I hope when it comes to my turn I'll go like that. No fuss, no illness—and no regrets. Right to the end he believed there was oil up there.'

He relit the stub of his cigarette and leaned back, his eyes half-closed. ‘Ever hear him playin' the pipes, Bruce?'

I shook my head. ‘I only met him once. That was in England, and he'd just come out of prison.'

His sandy eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘So the prison stuff was true, eh? That was the only story I ever heard him tell more than once—that and about the oil. Mebbe they're both true and you're the richest man this side of the 49th parallel.' He laughed. ‘
There's oil in the Rocky Mountains
. Be a joke, Jeff, if it were true, wouldn't it now?' He leaned across to me. ‘That's how the nights always ended up—the old man poundin' the table with his fist and glaring at his visitors through the mat of his white hair and roaring
There's oil in the Rocky Mountains
fit to bust.' He laughed and shook his head. ‘But he could play the pipes.'

He leaned back again and rubbed his hand over his eyes. ‘I mind one evening some years ago; it was very still and he came out of the ranch-house as the sun was setting and began to march up and down playing his pipes. The sound was clear and thin and yet it came back from the mountains as though all the Highlanders who ever lived were assembled there on the peaks and all of them a'blowin' to beat hell out of their pipes. And when he played
The Campbells are Coming
a million Campbells seemed to answer him. I guess it was about the weirdest thing I ever heard.' He leaned forward and picked up his glass. ‘Your health!'

I raised my glass, thinking of the picture he was giving me of my grandfather and the Kingdom. ‘How do I get there?' I asked.

‘Up to the Kingdom?' Johnnie shook his head. ‘You won't get up there yet awhiles—not until the snow melts.'

‘When will that be?'

‘Oh, in about a month, I guess.'

‘I can't wait that long,' I said.

Johnnie's eyes narrowed as he peered across at me. ‘You seem in a goldarned hurry.'

‘I am,' I said.

‘Well, Max Trevedian might take you up. He acts as packer and guide around Come Lucky. But it'd be a tough trip, an' he's an ornery sort of crittur anyway. Me, I wouldn't look at it, not till the snows melt. But then I ain't much use without a pony. Had the devil's own job getting down last fall.'

I brought the dog-eared map out of my pocket and spread it on the table. ‘Well, how do I get to Come Lucky anyway?' I asked.

Johnnie peered at it and shook his head. ‘Maps ain't much in my line,' he said. ‘I go by the look of the country.'

It was Jeff who gave me the information I wanted.

‘You'll have to take the Continental down as far as Ashcroft. From then on it's a car ride up through 150-Mile House, Hydraulic, Likely and Keithley Creek. Do you reckon the roads will be open, Johnnie?'

Johnnie Carstairs shrugged his shoulders. ‘Depends on the chinook. If it's blowing then you might find somebody to take you through.'

I thanked him and folded the map up.

He looked across at me and his hand closed over my arm. ‘You're a sick man, Bruce. Take my advice. Wait a month. It's too early for travelling through the mountains except by rail. Don't you agree, Johnnie?'

‘Sure, sure. Leastaways I wouldn't try it.'

‘I can't wait that long,' I murmured.

‘Be sensible,' Jeff pleaded. ‘Johnnie and I have lived up in this country a long time.'

‘I must get up there,' I insisted.

‘Well then, wait a month.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why in hell not?'

‘Because—' I stopped then. I couldn't just tell them I hadn't much time.

‘Let him find out for himself, Jeff.' Johnnie's voice was gruff with anger. ‘Some people are just cussed. They got to learn the hard way.'

‘It's not that,' I said quickly.

‘All right, then—what is it? What's the goldarned hurry?'

‘It isn't any of your business.' I hesitated and then added, ‘I've only two months to live.'

They stared at me. Johnnie's eyes searched my face and then dropped awkwardly. He brought out his tobacco and concentrated on rolling a cigarette. ‘I'm sorry, Bruce,' he said gently. Accustomed to dealing with animals I think he'd read the truth of Maclean-Hervey's opinion in my features. But Jeff was a mechanic. ‘How do you know?' he asked. ‘You can't know a thing like that.'

‘You can if you've got cancer of the stomach.' My voice sounded harsh. ‘I had the best man in London. He gave me six months at the outside. The anaemia is secondary,' I added. I got to my feet. My lips were trembling uncontrollably. ‘Good-night,' I said. ‘And thanks for your help.' I didn't want them to see that I was scared.

I LAY AWAKE
for hours that night, fighting for breath and looking out at the frozen moonlight glinting on the white needle of Edith Cavell. I can admit it now—I was scared. The idea that I could do in a few months what my grandfather had failed to do in thirty odd years had carried me over the first hurdle of shock and across 5,000 miles of the earth's surface. Now that that idea was finally shattered the ground seemed to have been cut away from under my feet. But the more sick at heart I felt the more determined I became to reach Campbell's Kingdom. Like a dog I wanted to crawl into some safe retreat to die, away from the prying eyes of my fellow creatures.

Next day Jeff Hart and Johnnie Carstairs both came down after lunch to see me off. They didn't ask me how I was and they studiously avoided looking at me. They insisted on carrying my two handgrips and walked one on either side of me as though they were afraid I'd die on them right there. ‘Damn it,' Jeff growled, ‘if it had been a month later I'd have driven you over myself.' A cold wind flung puffs of powdered snow in our faces.

They saw me into my carriage and left cigarettes and magazines the way visitors leave flowers in a sick room. As the train pulled out Johnnie called to me: ‘Any time you need help, Bruce, there's a couple of pals right here in Jasper you might call on.'

‘We'll be up to see you some time,' Jeff added.

I waved acknowledgment and as I watched the black outline of the station fade in the wind-driven snow I felt a lump in my throat. The sense of loneliness had closed in on me again and I went back to my seat.