Nothing to Lose

I

I hesitated as I crossed the road and paused to gaze up at the familiar face of No. 32. For years I had been coming home from the office to this rather drab old Georgian-fronted house on the edge of Mecklenburgh Square, yet now I seemed to be looking at it for the first time. It was as though I were living in a dream. I suppose I was still dazed by the news.

I wondered what they’d say at the office — or should I go on as though nothing had happened? I thought of all the years I’d been leaving this house at eight-thirty-five in the morning and returning to it shortly after six at night; lonely, wasted years. Men who had served with me during the war were now in good executive positions. But for me the army had been the big chance. Once out of it, I had drifted without the drive of an objective, without the competitive urge of a close-knit masculine world.

A car hooted and I shook myself, conscious of the dreadful feeling of weariness that possessed my body; conscious, too, of a sudden urgency. I needed to make some sense out of my life, and I needed to do it quickly. As I crossed to the pavement, automatically getting out my keys, I suddenly decided I wasn’t going to tell the office anything. I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I’d just say I was taking a holiday and quietly disappear. I went in and closed the door. Footsteps sounded in the darkness of the unlighted hall.

“Is that you, Mr. Wetheral?” It was my landlady.

“Yes, Mrs. Baird.”

“Ye’re home early. Did they give ye the afternoon off?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what she would say if I told her why.

As I started up the stairs she stopped me. “Och, I nearly forgot. There was a lawyer to see you. He ha’na been gone more than ten minutes. He said it was very important, so I told him to come back again at six. Shall I bring him up when he comes?”

“Please do,” I said as I went on up to my rooms.

For a while I paced back and forth, wondering what the devil a lawyer could want with me. Then I turned abruptly and went through into the bedroom. I was tired, I took off my coat and lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. And as I lay there sweating with fear and nervous exhaustion, my life passed before my mind’s eye, mocking me with its emptiness. Thirty-six years, and what had I done with them? What had I achieved?

I must have dropped off to sleep, for I woke with a start to hear Mrs. Baird’s voice calling me from the sitting room, “Here’s the lawyer man to see ye again, Mr. Wetheral.”

I got up, feeling dazed and chilled, and went through into the other room. He was a lawyer, all right; no mistaking the neat blue suit, the white collar, the dry, dusty air of authority.

“My name is Fothergill,” he said carefully. “Of Anstey, Fothergill and Anstey, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Before I state my business, it will be necessary for me to ask you a few personal questions. A matter of identity, that is all. May I sit down?”

“Of course,” I murmured. “A cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke, thank you.”

I lit one and saw that my hand was shaking. I had had too many professional interviews in the last few days.

He waited until I was settled in an easy chair and then he said, “Your Christian names, please, Mr. Wetheral.”

“Bruce Campbell.”

“Date of birth?”

“July 20, 1916.”

“Parents alive?”

“No. Both dead.”

“Your father’s Christian names, please.”

“John Henry, He died on the Somme the year I was born.”

“What were your mother’s names?”

“Eleanor Rebecca.”

“And her maiden name?”

“Campbell.”

“Did you know any of the Campbells, Mr. Wetheral?”

“Only my grandfather; I met him once.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Coming out of prison.”

He stared at me.

“He did five years in Brixton,” I explained quickly. “He was a thief and a swindler. My mother and I met him when he came out. I was about ten at the time. We drove in a taxi straight from the prison to a boat train.” After all these years I could not keep the bitterness out of my voice. I stubbed out my cigarette. Why did he have to come asking questions on this day of all days? “Why do you want to know all this?” I demanded irritably.

“Just one more question.” He seemed quite unperturbed by my impatience. “You were in the army during the war. In France?”

“No; the desert, and then Sicily and Italy. I was a captain in the RAC.”

“Were you wounded at all?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“By heaven!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “This is too much!” My fingers had gone automatically to the scar above my heart.

“Please.” He, too, had risen to his feet and he looked quite scared. “Calm yourself, Mr. Wetheral. I was instructed to locate a Bruce Campbell Wetheral, and I am now quite satisfied that you are the man I have been looking for.”

“Well, now you’ve found me, what do you want?”

“If you’ll just be seated again for a moment—”

I dropped back into my chair and lit a cigarette from the stub of the one I had half crushed out. “Well?”

He picked up his brief case and fumbled nervously at the straps as he perched himself on the edge of the chair opposite me. “We are acting for the firm of Donald McCrae and Acheson, of Calgary, in this matter. They are the solicitors appointed under your grandfather’s will. Since you met him only once, it will possibly be of no great concern to you that he is dead. What does concern you, however, is that you are the sole legatee under his will.” He placed a document on the table between us. “That is a copy of the will, together with a sealed letter written by your grandfather and addressed to you. The original of the will is held by the solicitors in Calgary. They also hold all the documents relating to the Campbell Oil Exploration Company, together with books of the company. You now control this company, but it is virtually moribund. However, it was territory in the Rocky Mountains, and Donald McCrae and Acheson advise disposal of this asset and the winding up of the company.” He burrowed in his brief case again and came up with another document. “Now, here is a deed of sale for the territory referred to—”

I stared at him, hearing his voice droning on and remembering only how I had hated my grandfather, how all my childhood had been made miserable by that big, rawboned Scot with the violent blue eyes and close-cropped gray hair who had sat beside my mother in that taxi and whom I had seen only that once.

“You’re sure my grandfather went back to Canada?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes, quite sure. He formed this company there in 1926.”

That was the year he came out of prison. “This company,” I said. “Was a man called Paul Morton involved in it with him?”

“No,” he said. “The two other directors were Roger Fergus and Luke Trevedian. Fergus was one of the big men in the Turner Valley field and Trevedian owned a gold mine. Now, as I was saying, the shares in this company are worthless. The only working capital it seems to have had was advanced by Fergus, the money being advanced on mortgage. This included a survey—”

“Do you mean my grandfather was broke when he returned to Canada?”

“It would seem so.” Fothergill peered at the documents and then nodded. “Yes, I should say that was definitely the case.”

I leaned back, staring at the lamp, trying to adjust myself to a sudden and entirely new conception of my grandfather. “How did he die?” I asked.

“How?” Again the solicitor glanced through the papers on the table. “It says here that he died of cold. He was living alone high up in the Rockies. Now, as regards the company; it does not seem likely that the shares are marketable and—”

“He must have been a very old man.”

“He was seventy-nine. Now this land that is owned by the company. Your representatives in Calgary inform us that they have been fortunate enough to find a purchaser. In fact, they have an offer—” He stopped. “You’re not listening to me, Mr. Wetheral.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just wondering what an old man of seventy-nine was doing living alone in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Very natural... Let me see now. It’s all in Mr. Acheson’s letter. Ah, here we are. Apparently he became a little queer as he grew old. His belief that there was oil up in this territory in the mountains had become an obsession with him. From 1930 onward he lived up there in a log cabin by himself, hardly ever coming down into the towns. It was there that he was found by a late hunting party. That was on the twenty-second of November, last year.” He placed the letter on the table beside me. “I will leave that with you and you can read it at your leisure. There is also a cutting from a local paper. Now, about this land. There is apparently some scheme for damming the valley and utilizing the waters for a hydroelectric project. One of the mining companies—”

I sat back and closed my eyes. So he had gone back. That was the thing that stuck in my mind. He had really believed there was oil there.

“Please, Mr. Wetheral. I must ask for your attention. We must have your signature to this document at once. The matter is most urgent. The company concerned apparently has alternative sources of power which, if we delay much longer, may render your property valueless. As I say, your solicitors in Calgary regard the terms as generous and advise immediate acceptance. When all debts have been paid and the company wound up, they estimate that the estate will be worth some nine or ten thousand dollars.”

“How long will all this take?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I think we can expect to prove probate in, say, about six months’ time.”

“Six months!” I laughed. “That’s just six months too long, Mr. Fothergill.”

“How do you mean? I assure you we will do everything possible to expedite proceedings, and you can rest assured—”

“Yes, of course,” I said, “but in six months—”

I stopped. Why should I bother to explain?

I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to think it out clearly. The money wasn’t any use to me. I’d nobody to leave it to. “I’m not sure that I want to sell,” I said, almost unconsciously voicing my thoughts.

I opened my eyes and saw that he was looking at me with astonishment.

“May I see that newspaper clipping?” I asked.

He handed it across to me. It was from the Calgary Tribune and datelined:

I started to read the paragraph through again, but the type blurred, merging into a picture of a man standing in the dock at the Old Bailey accused of swindling the public by floating a company to drill for oil that didn’t exist and then absconding with the capital. He had been arrested boarding the Majestic at Southampton. The other director, Paul Morton, had got clean away. The bulk of the company’s funds had vanished. I had accepted his guilt as I had accepted our utter poverty. They were part of the conditions of my life. And now — I stared down at the cutting, trying to adjust my mind to a new conception of him.

I looked up at the lawyer. “He really believed there was oil up there,” I said.

“Just a will-o’-the-wisp.” Fothergill gave me a dry smile. “The matter is covered by Mr. Acheson in his letter. I think you can be satisfied that Mr. Campbell’s beliefs were entirely erroneous and that the executors’ opinion that the property in itself has no value is a true statement of the situation. Now, here is the deed of sale. If you will sign both copies—”

“I don’t think I’ll sell,” I said. I needed time to think this out, to adjust myself to this new view of my grandfather.

“But, Mr. Wetheral—”

“I can’t make a decision now,” I said. “You must give me time to consider.”

“You cannot expect this company to wait indefinitely for your answer. Mr. Acheson was most pressing. Every day’s delay—”

“There’s already been a delay of four months,” I said. “Another few days shouldn’t make much difference.”

“Perhaps not. I must remind you, however,” he went on in a patient voice, “that it is only the fact that the largest creditor was Mr. Campbell’s friend that has saved the company from bankruptcy long ago. It is your duty as Mr. Campbell’s heir to consider this gentleman.”

“I won’t be stampeded,” I said irritably.

He got to his feet. “I will leave these documents with you, Mr. Wetheral. I think when you have had time to consider them—”

“I’ll let you know what I decide,” I said, and took him down to the front door.

Then I hurried eagerly back to my room. I wanted to read the personal letter attached to the will. I slit the envelope. Inside was a single sheet; it was very direct and simple.

I read it through again, more slowly. Every word carried weight — and his honesty and simplicity shone through it like a clean wind out of the high mountains. I had a feeling of guilt at having accepted so readily the verdict of the courts, at never having troubled to discover what he had done on leaving prison. And suddenly I found myself kneeling on the floor, swearing before a God whom I had scarcely troubled to get to know in the whole of my thirty-six years that whatever remained to me of life I would dedicate to the legacy my grandfather had left me. As I rose to my feet I realized that I was no longer afraid, no longer alone. I had a purpose and an urgency.

The other papers which Fothergill had left me seemed prosaic and dull after reading what my grandfather had written. There was the will, and it appointed Messrs. Donald McCrae and Acheson, solicitors, as executors. There was a letter from them, and attached to it was a deed of sale for my signature: “There is no question of obtaining a better offer. Please deliver the signed deed to Mr. Fothergill, of Anstey, Fothergill and Anstey, who represent us in London.”

Every line of their letter took it for granted that I should agree to sell. I tossed it back onto the table, and as I did so, I caught sight of the newspaper cutting lying on the floor where I had dropped it. I picked it up and continued reading where I had left off:

I put the cutting down and sat staring at the wall, seeing only the little log cabin high up in the Rockies and the old man whose hopes had died so hard. “There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains.” It would be something to prove the phrase true, to wipe out the stigma that had haunted me all my early life, to prove him innocent. I had something to bite on now — an objective, a purpose. And somehow it lessened the shock of Maclean-Hervey’s pronouncement.

I was suddenly possessed with an urge to see Campbell’s Kingdom, to discover for myself something of the faith, the indomitable hope, that had sent my grandfather back there after conviction and imprisonment. It couldn’t have been an easy decision for him. The newspaper cutting had hinted that many people out there had lost heavily through backing him. It must have been hell for him. And yet he had gone back.

I got up and began to pace back and forth. Failure and twenty-two years of utter loneliness had not destroyed his faith. His letter proved that. If I could take up where he had left off—

It was absurd. I’d no knowledge of oil, no money. And yet — the alternative was to sign that deed of sale. I went over to the table and picked it up. If I signed it, Fothergill had said I might get $10,000 out of it in six months’ time. It would pay for my funeral, that was about all the good it would be to me. To sign it was unthinkable.

And then it gradually came to me that what had at first seemed absurd was the most reasonable thing for me to do, the only thing. To remain in London, an insurance clerk in the same monotonous rut to the end, was impossible with this prospect, this hope of achievement dangled in front of my eyes. I tore the deed of sale across and flung the pieces onto the floor. I would go to Canada. I would try to carry out the provisions of my grandfather’s will...

It took me just a week to get to Calgary. Since this included a night’s flying across the Atlantic and two and a half days by train across Canada, I think I’d id pretty well. It did not take me long to clear up my own affairs, and the major obstacle was foreign exchange. I got over this by emigrating, and here I had two slices of luck: Maclean-Hervey knew the high commissioner, and the Canadian Government was subsidizing immigrant travel by air via Trans-Canada.

The night before we reached Calgary, just after we had left Moose Jaw, the colored attendant brought a telegram to my sleeper. It was from Donald McCrae and Acheson:

They were certainly a very thorough and determined firm. They’d have me sell whether I wanted to or not. Like Fothergill, they found it impossible to accept my attitude.

We arrived at Calgary at 8:30 A.M. I had breakfast and then rang Acheson’s office and was requested to come right along. The firm of Donald McCrae and Acheson had their offices on the third floor in an old brick building among a litter of oil companies. There were four doors, the one on my immediate right being that of Donald McCrae and Acheson, But it was the name on the door to my left that caught my eye — THE ROGER FERGUS OIL DEVELOPMENT COMPANY, LTD. — for it was the name of the man who had backed my grandfather. The other two doors were occupied by LOUIS WINNICK, OIL CONSULTANT AND SURVEYOR, and HENRY FERGUS, STOCKBROKER. Under the latter, and newly painted in, was the name: THE LARSEN MINING AND DEVELOPMENT COMPANY, LTD.

I found myself strangely nervous. The atmosphere of the place was one of business and money. Sentiment seemed out of place. I went through the door marked DONALD MCCRAE AND ACHESON, SOLICITORS. A girl secretary asked me my business and showed me through into Acheson’s office. He was a big man, rather florid, with smooth cheeks that shone slightly, as though they had been rubbed with pumice stone.

“Mr. Wetheral?” He rose to greet me and his hand was soft and plump. “Glad to see you.” He waved me to a chair and sat down. “Cigar?”

I shook my head. “Pity you didn’t write me before you came out,” he said. “I could have saved you the journey. However, now you’re here, maybe I can clear up any points that are worrying you.” He flicked a switch on the house phone box. “Ellen, bring in the Campbell file, will you? Now then.” He sat back and clipped the end of a cigar. “Fothergill writes that for some reason best known to yourself you don’t want to sell.”

“No,” I said. “Not till I’ve seen the place, anyway.”

He gave a grunt. “It’s oil you’re thinking of, is it? I warned Fothergill to make it perfectly clear to you that there wasn’t any oil. Did he give you my letter?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you’re not satisfied? All right. Well, let me tell you that Roger Fergus had Bladen’s geophysical outfit up in the Kingdom last summer, and Louis Winnick’s report on that survey finally damns Campbell’s ideas about oil up there as a lot of moonshine.” He reached forward and pulled a document from the file. “Here’s a copy of that report.” He tossed it onto the desk in front of me. “Take it away and read it at your leisure. In any case, the mineral rights don’t belong to you. They belong to Roger Fergus.”

“But I thought I had a controlling interest in the Campbell Oil Exploration Company?”

“Certainly you do. But the mineral rights were mortgaged as security for the cash Fergus advanced the company. Of course,” he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, “that was just a matter of form. They weren’t worth anything. Roger Fergus knew that. He was just being kind to the old fellow, and we fixed it that way so that Campbell wouldn’t think it was charity.”

To gain time and sort out my impressions, I glanced down at the report and my attention was caught by the final paragraph:

“Is a survey of this nature conclusive?” I asked.

“Not entirely. It won’t prove the presence of oil. But it’s pretty well a hundred per cent in indicating that a territory is not oil-bearing.”

“I see.”

So that was that. My grandfather’s vision of a great new oilfield in the Rockies was scientifically disproved. I suddenly felt tired and dispirited. I had come a long way, buoyed up with the feeling that I had a mission to accomplish. “I’d like to see the place,” I murmured.

He leaned back and drew slowly on his cigar. “I’m afraid that is impossible. It’s still winter in the mountains and most of the roads are blocked. The Kingdom is a goodish way from any railroad. You might not get through for a month, maybe more. Meantime, the company that’s interested in the property has got to get organized so that work on the dam can begin as soon as they can get up there. The season is a short one.” He leaned forward and searched among the papers on his desk. “Here you are.” He pushed a document across to me. “All you have to do is sign that. I’ll look after the rest. You’ll see the figure they agree to pay is fifty thousand. It’s a sight more than the property is worth. But they’re willing to pay that figure to avoid a court action on compensation. They already have the authority of the Provincial Parliament to go ahead with the construction; so, whether you sign or not, they are in a position to take over the property and flood it, subject to payment of compensation.”

I didn’t say anything and there was an awkward silence, I was thinking that the dam had still to be built before they could flood the Kingdom. For a few months it could be mine. Even if there wasn’t any oil, it was a patch of land that belonged to me.

“Well?”

I stared down at the deed of sale. “I noticed you’ve not inserted the name of the purchasing company.”

“No.” He seemed to hesitate. “A subsidiary will be formed to operate the power scheme. If you’ll sign the deed. I’ll insert the name of the company as soon as it’s formed. Then there’ll be just the deeds and the land registration to be settled. I’ll look after all that.” His eyes fastened on mine, waiting.

“You seem very anxious for me to sob,” I murmured.

“It’s in your interest.” He took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand you,” he said. His tone was one of exasperation. “In the letter I sent you via Fothergill I made it perfectly clear to you that my advice was to sell. And I act for old Roger Fergus. He’s sunk nearly forty thousand dollars in Campbell’s company. I’d say that you have a moral obligation to see that Roger Fergus is repaid.” He sat back in his chair. “You’ve got till this evening,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

“The Palliser.”

“Well, you go back to your room and think it over.” He got to his feet. “Take the report with you. Read it. Come and see me about five.”

The secretary showed me out. As I made for the stairs I checked at the sight of the door opposite me — THE FERGUS OIL DEVELOPMENT COMPANY. On a sudden impulse, I opened the door and went in. The office was empty.

The door of the neighboring office slammed and a girl’s voice behind me said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Fergus,” I explained.

“Old Mr. Fergus?” She shook her head. “He hasn’t been coming to the office for a long time now. He’s been ill.”

“Oh.” I hesitated.

“Is your business urgent? Because his son, Mr. Henry Fergus—”

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t really business — more a social call. He was a great friend of my grandfather, Stuart Campbell.”

Her eyes lit up in her rather pale face. “I met Mr. Campbell once.” She smiled. “He was a wonderful old man — quite a character.” She hesitated and then said, “I’ll ring Mr. Fergus’ home. I’m sure he’d like to see you if he’s well enough. He had a stroke, you know. He’s paralyzed all down one side and he tires very easily.”

But apparently it was all right. He would see me if I went straight over. “But the nurse says you’re not to stay more than five minutes. The Fergus farm is a little way out of town on the far side of the Bow River. The cab drivers all know it.”

I thanked her, went down the stairs and found a taxi. The Fergus home was a low, sprawling ranch-house building.

A manservant let me in and took me through into a great lounge hall full of trophies, prizes taken by cattle and horses at shows up and down the country. All these I took in at a glance, and then my gaze came to rest on the man seated in a wheel chair. He was a big man, broad-shouldered with massive, gnarled hands and a great shock of white hair. He had a fine face with bushy, tufty eyebrows and a way of craning his neck forward like a bird.

“So you’re Stuart’s grandson.” He spoke out of one corner of his mouth; the other was twisted by paralysis, “Sit down. He often spoke of you. Had great hopes that one day you’d be managing an oilfield for him. Darned old fool.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Five minutes, that’s all,” the nurse said, and went out.

“Like a drink?” He reached down with his long arm to a cupboard under the nearest pedestal of the desk. “Not supposed to have it. Henry smuggles it in for me. That’s my son. Hopes it’ll kill me off,” he added with a malicious twinkle. He poured out two Scotches neat. “Your health, young feller.”

“And yours, sir,” I said.

“I haven’t got any.” He waved his left hand vaguely. “They’re all hanging around waiting for me to die.” He craned forward, peering at me from under his eyebrows. “You’re from the Old Country, aren’t you? What brought you out to Canada? Think you’re going to drill a discovery well up in the Kingdom?”

“There doesn’t seem much chance of that,” I said. “Acheson just showed me the report on that survey.”

“Ah, yes. A pity. And Bladen was so enthusiastic. Good boy, Bladen. Fine flier. Half Indian, you know. Seems he’s not so good as a surveyor.” His voice had dropped almost to a mutter. But he rallied himself and said, “Well, now, what’s the purpose of this visit?”

“You were a friend of my grandfather,” I said. “I wanted to meet you.”

“Fine.” He peered at me. “Any financial propositions up your sleeve?”

“No,” I said. “It never occurred to me.”

“That’s okay.” He gave me a twisted smile. “When you’re old and rich, you get kinda suspicious about people’s motives. Now then, tell me about yourself.”

I started to tell him about Fothergill’s visit to my digs in London, and then suddenly I was telling him the whole story — about Maclean-Hervey’s verdict and my decision to emigrate. When I had finished, his eyes, which had been closed, flicked open. “Fine pair we are,” he said, and he managed a contorted grin that somehow made me realize that he was still something of a boy at heart. “So now they’re going to drown the Kingdom and you’re here to act as midwife. Well, maybe it’s for the best. It brought Stuart nothing but trouble.” He gave a little sigh and closed his eyes.

I liked him and because of that I felt I had to get the financial obligations settled. “I’ve seen Acheson,” I said. “He’ll settle up with you for the amount you advanced to the company. But I’m afraid the purchase price they’re prepared to pay won’t cover the survey.”

He fixed his gray eyes on me. “I thought this wasn’t a business visit!” he barked. “To hell with the money! You don’t have to worry about that. You’re under no obligation as far as I’m concerned. Do you understand? If you want to throw good money after bad and drill a well, you can go ahead.”

I laughed, “I’m not in a position to drill a well,” I said. “In any case, you’re the only per on who could do that. You own the mineral rights.”

“Yes, I’d forgotten that.” He took my glass and returned it with the bottle and his own glass to the cupboard. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. “The mineral rights.” His voice was a barely audible murmur. “I wonder why Bladen was so keen; as keen as Stuart.” His left shoulder twitched in the slightest of shrugs. “I’d like to have been able to thumb my nose just once more at all the know-alls in the big companies. There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains.” He gave a tired laugh. “Well, there it is. Winnick is a straight guy. He wouldn’t pull anything on me. You’d best go home, young feller. You want friends around you when you die. It’s a lonely business anyway.”

The nurse came in and said my time was up. I got to my feet. He held out his left hand to me. “Good luck,” he said. “I’m glad you came. If your doctor feller’s right, we’ll maybe meet again soon. We’ll have a good chat then with all eternity ahead of us.” His eyes were smiling; his lips were tired and twisted.

I went out to my taxi and drove back to the hotel, the memory of that fine old shell of a man lingering with me.

I went up to my room and sat staring at Winnick’s report and thinking of the old man who had been my grandfather’s friend. I could understand his wanting that one final justification of his existence, wanting to prove the experts wrong. I needed the same thing. I needed it desperately. I pushed the papers into my suitcase and went down to get some lunch. At the desk was a short, stockily built man in an airman’s jacket, with a friendly face under a sweat-stained sombrero. He was checking out, and as I stood behind him, waiting, he said to the clerk, “If a feller by the name of Jack Harbin asks for me, tell him I’ve gone back to Jasper.”

“Okay, Jeff,” the clerk said. “I’ll tell him.”

Jasper! Jasper was in the Yellowhead Pass, the Canadian National’s gateway into the Rockies and the Fraser River valley. The Kingdom was barely fifty miles from Jasper as the crow flies. “Excuse me. Are you going by car?” The words were out before I had time to think it over.

“Yeah.” He looked me over and then his face crinkled into a friendly smile, “Want a ride?”

“Have you got room for me?”

“Sure. You’re from the Old Country, I guess.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jeff Hart.”

“My name’s Wetheral,” I said as I gripped his hand. “Bruce Wetheral.”

“Okay, Bruce. Make it snappy then. I got to be in Edmonton by tea time. I’ll he going on to Jasper the next day. I’ll be glad to have some company.”

It was all done on the spur of the moment. I didn’t have time to think of Acheson until I was in the big station wagon trundling north out of Calgary, and then I didn’t care. I was moving one step nearer the Kingdom and I was content to let it go at that. I lay back and relaxed in the warmth of the heater and the steady drone of the engine, listening to Jeff Hart’s gentle lazy voice giving me an oral introduction to the province of Alberta.

We reached Edmonton just before six and got a room at The Macdonald. I had moved into another world. This was the jumping-off place for the Arctic, the first outpost of civilization on the Alaska Highway. It had atmosphere, the atmosphere of a frontier town on which an oil boom had been superimposed.

I was dead beat by the time I crawled into my bed, and I was thankful when Jeff said he wouldn’t be leaving until after lunch. I stayed in bed all the morning, feeling weak and a little sick. The reaction from the strain of too much traveling had set in.

It was late that afternoon when we topped a rise and I got my first glimpse of Jasper.

“Do you know a man called Johnny Carstairs?” I asked my companion.

“The packer? Sure.”

“Where will I find him?”

“Oh, most anywheres around town. He wrangles a bunch of horses and acts as packer for the visitors in the summer.” The big car skidded on a patch of ice. “Better wait till the evening. You’ll find him in one of the beer parlors around seven.”

Jeff Hart dropped me at the hotel, saying he’d pick me up at seven and introduce me to Carstairs. I couldn’t face any food and went straight up to my room. I felt tired and short of breath. Looking in the mirror, I was shocked to see how gaunt my face was, the skin white and transparent so that the veins showed through it, and the stubble of my beard by contrast appeared a metallic blue. I lay down on the bed, lit a cigarette, and lying there, feeling the utter exhaustion of my body, I wondered whether I should ever get to Campbell’s Kingdom.

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. “You gave me a turn,” he said. “Thought you’d never come around. 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. Better let the doctor look at you.”

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. “There’s something wrong with my blood.”

“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 colored wind-cheaters made a bright splash of color in the drab entrance to the hotel. We went through into the saloon.

“I sent word for Johnny to meet us here,” Jeff Hart said. He glanced at his watch. “He’ll be here any minute now.” The bartender came in. “Four beers.” His gaze swung to the door. “Here’s Johnny now... Make it six beers, will you, George?... Johnny, this is Bruce Wetheral.”

I found myself looking at a slim-hipped man in a sheepskin jacket and a battered hat. 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.

“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. He turned to me. “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 didn’t you say who you were? I’d never have let you stop off at the hotel if I’d known.”

Johnny Carstairs said, “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. When the snows started, they wanted to get some material on ghost towns, and I took them over to Barkerville and then on to Come Lucky. Well, by then of course they’d bin bitten by the bug to meet King Campbell and do a story on him, so I hired some ponies off Trevedian and we went up.”

He produced a little white cotton bag of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. “Well, there was the old man as chirpy as a gopher in the sunshine. Let ’em take his pitcher an’ stayed up half the night tellin’ ’em tall stories and drinking their rye.

“Next day they decide they’ll climb The Gillie. I stabled the horses with the old man-all except two which we took along to pack our gear. Well, a bit of a storm caught us on The Gillie; by the time we got to the ranch I guess we’d bin away the best part of a week. I figured somethin’ was wrong as soon as I saw there weren’t no smoke coming from any of the chimneys and no tracks in the snow outside either. We went into the house. The fire was dead and the place was deathly cold. 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.”

“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 met him only 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 Canadian border.” He laughed. “ ‘There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains.’ Be a joke, Jeff, if it were true, wouldn’t it now?” He laughed and shook his head. “But he could play the pipes. A grand man.” 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?” Johnny shook his head. “You won’t get up there yet for a month or more — not until the snow melts.”

“I can’t wait that long,” I said.

Johnny’s eyes narrowed as he peered across sat me. “You seem in a gol-darned hurry.”

“I am,” I said.

“Well, Max Trevedian might take you up from Come Lucky. He acts as packer and guide around there. But it’d be a tough trip, an’ he’s an ornery sort of critter anyway. Me, I wouldn’t look at it, not till the snows melt.”

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

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, all I can suggest is you take the Continental out of here at one-thirty and go down to Kamloops. Stop off the night there and make inquiries. Or you can go on to Ashcroft. Either way you’ve got to get across that stretch of road from Ashcroft to Clinton. From Clinton you can take the Great Eastern up to Williams Lake or Quesnel. From either of those places you get into Come Lucky as best you can. My guess is that if the road is open between Ashcroft and Clinton, then you’ll probably be able to get all the way up to Hundred-and-Fifty-Mile House by road.”

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 traveling through the mountains except by rail.”

“I can’t wait that long,” I murmured. “I must get up there.”

“Well, then, wait a month.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” I stopped then. I couldn’t just tell them I hadn’t much time.

“Let him find out for himself, Jeff.” Johnny’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 gol-darned hurry?”

“It isn’t any of your business.” I hesitated, and then added, “I’ve got only a few months to live.”

They stared at me. Johnny’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 had the best man in London.” My voice sounded harsh. “He gave me six months at the outside,” 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 had a chance to make $50,000 by selling some land I had never seen, but I turned the offer down. Although I was not wealthy, the money had little meaning for me. The land, on the other hand, aroused my curiosity.

A few weeks earlier, after I had assured a lawyer that I was Bruce Campbell Wetheral, I was told that I was sole legatee to the will of my grandfather, Stuart Campbell. My inheritance was a large tract of land in the Canadian Rockies known as Campbell’s Kingdom, and all the shares of the Campbell Oil Exploration Company. My grandfather had spent most of his life trying to prove there was oil in the Rockies. Although he had been sent to jail for fraud in connection with his oil project, he died convinced he was right about the oil.

Among my grandfather’s papers was a letter to me. Stuart Campbell swore he was innocent of the swindle charges, and his last request to me was to prove he was right about the oil. I emigrated to Canada from London. Although I knew I would never be able to prove my grandfather right, I wanted to see Campbell’s Kingdom before I sold the property.

At Jasper, British Columbia, fifty miles away from the Kingdom, I met Johnny Carstairs, one of the men in the party that found my grandfather’s body. I asked Carstairs how I could get up to the Kingdom. He advised me to wait a month, when the snows would be gone and the roads open. I told him I couldn’t wait, that I had no time. When he argued with me, trying to change my mind, I told him why I had to move quickly — Maclean-Hervey, one of the best surgeons in London, had told me that I had only six months left to live.