‘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 hands. 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 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 windcheaters 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 a horse most of his time. ‘Guess I ain’t used to comin’ to lowdown 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 the 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!’