In the tedious hours of waiting after parting from Nell, Jack Reeves was
infinitely cheered by the consciousness that he would have for an ally
in this crisis one such as Jim Maxwell. Often, there came into the
prisoner's thought a memory of how he had last seen the trapper. He had
turned for a look back as the sled dropped to the level of the valley.
The solitary dweller in that wild place had been standing erect and
motionless before the cabin--a splendid figure of a man, posed in
unconscious majesty.
[Illustration: A SPLENDID FIGURE OF A MAN, POSED IN UNCONSCIOUS
MAJESTY.]
There was, of course, the risk that Jim Maxwell might be away from the
cabin and so not available to render assistance. That risk, however,
could not be avoided, since there was no one else to whom appeal might
be made. But Jack was able to hold an optimistic frame of mind. Somehow
the effect made upon him by the stranger whom he and Nell had rescued
from death was such that he felt a certain confidence as to the outcome
of his plan, merely because it depended vitally on the cooeperation of
Jim Maxwell. Jack was sure that he could have secured this assistance,
even had there been no sense of obligation to bind the stranger to his
service. With Jim Maxwell's obvious and profound gratitude for having
been rescued from death, there could be no doubt concerning his response
to the prisoner's call for help.
Though he was busy with thoughts concerning his projected flight, Jack
found the day dragging endlessly. It seemed an eternity before at last
the shadows lengthened into night. Then, indeed, when patience was least
needed, it became most difficult. Now that the time was so near at hand,
the minutes crawled with a sluggishness that was exasperating. It seemed
to Jack that the sheriff purposed to sit in the adjoining room
throughout the night. It was only when he looked at his watch that the
fretting captive learned how anxiety deceived him, for it yet lacked a
half-hour of the official's usual retiring time.
Finally, since all things have an end, the sheriff stood up, and, after
an amiable but formal good-night, went out into the living-quarters of
the house. Followed an hour that was still more laggard than any of
those that had preceded it in this most laggard day. Jack had decided
that there could be no need of waiting until late at night before making
his attempt. There were only two classes among the citizens of the town.
One went to bed early; the other went very late--if at all. The prisoner
hoped that the first class would sleep too soundly to have any knowledge
of his undertaking until too late to thwart it; that the second class
would be too drunk for serious interference.
When he deemed it time to begin his preparations for escape, Jack
gathered the most inflammable parts of the litter on the floor. There
was more than sufficient for his purpose, since the sheriff, however
great his other official virtues, was by no manner of means a tidy
person. This collection of fragments of paper and wood was stacked
against the partition that separated the cell from the outer room,
midway on one side of the door. The prisoner was at pains to use only
paper and splinters, which would burn with little smoke. He had chosen
the only possible point of attack for his purpose. The other three walls
of the cell were of heavy timbers, which could have been set on fire
only with difficulty, and, once well alight, would have assuredly
roasted to death any one in the place, since there could have been no
possibility of breaking through them.
The situation was different as to the wall in which the door was set.
This was made of boards, instead of logs. They were too heavy to be
broken through by blows from the heavy chair, which was the only tool
available to the prisoner. Jack had conceived the possibility of setting
fire to some of the lower boards, and thus weakening them to a point
where they would yield to his attack. So, now, when he had placed his
kindling in position, he made ready with the match.
Never was a match struck more carefully. It was the only one, and on its
aid at the outset the whole attempt of escape rested. Jack breathed a
prayer of thanksgiving as the match sputtered and flared to a steady
flame. Next moment paper and sticks were burning briskly. The fire
mounted, lapping gently at the boards of the wall.
Jack, kneeling closely, watched earnestly. There was nothing more for
him to do now; he had only to wait for his servant, the fire, to prepare
the way. He shuddered a little at the thought that the servant might
become the master--that in the end he might perish miserably in a
fire-trap of his own devising.
He stood up, and, by an effort of will, thrust the thought from him,
lest fear drain him of the energy needed for the flight to come. He
forced himself to think of anything else, rather than of a failure so
horrible--of Nell, who would be waiting for him in a mood of hope and
despair intermingled; of Jim Maxwell, who would be ready in this time of
need. He pictured the trapper with his dogs, waiting patiently on the
snow where the spruce shadows fell.
[Illustration: THE TRAPPER, WITH HIS DOGS, WAITING PATIENTLY ON THE
SNOW.]
The flame rose higher and higher. The dry boards in the partition were
smoking. Little lines of sparks ran over the rough surface, then died.
The smoke from the boards grew heavier. The acrid odor filled the cell.
Jack coughed and dropped again to his knees, in order to avoid the worst
of the fumes. The heat increased, but it was not sufficient to cause any
particular discomfort. Jack had vastly more fear that the increasing
volume of smoke might overcome him before he should have opportunity for
carrying out his project. Presently, however, he was greatly heartened
by observing that there was draft which carried the greater part of the
smoke out of the cell through the grating in the door. As he looked, he
saw that the other room was filled already with dense clouds of smoke.
He took further comfort from the fact that the fumes were not
apparently escaping into the main body of the house, where they might
have given the alarm.
In the cell, the lower boards of the partition had burst into flame. The
heat from them was now so great that Jack crawled away from it into the
farthest corner. The tiny room was like an oven, and to add to the
discomfort of it and the deadly danger, the smoke thickened visibly,
notwithstanding the current passing out through the door.
Jack realized, with a thrill of horror, that here was a duel--a duel to
the death. It was a duel between him and those fiercely darting flames.
Rather, it was a duel between him and those blazing boards in the
partition--a duel of endurance between him and them. Which would be the
first to yield? If the boards should hold out the longer, then he--!
Jack shuddered once again, with a wry smile over the irony of fate.
Here, in this rigorous climate, men went often hand-in-hand with a Death
whose scythe was edged with ice. Jack had contemplated the possibility
of being some time struck down by the numbing cold. It had never
occurred to him that in this Arctic land he might die in a hell of his
own stoking.
The stifling prisoner dared hope that at last the blaze had weakened the
boards sufficiently for his purpose. Whether or no, his suffering drove
him to action. The heat was intolerable now. Sweat poured from him. The
pungent smoke blinded him, and bit cruelly at throat and lungs. Still
without rising to his feet, Jack laid hold of the chair, which was just
beside him, and hobbled clumsily toward the partition, pushing the chair
before him.
Even this comparatively slight exertion caused the perspiration to gush
in new abundance, and here, closer to the flame, the temperature was
well-nigh unbearable. Jack's head swam. He felt his senses failing. It
was only by a tremendous effort that he regained control of himself. He
was aware of his mortal peril. Any least weakening or faltering now
would mean his destruction. It was, indeed, a duel to the death--a duel
of endurance between him and a foe that knew no mercy.
Jack realized, as well, that there could be no delay in the issue. He
must act at once, if he were to act at all. A minute later would be
forever too late. His brain was reeling. His agonized flesh could not
longer withstand the strain. He felt his energies flow out of him like
water.... What he would do must be done instantly--or not at all.
Jack drew a long breath, sprang up, swung the chair, and brought it
crashing against the boards of the partition where the flames burned
most furiously. The wall did not break, though it seemed to yield a
little under the blow. But, before he could try another assault,
dizziness sent him staggering away from the unbearable heat and smoke of
that spot. He dropped to the floor, where he lay stretched at full
length, panting in choking breaths. For a few seconds he was in the grip
of despair. He felt himself impotent, doomed to shameful death in this
furnace-hole.
Nevertheless, the spirit of the young man, albeit fainting, was not
dead. It aroused presently. And it quickened the flesh. Once again Jack
acted. His brain was dulled. He was hardly conscious of thought. The
whole strength of his being was concentrated in his will to make a last,
supreme effort. Again, after a deep breath, he leaped to his feet,
seized the chair and hurled it against the center of the flaming mass
with every atom of his strength.
In the interval since his first attempt, the fire that threatened him
with death had, notwithstanding, been working in his behalf, weakening
still more the boards, his enemies in this duel of endurance. The heavy
chair burst through the blazing barrier and fell noisily in the other
room.
Joy surged in the prisoner. Under the stimulus of it, he forgot pain and
feebleness. He rushed at the flaming wall and kicked clear a larger
opening. Then he plunged through the flames.
Jack fell headlong on the floor of the sheriff's office. By instinct,
he remained prostrate, with his face against the floor, else he must
have strangled. But instinct urged him onward. He crept toward the
window, which, fortunately, was on the side of the room where he had
fallen. His eyes were shut fast now, for the smoke had blinded him. But
his groping hand, upraised, found the window-sash. Once more Jack held
his scant breath as he got to his feet. He drove his elbows through the
panes. The zero air enwrapped him. The touch of it was bliss. It brought
blessed life to the seared lungs. Jack took one great breath of it. Then
he put a foot to the window-ledge, drew himself up and went through,
amid the noise of rending glass and wood. Without an instant of pause,
or a single glance backward, he was off, plowing his way through the
heaped-up snow, which bordered the clear space beyond the buildings. In
another minute he was on the solid crust. Thus he ran on in a line
parallel with the one street of the village, but behind the buildings
that straggled there. He passed the last of these, and saw before him
the white reaches of the valley, without sign of life anywhere,
beckoning him on to freedom. His stride quickened and he went forward
jubilantly.
[Illustration: WITHOUT AN INSTANT PAUSE, HE WAS OFF, PLOWING HIS WAY
THROUGH THE SNOW.]
A hail came to Jack's ears. He looked in the direction of the sound and
saw, a little to the right of the trail, a ghostly silhouette, even as
he had pictured it--the trapper, with his dogs, waiting patiently on the
snow where the spruce shadows fell.