A white plain swept by furious winds and fit for the foot of God, white
with a dazzling whiteness except where the red sun half down the western
slope touched the wind-ruffled snowdrifts with a burnish of gold, gold
deepening to purple in the hollows: a pitiless plain, glaring white up
to a pitiless sky glaring blue and a pitiless sun glaring red, blinding
the eyes, and swept by a wind, a pitiless wind that cut through fur
coverings clean to the bone and reached with icy edge to the very heart.
Across this pitiless, glaring, wind-swept, sun-burnished plain now a
little party made its painful way; a youth verging to full manhood; a
boy in his early teens; a girl some years his junior, a mere child
indeed; fur-clad all of them, leading and driving three limping dogs
attached to a toboggan. Upon the toboggan lay a woman wrapped close in
furs. Where the drifts obscured the trail the youth broke the way for
the team of limping dogs which the boy following lashed into movement
lest they should drop in their tracks. Led by a dog trace behind the
toboggan, the little girl ran lightly and easily through the broken snow
or over the hardened crust, the freshest of the party. Wrapped to the
eyes in furs they could defy the knife-edged wind just so long as they
kept in motion. Halt they dared not, for death, hard and close upon
their tracks, haunted their trail.
Breaking the track and pulling hard on his leading line, the young man,
with unseeing eyes set in his haggard face, strode, or rather stumbled
along, leaning far over his stride like one ever on the verge of
falling. For the last hour and more he had abandoned any attempt to hold
the trail. The main direction he knew lay down this frozen lake, and
between the flanking lines of low bush half a mile distant on either
side. Half a day’s journey away was the Hudson’s Bay Post, the last lap
in their fifteen days’ struggle against wind and sun and snow-blocked
trail. A struggle it was of growing desperation. For the first three
days of their journey they knocked off their twenty miles a day, all
four running lightly. Then a three days’ blizzard held them fast, with
their grub sack growing lighter. For the next four days the best that
was in them could cover a bare ten miles a day, for the woman whose
feverish eagerness had driven them through the last weary miles of every
day’s run, had fallen in her tracks and against fierce protestations had
been forced to the toboggan. Again a blizzard of three days brought them
to starvation rations, with still thirty-five miles between them and
safety. The night before the woman had converse with the young man.
“Paul, you will need to do the driving now,” said the woman. “I can no
longer. We must make the Post, Paul. Why not take the children with you
and leave me in camp here? You can run swiftly and come back for me. I
don’t wish to be the death of all of you. It is I that have been a curse
to you and your family from the first. Oh, if I could pay the price by
dying now!”
“Onawata, you are always wise, but tonight you are not wise. I might go
through alone and bring you help, but we shall try one day more. At any
cost we must stick together.”
“One day more then, Paul,” replied Onawata, “but promise me you will not
sacrifice the living to the dying.”
“Dying? Wait till we get you to a doctor. We will make a good run
tomorrow.”
“You will not promise? There is Tanna.”
“God means us to go through. I know He does.” The Calvinist in him
forbade despair. He had the sense of being somehow included in the plan
of the eternal decrees. Nothing could kill that conviction. And hence he
would, he must follow his gleam so far as it led.
“Promise me, Paul,” pleaded the Indian woman with passionate intensity.
“Death has spoken to me. I have heard his voice. Soon, soon, a few weeks
at most, I go with him. Why should the young die for me?”
“I promise to do the best for them,” said Paul solemnly. “And if the
choice comes at last you will choose that they shall live?”
“Yes, I will promise.”
“Good! You will not fail. You have never been anything but true, Paul.
Your God will not fail you.”
“Your God, too, Onawata,” said Paul gently.
“Ah, there is only One—the Great Spirit, the Great Father. Perhaps He
will let a poor and evil child creep in at His feet. Ah-yah-i-yah—”
wailed the woman. “The light had gone out, the dark filled my soul, I
saw no way, I made my way, it was the way of death, death to him also
who deserved death, and death to me—and death—ah-yah-i-yah—death to all
I love—perhaps——”
“Hush, hush, Mammy!” said Paul, soothing her as he might a child. “God
is good, He forgives, He forgives. Never fear Him. And I know we shall
get through. Now rest. We start again at dawn.”
The next day a driving head wind and the blinding drift slowed down the
pace of the limping dogs to a bare ten miles for the five hours of
daylight, leaving twenty-five miles still to go.
Again the Indian woman besought Paul to try the journey with a light
toboggan and the children and leave her in camp.
“They will not hinder you much, Paul. Even Tanna can keep up with you.
But I drag you down to death.” But Paul could not be persuaded.
“One day more,” he said. “Then if I must I will.”
But next morning the tail of a blizzard held them fast for two precious
hours. One of the dogs refused to move and Paul with a swift blow of the
hatchet put it out of misery and fed the emaciated bones to the others.
After that Onawata had surreptitiously, when the others were after wood,
saved some fragments of the flesh. When the blizzard had somewhat
broken, Paul once more got the little party on the march, Onawata
marching with the rest. An hour’s run however found her staggering with
pain and weakness, and Paul forced her to the toboggan.
“We shall make it tonight,” he said. “It is going to be fine now.” But
the woman shook her head.
“No, no,” she said. “There is another storm coming.”
“Not a bit of it,” declared Paul. “Look at that sky.”
“Hurry! hurry!” said the woman.
For another two hours Paul led the way, breaking the crusted trail,
ploughing his way through drifts and dragging his limping team and part
of their load after him. The wind had dropped, and with it the
temperature. The icy cold fell upon them, its penetrating thrust making
for heart, lungs and every vital organ. Pause they dared not. In the
lead, Paul, staggering forward with legs numb from sheer weariness and
lessening vitality, broke the trail for the dogs, leaning his weight
hard upon his leading line. Behind the toboggan the boy lashed the
crawling dogs with weird Indian objurgations, behind him again the
little blind girl, guided by a dog trace, ran lightly over the broken
trail, her spirit still undaunted.
A deeper drift than usual halted the party till Paul should break a way
for the bleeding feet of the dogs. At the pause the dogs fell prone in
the snow, panting and whimpering. The boy at the rear of the toboggan
dropped upon his knees and fell huddled on his face. Looking back, Paul
saw him thus huddled in the snow. With a loud harsh cry he staggered
back, seized the boy by the neck and shoulder, shook him with savage
fury, cuffed him, kicked him up onto his legs. Peter stood swaying on
his feet, looked about him with a dazed, sickly grin upon his face.
“What’s the matter? Was I asleep long?” he asked thickly.
“Asleep long? Asleep long? You blasted idiot! Don’t you know what sleep
means on this trail? Nice man you are on a job like this!”
Slowly into the dark face of the boy the red blood came up, then,
ebbing, left it grey.
“All right, Chief,” he muttered, “I sleep no more.”
“Listen to me, Peter. If you ever drop again I’ll cut you to pieces with
your dog whip.”
Peter gazed, dumb and shuddering, at his chief, as he called him; not
that he feared the whip, but because in all his life he had never heard
Paul speak to him in such a tone.
“We are going through, and no one must drop or stop. We must get
through! We must get through! And, by the Eternal God,” he lifted his
clenched fists toward the hard, pitiless blue sky, “we will go through!”
At the terrible furious voice the little girl began to cry. Paul glared
at her a moment or two. Never in his life had he been so near breaking.
“Stop it!” he snarled, baring his teeth like a dog.
“Yes, Paul, I’ll stop,” said the child, her quivering lips setting in a
firm line. His eyes softened as he looked upon her.
“All right, Tanna. _You_ won’t quit,” he said.
Once more, under the emphasis, the red flushed up in the face of the
boy.
“Who’s a-quittin’?” he said angrily.
“Get your dogs going,” replied Paul, picking up his line. But neither
commands nor lashings could move the leader from the snowdrift where he
lay. With a low exclamation of fury Paul stepped to the toboggan.
“We can’t fool with you,” he said, fumbling among the camp stuff.
“What is it?” cried the girl. “Which dog?”
“Lynx,” said the boy in a low voice.
With a little cry, “Paul, don’t!” she sprang forward, stumbled over the
toboggan, scrambled to her feet, felt her way over the dog team till she
came to the leader, then kneeling down beside him she put her arms round
the grizzled husky.
“Oh, Lynx,” she murmured in his ear, “good Lynx, dear Lynx, try once
more, Lynx.” The dog whined, licked the face bending over him, struggled
to his feet. “He will go now, Paul,” she said eagerly. “He will try
again. See!” She caught the dog by the collar. “Come on, Lynx. Come,
Bliz. Come, good dogs. Hup! hup! mush! mush!” The three dogs strained on
their collars, swaying on the traces, a shout, a plunge, and the
toboggan stood free from the drift. Paul replaced the axe in the camp
kit.
“He has saved himself this time,” he muttered. “Get to your place,
Tanna.” The girl with a loud cheery cry called again to the dogs, her
hand on the head of the leader. Once more with a whine they responded
and the toboggan was on its way again over the crusted snow.
“Now then, a little run here, the going is good,” cried Paul, picking up
his lead line. But the woman’s voice stayed him.
“Wait, Paul,” she said, raising herself on her elbow. She pushed the
hood back from her face and gazed about her at sky and woods. “No, Paul,
we shall make camp,” she said. “A storm is coming.” She pointed to the
angry sun and the four brilliant sun-dogs surrounding it. “We must make
camp, Paul, and quick. Look! There is good wood.” She pointed to a thick
clump of pines and underbrush at the edge of the lake. The young man
growled impatiently.
“We can make it,” he said in a voice of sullen desperation. “How far is
the Post yet?” She held up her two hands twice. “Twenty miles yet!” he
exclaimed in dismay. “We could make it before morning,” he added
stubbornly.
“Yes, if the storm kept off and if I could walk,” said the woman, a
bitter weariness in her voice.
Quickly Paul surrendered. “We will camp,” he said, swinging off toward
the bushy pine bluff. “Come on, Lynx, you!” With a glad whimper the dogs
strained on their traces and set off on a limping gallop. They knew as
well as any that the welcome camp ground lay before them.
In among the thick undergrowth of scrub pine they dragged the toboggan
where they found shelter from the cutting wind.
“Lie where you are, Mammy,” said Paul. “We will have a fire in a minute
or two.” The woman turned over with a groan.
“Is it very bad, Mammy?” said the little girl, kneeling down beside the
toboggan.
“The pain? That matters not,” said the woman bitterly. “It is hard to
drag you all back, perhaps to——” she paused abruptly.
“Everybody at work!” shouted Paul, seizing the axe and slashing down
with swift, sure blows the young spruce and balsams, and flinging them
in a heap near the toboggan. Swiftly the little girl fell upon them with
a long hunting knife, slicing off the boughs for the bed.
“The fire, Peter!” snapped Paul. “Jump!” Peter needed no urging. With
eager intensity they all flung themselves at their work, the bed, the
fire, the supper, wood for the night, and a shelter against the
impending storm. It was a race for life with the swift-coming night, for
night finding them unprepared meant death to some of them, perhaps to
all. They each knew their special tasks and with swift despatch they
went at their work. While Paul was slashing down the underbrush, Peter
having gathered a large pile of dry brushwood was digging out with a
frying pan a large circular space some seven feet in diameter. This done
he proceeded to pile his brushwood in the circular space he had cleared,
and soon he had a fire blazing under which the snow rapidly melted away.
Then, seizing the axe which Paul had laid aside, he went off for more
wood. There could not be too much wood with a storm blowing up, for if
the storm became a blizzard wood meant life. Meantime, with saplings
stripped bare of their branches and the trees standing thick about, Paul
was constructing a shelter as near the fire as was safe, weaving the
branches thatchwise till a fairly thick semi-circular brushwood wall
stood about the fire. Around this shelter he would stretch later a strip
of canvas and some soft deer skins which were still in the toboggan. An
hour’s strenuous work saw a crude but fairly substantial brushwood built
on three sides of the deep circular hollow from which the fire had
partially melted the snow. Clearing from this hollow space the melted
slush Paul proceeded to bank the sides high with the softened snow which
almost immediately was frozen into a solid mass impervious to wind. Upon
the space thus cleared, he placed a thick layer of balsam boughs. These
he covered over with a fur rug.
“Now, Mammy! There you are!” he cried cheerily. “In you go. We will have
supper in no time.”
Painfully the woman dragged herself out of the toboggan and seated
herself in the shelter.
“Now, then, Tanna, you have the water ready?”
“Soon, Paul, I think,” said the child, who had meantime been nursing a
small fire under a pail of melted snow. “You go for the wood,” she
added, “we can do the rest.”
“Look out for the fire then,” said Paul.
“I will watch her,” said the woman. “You can go for the wood. Get
plenty; we may need much.”
“You need not fear for me,” said the girl. “I have no eyes in my head,
but my fingers are as good as eyes.” For a few moments Paul stood
watching.
“Yes! You are a wonder, little one,” he said in a low voice, touched
with pity.
The girl lifted her face to him, showing two large blue eyes whose
lustre was dimmed with a scarcely perceptible film. But though the blue
of the eye was somewhat dimmed the spirit that shone through the face
was one of untamed invincibility.
“Go, Paul,” said the woman. “She is quite safe.” She paused, then added
with infinite sadness in her voice, “While she has me she is safe.”
The girl felt her way to the woman and passed her hands over her face.
“Do not fear for me, Mammy. I shall take great care.” The woman took the
child in her arms and, rocking herself to and fro, held her there in a
passionate embrace. The young man turned hastily away on his quest for
dry wood, for already the sun had finished his brief winter course and
with dying rays was glaring angrily at the swiftly triumphing night.
The evening meal consisted of a watery stew, the nourishing ingredients
of which were a pork rind, the last remnant of their meat supply, some
fragments of hard tack, and some spare bones with dark red ragged
remnants of flesh attached, which the woman had thrown into the pot but
as to the nature of which none of them made inquiry. In other
circumstances, Paul at least would have turned with loathing from the
revolting mess, but tonight he forced himself to devour with ravenous
haste the portion assigned him by the woman. Eat he must if he were to
carry his party through the last twenty miles.
The sick woman ate a morsel of food, drank a little of the soup, then,
gripped with agonising pains, refused further nourishment.
Some bones saved from the last camp were thrown to the dogs who with
much savage snarling and fighting soon cleared them away.
The fire, originally laid upon a foundation of green spruce logs and now
burned down to glowing embers, was drawn almost within the enclosure of
the shelter and kept alive with judicious care. Within the recesses of
the shelter the party disposed themselves for the night. The girl crept
within the woman’s fur rug and soon fell asleep. The boy huddled close
beside them and, as near the fire as he dared, sat fighting off the
overpowering drowsiness that threatened every moment to subdue him.
“You go to sleep, Peter,” said Paul. “I’ll take the first watch. I’ll
promise to wake you.”
“Word of honour?” said the boy.
“Word of honour!” replied Paul.
The boy sat a little longer, then reluctantly snuggled down among the
brush and instantly sank into a dead sleep.
With the night the threatening storm came howling down upon the little
company, hissing, moaning, shrieking, as if legions of demons were
riding the winds, destruction in their hearts. Around their frail
structure the blizzard piled up a great bank of snow, effectually
shutting out the piercing wind, so that with the heat from the glowing
fire in front the sleepers took no hurt from the Arctic cold. The chief
danger lay in the blizzard. Alone Paul might buck through, but with the
sick woman and the little blind girl the attempt would be worse than
madness. The blizzard might last for three days, even for five, and they
were at the end of their food. Spent though he was with his two weeks’
fight against head winds and drifts through the long and terrible miles,
his gnawing anxiety for the little company dependent upon him had worn
his nerves so ragged and raw that Paul felt no need of sleep, as the
slow hours of the night dragged out their weary length. Never had he
been more wide awake, more keenly sensitive to the terrors and dangers
of his environment. He found himself listening and trying to
differentiate the voices of the storm outside. Through the birches and
poplars, bare of leaf, the blasts rattled and hissed like nests of
serpents; through the spruce and pine they moaned and sighed like souls
in distress. As he sat listening to the mingling voices of the blizzard
he began to hear in them the notes of hate and savage fury as of raging
beasts. The woods seemed to be filled with them. He shivered, listening
to shriekings and howlings, low snarls and growls, cries and weird
callings of beasts he had never known, and all the northern beasts he
knew well for he had hunted them to their dens and holes. He seemed to
catch a note of triumph, of savage exultant triumph, through the tumult.
They had him sure and fast. They knew it and he began to fear it. They
seemed to be closing in upon him. He could hear beneath the howlings and
shriekings the hiss of their whispering voices just at the back of the
shelter. He sprang to his feet. He would meet them out there on their
own ground. Out from the cover of the shelter he leaped into the
blizzard. The cutting drive of the granulated snow bit into his bare
face. A moment he stood staring into the blinding, cutting,
needle-pointed drift, then suddenly he stumbled back and sank huddled
behind the shelter, his soul and body shaken by the impact of a new
fear. Was he going mad? It was no unknown thing in those terror ridden
wilds for strong men to be driven mad. Huddled and shaking he sat
straining his ears after the voices daring him forth. Then to him thus
straining, with every nerve taut and every sense a-tingle, there came
through the raging, shrieking, hissing welter a voice clear as the song
of a bird in the stillness of the dawn, a voice clear and familiar:
“He maketh the clouds His chariot, He walketh upon the wings of the
wind.”
A wonderful quiet fell upon him. In the clear warm glow of the firelight
in the old Pine Croft bungalow he saw a boy sitting on a low stool,
gazing up into a face alight with serene courage. Outside, the tempest
howled down the valley, lashing the windows, pounding at the doors and
twisting the huge pines about like wisps of hay.
“That is a good verse to learn tonight, my boy,” the woman was saying.
And over and over again, till the words were bedded firmly in his soul,
she chanted the great words of that noble Hebrew psalm.
As on that night long ago, so tonight again the storm suddenly lost its
power to terrify him. He remembered the vision he had that night of the
great God out there, the good and kindly God whom he had been taught to
know as his friend, riding forth down the Windermere upon his rolling
cloud chariot and borne upon the wings of the wind. Gone was his
paralysing fear. He rose from his huddled position and stood at the
mouth of the shelter, his own man again. Steadily he faced the howling
blizzard. It had lost its terror. He raised his hand high above his
head, as if in salute. He knew he was not alone. He would win through.
Deep in his soul was the conviction whose roots ran far back into his
childhood memories, that in the eternal covenant and plan his life had a
place. That, among others, he owed to his mother. Yes, he would win
through. No blizzards that blew could down him. His Calvinistic faith
held him steady on his course.
He threw some wood on the fire and as the wood crackled up he touched
Peter on the arm. Instantly the boy was wide awake.
“Quiet!” whispered Paul. The dark Indian face immediately hardened into
bronze, the black eyes only gleaming with life.
“Come,” signalled Paul.
Carefully the boy stepped around the fire and sat down beside his
brother. Upon a piece of birch bark, with a burnt stick, Paul drew an
outline of the lake, showing the trail leading to the Hudson’s Bay Post
at the south-east end, as he had got it from Onawata.
“Peter, I am going to the Post tonight. You stay here. Keep the fire
going. Some one will come for you. Keep the fire going and make a big
smoke all the time. Kill the dogs if you must.”
“Wait for the morning, eh?” he said, his dark eyes imploring.
“No, I must get through. The blizzard may last three days, then it will
be too late for any of us. You see?” The boy nodded silent assent.
“When the fire burns low twice wake me up.” Again the boy nodded.
“Good boy! We’ll get through,” said Paul, putting his hand on his
shoulder. The boy’s face flushed red, then grew grey again. The chances
for getting through he knew well were very slim indeed.
With but a moment’s further delay Paul lay down near the fire. Round the
little snow-banked shelter the storm howled its wildest, but through all
its strident and threatening voices another voice came, calm and serene
and heart-stilling, “He rideth upon the wings of the wind,” and Paul
hearing that voice was instantly asleep.