The place had that indefinable air of desertion that comes upon a
wilderness cabin in such an amazingly short time. The wood-pile, huge,
yet clearly but the remnant of a winter’s supply, had not yet sprouted
any of the mosses and lichens that multiply on dead wood in the short
Alaskan summer. The axe, even, was leaned against the door. Chips
still rested on blades of the quickly-growing grass that comes before
the snow has vanished. A pipe rested on a bench before the house. But
the place was deserted. The feel of emptiness was in the air.
Holliday had drawn in his breath for a shout to announce his coming
when the curious desolation all about struck home. It was almost like
a blow. Every sign and symbol of occupancy. Every possible indication
that the place was what it seemed to be—the winter quarters of an
old-timer thriftily remaining near his claim. And then, suddenly, the
feeling of emptiness that was like death.
He disembarked in silence, his forehead creased in a quick and puzzled
frown. He was walking swiftly when he climbed the bluff, glancing
sharply here and there. A sudden cold apprehension made him hesitate.
Then he shook himself impatiently and moved more quickly still.
Within ten yards of the door he stopped stock-still. And then he
fairly rushed for the cabin and plunged within.
It was a long time later that he came out. He was very pale, and
looked like a man who has been shaken to the core. He was swearing
brokenly. Then he made himself stop and sit down. With shaking fingers
he filled his pipe and lighted it.
“In his bunk,” he said evenly to the universe. “A bullet through his
head. No sign of a fight. It isn’t credible—but there isn’t a sign of
any dust or any supplies, and somebody else had been bunking in there
with him. Murder, of course.”
He smoked. Presently he got up and found a path which he followed. At
its end he saw what he was looking for. He poked about the cradle
there, and expertly fingered the heap of gravel that had been thawed
and dug out to be washed when summer came again.
“He’d cleaned up,” he said evenly. “He must have had a lot of dust,
and the man with him knew it. I’ve got to find that man.”
His hands clenched and unclenched as he went back toward the cabin.
Then he calmed himself again. His eyes searched for a suitable spot
for the thing he had to do.
And then, quite suddenly, “My God!” said Holliday.
It was Cheechako, who had dragged himself to the limit of his chain
and with his last atom of strength managed to whimper faintly.
Cheechako was not pretty to look at. It had been a very long time
since the night that he howled to the stars of his grief for the man
who was dead. And he had been chained fast. Cheechako was alive, and
that was all.
He lay on the ground, looking up with agonized, pitiful eyes. Holliday
stared down at him and reached for his gun in sheer mercy. Then his
eyes hardened.
“No-o-o. I guess not. You’ll be Sam’s dog. You’ll have to stay alive a
while yet. Maybe you can pick out his murderer for me.”
He unbuckled the collar that Cheechako’s most frenzied efforts had not
enabled him to reach, and took the mass of skin and boniness beneath
down toward his canoe. With a face like stone he tended Cheechako with
infinite gentleness.
And that night he left Cheechako wrapped up in his own blankets while
he carved deeply upon a crudely fashioned wooden cross. His expression
frightened Cheechako a little, but the dog lay huddled in the blankets
and gazed at him hungrily. Cheechako hoped desperately that this man
would be his master hereafter. Only, he also hoped desperately that he
would never, never use a chain.