BUCKING THE STORM
Bill Carmody wheeled against the solid rock wall and frantically felt
his way along its broken surface. His groping hands encountered a cleft
barely wide enough to admit the passage of a man's body.
With a final effort he called again; instantly the high, clear tones of
the boy's voice rang in his ears from the depths of the rock cavern,
and the next moment small hands were tugging at his armpits.
"Oh! Bill, I knew you would come!" a small voice cried close to his
ear. "It was my last three shots. I've been shooting every little while
for hours and hours. Hold on! We've got to take off your snowshoes;
they won't come through the door."
A few minutes later the man sat upon the hard floor of the cave which
reeked of the rank animal odor of a long-used den. The place was bare
of snow and he leaned back against a soft, furry body while the boy
rattled on:
"I killed the _loup-cervier_! I chased him in here and shot him right
square through the head. And he never kicked--just slunked down in a
heap and dropped his rabbit. And now, if we had some matches, we could
build a fire--if we had some wood--and cook him. I'm hungry--aren't
you?"
The boy's utter disregard of the real seriousness of their plight, and
the naive way in which he accepted the coming of his friend as a matter
of course, irritated the man, who listened in scowling silence.
"Blood River Jack _was_ right," Charlie went on. "I thought he just
wanted a chance to sleep for a day. Pretty good storm, isn't it? Say,
Bill, how did he know it was going to snow?"
"Look here, young man," Bill replied wrathfully, "do you realize that
we are in a mighty bad fix, right this minute? And that it is your
fault? And that there was only about one chance in a thousand that I
would find you? And that if we ever get out of this, and your Uncle
Appleton don't give you a darn good whaling, I _will_?" The man felt a
small body press close against him in the darkness.
"Honest, Bill, I'm sorry," a subdued voice answered. "I thought Jack
was fooling, and I _did_ want to show 'em I could kill something bigger
than a rabbit. You aren't mad, are you, Bill? I hope Eth won't worry;
we'll prob'ly have to stay here all night, won't we?"
"All night! Won't worry! Don't you know that this is a _regular_
blizzard--the kind that kills men at their own doors--and that it may
last for a week? And here we are with no fire-wood, and nothing to eat!
The chances are mighty good that we'll never see camp again--and you
pipe up and hope your sister won't worry!"
Charlie leaned over closer against Carmody's body.
"Why, we've _got_ to get back, Bill!" he said, and his voice was very
earnest now. "We're all Eth's got--you and me--and she _needs_ us."
The boy felt a sudden tightening of the muscles beneath the heavy
mackinaw, and the quick gasp of an indrawn breath. A big arm stole
about his shoulders. The harshness was gone from Bill's voice, and when
he spoke the sound fell softly upon the culprit's ears.
"Sure, kid, we'll get back. Buck up! We've got a fighting chance, and
that's all we need--men like you and me. Life up here is a hard game,
kid, but we're no quitters! This is just one of the rough places in the
long, long trail.
"And, say, kid--just man to man--I want you always to remember
_that_--she needs you--and some day she may need you _bad_. This St.
Ledger may be all right, but----"
"St. Ledger!" The voice of the boy cut sharply upon the darkness. "Say,
Bill, you aren't going to marry Blood River Jack's sister, are you?"
"What!"
"Why, Blood River Jack's sister, you know, that helped fish you out of
the river."
"Lord! _No!_ What ever put that into your head?"
"Blood River Jack told us when we were coming out about you--only we
didn't know it was _you_, then. And he said that his sister was pretty,
and she loved you, and she went down the river with you for three or
four days, or something. And Eth thinks you love this half-breed girl.
And, maybe, if you did marry her, Eth would marry St. Ledger; but she
don't love him."
Bill sat suddenly erect, and the arm about the boy's shoulder tightened
and shook him roughly.
"Look here! How do you know? I read an account of their engagement 'way
along last winter."
"That was a _dang lie_! 'Cause I was in the den when she called St.
Ledger up about it. She gave him the darndest talking to he ever got,
and she told him she never would marry him as long as she lived. And
Eth _does_ love you! And you ought to heard her stick up for you when
old----"
The boy stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering his uncle's injunction
of silence. "There's an old dead tree right close to the door of the
cave," he added hastily. "We might get some wood off that."
"What were you saying?" inquired Bill. "Never mind the wood."
"Nothing--I forget, I mean. Come on, let's get some wood--I'm hungry."
And in spite of his most persistent efforts, not another word could
Bill Carmody get out of the youngster, except the mournful soliloquy
that:
"I bet Uncle Appleton _will_ whale me--anyway, he couldn't whale as
hard as you."
In the thick blackness of the storm the man groped blindly near the
snow-choked entrance to the den, guided in his search for the dead tree
by the voice of the boy from the interior.
It was no easy task to twist off the dead limbs and carry them one by
one to the cavern where the boy piled them against the wall. At length,
however, it was accomplished, and Bill crept in and whittled a pile of
fine shavings.
A few minutes later the flicker of a tiny flame flashed up, the
shavings ignited, and the narrow cavity lighted to the crackle of the
fire. Together they skinned the rabbit which the dead lynx had dropped,
and soon they were busily engaged in roasting it over the flames.
The two were far from comfortable. Despite the fact that the fire had
been built as near as possible to the entrance, the smoke whipped back
into their faces. The air became blue and heavy, they coughed, and
tears streamed from their eyes at the sting of it.
"I'm thirsty," said the boy, as he finished his portion of the rabbit.
"I guess we'll have to eat snow; there's nothing to melt it in."
"Never eat snow," the man cautioned as his eyes swept the barren
interior.
"Why not?"
"It will burn you out. I don't know why, but when a man starts eating
snow, it's all off."
Directly in front of him, in the rock floor, was a slight depression,
and with a stick Bill scraped the fire close to this natural basin and
filled it with dry snow. At the end of ten minutes the snow had melted,
leaving a pool of filthy, black water.
"It's the best we can do," laughed the man as the boy made a wry face
as he gulped down a swallow of the bitter floor-washing.
They set about skinning the _loup-cervier_, and spread the pelt upon
the floor for a robe.
"We'll have to tackle the cat for breakfast," grinned Bill.
"Oh, this is fun!" cried the boy. "It's like getting cast away and
living in a cave, like you read about." But the humor of the situation
failed to enthuse Bill, who lighted his pipe and stared moodily into
the tiny fire.
The two spent a most uncomfortable night, their brief snatches of sleep
being interrupted by long hours of wakefulness when they huddled close
to the small blaze.
The scarcity of wood and the danger of suffocation precluded the
building of an adequate fire, and the miserable night wore interminably
upon the nerves of the imprisoned pair.
At last the dull gray light of morning dispersed the gloom, and the two
crept to the snow-choked door.
The storm raged unabated, and their eyes could not penetrate the opaque
whiteness of the powdery snow. Bill gathered more firewood, cut up the
lynx, and roasted the hams, shoulders, and back.
The meat was dry and stringy, with a disagreeable, strong flavor that
savored intimately of the rancid odor of the den. Nevertheless, they
devoured a great quantity of the tough, unpalatable food, washing it
down with bitter drafts from the pool of dirty snow-water, thick with
ashes and the pungent animal reek.
Again the man filled his pipe and sat gazing out upon the whirling
void.
"Bill, let's try it," said a voice at his elbow. "She's waiting for
us--and worrying."
Carmody glanced quickly into the determined little face. The boy had
voiced his own thoughts to the letter, and he remained long without
speaking, carefully weighing the chances.
"It's better than staying here," pursued the youngster; "'Cause, if we
don't snufficate, we'll starve to death, or freeze. We can tie us to
each other so we won't get lost, and all we got to do is stick to the
river. I can make it if you can," he added naively.
Bill grinned, and then his eyes became serious and he began
methodically to stow the remains of the roast cat into his pockets.
"It's going to be an awful pull, kid. You are a man, now, and I'll give
it to you straight--maybe we'll make it, and maybe we won't. But I'd
hate to 'snufficate'--and she _is_ worrying. We'll try it--and God help
us, if we don't keep the river."
The skin of the lynx was cut into strips and fashioned into a rawhide
line which Bill made fast to their belts, leaving plenty of slack to
allow free use of the rackets. The rifle was left in the cave, and,
muffled to the ears, the two stepped out into the storm.
Bill judged it to be well after noon when a sudden tightening of the
line brought him to an abrupt halt.
Many times during the long hours in which they forged slowly ahead had
the line gone taut as the boy fell in the snow, but each time it was
followed by a wriggling and tugging, and the youngster scrambled gamely
to his feet and floundered on in the wake of his big friend.
But this time Carmody waited in vain for the movement of the line that
would tell him that the boy was regaining his feet--the line remained
taut, and Bill turned and groped in the snow. He lifted the boy to his
feet, but the small body sagged limply against his own, and the head
rolled weakly.
He shook him roughly and, with his lips close to the boy's ear, shouted
words of encouragement. But his only answer was a dull look from the
half-closed eyes, and a sleepily muttered jumble of words, in which he
made out: "Can't make it--all in--go on--she does love you."
Again and again he tried to rouse him, but all to no purpose; the boy
had battled bravely to the end of his endurance, and now only wanted to
be let alone. Bill sat beside him in the snow and, sheltering him as
best he could from the sting of the wind-driven particles, produced a
piece of the meat from his pocket.
The boy gnawed it feebly, and the food revived him somewhat, so that
for a few rods he staggered on, but the line again tightened, and this
time the man knew that it was useless to attempt to arouse his little
companion.
Hurriedly removing his mackinaw, he wrapped it around the body of the
boy and, by means of a "squaw hitch" sling, swung him to his back. The
boy's dangling rackets hindered his movement, and he slashed the thongs
and left them in the snow.
Then, straining the last atom of his vitality, he plunged ahead.
The early darkness of the North country settled about the staggering
man. His progress was painfully slow and, without sense of direction,
he wallowed forward, stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet only to
fall again a few rods farther on.
The weight of the boy seemed to crush him into the snow, and each time
it became harder and harder to regain his feet against the merciless
rush of the blizzard.
He lost all hope of making camp. He did not know whether it was near or
far, he only knew that he was upon the river, and that he must push on
and on.
He realized dully that he might easily have passed the rollways hours
ago. He even considered doubling back; but what was the use? If he
passed them once, he would pass them again.
Every drop of his fighting blood was up. He would push on to the end.
He would die, of course; but he wouldn't die _yet_! And when he did
die, he would _fall_ to die--he would never _lie down_ to die!
It was not far off, he knew--that fall, when he would never get up. He
wondered who would find them; Blood River Jack, probably. As he leaned
into the whirling, cutting wind, he thought of Jeanne and of his
promise to Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.
His fists clenched, and a few more rods were gained. He thought of
Ethel, and of what Charlie had told him in the cave:
"_She needs us; we're all she's got--you and me._"
Again the fists in the heavy mittens clenched, and more rods were
covered. It was growing black; the white smother of snow ceased to
dance before his eyes. His advance now was hesitating, dogged; each
step became a measure of time.
He reeled suddenly against an unyielding object. A tree, he thought,
and grasped it for support as he struggled to get his bearings. He was
off the river; yet, when had he ascended the bank?
The tree felt smooth to the touch, and he moved his mittens up and down
the trunk. Suddenly he realized that it was no tree, but a skinned
pole. His numbed brain groped dully as his hands traveled up and down
its smooth length.
At the height of his waist he encountered a rope, and at the feel of
the heavy line the blood surged to his head, clearing his brain.
"The _water-hole_!" he cried thickly. "They've roped off the
water-hole!" Frantically he pulled himself along, hand over hand. The
rope seemed endless, stretching from stake to stake.
He was ascending the bank now at the foot of the rollways--and, at the
top was the camp!
He exerted his strength to the uttermost ounce, heaving and lifting
with the huge muscles of his legs, and pulling with his arms until it
seemed they must be torn from his shoulders, inching himself along,
gasping, sweating, straining.
The incline grew steeper, his frozen mittens slipped, the guide-rope
tore from his grasp, and he pitched heavily backward into the soft
smother.
He struggled helplessly. Something seemed pressing him down, down--at
last he was _home_. He had won out against the terrible odds, and the
boy was safe.
He had brought him back to her, and now he must sleep. How warm and
comfortable it was in the bunk. He did not know a man could be so
sleepy.
What was it the girl was singing as he passed her window only a few
nights ago--when he paused in the darkness of the clearing to listen?
Dreamily the words floated through his brain:
"And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come back to the town."
But he had come back. He smiled vaguely; they needn't wring their hands
and weep--and the rest of it:
"For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep,
And good-by to the bar and its moaning."
Sleep! That's what he needed--sleep. He could sleep forever and ever,
here in his warm, warm bunk. And the moaning of the bar--he liked that;
he could hear it moaning now--roaring and moaning.
Bill Carmody closed his eyes. The fine, sifting snow came and covered
his body and the smaller body of the boy who was lashed firmly to his
broad back--and all about him the blizzard howled and roared and
moaned.
And it was night!