THE TRAIL OF THE CARIBOU
When Blake was awakened by Harding, the cold was almost unendurable,
and it cost him a determined effort to rise from the hollow he had
scraped out of the snow and lined with spruce twigs close beside the
fire. He had not been warm there, and it was significant that the snow
was dry; but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort, and he had
found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In
answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard
a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all; and then he lay down,
leaving Blake on guard.
Blake sat with his back to a snowbank, which afforded a slight shelter.
He imagined from his sensations that the temperature must be about
fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit through him, stiffening his
muscles until he felt that if vigorous movement were demanded of him he
would be incapable of it. His brain was dulled; he could not reason
clearly, though he had things to consider; and he looked about with
heavy eyes, trying to forget his physical discomfort, while his mind
wandered through a maze of confused thought.
There was a half-moon in the sky, which was pitilessly clear, for
cloudiness might have made it warmer; when the firelight sank, the
slender spruce trunks cut sharply against the silvery radiance and the
hard glitter of the snow. Everything was tinted with blue and white,
and the deathly cold coloring was depressing.
Blake began to consider their position, which was serious. They were
worn out and half-fed; their furs were ragged; and shortage of money
and the difficulty of transport had forced them to cut down their camp
equipment. Indeed, looking back on the long march, Blake was surprised
that they had escaped crippling frostbite; although both Benson and
Harding were somewhat lame from the strain which the use of snowshoes
puts on the muscles of the leg. There was, moreover, a risk of this
becoming dangerous; and it was probably two hundred miles to the Hudson
Bay post. The chances of their reaching it seemed very slight.
Just then a howl rang, harsh and ominous, through the frosty air. With
a nervous start, Blake grabbed his rifle. The wolves had scented them.
Turning his back to the light, he spent some minutes gazing fixedly at
the glistening white patches among the straggling trees, but he could
make out none of the stealthy, flitting shapes he had half expected to
see. It was encouraging that the wolves had not overcome their
timidity of the fire. Keen hunger would have driven them to an attack;
and Blake had no illusions about the result of that. However, the
fierce brutes were not starving; they must have found something to eat;
and what a wolf could eat would feed men who were by no means
fastidious.
Seeing nothing that alarmed him, Blake resumed his musing. Their
search for the gum had proved useless. He pitied Harding, who had
staked his future upon its success. The man had not complained much;
but Blake knew what he must feel; and he thought with compassion of the
lonely woman who had bravely sent her husband out and was now waiting
for him in the mean discomfort of a cheap tenement. It was not
difficult to imagine her anxiety and suspense.
Next he began to ponder his own affairs, which were not encouraging,
though he did not think he really regretted the self-sacrificing course
he had taken. His father had died involved in debt, and Blake
suspected that it had cost Colonel Challoner something to redeem the
share of his mother's property which brought him in a small income.
That it had been carefully tied up was not, he thought, enough to guard
it from the Blake extravagance and ingenuity in raising money.
Afterward the Colonel had brought him up and sent him into the army,
doing so with a generous affection which was very different from cold
charity, and which demanded some return. Then, Bertram had never been
jealous of the favor shown his cousin, but had given him warm
friendship; and Blake, who was much the stronger, had now and then
stood between the lad and harm. He had done so again in Bertram's
greatest need, and now he must not grumble at the consequences.
Of late they had seemed heavier than formerly, for in tempting him
Clarke had made a telling suggestion--suppose he married? This
appeared improbable: for one thing, no girl that he was likely to care
for would look with favor on a man with his reputation; but he had
thought a good deal about Millicent Graham during the long, weary
march. He imagined that she had inherited enough of her father's
reckless character to make her willing to take a risk. She would not
have a man betray his friend for an advantage that he might gain; she
had a courage that would help her, for love's sake, to tread a
difficult path. Still, there was no reason to believe that she had any
love for him; or, indeed, that she thought of him except as a stranger
to whom she had, perhaps, some reason to be grateful.
Resolutely breaking off this train of thought, he threw fresh wood on
the fire, and sat shivering and making plans for the march to the
factory, until Benson relieved him. When the gray dawn broke above the
trees, he got up stiff with cold; and, after eating his share of a very
frugal breakfast, he carefully examined his rifle. Though he kept it
clean of superfluous grease, there was some risk of the striker and
magazine-slide freezing; and a missfire might prove disastrous.
Glancing up between the branches, he noticed the low, dingy sky;
although he thought it was not quite so cold.
"I'm going to look for a caribou," he said. "I'll be back by dark."
"We'll have snow," Harding warned him. "If there's much, you'll find
it hard to get home."
"I'd find it harder to do without breakfast and supper, which is what
may happen very soon."
"Anyway, you had better take one of us along."
"With the ax?" Blake said, laughing. "It's bad enough to reach a
caribou with a rifle. Benson's as poor a hand at stalking as I know,
while a day's rest may save you from getting a snowshoe leg. As we
haven't a sled, it would be awkward to carry you to the factory."
They let him go; but when he reached the open his face hardened. The
sky had a threatening look, the snow was soft, and there were wolves
about; but he was comparatively safe while daylight lasted, and food
must be found. During the morning he saw wolf tracks, but no sign of a
deer, and at noon he sat down for a few minutes in a sheltered hollow
and managed to light the half-frozen pipe he kept in an inner pocket.
He had brought nothing to eat, for they had decided that it would be
prudent to dispense with a midday meal. Getting stiffly on his feet,
after he had smoked a while, he plodded from bluff to bluff throughout
the afternoon. For the most part, they were thin and the trees very
small, while the country between them seemed to be covered with slabs
of rocks and stones. It was utterly empty, with no sign of life in it,
but Blake continued his search until the light began to fail, when he
stopped to look about.
No snow had fallen, but the sky was very thick and a stinging wind had
risen. He would have trouble in reaching camp if his trail got drifted
up. He knew that he should have turned back earlier; but there was
what seemed to be an extensive woods in front, and he could not face
the thought of returning empty-handed to his half-starved companions.
The gray trees were not far away; he might reach them and make a mile
or two on the back trail before dark, though he was weary and hunger
had given him a distressing pain in his left side.
Quickening his pace, he neared the bluff. It looked very black and
shadowy against the snow, which now was fading to a curious, lifeless
gray. The trees were stunted and scattered; that made it possible for
him to get through, though there were half-covered, fallen branches
which entangled his big snowshoes. He could see no tracks of any
animal, and hardly expected to do so; but, in a savage mood, he held
on, without much caution, until he entered a belt of broken ground
strewn with rocky hillocks. Here he could not see where he was going,
and it was almost dark in the hollows; but he had learned that chance
sometimes favors the hunter as much as careful stalking. Stopping for
breath a moment, halfway up a steep ascent, he started, for a shadowy
object unexpectedly appeared on the summit. It was barely
distinguishable against the background of trees, but Blake saw the
broad-tined horns in an opening and knew it for a caribou.
There was no time to lose; the swift creature would take flight in an
instant; and, almost as he caught sight of it, the rifle went up to his
shoulder. For a moment the foresight wavered across the indistinct
form, and then his numbed hands grew steady, and, trusting that nothing
would check the frost-clogged action, he pressed the trigger. He felt
the jar of the butt, a little smoke blew in his eyes, and he could make
out nothing on the crest of the ridge. It seemed impossible, however,
that he had missed, and the next moment he heard a heavy floundering in
the snow among the rocks above. He went up the slope at a savage run,
and plunged down a precipitous hollow, on the farther side of which a
half-seen object was moving through the gloom of the trees. Stopping a
moment, he threw up the rifle, and after the thin red flash the deer
staggered and collapsed.
Running on in desperate haste, he fell upon it with his hunting knife;
and then stopped, feeling strangely limp and breathless, with the long
blade dripping in his hand. Now that the caribou lay dead before him,
the strain of the last few minutes made itself felt. Surprised by a
sudden and unexpected opportunity when he was exhausted and weak from
want of food, he had forced upon himself sufficient steadiness to
shoot. It had cost him an effort; the short, fierce chase had tried
him hard; and now the reaction had set in. For all that, he was
conscious of a savage, exultant excitement. Here was food, and food
meant life!
His first impulse was to light a fire and feast, but as he grew calmer
he began to think. He was a long way from camp, and he feared that if
he rested he could not force himself to resume the march. Besides,
there were the wolves to reckon with; and he could not escape if they
followed him in the dark. Prudence suggested that he should cut off as
much meat as possible, and after placing it out of reach in a tree, set
off for camp at his best speed without taking any of the raw flesh to
scent the air; but this was more than he could bring himself to do.
His comrades were very hungry, and some animal might climb to the
frozen meat. It was unthinkable that he should run any risk of losing
the precious food. He decided to take as much as he could carry, and
store the rest in a tree; and he set to work with the hunting knife in
anxious haste.
It was now quite dark; he could not see what he was cutting, and if he
gashed his hand, which was numbed and almost useless, the wound would
not heal. Then the haft of the knife grew slippery, and tough skin and
bone turned the wandering blade. It was an unpleasant business, but
the man could not be fastidious, and he tore the flesh off with his
fingers, knowing that he was in danger while he worked. There were
wolves in the neighborhood, and their scent for blood was wonderfully
keen; it was a question whether they would reach the spot before he had
left it. When he stopped to clean the knife in the snow he cast a
swift glance about.
He could see nothing farther off than a fallen trunk about a dozen
yards away; beyond that the trees had faded into a somber mass. A
biting wind wailed among them, causing the needles to rustle harshly;
but except for this there was a daunting silence. Blake began to feel
a horror of the lonely wood and a longing to escape into the open,
though he would be no safer there. But to give way to this weakness
would be dangerous; and, pulling himself together, he went to work more
calmly.
It was difficult to reach the branches of the spruce he chose, and when
he had placed the first load of meat in safety he was tempted to
flight. Indeed, for some moments he stood irresolute, struggling to
hold his fears in subjection; and then he went back for another supply.
He climbed the tree three times before he was satisfied that he had
stored enough, and afterward he gathered up as much of the flesh as he
could conveniently carry. It would soon freeze, but not before it had
left a scent that any wolf which might happen to be near could follow.
He left the woods with a steady stride, refraining from attempting a
faster pace than he could keep up, but when he had gone a mile he felt
distressed. His load, which included the rifle, was heavy, and he had
been exerting himself since early morning. The wind was in his face,
lashing it until the cold became intolerable; the dry snow was loose,
and had drifted over his outward trail. Still, he was thankful that no
more had fallen, and he thought that he knew the quarter he must make
for. Now that he was in the open, he could see some distance, for the
snow threw up a dim light. It stretched away before him, a sweep of
glimmering gray, and the squeaking crunch it made beneath his shoes
emphasized the overwhelming silence.
Skirting a bluff he did not remember, he stopped in alarm, until a
taller clump of trees which he thought he knew caught his searching
eyes. If he were right, he must incline farther to the east to strike
the shortest line to camp; and he set off, breathing heavily and
longing to fling away his load. Cold flakes stung his face, and a
creeping haze obscured his view in the direction where he expected to
find the next woods. He was within a hundred yards of the nearest
trees when he saw them, and as he left the woods it was snowing hard.
His heart sank as he launched out into the open, for he had now no
guide, and having neither ax nor blanket he could not make a fire and
camp in a bluff, even if he could find one. It looked as if he must
perish should he fail to reach the camp.
He had only a hazy recollection of floundering on, passing a bluff he
could not locate, and here and there a white rock, while the snow fell
thicker and its surface got worse. Then, when he felt he could go no
farther, he heard a howl behind him, and then another.
With the wolves on his trail, Blake quickened his speed to his utmost
limit. As a last resort he could throw away the meat, and they would
stop for that; but they were still some distance back of him and he
held on grimly to his precious load. It meant life to him and to his
starving companions. His feet sank into the soft snow; the wind blew
him back cruelly; a cloud had come over the moon, obscuring what little
light he had; but, worst of all, one of his snowshoes was loose. With
the cry of the wolves behind him, he did not dare stop to tighten it,
although it impeded his progress greatly. He struggled forward as the
howls drew nearer; and then, when it seemed that he would have to give
up, a faint glow of light broke out and he turned toward it with a
hoarse cry. An answer reached him, the light grew brighter, and he was
in among the trees.
Benson met him, and a minute later he flung himself down, exhausted, by
the fire.
"I've brought you your supper, boys," he gasped, "but the wolves are on
my trail!"
Harding grabbed the rifle, while Benson poked at the fire until a
larger flame swept up, lighting clearly a radius of several yards; but
the wolves, fearing the fire or scenting some other prey, had branched
off to the right, and the men could hear their howls growing fainter in
the distance.
"We'll have a feast to-night, boys," Benson said, hastily preparing the
meal.
They ate with keen appetite, and afterward went to sleep; and when they
reached the woods the next morning nothing was left of the caribou
except the meat in the tree and a few clean-picked bones.
With a sufficient quantity of meat to stave off their anxiety regarding
the question of food, the men spent two days enjoying a badly needed
rest; and then they pushed on, making forced marches which severely
taxed their strength. Part of their way, however, lay across open
country, for they were near the northern edge of the timber belt, and
the straggling trees, dwarfed and bent by the wind, ran east and west
in a deeply indented line. In some places they boldly stretched out
toward the Pole in long promontories; in others they fell back in wide
bays which Blake, steering by compass, held straight across, afterward
plunging again into the scrub. Three days were spent in struggling
through the broadest tongue, but, as a rule, a few hours' arduous march
brought them out into the open. Even there the ground was very rough
and broken, and they were thankful for the numerous frozen creeks and
lakes which provided an easier road.
Pushing on stubbornly, camping where they could find shelter and wood,
for they could hardly have survived a night spent in the open without a
fire, they made, by calculation, two hundred miles; and Blake believed
that they must surely be near the Hudson Bay post.