MUSIC OF THE SLEDGE-BELLS
The cold winter morning that succeeded that memorable day at the Anvik
Mission witnessed an animated scene in the open space between its stout
log buildings. Fur-clad figures hurried in all directions, bringing
last things and finishing the lading of the three sledges that were
to constitute the up-river brigade. To each of these were attached
seven dogs, it having been decided at the last moment to add two extra
haulers to each team, as both dogs and fish for their feed were much
cheaper at Anvik than they would be beyond that point. Then, too, with
such strong teams a high degree of speed could be maintained, for while
two of the sledges carried six hundred pounds each, the third was
laden with but half that weight, so that if either of the boys became
exhausted he could ride, and so avoid the necessity of a halt.
Each dog’s harness was composed of three bands of seal-skin, two of
which passed over his back and were toggled or buttoned under the
belly, while the third, which was extended into traces, crossed his
chest. The leader was attached to the end of a long pulling thong of
walrus hide, while the traces of the other dogs, who ran in pairs, were
knotted and made fast to the same line at proper intervals. The two
steer-dogs were hitched directly to the hauling-bar in front of the
sledge.
The load of each sledge, enveloped in stout canvas, was immovably
bound to it by a simple but ingenious net-work of raw-hide lashing,
so that the whole might roll over and over without being loosened or
disarranged.
At ten o’clock, or just as the laggard sun of those short days was
rising, the last hearty handshakes were exchanged, the fervent “God
bless yous” and final farewells were uttered, and the start was made.
Kurilla, who was to act as runner and break a trail through the snow,
went first. Then came Phil’s team, with the string of tiny bells
attached to Musky’s harness jingling merrily in the frosty air; after
him followed Serge, whose cheery good-nature and ready helpfulness had
won for him a warm place in every Anvik heart; and the rear was brought
up by Chitsah.
On the very brow of the steep descent to the river Phil turned for a
parting wave of his hand and a last glance at the place that had grown
to seem so much like home in the past six weeks. His less sentimental
dogs sprang down the narrow track with such suddenness that poor
Phil, who still held to the sledge with one hand, was jerked abruptly
forward, threw the sledge from the path in his effort to save himself,
and plunged with it down the bank. By thus taking a header, Phil, his
dogs, and his sledge reached the bottom even in advance of Kurilla,
sadly demoralized, but except for a few bruises and a terrible snarl of
trace-lines none the worse for the accident.
When a few minutes later Serge reached the spot with his anxious and
now familiar inquiry, Phil cut him short by saying,
“No, old man, I’m not hurt, though, of course, I might have been. But I
was willing to risk it for your sake.”
“For my sake!” cried Serge, in amazement.
“Yes, to set you an example in promptness of movement. You know I have
always said we would never get to Sitka unless we took advantage of
every opportunity, and pressed forward with all possible speed.”
“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Serge. “You remind me of a story I heard in New
London. An old Quaker was driving along a country road with his boy
sitting in the back of the cart. Suddenly the horse shied, and the boy
was thrown out, whereupon the old man remarked, quietly, ‘Be thankful
for thy mercies, son, for if thee’d fell in a particellar way thee’d
broke thy neck.’”
“Well, I didn’t,” replied Phil, “though I’m sure I fell in a very
particular way――at least, it was particularly unexpected.”
In a few minutes Kurilla’s deft fingers had repaired all damages, and
disentangled the apparently hopeless snarl of dogs. Then the train was
once more set in motion, and, as it swept out on the broad surface of
the frozen river, was headed due north for the first stage of its long
journey. Fainter and fainter came the music of its sledge-bells to
those who watched its departure. Its receding figures lessened until
they were but black specks against the illimitable expanse of white,
and finally vanished in the snow glint of its wavering horizon.
To Phil Ryder, however, there was no vanishing about the seven dogs
that he was attempting to drive. They were right before his eyes,
where he was obliged to keep them pretty constantly, too; for if he
looked away for an instant they knew it, and seized the opportunity for
mischief. There was not a lump of ice, a hillock of snow, or a bit of
drift that one or all of them did not wish to smell of and investigate.
If there was an obstruction to be passed, three of them would try to go
on one side of it and four on the other. At sight of a rabbit scurrying
across the frozen field, they would give tongue and set forth in hot
pursuit. Above all, each of the five belonging to the original team was
spoiling for a fight with one or both of the new-comers, to whom Phil
had given the names of Lofter and Brassy. If he glanced back to shout
to Serge, Musky would double on his tracks and spring at the throat of
the unoffending Lofter, who would abjectly roll on his back with a howl
of apprehension; Amook would snap at his heels; Luvtuk would wheel upon
Brassy; and by the time Phil’s eye again rested on his team they would
be engaged in such a battle as would gladden the heart of a city gamin.
Then Kurilla would rush back, seize Phil’s whip, and crack it about
their ears with such frightful reports that, in their frantic efforts
to escape, the offending dogs would only entangle themselves still more
hopelessly. In the meantime, the other teams, thus forced to a halt,
would sit on their haunches, or lie in comfortable attitudes, and lift
their voices in sympathetic howls.
Finally, when this thing happened for about the tenth time, Phil
exclaimed:
“Look here, Kurilla, you and I must change places, for I can’t stand
this any longer. Besides, with the present arrangement, we are spending
more time disentangling dogs than we are in travelling. I don’t somehow
seem to have learned the A B C of sledge driving; but I am getting
along pretty well with the shoes, and believe I can walk ahead and
tread out a trail as well as any one.”
“All light,” answered the obliging fellow. “You walk, me come. Me come
fas’, you walk more fas’, yaas.” Then, with a broad grin, he whirled
Phil’s relinquished badge of authority about his head in such a manner
as gave the dogs to understand that they must now attend strictly to
business or take the consequences.
So Phil assumed the leadership of the expedition, and from that moment,
though always willing to accept advice from the others, he never
dropped it.
When, shortly after three o’clock, the sun completed its short course,
and again reached the southern horizon, he asked Kurilla if it were not
about time to make camp; but the Indian answered:
“No; go far as can make dog plenty tired. S’posin’ no git tired; night
come, run to Anvik. Bad dog, yaas. Git tired, night come, no run,
sleep; good dog, yaas.”
“Oh, that’s the scheme, is it?” laughed Phil. “Well, I guess I can
stand it as long as the rest can, though I must confess I am about
tired enough to rank with the good dogs now.”
So in spite of lame ankles, and blistering heels, and toes that were
very tender from having been repeatedly “stubbed” against the snow-shoe
bars, the young leader trudged sturdily forward, with the dog-teams
following close behind him. At length, when the dusk was merging into
darkness, Kurilla called out:
“Now camp. Plenty wood. Heap fire, yaas.”
They were passing a spruce-and-hemlock-covered point, against which
a pile of drift had lodged, and, gladly accepting the Indian’s
suggestion, Phil led the way towards it. Twenty miles of the journey
had been accomplished, which, considering the late start and that it
was the first day, was pronounced to be very good work.
For the next half-hour every one labored as though his very life
depended upon what he could accomplish during those last precious
moments of fading twilight. Phil and Kurilla made their keen axes ring
merrily in an attack on the pile of dry drift-wood. Chitsah felled
a spruce-tree, from which he cut two logs, each six feet long, and
armful after armful of small branches. Serge erected a low but stout
scaffold, on which the sledges were to be placed to keep them out of
the way of the omnivorous dogs, who in the meantime were lying down in
their harness where they had been halted.
At the end of the half-hour a great back log twelve feet long and a
smaller fore log had been placed in position, and enough dry wood
collected to last until morning. The direction of the wind was noted,
and the logs for the fire were so laid that it should blow along their
length, instead of across them from either side. While Serge split
kindlings and started his fire, the two Indians unharnessed the patient
dogs. The harness, and especially the whips, were hung well beyond
their reach, for they will eagerly chew at the former and invariably
destroy the latter if by any means they can get at them. Then the
hungry animals were fed, Serge leaving the fire to feed his own team,
and Phil rejoicing that he had escaped this dangerous duty. Each dog
was given a salmon weighing from one pound and a half to two pounds,
and each, as he received his ration, gulped it down exactly as Amook
had done on a previous occasion. They followed their meal with copious
mouthfuls of snow that served instead of water.
Serge, who naturally slipped into the position of cook for the party,
returned to the fire, which was now blazing finely and sending a stream
of sparks dancing among the dark tree-tops. Phil busied himself with
the bed that he and Serge were to share, while Kurilla and Chitsah
would make theirs on the opposite side of the fire. He rolled one of
the green logs into position close beside the fire for its foot-board,
and then covered a space some six feet square behind it with flat
spruce boughs, over which he spread a thick layer of hemlock tips.
Above all he laid the two great bear-skins, and on them threw the two
sleeping-bags, each of which had its owner’s name done in black
paint on its white canvas, and contained his personal belongings.
[Illustration: MAKING CAMP THE FIRST NIGHT OUT]
Everything needed for the night being now taken from the sledges,
the Indians lifted them, with the remainder of their loads, to
the scaffold, on which were also placed the snow-shoes. Then they
made their own bed――a very simple affair as compared with the one
constructed by Phil. With this the work of preparing camp was finished,
for in that far north land there is no pitching of tents by winter
_voyageurs_. These are considered useless encumbrances in sledge
travel, where every pound of weight must be considered. They are not
needed as a protection against rain, for it is certain that no rain
will fall with the mercury below zero, and they would be liable to
catch fire from the roaring blaze that is kept up all night.
So in the present case there was nothing more to be done save wait as
patiently as might be for supper――and this Phil declared to be the
hardest job he had tackled that day.