Trafford's trail led Marjorie through the thicket of dwarf willows and
down to the gully of the rivulet which they had called Marjorie Trickle;
it had long since become a trough of snow-covered rotten ice; the trail
crossed this and, turning sharply uphill, went on until it was clear of
shrubs and trees, and in the windy open of the upper slopes it crossed a
ridge and came over the lip of a large desolate valley with slopes of
ice and icy snow. Here she spent some time in following his loops back
on the homeward trail before she saw what was manifestly the final trail
running far away out across the snow, with the spoor of the lynx, a
lightly-dotted line, to the right of it. She followed this suggestion of
the trail, put on her snowshoes, and shuffled her way across this
valley, which opened as she proceeded. She hoped that over the ridge she
would find Trafford, and scanned the sky for the faintest discolouration
of a fire, but there was none. That seemed odd to her, but the wind was
in her face, and perhaps it beat the smoke down. Then as her eyes
scanned the hummocky ridge ahead, she saw something, something very
intent and still, that brought her heart into her mouth. It was a big,
grey wolf, standing with back haunched and head down, watching and
winding something beyond there, out of sight.
Marjorie had an instinctive fear of wild animals, and it still seemed
dreadful to her that they should go at large, uncaged. She suddenly
wanted Trafford violently, wanted him by her side. Also she thought of
leaving the trail, going back to the bushes. She had to take herself in
hand. In the wastes one did not fear wild beasts. One had no fear of
them. But why not fire a shot to let him know she was near?
The beast flashed round with an animal's instantaneous change of pose,
and looked at her. For a couple of seconds, perhaps, woman and brute
regarded one another across a quarter of a mile of snowy desolation.
Suppose it came towards her!
She would fire--and she would fire at it. She made a guess at the range
and aimed very carefully. She saw the snow fly two yards ahead of the
grisly shape, and then in an instant it had vanished over the crest.
She reloaded, and stood for a moment waiting for Trafford's answer. No
answer came. "Queer!" she whispered, "queer!"--and suddenly such a
horror of anticipation assailed her that she started running and
floundering through the snow to escape it. Twice she called his name,
and once she just stopped herself from firing a shot.
Over the ridge she would find him. Surely she would find him over the
ridge.
She found herself among rocks, and there was a beaten and trampled place
where Trafford must have waited and crouched. Then on and down a slope
of tumbled boulders. There came a patch where he had either thrown
himself down or fallen.
It seemed to her he must have been running....
Suddenly, a hundred feet or so away, she saw a patch of violently
disturbed snow--snow stained a dreadful colour, a snow of scarlet
crystals! Three strides and Trafford was in sight.
She had a swift conviction he was dead. He was lying in a crumpled
attitude on a patch of snow between convergent rocks, and the lynx, a
mass of blood smeared silvery fur, was in some way mixed up with him.
She saw as she came nearer that the snow was disturbed round about them,
and discoloured copiously, yellow widely, and in places bright red, with
congealed and frozen blood. She felt no fear now, and no emotion; all
her mind was engaged with the clear, bleak perception of the fact before
her. She did not care to call to him again. His head was hidden by the
lynx's body, it was as if he was burrowing underneath the creature; his
legs were twisted about each other in a queer, unnatural attitude.
Then, as she dropped off a boulder, and came nearer, Trafford moved. A
hand came out and gripped the rifle beside him; he suddenly lifted a
dreadful face, horribly scarred and torn, and crimson with frozen blood;
he pushed the grey beast aside, rose on an elbow, wiped his sleeve
across his eyes, stared at her, grunted, and flopped forward. He had
fainted.
She was now as clear-minded and as self-possessed as a woman in a shop.
In another moment she was kneeling by his side. She saw, by the position
of his knife and the huge rip in the beast's body, that he had stabbed
the lynx to death as it clawed his head; he must have shot and wounded
it and then fallen upon it. His knitted cap was torn to ribbons, and
hung upon his neck. Also his leg was manifestly injured; how, she could
not tell. It was chiefly evident he must freeze if he lay here. It
seemed to her that perhaps he had pulled the dead brute over him to
protect his torn skin from the extremity of cold. The lynx was already
rigid, its clumsy paws asprawl--the torn skin and clot upon Trafford's
face was stiff as she put her hands about his head to raise him. She
turned him over on his back--how heavy he seemed!--and forced brandy
between his teeth. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she poured a
little brandy on his wounds.
She glanced at his leg, which was surely broken, and back at his face.
Then she gave him more brandy and his eyelids flickered. He moved his
hand weakly. "The blood," he said, "kept getting in my eyes."
She gave him brandy once again, wiped his face and glanced at his leg.
Something ought to be done to that she thought. But things must be done
in order.
She stared up at the darkling sky with its grey promise of snow, and
down the slopes of the mountain. Clearly they must stay the night here.
They were too high for wood among these rocks, but three or four
hundred yards below there were a number of dwarfed fir trees. She had
brought an axe, so that a fire was possible. Should she go back to camp
and get the tent?
Trafford was trying to speak again. "I got----" he said.
"Yes?"
"Got my leg in that crack. Damn--damned nuisance."
Was he able to advise her? She looked at him, and then perceived she
must bind up his head and face. She knelt behind him and raised his head
on her knee. She had a thick silk neck muffler, and this she
supplemented by a band she cut and tore from her inner vest. She bound
this, still warm from her body, about him, wrapped her cloak round him.
The next thing was a fire. Five yards away, perhaps, a great mass of
purple gabbro hung over a patch of nearly snowless moss. A hummock to
the westward offered shelter from the weakly bitter wind, the icy
draught, that was soughing down the valley. Always in Labrador, if you
can, you camp against a rock surface; it shelters you from the wind,
reflects your fire, guards your back.
"Rag!" she said.
"Rotten hole," said Trafford.
"What?" she cried sharply.
"Got you in a rotten hole," he said. "Eh?"
"Listen," she said, and shook his shoulder. "Look! I want to get you up
against that rock."
"Won't make much difference," said Trafford, and opened his eyes.
"Where?" he asked.
"There."
He remained quite quiet for a second perhaps. "Listen to me," he said.
"Go back to camp."
"Yes," she said.
"Go back to camp. Make a pack of all the strongest
food--strenthin'--strengthrin' food--you know?" He seemed troubled to
express himself.
"Yes," she said.
"Down the river. Down--down. Till you meet help."
"Leave you?"
He nodded his head and winced.
"You're always plucky," he said. "Look facts in the face. Kiddies.
Thought it over while you were coming." A tear oozed from his eye. "Not
be a fool, Madge. Kiss me good-bye. Not be a fool. I'm done. Kids."
She stared at him and her spirit was a luminous mist of tears. "You old
_coward_," she said in his ear, and kissed the little patch of rough and
bloody cheek beneath his eye. Then she knelt up beside him. "_I'm_ boss
now, old man," she said. "I want to get you to that place there under
the rock. If I drag, can you help?"