That same morning Gary finished his third candle and tried his best
to make one swallow of water, held long in his parched mouth,
suffice for two hours.
He could no longer lift the single-jack to the height of his
shoulder, much less strike a blow upon the rock. He leaned against
the bowlder and struck a few feeble blows with the head of the
longer of the two drills; but the steel bounced back futilely, and
the exertion tired him so that he was forced to desist after a few
minutes of heart-breaking effort.
He sat down with his back against the wall where the sunlight could
find him and give a little cheer to his prison, and fingered his
fourth candle longingly. He licked his cracked lips and lifted the
canteen, his emaciated fingers fumbling the screw-top thirstily. He
tried to reason sensibly with himself that only a cowardly
reluctance to meet death--which was the inevitable goal of life--held
him fighting there in that narrow dungeon, scheming to add a few
more tortured hours to his life.
He told himself angrily that he was merely holding up the action of
the story, and that the scene should be cut right there. In other
words, there was absolutely no hope of his ever getting out of
there, alive or dead. Steve Carson, he mumbled, had been lucky. He
had at least taken his exit quickly.
“But I ain’t licked yet,” he croaked, with a cracked laugh. “There’s
a lot of fight in me yet. Never had any use for a quitter. Steve
Carson wouldn’t have quit--only he got beaned with the first rock and
couldn’t fight. I’m not hurt--yet. Trained down pretty fine, is all.
When I’m a ghost, maybe I’ll come back and tell fat ladies with
Ouija boards in their laps how to reduce. Great scheme. I’ll do that
little thing. But I ain’t whipped yet--not until I’ve tried out my
jackknife on that damned rock. Have a drink, old son. And then get
to work! What the hell are you loafing for?”
He lifted the lightened canteen, his arms shaking with weakness, and
took another drink of water. Then, carefully screwing on the top of
the canteen, he set it down gently against the wall and reached
wearily into his pocket. The blade of his knife had never been so
hard to open; but he accomplished it and pulled himself laboriously
to his feet. Steadying himself with one hand against the malapi
bowlder that shut him in, he went to the opening--widened now so that
he could thrust forth his arm to the shoulder--and began carefully
chipping at a seam in the rock with the largest blade of his
jackknife.
He really did not expect to free himself by that means; nor by any
other. Since he began to weaken he had come to accept his fate with
such calmness as his pride in playing the game could muster. But he
could not sit idle and wait for death to creep upon him. Nor could
he hurry it, which he held to be a coward’s trick. He still believed
that the “Big Director” should be obeyed. It was too late now to ask
for another part in the picture. He had been cast for this rôle and
he would play it to the final scene.
So he stood hacking and prying with his knife blade, stopping now
and then to stare out into the hot sunshine. He could even see a
wisp of cloud drift across the bit of blue sky revealed to him
through the narrow rock window of his prison. The sight made him
grit his teeth. He was so close to that free, sun-drenched world,
and he was yet so utterly helpless!
He was standing so, resting from his unavailing task, when the
spotted cat hopped upon the bowlder where every day she sat to be
stroked by Gary’s hand. Gary’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips
avidly. Faith was carrying a wild dove that she had caught and
brought to the bowlder where she might feast in pleasant company.
“Thanks, old girl,” he said grimly; and stretching out his arm,
snatched the bird greedily from Faith’s mouth. “Some service! Now
beat it and go catch a rabbit; a big one. Catch two rabbits!”
He slid down to a sitting position and began plucking the limp body
of the dove, his fingers trembling with eagerness. The “third
hunger” was upon him--that torment of craving which men who have been
entombed in mines speak of with lowered voices--if they live to tell
about it. Gary longed to tear the bird with his teeth, just as it
was.
But he would not yield an inch from his idea of the proper way to
play the game. He therefore plucked the dove almost clean of
feathers, and lighting his one precious remaining candle, he turned
the small, plump body over the candle flame, singeing it before he
held the flame to its breast.
The instant that portion was seared and partially broiled, Gary set
his handsome white teeth into it and chewed the morsel slowly while
he broiled another bite. His impulse--rather, the agonized craving of
his whole famished body--was to tear the body asunder with his teeth
and devour it like an animal. But he steeled himself to
self-control; just as he had held himself sternly in hand down in
the cabin when loneliness and that weird, felt presence plucked at
his courage.
He would have grudged the melting of even the half-inch of tallow it
required to broil the bird so that he could eat it and retain his
self-respect; but the succulent flesh was too delicious. He could
not think of anything but the ecstasy of eating.
He crunched the bones in his teeth, pulping them slowly, extracting
the last particle of flavor and nourishment. When he had finished
there remained but the head and the feet--and he flung them through
the opening lest he should be tempted to devour them also. After
that he indulged himself in a sip of water, stretched himself full
length upon the rock floor, and descended blissfully into the
oblivion of deep slumber.