Ned’s instincts had been trained like the rest of him, and they watched
over him while he slept. They aroused him from sleep as soon as it was
light enough to pick his way over the rough ice that lay in front, yet
as if in realization of his physical need of rest, not an instant
sooner. He sprang up to find the dawn, gray over the ice-bound sea.
But the miracle of the morning, even the possibility that Doomsdorf had
made time while he slept and was now almost upon him did not hold his
thought an instant. His mind could not reach beyond the tragic fact that
he was alone. Bess was gone, vanished like a spirit that had never been
in the gray dawn.
The moment was one of cruel but wonderful revelation to Ned. It was as
if some unspeakable blessing had come to one who was blind, but before
ever sight came to him, it was snatched away. As sleep had fallen over
him, he had suddenly been close to the most profound discovery, the
greatest truth yet of his earthly life; but now only its image remained.
Bess had been in his arms, her lips against his, but now his arms were
empty and his lips were cold.
She had gone. Her tracks led straight north through the snow. The most
glorious hour life had ever given him had faded like a dream. Whence lay
this glory, the source of his wonder as well as the crushing despair
that now was upon him he might have seen in one more glance; in one
moment’s scrutiny of his soul he might have laid bare a heart’s secret
that had eluded him for all these past weary weeks. But there was no
time for such now. Bess had gone, and he must follow her. This was the
one truth left in an incredible heaven and earth.
Her last words swept through his memory. They gave him the key: his
deductions followed swift and sure by the process of remorseless logic.
In a single moment he knew the dreadful truth: Bess had not gone on in
the expectation of Ned overtaking her, thus saving a few moments of his
precious time. She had not gone east at all. She knew the stars as well
as he did: she would have never, except by some secret purpose, turned
north instead of east. He saw the truth all too plain.
“Say we became separated somehow on the ice,” she had told him before he
slept, “and he should be overtaking me but you’d have a chance to go on
to safety!” To quiet her, he had given her his promise to go on and
leave her to her fate; and now she had _purposely separated_ herself
from him. She had gone to decoy Doomsdorf from his trail.
She had chosen the direction that would give Doomsdorf the longest chase
and take him farthest from Ned’s trail. He couldn’t follow them both.
The morning light would show him that his two fugitives had separated;
and she had reasoned soundly in thinking that their enemy would pursue
her, rather than Ned. His lust for her was too commanding for him to
take any other course. While he pursued her, Ned would have every chance
to hurry on eastward to the safety of Tzar Island.
Had he not promised that if he found he could not aid her, he would go
on alone? Realizing that she was holding him back, had she not put
herself where it would be impossible for him to give her further aid. It
would only mean capture and death, certain as the brightening dawn, for
him to follow and attempt to come between her and Doomsdorf. On the
other hand, this was his chance: while their savage foe ran north in
pursuit of Bess, Ned himself could put a distance between them that
could hardly be overtaken. There was nothing to gain by following
her—her capture at Doomsdorf’s hands was an ultimate certainty—only
his own life to lose.
She had reasoned true. Together their flight was hopeless. Alone, he had
a chance. By leading Doomsdorf from his trail she had increased mightily
that chance. The affair was all one sided. Yet, not knowing why, he took
the side of folly.
Never for a moment did he even consider going on and leaving her to her
fate. He could not aid her, and yet in one moment more he had launched
forth on her trail, faster than he had ever mushed before. He had no
inward battle, no sense of sacrifice. There was not even a temptation to
take the way of safety. In these last months he had been lifted far
beyond the reach of any such feeble voice as that.
He sped as fast as he could along the dim trail she had made. The dawn,
icy-breathed, soon out-distanced him, permitting him to see Bess’s
fleeing form before he had scarcely begun to overtake her. She was just
a dark shadow at first against the stretching fields of white; but he
never lost sight of her after that. With the brightening dawn he saw her
ever more distinctly.
And in the middle distance, west of both of them, he saw the huge, dark
form of Doomsdorf bearing down upon her.
She had guessed right as to Doomsdorf. Catching sight of her, he had
left their double trail to overtake her. Hoping and believing that Ned
had taken his chance of safety and was fleeing eastward, she was leading
his enemy ever farther and farther north, away from him.
He was a strong man, this Cornet who had fought the North, but the
bitter, scalding tears shot into his eyes at the sight of that strange,
hopeless drama on the ice. But not one of them was in self-pity. They
were all for the slight figure of the girl, trying still to save him,
running so hopelessly from the brute who was even now upon her. To Ned,
the scene had lost its quality of horror. It was only unspeakably tragic
there behind the rising curtains of the dawn.
She was trying to dodge him now, cutting back and forth as a mouse might
try to dodge the talons of a cat,—still trying to save a few little
seconds for Ned. She wasn’t aware yet that her trial was all in vain. In
an attempt to hold Doomsdorf off as long as possible, she had not paused
one instant to assure herself that Ned had gone on east. He had given
her his word; likely she trusted him implicitly. The man’s heart seemed
to swell, ready to break, in pity for her.
A moment later he saw her slip on the ice, and in dread silence,
Doomsdorf’s arms went about her. Neither of them had apparently observed
Ned. They only became aware of him as his great shout, half in rage,
half in defiance, reached them across the ice.
It was really an instinctive cry. Partly the impulse behind it was to
warn Doomsdorf of his presence, hoping thus to call his attention from
Bess and thus save the girl immediate insult at his hands. And kneeling
upon the girl’s form, like a great bear upon its living prey, Doomsdorf
looked up and saw him.
Even at the distance that separated them the startled movement of his
head revealed his unutterable amazement. Doubtless he thought that Ned
was miles to the east by now. The amazement gave way to boundless
triumph as Ned walked calmly toward him. Then while he held the girl
prone on the ice with his great knee, Doomsdorf’s rifle made blue
lightning in the air.
Ned’s response was to throw his arms immediately into the air in token
of complete surrender. He was thinking coolly, his faculties in perfect
control; and he knew he must not attempt resistance now. Only death lay
that way; at that range Doomsdorf could shatter him lifeless to the ice
with one shot from the heavy rifle. It wasn’t enough just to die, thus
taking a quick road out of Doomsdorf’s power. Such a course would not
aid Bess. And to Bess he owed his duty—to aid Bess, in every way he
could, was his last dream.
At first he had had to play the cruel game for the sake of Lenore. That
obligation was past now; but it had never, at its greatest, moved him
with one-half the ardor as this he bore to Bess. He must not go this
route to freedom, or any other, until Bess could go with him. He must
not leave her in Doomsdorf’s power.
That much was sure. Self-inflicted death did not come into the Russian’s
calculations—he was too close to the beasts for that—so he would not
be on guard. Whatever befell, this gate was always open. Ned would play
the game through to the end, at her side.
Doomsdorf watched him approach in silence. The triumphant gloating that
Ned expected did not come to pass; evidently their brute master was in
too savage a mood even for this. “Wait where you are,” he ordered
simply, “or I’ll blow your head off. I’ll be ready for you in a minute.”
He bent, and with one motion jerked Bess to her feet. Then in silence,
still guarding them with his rifle, he pointed them their way,—back to
his cabin on the island.
It was a long and bitter march across that desolate ice. Except for a
share of his pemmican that Doomsdorf distributed, for expedience rather
than through any impulse of mercy, Bess could have hardly lasted out.
They walked almost in silence, Ned in front, then Bess, their captor
bringing up the rear; a strange death march over those frozen seas.
This was the end. The fight was done; there was no thought or dream but
that the last, fighting chance was lost. Ned knew he was going to his
death: any other possibility was utterly beyond hope. The only wonder he
had left was what form his death would take. There was no shadow of
mercy on the evil face of his captor.
Bess knew that her portion was also death, simply because the white,
pure flame that was her life could not abide in the body that was prey
to Doomsdorf. Death itself would cheat those terrible, ravishing hands:
this was as certain a conviction as any she had ever known in all the
brief dream of her life. Whether it would be brought about by her own
hand, by the merciful, caressing touch of her lover’s knife, or whether
simply by outraged nature, snatching her out of Doomsdorf’s power, she
neither knew nor cared.
The file trudged on. Ned led the way unguided. The hours passed. The dim
shadow of the shore crags strengthened. And another twilight was laying
its first shadows on the snow as they stepped upon the snowy beach.
It was at this point that Bess suddenly experienced an inexplicable
quickening of her pulse, an untraced but breathless excitement that was
wholly apart from the fact that she was nearing the cabin of her
destiny. The air itself seemed curiously hushed, electric, as if a great
storm were gathering; the moment was poignant with a breathless
suspense. She could not have told why. Warning of impending, great
events had been transmitted to her through some unguessed
under-consciousness; some way, somehow, she knew that it had reached her
from the mind of the man who walked in front. Fiery thoughts were
leaping through Ned’s brain, and some way they had passed their flame to
her.
A moment later Ned turned to her, ostensibly to help her up the steep
slope of the beach. She saw with amazement that his face was stark white
and that his eyes glowed like live coals. Yet no message was conveyed to
Doomsdorf, tramping behind. It was only her own closeness to him, her
love that brought her soul to his, that told her of some far-reaching
and terrific crisis that was at hand at last.
“_Walk exactly in my steps!_” he whispered under his breath. It was only
the faintest wisp of sound, no louder than his own breathing; yet Bess
caught every word. She did not have to be told that there was infinite
urgency behind the command. Her nerves seemed to leap and twitch; yet
outwardly there was no visible sign that a message had been passed
between them.
Now Ned was leading up toward the shore crags, into a little pass
between the rocks that was the natural egress from the beach on to the
hills behind. He walked easily, one step after another in regular
cadence: only his glowing eyes could have told that this instant had, by
light of circumstances beyond Bess’s ken, become the most crucial in his
life. And it was a strange and ironic thing that the knowledge he relied
on now, the facility that might turn defeat into victory, was not some
finesse gained in his years of civilized living, no cultural growth from
some great university far to the south, but merely one of the basic
tricks of a humble trade.
Doomsdorf had told him, once, that a good trapper must learn to mark his
sets. Any square yard of territory must be so identified, in the mind’s
eye, that the trapper can return, days later, walk straight to it and
know its every detail. Ned Cornet had learned his trade. He was a
trapper; and he knew this snowy pass as an artist knows his canvas. He
stepped boldly through.
Bess walked just behind, stepping exactly in his tracks. Her heart
raced. It was not merely because the full truth was hidden from her that
she walked straight and unafraid. She would always follow bravely where
Ned led. Now both of them had passed through the little, narrow gap
between lofty, snow-swept crags. Doomsdorf trudged just behind.
Then something sharp and calamitous as a lightning bolt seemed to strike
the pass. There was a loud ring and clang of metal, the sharp crack of a
snowshoe frame broken to kindling, and then, obliterating both, a wild
bellow of human agony like that of a mighty grizzly wounded to the
death. Ned and Bess had passed in safety, but Doomsdorf had stepped
squarely into the great bear trap that Ned had set the evening before.
The cruel jaws snapped with a clang of iron and the crunch of flesh. The
shock, more than any human frame could endure, hurled Doomsdorf to his
knees; yet so mighty was his physical stamina that he was able to retain
his grip on his rifle. And the instant that he went down Ned turned,
leaping with savage fury to strike out his hated life before he could
rise again.
He was upon him before Doomsdorf could raise his rifle. As he sprang he
drew his knife from its sheath, and it cut a white path through the
gathering dusk. And now their arms went about each other in a final
struggle for mastery.
Caught though he was in the trap, Doomsdorf was not beaten yet. He met
that attack with incredible power. His great hairy hand caught Ned’s arm
as it descended, and though he could not hold it, he forced him to drop
the blade. With the other he reached for his enemy’s throat.
This was the final conflict; yet of such might were these contestants,
so terrible the fury of their onslaughts, that both knew at once that
the fight was one of seconds. These two mighty men gave all they had.
The fingers clutched and closed at Ned’s throat. The right hand of the
latter, from which the blade had fallen, tugged at the pistol butt at
Doomsdorf’s holster.
Bess leaped in, like a she-wolf in defense of her cubs, but one great
sweep of Doomsdorf’s arm hurled her unconscious in the snow. There were
to be no outside forces influencing this battle. The trap at Doomsdorf’s
foot was Ned’s only advantage; and he had decoyed his enemy into it by
his own cunning. It was man to man at last: a cruel war settled for good
and all.
It could endure but an instant more. Already those iron fingers were
crushing out Ned’s life. So closely matched were the two foes, so
terrible their strength, that their bodies scarcely moved at all; each
held the other in an iron embrace, Ned tugging with his left hand at the
fingers that clutched his throat, Doomsdorf trying to prevent his foe
from drawing the pistol that he wore at his belt and turning it against
him.
It was the last war; and now it had become merely a question of which
would break first. They lay together in the snow, utterly silent,
motionless, for all human eyes could see, their faces white with agony,
every muscle exerting its full, terrific pressure. Ever Doomsdorf’s
fingers closed more tightly at Ned’s throat; ever Ned’s right hand drew
slowly at the pistol at Doomsdorf’s belt.
Neither the gun nor the strangling fingers would be needed in a moment
more. The strain itself would soon shatter and destroy their mortal
hearts. The night seemed to be falling before Ned’s eyes; his familiar,
snowy world was dark with the nearing shadow of death. But the pistol
was free of the holster now, and he was trying to turn it in his hand.
It took all the strength of his remaining consciousness to exert a last,
vital ounce of pressure. Then there was a curious low sound, muffled and
dull as sounds heard in a dream. And dreams passed over him, like waves
over water, as he relaxed at last, breathing in great sobs, in the
reddened drifts.
Bess, emerging into consciousness, crawled slowly toward him. He felt
the blessing of her nearing presence even in his half-sleep. But
Doomsdorf, their late master, lay curiously inert, his foot still held
by the cruel jaws of iron. A great beast-of-prey had fallen in the trap;
and the killer-gun had sped a bullet, ranging upward and shattering his
wild heart.
* * * * *
All this was just a page in Hell Island’s history. She had had one
dynasty a thousand-thousand years before ever Doomsdorf made his first
track in her spotless snows; and all that had been done and endured was
not more than a ripple in the tides that beat upon her shores. With a
new spring she came into her own again. Spring brought the _Intrepid_,
sputtering through the new passages between the floes; and the old
island kings returned to rule before ever the masts of the little craft
had faded and vanished in the haze.
The _Intrepid_ had taken cargo other than the usual bales of furs. The
sounds of human voices were no more to be heard in the silences, and the
wolf was no longer startled, fear and wonder at his heart, by the sight
of a tall living form on the game trails. The traps were moss-covered
and lost, and the wind might rage the night through at the cabin window,
and no one would hear and no one would be afraid.
The savage powers of the wild held undisputed sway once more, not again
to be set at naught by these self-knowing mortals with a law unto
themselves. Henceforth all law was that of the wild, never to be
questioned or disobeyed.
It may have been that sometimes, on winter nights, the wolf pack would
meet a strange, great shadow on the snow fields: but if so, it was only
the one-time master of the island, uneasy in his cold bed; and it was
nothing they need fear or to turn them from the trail. It was just a
shadow that hurried by, a wan figure buffeted by the wind, in the eerie
flare of the Northern Lights. And even this would pass in time. He would
be content to sleep, and let the snow drift deeper over his head.
Even the squaw had gone on the _Intrepid_ to join her people in a
distant tribe. But there is no need to follow her, or the three that had
taken ship with her. On the headlong journey south to spread the word of
their rescue, of their halting at the first port to send word and to
learn that the occupants of the second lifeboat had been rescued from
Tzar Island months before, of Godfrey Cornet’s glory at the sight of his
son’s face and the knowledge of the choice he had made, of the light and
shadow of their life trails in the cities of men, there is nothing that
need be further scrutinized. To Hell Island they were forgotten. The
windy snow fields knew them no more.
Yet for all they were bitterly cruel, the wilds had been kind too. They
had shown the gold from the dross. They had revealed to Ned the way of
happiness,—and it led him straight into Bess’s arms. There he could
rest at the end of his day’s toil, there he found not only love and
life, but the sustenance of his spirit, the soul of strength by which he
might stand erect and face the light.
Thus they had found a safe harbor where the Arctic wind might never
chill them; a hearth where such terror as dwelt in the dark outside
could not come in.