AT THE END OF RENÉ'S TRAIL
The ridge up which Connie Morgan laboured at the head of his dogs was a
sparsely timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away.
To the boy that smoothly rolling sky line looked ten miles ahead of him.
No breath of wind stirred the stinging dead air. His snowshoes became
great weights upon his feet which sought to drag him down, down into
immeasurable depths of soft warm snow. The slope which in reality was a
very easy grade assumed the steepness of a mountain side. He wanted
above all things to sleep. He glanced backward. 'Merican Joe's team had
stopped, and the Indian was fumbling listlessly with his pack. Halting
his own dogs, the boy hastened back. The effort taxed his strength to
the limit. His heavy whiplash swished through the air, and 'Merican Joe
straightened up with a howl of pain.
"Come on!" cried Connie, as he prepared to strike again. "That cabin's
only just over the ridge, and if you stop here you'll freeze!"
"No use," mumbled the Indian. "De red death--de white death. We goin'
die annyhow. Me--I'm lak I'm sleep."
"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Get up there and take my dogs and I'll
take yours. No more laying down on the job or I'll lay on this whip in
earnest. If we mush we'll be there in an hour--_Skookum_ Injun! Where's
your nerve?"
'Merican Joe smiled. "_Skookum tillicum_," he muttered gravely, pointing
his mittened hand toward the boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you till I die.
We mak' her, now. We speet on de _kultus tamahnawus_ in hees face!"
"You bet we will!" cried the boy. "Get up there now, and keep those dogs
moving. I'll follow along with yours."
A half hour later the two stood side by side upon the crest of the ridge
and looked down into the valley. Both were breathing heavily. Each had
fallen time out of number, but each time had scrambled to his feet and
urged on his dogs. As they stood now with the false suns dancing above
them, the cold seemed to press upon them like a thing of weight. Connie
glanced at his thermometer. It had dropped forty degrees! Across a half
mile of snow they could see the little cabin in the edge of the timber.
Only, now the smoke did not rise from the chimney but poured from its
mouth and fell heavily to the roof where it rolled slowly to the ground.
Motioning with his arm, 'Merican Joe led off down the slope and Connie
followed, holding weakly to the tail rope of his toboggan. The going was
easier than the ascent had been, but the "strong cold" seemed to strike
to the very bone. After what seemed hours, the boy found himself before
the door of the cabin. Beside him 'Merican Joe was bending over
unharnessing the dogs. Connie stooped to look at the thermometer.
"Seventy-two below!" he muttered, "and she only goes to seventy-six!"
Frantically the boy worked helping 'Merican Joe to unharness the dogs
and when the last one was freed he opened the door and, closely followed
by the Indian, stumbled into the cabin.
The next thing Connie knew he was lying on a bunk and a woman was seated
beside him holding a spoon to his lips while she supported his head on
her arm. The boy swallowed and a spoonful of hot liquid trickled down
his throat. He felt warm, and comfortable, and drowsy--so drowsy that it
was with an effort that he managed to swallow other spoonfuls of the hot
liquid. Slowly he opened his eyes and then struggled to a sitting
posture. 'Merican Joe sat upon the floor with his back against the log
wall. He became conscious of a stinging sensation in his face and he
prodded his cheek with an inquisitive finger.
The woman noticed the action. "It is not bad," she explained. "Your nose
and your cheeks they were frozen but I thawed them out with the snow."
Suddenly her expression changed and a look of fear haunted her eyes. She
pointed toward the door. "But--what is it--out there? The sky is all
wrong. There are no clouds, yet it is not blue, and there are many suns
that move and jump about. It is a time of great evil. Did you not see
the plague flag? And my man is away. Maybe it is the end of all things.
I am afraid. Why are there many suns?"
"It is the white death," answered the boy. "You needn't fear. Only stay
in the house and don't breathe the outside air. I have seen it once
before. Tonight will come the northern lights and they will hiss and pop
and snap. And they will be so bright it will look like the whole world
is on fire. Then the wind will come, and tomorrow it will be gone, and
everything will be the same as before."
"I have heard of the white death," said the woman. "My father and some
of the old men have seen it--beyond Bear Lake. My father and some of the
others crawled under their blankets and lay for more than a day but some
of the old men died."
The thin wail of an infant sounded from a pole crib at the other end of
the room, and the woman rose quickly and crossed to its side. Connie saw
her stoop over the crib and mutter soft, crooning words, as she patted
the tiny bed clothing with her hand. The wailing ceased, and the woman
tiptoed back to his side. "It is the little Victor," she explained, and
Connie noticed that her eyes were wet with tears. Suddenly she broke
down and covered her face with her hands while her body swayed to and
fro. "Oh, my little man! My little soft baby! He must die--or be
terribly scarred by the hand of the red death! So beautiful--so little,
and so good, and so beautiful! And I have nothing to feed him, for René
has taken the milk. René is a devil! I would have killed him but he took
the gun." The woman stopped speaking, and the silence of the little
cabin was punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobs.
Connie felt a strange lump rising in his throat. He swallowed and
attempted to speak, but the result was a funny noise way back in his
throat. He swallowed several times and when he finally spoke his voice
sounded hard and gruff. "Quit crying, mam, and help me get this
straight. I don't believe your little kid's got the smallpox." He paused
and glanced about the room. "This ain't the kind of a place he'd get
it--it's too clean. Who told you it was the red death?"
"Oh, no one told me! Who is there to tell? René is a liar, and my man
has gone to Fort Norman. But," she leaped to her feet and regarded
Connie with a tense, eager look, "can it be that you are a doctor?" The
next instant she turned away. "No--you are but a boy!"
"No," repeated Connie, "I am not a doctor. But I used to be in the
Mounted and I learned all there was in the manual about smallpox and
I've seen a good deal of it. What makes you think it's smallpox?"
"I have seen, on his little chest--the red blotches. What else could it
be?"
"How long has he been sick?"
"Since day before yesterday."
"Did he have any fits? Did he vomit? Did he run up a high fever?"
"No--none of these things. But he has not wanted much to eat--and on his
chest are the blotches."
"Let's look at 'em."
The woman led the way to the crib and lifting the baby from it, bared
his chest. Connie examined the red marks minutely. He felt of them with
his fingers, and carefully examined the forehead along the roots of the
hair. Then he turned to the woman with a smile. "Put him back," he said
quietly. "He's a buster of a kid, all right--and he ain't got smallpox.
He'll be well as ever in three or four days. He's got chicken pox--"
The woman clutched at his arm and her breath came fast. "Are you sure?"
she cried, a great hope dawning in her eyes. "How can you tell?"
"It's all in the manual. Smallpox pimples feel hard, like shot, and
they come first on the face and forehead, and there is always high fever
and vomiting, and the pimples are always round. This is chicken pox, and
it ain't dangerous, and I told you I used to be with the Mounted, and
the Mounted is always sure. Now, what about this Rainy person that stole
the little kid's milk?" But the woman was paying no attention. She was
pacing up and down the floor with the baby hugged to her
breast--laughing, crying, talking to the little one all in the same
breath, holding him out at arm's length and then cuddling him close and
smothering him with kisses. Then, suddenly, she laid the baby in his
crib and turned to Connie who, in view of what he had seen, backed away
in alarm until he stood against the door.
"Ah, you are the grand boy!" the woman exclaimed. "You have saved the
life of my little Victor! You are my friend. In four days comes my
man--the little one's papa, and he will tell you better than I of our
thanks. He is your friend for life. He is Victor Bossuet, and on the
rivers is none like him. I will tell him all--how the little one is
dying with the red death, and you come out of the strong cold with the
frost in the nose and the cheeks, and you look on the little Victor who
is dying, and say '_non_,' and pouf! the red death is gone, and the
little baby has got only what you call chickiepok! See! Even now he is
laughing!"
"He's all right," smiled Connie. "But you're way off about my curing
him. He'd have been well as ever in a few days anyhow and you'd have had
your scare for nothing."
The woman's voluble protest was interrupted by a wail from the infant,
and again her mood changed and she began to pace the floor wringing her
hands. "See, now he is hungry and there is nothing to feed him! René is
a devil! He has taken the milk."
"Hold on!" interrupted Connie. "Was it canned milk? 'Cause if it was you
don't need to worry. I've got about a dozen cans out there on the
toboggan. Wait and I'll get it." He turned to the Indian who had been a
silent onlooker. "Come on, Joe, crawl into your outfit. While I get the
grub and blankets off the toboggans, you rustle the wood and water--and
go kind of heavy on the wood, 'cause, believe me, there ain't any
thermometer going to tell us how cold it will get tonight."
A quarter of an hour later Connie dragged in a heavy canvas sack and
two rolls of blankets just as 'Merican Joe stacked his last armful of
wood high against the wall. "I fed the dogs," said the boy as he
rummaged in the bag and handed the cans of milk one by one to the woman,
"and I could tell your husband is an old-timer by the looks of his dog
shelter--warm and comfortable, and plenty of room for two teams. I can
find out all I want to know about a man by the way he uses his dogs."
"He is the best man on the rivers," repeated the woman, her eyes
shining, as she opened a can of milk, carefully measured an amount,
added water, and stirred it as it heated on the stove. Connie watched
with interest as she fed it to the baby from a spoon. "Again you have
saved his life," she said, as the last spoonful disappeared between the
little lips.
"Aw, forget that!" exclaimed the boy, fidgeting uncomfortably. "What I
want is the dope on this Rainy--how did he come to swipe the kid's milk?
And where is he heading for? I'm in something of a hurry to get to Fort
Norman, but I've got a hunch I'm due for a little side trip. He ain't
going to be far ahead of me tomorrow. If he holes up today and tonight
I'll catch up with him along about noon--and if he don't hole up--the
white death will save me quite a bit of trouble."
"Ah, that René!" exclaimed the woman, her face darkling with passion,
"he is Victor's brother, and he is no good. He drinks and gambles and
makes the big noise with his mouth. Bou, wou, wou! I am the big man! I
can do this! I can do that! I am the best man in the world! Always he
has lived in the towns in the winter and spent his money but this winter
he came and lived with us because his money was gone. That is all right
he is the brother of my husband. He is welcome. But one does not have to
like him. But when my husband tells him to go to Fort Norman for food
because we did not know there would be three, he made excuse, and my
husband went and René stayed. Then the next day the little Victor was
sick, and I saw the hand of the red death upon him and I told René that
he should run fast after Victor and tell him. But he would not! He swore
and cursed at his own ill luck and he ran from the house into the woods.
I made the plague flag and hung it out so that no traveller should come
in and be in danger of the red death.
"By and by René came in from the woods in a terrible rage. He began to
pack his outfit for the trail and I stayed close by the side of my
little one for fear René would do him harm in his anger. At last he was
ready and I was glad to see him go. I looked then and saw that he had
taken all the food! Even the baby's milk he had taken! I rushed upon him
then, but I am a woman and no match for a big man like René, and he
laughed and pushed me away. I begged him to leave me some food, and he
laughed the more--and on my knees I implored him to leave the baby's
milk. But he would not. He said he had sworn vengeance upon Victor, and
now he would take vengeance. He said, 'The brat will not need the milk
for he will die anyway, and you will die, and Victor will follow me, and
I will lead him to a place I know, and then he will die also.' It was
then I rushed for the gun, but René had placed it in his pack. And I
told him he must not go from a plague house, for he would spread the
terrible red death in all the North. But he laughed and said he would
show the North that he, René Bossuet, was a god who could spread death
along the rivers. He would cause it to sweep like a flame among the
rivermen who hated him, and among the men of the Mounted."
The woman paused and Connie saw that a look of wonderful contentment had
come into her eyes.
"The good God did not listen to the curses of René," she said, simply,
"for as I lay on the floor I prayed to Him and He sent you to me,
straight out of the frozen places where in the winter no men are. Tell
me, did not the good God tell you to come to me--to save the little
baby's life?" There was a look of awed wonder in the woman's eyes, and
suddenly Connie remembered the mirage with the blazing plague flag in
the sky.
"Yes," he answered, reverently, "I guess maybe He did."
That night the wind came, the aurora flashed and hissed in the heavens,
and early in the morning when Connie opened the door the air was alive
with the keen tang of the North. Hastily he made up his pack for the
trail. Most of the grub he left behind, and when the woman protested he
laughed, and lied nobly, in that he told her that they had far too much
grub for their needs. While 'Merican Joe looked solemnly on and said
nothing.
With the blessing of the woman ringing in their ears they started on the
trail of René Bossuet. When they were out of sight of the cabin, the
Indian halted and looked straight into the boy's eyes.
"We have one day's grub, for a three-day's trail if we hit straight for
Fort Norman," he announced. "Why then do we follow this man's trail? He
has done nothing to us! Why do you always take upon yourself the
troubles of others?"
"Where would _you_ have been if I didn't?" flashed the boy angrily. "And
where would the trapper have been and that woman and little baby? When I
first struck Alaska I was just a little kid with torn clothes and only
eight dollars and I thought I didn't have a friend in the world. And
then, at Anvik, I found that every one of the big men of the North was
my friend! And ever since that time I have been trying to pay back the
debt I owe the men of the North--and I'll keep on trying till I die!"
With a shrug 'Merican Joe started his dogs and took up the trail. Two
hours later Connie took the lead, and pointed to the tracks in the snow.
"He's slowing up," he exclaimed. "If we don't strike his camp within a
half an hour, we'll strike--something else!"
A few minutes later both halted abruptly. Before them was a wide place
in the snow that had been trampled by many feet--the soft padded feet of
the wolf pack. A toboggan, with its pack still securely lashed, stood at
the end of René Bossuet's trail. Small scraps of leather showed where
the dogs had been torn from the harness. Connie closed his eyes and
pictured to himself what had happened there, in the night, in the sound
of the roaring wind, and in the changing lights of the brilliantly
flashing aurora. Then he opened his eyes and stepped out into the
trampled space and gazed thoughtfully down upon the few scattered bits
that lay strewn about upon the snow--a grinning skull, deeply gored here
and there with fang marks, the gnawed ends of bones, and here and there
ravellings and tiny patches of vivid blue cloth. And as he fastened the
toboggan behind his own and swung the dogs onto the back-trail, he
paused once more and smiled grimly:
"He had always lived in the North," he said, "but he didn't know the
North. He ran like the coward he was from the red death when there was
no danger. And not only that, but he stole the food from a woman and a
sick baby. He thought he could get away with it--'way up here. But
there's something in the silent places that men don't understand--and
never will understand. I've heard men speak of it. And now I have seen
it--the working of the justice of the North!"