OVER A ROTTING TRAIL
Tom believed that Beresford's delirious words had condemned them both
to death. He could not nurse his friend, watch West night and day,
keep the camp supplied with food, and cover the hundreds of miles
of bleak snow fields which stretched between them and the nearest
settlement. He did not think that any one man lived who was capable of
succeeding in such a task.
Yet his first feeling was of immediate relief. The horrible duty that
had seemed to be laid upon him was not a duty at all. He saw his
course quite simply. All he had to do was to achieve the impossible.
If he failed in it, he would go down like a soldier in the day's work.
He would have, anyhow, no torturings of conscience, no blight resting
upon him till the day of his death.
"You're reprieved, West," he announced simply.
The desperado staggered to the sled and leaned against it faintly. His
huge body swayed. The revulsion was almost too much for him.
"I--I--knowed you couldn't treat an old pardner thataway, Tom," he
murmured.
Morse took the man out to a fir tree. He carried with him a blanket, a
buffalo robe, and a part of the dog harness.
"Whad you aimin' to do?" asked West uneasily. He was not sure yet that
he was out of the woods.
"Roll up in the blankets," ordered Morse.
The fellow looked at his grim face and did as he was told. Tom tied
him to the tree, after making sure that his hands were fast behind
him.
"I'll freeze here," the convict complained.
The two officers were lean and gaunt from hard work and insufficient
nourishment, but West was still sleek and well padded with flesh.
He had not missed a meal, and during the past weeks he had been a
passenger. All the hard work, the packing at portages, the making of
camp, the long, wearing days of hunting, had fallen upon the two whose
prisoner he was. He could stand a bit of hardship, Tom decided.
"No such luck," he said brusquely. "And I wouldn't try to break away
if I were you. I can't kill you, but I'll thrash you with the dog-whip
if you make me any trouble."
Morse called Cuffy and set the dog to watch the bound man. He did not
know whether the St. Bernard would do this, but he was glad to see
that the leader of the train understood at once and settled down in
the snow to sleep with one eye watchful of West.
Tom returned to his friend. He knew he must concentrate his efforts to
keep life in the battered body of the soldier. He must nurse and feed
him judiciously until the fever wore itself out.
While he was feeding Win broth, he fell asleep with the spoon in his
hand. He jerkily flung back his head and opened his eyes. Cuffy still
lay close to the prisoner, evidently prepared for an all-night vigil
with short light naps from which the least movement would instantly
arouse him.
"I'm all in. Got to get some sleep," Morse said to himself, half
aloud.
He wrapped in his blankets. When his eyes opened, the sun was beating
down from high in the heavens. He had slept from one day into the
next. Even in his sleep he had been conscious of some sound drumming
at his ears. It was the voice of West.
"You gonna sleep all day? Don't we get any grub? Have I gotta starve
while you pound yore ear?"
Hurriedly Tom flung aside his wraps. He leaped to his feet, a new man,
his confidence and vitality all restored.
The fire had died to ashes. He could hear the yelping of the dogs in
the distance. They were on a private rabbit hunt of their own, all of
them but Cuffy. The St. Bernard still lay in the snow watching West.
Beresford's delirium was gone and his fever was less. He was very
weak, but Tom thought he saw a ghost of the old boyish grin flicker
indomitably into his eyes. As Tom looked at the swathed and bandaged
head, for the first time since the murderous attack he allowed
himself to hope. The never-say-die spirit of the man and the splendid
constitution built up by a clean outdoor life might pull him through
yet.
"West was afraid you never were going to wake up, Tom. It worried him.
You know how fond of you he is," the constable said weakly.
Morse was penitent. "Why didn't you wake me, Win? You must be dying of
thirst."
"I could do with a drink," he admitted. "But you needed that sleep.
Every minute of it."
Tom built up the fire and thawed snow. He gave Beresford a drink and
then fed more of the broth to him. He made breakfast for the prisoner
and himself.
Afterward, he took stock of their larder. It was almost empty. "Enough
flour and pemmican for another mess of rubaboo. Got to restock right
away or our stomachs will be flat as a buffalo bull's after a long
stampede."
He spoke cheerfully, yet he and Beresford both knew a hunt for game
might be unsuccessful. Rabbits would not do. He had to provide enough
to feed the dogs as well as themselves. If he did not get a moose, a
bear, or caribou, they would face starvation.
Tom redressed the wounds of the trooper and examined the splints on
the arm to make sure they had not become disarranged during the night
in the delirium of the sick man.
"Got to leave you, Win. Maybe for a day or more. I'll have plenty of
wood piled handy for the fire--and broth all ready to heat. Think you
can make out?"
The prospect could not have been an inviting one for the wounded man,
but he nodded quite as a matter of course.
"I'll be all right. Take your time. Don't spoil your hunt worrying
about me."
Yet it was with extreme reluctance Tom had made up his mind to go. He
would take the dog-train with him--and West, unarmed, of course. He
had to take him on Beresford's account, because he dared not leave
him. But as he looked at his friend, all the supple strength stricken
out of him, weak and helpless as a sick child, he felt a queer tug at
the heart. What assurance had he that he would find him still alive on
his return?
Beresford knew what he was thinking. He smiled, the gentle,
affectionate smile of the very ill. "It's all right, old fellow. Got
to buck up and carry on, you know. Look out--for West. Don't give him
any show at you. Never trust him--not for a minute. Remember he's--a
wolf." His weak hand gripped Tom's in farewell.
The American turned away hurriedly, not to show the tears that
unexpectedly brimmed his lids. Though he wore the hard surface of the
frontier, his was a sensitive soul. He was very fond of this gay,
gallant youth who went out to meet adventure as though it were a lover
with whom he had an appointment. They had gone through hell together,
and the fires of the furnace had proved the Canadian true gold. After
all, Tom was himself scarcely more than a boy in years. He cherished,
deep hidden in him, the dreams and illusions that long contact with
the world is likely to dispel. At New Haven and Cambridge lads of his
age were larking beneath the elms and playing childish pranks on each
other.
West drove the team. Tom either broke trail or followed. He came
across plenty of tracks, but most of them were old ones. He recognized
the spoor of deer, bear, and innumerable rabbits. Toward noon fresh
caribou tracks crossed their path. The slot pointed south. Over a soft
and rotting trail Morse swung round in pursuit.
They made heavy going of it. He had to break trail through slushy
snow. His shoes broke through the crust and clogged with the sludgy
stuff so that his feet were greatly weighted. Fatigue pressed like a
load on his shoulders. The dogs and West wallowed behind.
By night probably the trail would be much better, but they dared not
wait till then. The caribou would not stop to suit the convenience of
the hunters. This might be the last shot in the locker. Every dragging
lift of the webs carried Morse farther from camp, but food had to be
found and in quantity.
It was close to dusk when Tom guessed they were getting near the herd.
He tied the train to a tree and pushed on with West. Just before
nightfall he sighted the herd grazing on muskeg moss. There were about
a dozen in all. The wind was fortunately right.
Tom motioned to West not to follow him. On hands and knees the hunter
crept forward, taking advantage of such cover as he could find. It was
a slow, cold business, but he was not here for pleasure. A mistake
might mean the difference between life and death for him and Win
Beresford.
For a stalker to determine the precise moment when to shoot is usually
a nice decision. Perhaps he can gain another dozen yards on his prey.
On the other hand, by moving closer he may startle them and lose his
chance. With so much at stake Tom felt for the second time in his life
the palsy that goes with buck fever.
A buck flung up his head and sniffed toward the hidden danger. Tom
knew the sign of startled doubt. Instantly his trembling ceased. He
aimed carefully and fired. The deer dropped in its tracks. Again he
fired--twice--three times. The last shot was a wild one, sent on a
hundredth chance. The herd vanished in the gathering darkness.
Tom swung forward exultant, his webs swishing swiftly over the snow.
He had dropped two. A second buck had fallen, risen, run fifty yards,
and come to earth again. The hunter's rifle was ready in case either
of the caribou sprang up. He found the first one dead, the other badly
wounded. At once he put the buck out of its pain.
West came slouching out of the woods at Tom's signal. Directed by the
officer, he made a fire and prepared for business. The stars were
out as they dressed the meat and cooked a large steak on the coals.
Afterward they hung the caribou from the limb of a spruce, drawing
them high enough so that no prowling wolves could reach the game.
With the coming of night the temperature had fallen and the snow
hardened. The crust held beneath their webs as they returned to
the sled. West wanted to camp where the deer had been killed. He
protested, with oaths, in his usual savage growl, that he was dead
tired and could not travel another step.
But he did. Beneath the stars the hunters mushed twenty miles back to
camp. They made much better progress by reason of the frozen trail and
the good meal they had eaten.
It was daybreak when Morse sighted the camp-fire smoke. His heart
leaped. Beresford must have been able to keep it alive with fuel.
Therefore he had been alive an hour or two ago at most.
Dogs and men trudged into camp ready to drop with fatigue.
Beresford, from where he lay, waved a hand at Tom. "Any luck?" he
asked.
"Two caribou."
"Good. I'll be ready for a steak to-morrow."
Morse looked at him anxiously. The glaze had left his eyes. He was no
longer burning up with fever. Both voice and movements seemed stronger
than they had been twenty-four hours earlier.
"Bully for you, Win," he answered.