THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE
An interminable week of restless inaction and torture followed Aim-sa's
disappearance. Seven long, weary days the blizzard raged and held the
two brothers cooped within their little home. The brief, grey daylight
dragged to its howling end, and the seemingly endless nights brought
them little relief. The only inhabitants of the hut on the wild hillside
that offered no complaint, and even seemed to welcome the change, were
Nick's huskies. They displayed a better temper since the going of the
White Squaw, although the change in their attitude was unheeded by their
masters.
The antagonism of the men was no longer masked by sullen silence. It
broke out into open hostility almost the moment their loss was
discovered, and it took the form of bickering and mutual reprisal. Nick
laid the charge of her departure at Ralph's door. Applying all the most
unreasonable arguments in support of his belief. Ralph retaliated with a
countercharge, declaring that Nick had caused her flight by thrusting
his unwelcome attentions upon her. And every word they uttered on the
subject added fuel to the fire of their hatred, and often they were
driven to the verge of blows.
Nick had no reason in him; and, in his anger, Ralph was little better.
But where a certain calmness came to the latter when away from his
brother, Nick continued to fume with his mind ever set upon what he
regarded as only _his_ loss. Thus it came that Ralph saw ahead,
hazily it is true, but he saw that the time had come when they must
part. It was impossible for them to continue to shelter under the same
roof, the roof which had covered them since the days of their earliest
recollections.
But though he saw this necessity, he did not broach the subject, for,
like his brother, he looked forward to the abatement of the storm so
that he might set out in search of the lost one. Besides, he felt that
until Aim-sa was found he could not part from Nick. Even in his hatred
for his brother, even in his calmest moments, jealousy supervened. Were
they to part, Nick might be the one to find her, and then--No, they must
wait till the storm had passed, afterwards it would be time to act.
Meanwhile, by tacit consent, they continued to live in the lean-to,
reserving the dugout for the object of their love, against her return.
At length the weather cleared. The search began at once. Each day they
set out for the forest and hills with hope buoying their hearts; and
each night they returned with downcast looks, despair in their hearts,
and with their brooding anger against each other a dark flame leaping
within them.
Sometimes, in stolen moments, they visited the place Aim-sa had lived
in. Every day Ralph would clean up the dugout and leave it ready for the
White Squaw's occupation when she returned. Every article of furniture
had its allotted place, the place which she had selected. With the
utmost deliberation he would order everything, and never had their
mountain home been so tenderly cared for. Then Nick would come. His
brother's handiwork would drive him to a frenzy of anger, and he would
reset the place to his own liking, at which Ralph's exasperation would
break out in angry protest.
The metamorphosis of these men could not have been more complete. They
hated themselves, they grew to hate the home which was theirs, the wild
in which they lived. They set their traps and hunted because it was
their habit to do so, but always with only secondary thought for their
calling. The chief object of their lives was to find the woman who had
taught them the meaning of love.
Winter was waning. The soft snow in the forest was melting rapidly.
Every morning found their valley buried beneath a pall of white fog. The
sun's power was rapidly increasing, and already a slush of snow-water
was upon the ice-bound river. The overpowering heights of the valley
gleamed and sparkled in the cheery daylight; the clear mountain air drew
everything nearer, and the stifling sense, inspired by the crush of
towering hills, was exaggerated as the sun rose in the heavens and
revealed the obscurer recesses of the stupendous world. And now, too,
the forest grew dank and moist, and the steady dripping of the melting
snow upon the branches became like a heavy rainfall within the gloomy
depths.
One day Ralph returned home first. He was cooking the supper. The sun
was dipping behind the western mountain-tops, and the red gold
reflection swept in a rosy flush over the crystal summits. The winter
sky had given place to the deeper hue of spring, and, in place of the
heavy grey cloud-caps, fleecy puffs of white, little less dazzling than
the snowy hills themselves, dotted the azure vault above. The forest was
alive with the cries of the feathered world, as they sought their rest
in their newly-built nests. It was not the bright chatter of gay
song-birds such as belong to warmer climes, but the hoarse cries of
water-fowl, and the harsh screams of the preying lords of wing and air.
The grey eagle in his lofty eyrie; the gold-crested vulture-hawk;
creatures that live the strenuous life of the silent lands, fowl that
live by war. The air was very still; the prospect perfect with a wild
rugged beauty.
The train dogs were lying about lazily, but their attitude was
deceptive. Their fierce eyes were only partially closed, and they
watched the cook at his work, waiting for their share in the meal.
Presently a sharp snarl broke from one of them, and he sprang to his
feet and walked round his neighbour in a hectoring fashion. Ralph just
glanced up from his work, his attitude expressing indifference. The
second dog rose leisurely, and a silent argument over some old-time
dispute proceeded in true husky fashion. They walked round and round
each other, seeming almost to tiptoe in their efforts to browbeat. Their
manes bristled and their fangs bared to the gums, but never a sound came
from their deep-toned throats. And such is ever the way of the husky,
unless stirred to the wildest fury. The other dogs paid no heed; the
smell which emanated from Ralph's cooking-pot held them. Those who
wished to fight could do so; their indifference plainly said so.
Ralph went to the shed and returned with some fresh logs. As he reached
the fire he paused. The disputing dogs had attracted his attention. A
quick spring in and out, a slash of the bared fangs, and the shoulder of
one dog was laid open. The other brutes were on their feet in an
instant. The scent of blood had greater attraction for their wolfish
senses than the smell of cooking food. They gathered round with licking
lips. Ralph stepped back from the fire and raised aloft one of the logs
he had brought. The next moment it was hurtling through the air. It took
the combatants somewhere in the midst. They parted, with a howl of pain,
and the spectators hurriedly returned to their contemplation of the
fire. In a moment temporary peace was restored. Ralph stood to see that
hostilities were definitely postponed, then he went on with his work.
Suddenly, up out of the valley came the sound of Nick's voice. It
trolled harshly up the hillside, giving out strange echoes which
confused the melody he essayed. The listening man recognized the words
of "The Red River Valley," but the tune was obscured.
The unusual outburst held Ralph silent, wondering. Nick was not given to
singing at any time, and the events of the last few days were not likely
to inspire him. What had caused the change?
The voice sounded nearer. In spite of the tunelessness of the song,
Ralph thought he detected a joyousness in the tone which was unusual. A
shiver passed down his back, and his thoughts flew at once to Aim-sa.
Gazing down the hill he saw Nick emerge from the forest and face the
slope at a swinging pace. His powerful limbs moved easily, with a
springiness of stride that was not natural to a man accustomed to the
labours of the "long trail." His face was no longer bathed in desponding
gloom; his eyes were shining, and his strong features had upon them an
expression of triumph. He brought with him an atmosphere as fresh and
joyous as the dawn of a mountain summer sky.
Over his shoulder were slung several moist pelts, newly taken from the
carcasses of golden foxes, and in his hand he carried two large traps,
which he was bringing home for repair. But these things were passed
unheeded by his brother; it was the voice, and the look upon his face
that unpleasantly fixed Ralph's attention. But a further astonishment
came to the waiting man. Nick shouted a greeting as he came.
"A great day, Ralph," he cried. "Two o' the finest yeller-bellies I've
seed. Most as big as timber-wolves."
Ralph nodded, but said no word. He knew without being told that it was
not the pleasure of such a catch which had urged Nick to cordiality. He
watched the coming of his brother with his quiet, steady eyes, and what
he beheld beat his heart down, down, as though with the fall of a
sledge-hammer.
As Nick's overtures met with no response, he said no more, but came and
stood beside the spluttering fire, while his eyes searched the gloomy
face of his brother. Then, with an impatient movement, he threw his
traps down and removed the pelts from his shoulder. He passed over to
the dugout and spread the reeking hides upon the roof, well out of reach
of the dogs; then he returned in silence to the fire.
His coming had been the signal for a renewal of hostilities among the
dogs, and now a sharp clip of teeth drew his attention. The two beasts
Ralph had separated were at it again. Nick seized a pole and trounced
them impartially till they scattered out of his reach.
A portentous silence followed. Nick was casting about in his mind for
something agreeable to say. He felt good. So good that he did not want
to tell Ralph what was in his mind. He wanted to be sociable, he wanted
to break through the icy barrier which had risen between them; he felt
that he could afford to do so. But ideas were not forthcoming. He had
but one thought in his brain, and when, at last, he spoke it was to
blurt out the very thing he would withheld.
"I've seen her," he said, in a voice tense with emotion.
And Ralph had known it from the moment he had heard his brother singing.
He looked up from his cooking-pot, and his fork remained poised above
the black iron lid. At last his answer came in a hoarse whisper.
"Her?"
"Yes, I spoke to her, I guess."
"Spoke to her?"
And the whites of the elder man's eyes had become bloodshot as he stood
up from his crouching attitude over the fire.
His stolid face was unmoved, only his eyes gave expression to that which
passed behind them. There was a dangerous look in their sunken depths
which the depressed brows accentuated. He looked into his brother's
face, and, for awhile, the supper was forgotten.
"Yes, spoke to her," said Nick, emphatically. "She ain't gone from us.
She ain't left this valley. She's scairt o' the Moosefoots. That
all-fired 'Hood.' She said as they were riled that she'd stopped in the
white man's lodge. Said they'd made med'cine an' found out where she'd
gone. Say, that 'Hood' is the very devil, I'm thinkin'. She's scairt to
death o' him."
But though Ralph listened to his brother's words he seemed to pay little
heed. The blow had fallen on him with stunning force. Nick had seen
Aim-sa; he had been with her that day, perhaps all day. And at the
thought he broke out in a sweat. Something seemed to rise up in his
throat and choke him.
"You look that glad. Maybe you've had a good time."
Ralph's words came as though he were thinking aloud.
The devil stirred in Nick's heart.
"Glad, man? Glad? Ay, I am that, surely. She said as she'd been on the
watch fer me ever since the storm quit. She said as she wanted to hunt
wi' me."
"You?"
"An' why not? I ain't lyin', I guess. I 'lows she ain't like to say they
things fer passin' time. She was allus easy an' free wi' me. Mebbe
you're kind o' quiet. Wimmin mostly likes them as ken talk."
Ralph's eyes darkened. His set face became more rigid. Then suddenly a
harsh laugh broke from his unmoving lips.
"Guess you're crazed, Nick. That woman's foolin' ye."
Then he swung about as the sound of a violent struggle came from among
the dogs. It was the saving interruption. Another moment and the
brooding hate of the two men would have broken loose. Nick turned, too.
And he was just in time; for one of the huskies was down and the rest of
the train were upon him, bent on tearing out the savage life. Nick
clubbed them right and left, nor did he desist till the torn beast was
upon his feet again, ready to face his antagonists with undiminished
courage. The husky knows no other termination to a quarrel than the
fight to the death.
It took Nick some minutes to restore peace among his dogs, and by the
time this was accomplished his own feelings had calmed. Ralph,
recognizing the danger of his mood, had gripped himself sternly, and
returned to his cooking.
And so the crisis was passed and the disaster temporarily averted. But
in their hearts both men knew that the savage wild, ingrained in their
natures, would not always be so easily stifled. Unless they parted, a
dire calamity must surely befall.