This is the story of a burden, the tale of a load that irked a strong
man's shoulders. To those who do not know the North it may seem strange,
but to those who understand the humors of men in solitude, and the
extravagant vagaries that steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts with
the night, it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in the
wilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll or whimsical,
others grim.
Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trail-mates, brothers
in soul if not in blood. The ebb and flood of frontier life had brought
them together, its hardships had united them until they were as one.
They were something of a mystery to each other, neither having
surrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained their
mutual attraction. Had they known each other fully, had they thoroughly
sounded each other's depths, they would have lost interest, just like
husbands and wives who give themselves too freely and reserve nothing.
They had met by accident, but they remained together by desire, and so
satisfactory was the union that not even the jealousy of women had come
between them. There had been women, of course, just as there had been
adventures of other sorts, but the love of the partners was larger and
finer than anything else they had experienced. It was so true and fine
and unselfish, in fact, that either would have smilingly relinquished
the woman of his desires had the other wished to possess her. They were
young, strong men, and the world was full of sweethearts, but where was
there a partnership like theirs, they asked themselves.
The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, too, and it led
them into curious byways. It was this which sent them northward from the
States in the dead of winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; it
was this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of Illiamna,
whither their land journey should have commenced.
"There are two routes over the coast range," the captain of the _Dora_
told them, "and only two. Illiamna Pass is low and easy, but the
distance is longer than by way of Katmai. I can land you at either
place."
"Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?" Grant inquired.
"We've understood it's the worst pass in Alaska." Cantwell's eyes were
eager.
"It's a heller! Nobody travels it except natives, and they don't like
it. Now, Illiamna--"
"We'll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?"
"Sure! They don't come hard enough for us, Cap. We'll see if it's as bad
as it's painted."
So, one gray January morning they were landed on a frozen beach, their
outfit was flung ashore through the surf, the life-boat pulled away, and
the _Dora_ disappeared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their last
glimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by and the purser flapping
a red table-cloth at them from the after-deck.
"Cheerful place, this," Grant remarked, as he noted the desolate
surroundings of dune and hillside.
The beach itself was black and raw where the surf washed it, but
elsewhere all was white, save for the thickets of alder and willow which
protruded nakedly. The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out of
the Alaskan range; along the foot-hills behind there was a belt of
spruce and cottonwood and birch. It was a lonely and apparently
unpeopled wilderness in which they had been set down.
"Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn't it?" said Cantwell,
cheerily. "I'm tired of the booze, and the street-cars, and the dames,
and all that civilized stuff. I'd rather be broke in Alaska--with
you--than a banker's son, back home."
Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai trader, appeared among
the dunes, and with him were some native villagers. That night the
partners slept in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained down
with old ships' cables. Petellin, the fat little trader, explained that
roofs in Katmai had a way of sailing off to seaward when the wind blew.
He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and nodded.
It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were foolish to try it,
when the Illiamna route was open. Still, now that they were here, he
would find dogs for them, and a guide. The village hunters were out
after meat, however, and until they returned the white men would need to
wait in patience.
There followed several days of idleness, during which Cantwell and Grant
amused themselves around the village, teasing the squaws, playing games
with the boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of whom, in
particular, was not unattractive. She was perhaps three-quarters Aleut,
the other quarter being plain coquette, and, having been educated at the
town of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the white man.
Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant advances more than
half-way. They were getting along nicely together when Grant, in a
spirit of fun, entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself.
He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny accepted defeat
gracefully, never giving the matter a second thought.
When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a guide was hired, and, a
week after landing, the friends were camped at timber-line awaiting a
favorable moment for their dash across the range. Above them white
hillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in the saw-toothed barrier
which formed the pass; below them a short valley led down to Katmai and
the sea. The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the guide
had stared up at the peaks for a time he shook his head, then re-entered
the tent and lay down. The mountains were "smoking"; from their tops
streamed a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting
snow-clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but they were patient.
They were up and going on the following morning, however, with the
Indian in the lead. There was no trail; the hills were steep; in places
they were forced to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means of
ropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. It lay like loose
sand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of the sled in a feathery mass; the
dogs wallowed in it and were unable to pull, hence the greater part of
the work devolved upon the men. Once above the foot-hills and into the
range proper, the going became more level, but the snow remained
knee-deep.
The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained at the sled,
which hung back like a leaden thing. By afternoon the dogs had become
disheartened and refused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel nor
running water, and therefore the party did not pause for luncheon. The
men were sweating profusely from their exertions and had long since
become parched with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and scoured
their throats.
Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual exertions, for
not only had he assumed a lion's share of the work, but the last few
months of easy living had softened his muscles, and in consequence his
vitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were drenched; he was
fearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst seemed to penetrate his whole
body; he was forced to rest frequently.