Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men economical of language.
"What's the matter?"
"Thirsty!" The former could barely speak.
"There won't be any water till we get across. You'll have to stand it."
They resumed their duties; the Indian "swish-swished" ahead, as if
wading through a sea of swan's-down; the dogs followed listlessly; the
partners leaned against the stubborn load.
A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing Grant and the
guide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell was too weary to heed the
increasing cold. The snow on the slopes above began to move; here and
there, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the clean-cut
outlines of the hills became obscured as by a fog; the languid wind bit
cruelly.
After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed: "I'm--all in,
Mort. Don't seem to have the--guts." He was pale, his eyes were
tortured. He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his lips,
then spat it out, still dry.
"Here! Brace up!" In a panic of apprehension at this collapse Grant
shook him; he had never known Johnny to fail like this. "Take a drink of
booze; it'll do you good." He drew a bottle of brandy from one of the
dunnage bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it would quench
his thirst, he thought. Before Mort could check him he had drunk a third
of the contents.
The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell's stomach was empty
and his tissues seemed to absorb the liquor like a dry sponge; his
fatigue fell away, he became suddenly strong and vigorous again. But
before he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. First his mind
grew thick, then his limbs became unmanageable and his muscles flabby.
He was drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, against
which he struggled desperately. He fought it for perhaps a quarter of a
mile before it mastered him; then he gave up.
Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on the trail, but they had
never stopped to reason why, and even now they did not attribute
Johnny's breakdown to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and fell,
then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he sprawled there
motionless until Mort dragged him to the sled. He stared at his partner
in perplexity and laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darkness
was near, they had not yet reached the Bering slope.
Something in the drunken man's face frightened Grant and, extracting a
ship's biscuit from the grub-box, he said, hurriedly: "Here, Johnny. Get
something under your belt, quick."
Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but there was no moisture
on his tongue; his throat was paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselves
from the corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to stuff them
down, or to assist the muscular action of swallowing, but finally
expelled them in a cloud. Mort drew the parka hood over his partner's
head, for the wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail to
it, digging holes in the snow for protection. The air about them was
like yeast; the light was fading.
The Indian snow-shoed his way back, advising a quick camp until the
storm abated, but to this suggestion Grant refused to listen, knowing
only too well the peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny on
the sled, since the fellow was half asleep already, but instead whipped
up the dogs and urged his companion to follow as best he could.
When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, dragged him forward,
and tied his wrists firmly, yet loosely, to the load.
The storm was pouring over them now, like water out of a spout; it
seared and blinded them; its touch was like that of a flame.
Nevertheless they struggled on into the smother, making what headway
they could. The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant strained
at the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs; Cantwell stumbled and
lurched in the rear like an unwilling prisoner. When he fell his
companion lifted him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way to
rouse him from his lethargy.
After an interminable time they found they were descending and this gave
them heart to plunge ahead more rapidly. The dogs began to trot as the
sled overran them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at the
bottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerveless, stupefied
condition. He was dragged like a sack of flour, for his legs were limp
and he lacked muscular control, but every dash, every fall, every quick
descent drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared his brain
momentarily. Such moments were fleeting, however; much of the time his
mind was a blank, and it was only by a mechanical effort that he fought
off unconsciousness.
He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort's hands, of the slippery
clean-swept ice of a stream over which he limply skidded, of being
carried into a tent where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grant
was holding something hot to his lips, and then--
It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt as if he had awakened from
a hideous dream. "I played out, didn't I?" he queried, wonderingly.
"You sure did," Grant laughed. "It was a tight squeak, old boy. I never
thought I'd get you through."
"Played out! I--can't understand it." Cantwell prided himself on his
strength and stamina, therefore the truth was unbelievable. He and Mort
had long been partners, they had given and taken much at each other's
hands, but this was something altogether different. Grant had saved his
life, at risk of his own; the older man's endurance had been the greater
and he had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny tremendously
to realize that he had proven unequal to his share of the work, for he
had never before experienced such an obligation. He apologized
repeatedly during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort waited
upon him like a mother.
Cantwell was relieved when at last they had abandoned camp, changed
guides at the next village, and were on their way along the coast, for
somehow he felt very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact,
extremely ashamed of himself.
Once he had fully recovered he had no further trouble, but soon rounded
into fit condition and showed no effects of his ordeal. Day after day he
and Mort traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken only by
occasional glimpses of native villages, where they rested briefly and
renewed their supply of dog-feed.
But although the younger man was now as well and strong as ever, he was
uncomfortably conscious that his trail-mate regarded him as the weaker
of the two and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed most of the
unpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned Johnny about overdoing.
This protective attitude at first amused, then offended Cantwell; it
galled him until he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, but
reflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by past
performances, he had proved his inferiority. This uncomfortable
realization forever arose to prevent open rebellion, but he asserted
himself secretly by robbing Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rose
first in the mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turns ahead
of the dogs, he mended harness after the day's hike had ended. Of course
the older man objected, and for a time they had a good-natured rivalry
as to who should work and who should rest--only it was not quite so
good-natured on Cantwell's part as he made it appear.
Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day: "Don't try to do
everything, Johnny. Remember I'm no cripple."
"Humph! You proved that. I guess it's up to me to do your work."
"Oh, forget that day on the pass, can't you?"
Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it was evident that he
would never forget, unpleasant though the memory remained. Sensing his
sullen resentment, the other tried to rally him, but made a bad job of
it. The humor of men in the open is not delicate; their wit and their
words become coarsened in direct proportion as they revert to the
primitive; it is one effect of the solitudes.
Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own superiority in a way
which ordinarily would have brought a smile to Cantwell's lips, but the
latter did not smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack of
physical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly qualities--something
which had never failed to result in a friendly exchange of badinage; he
even teased him about his defeat with the Katmai girl.
Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found himself wondering
if Mort could have been in earnest. He dismissed the thought with some
impatience. But men on the trail have too much time for their thoughts;
there is nothing in the monotonous routine of the day's work to distract
them, so the partner who had played out dwelt more and more upon his
debt and upon his friend's easy assumption of pre-eminence. The weight
of obligation began to chafe him, lightly at first, but with
ever-increasing discomfort. He began to think that Grant honestly
considered himself the better man, merely because chance had played into
his hands.
It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, he reflected, and
yet he could not banish it from his mind. It was always before him, in
one form or another. He felt the strength in his lean muscles, and
sneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. If it came to a
physical test he felt sure he could break his slighter partner with his
bare hands, and as for endurance--well, he was hungry for a chance to
demonstrate it.
They talked little; men seldom converse in the wastes, for there is
something about the silence of the wilderness which discourages speech.
And no land is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the frozen
North. For days they marched through desolation, without glimpse of
human habitation, without sight of track or trail, without sound of a
human voice to break the monotony. There was no game in the country,
with the exception of an occasional bird or rabbit, nothing but the
white hills, the fringe of alder-tops along the watercourses, and the
thickets of gnarled, unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys.
Their destination was a mysterious stream at the headwaters of the
unmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor said there was gold, and whither they
feared other men were hastening from the mining country far to the
north.
Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men shall think of women.
The open life brings health and vigor, strength and animal vitality, and
these clamor for play. The cold of the still, clear days is no more
biting than the fierce memories and appetites which charge through the
brain at night. Passions intensify with imprisonment, recollections come
to life, longings grow vivid and wild. Thoughts change to realities, the
past creeps close, and dream figures are filled with blood and fire. One
remembers pleasures and excesses, women's smiles, women's kisses, the
invitation of outstretched arms. Wasted opportunities mock at one.
Cantwell began to brood upon the Katmai girl, for she was the last; her
eyes were haunting and distance had worked its usual enchantment. He
reflected that Mort had shouldered him aside and won her favor, then
boasted of it. Johnny awoke one night with a dream of her, and lay
quivering.
"Hell! She was only a squaw," he said, half aloud. "If I'd really
tried--"
Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their bodies intermingled.
The waking man tried to compose himself, but his partner's stertorous
breathing irritated him beyond measure; for a long time he remained
motionless, staring into the gray blur of the tent-top. He had played
out. He owed his life to the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl,
and that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless thing, dependent
upon another's strength, and that other now accepted his superiority as
a matter of course. The obligation was insufferable, and--it was unjust.
The North had played him a devilish trick, it had betrayed him, it had
bound him to his benefactor with chains of gratitude which were irksome.
Had they been real chains they could have galled him no more than at
this moment.
As time passed the men spoke less frequently to each other. Grant joshed
his mate roughly, once or twice, masking beneath an assumption of
jocularity his own vague irritation at the change that had come over
them. It was as if he had probed at an open wound with clumsy fingers.
Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those petty camp tasks which
provoke tired trailers, those humdrum duties which are so trying to
exhausted nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear upon
every man. But, once he had taken them over, he began to resent Grant's
easy relinquishment; it rankled him to realize how willingly the other
allowed him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, the
bed-making. Little monotonies of this kind form the hardest part of
winter travel, they are the rocks upon which friendships founder and
partnerships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes the work to
a great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, but in camp, inside the
cramped confines of a tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it is
very different. There one must busy himself while the other rests and
keeps his legs out of the way if possible. One man sits on the bedding
at the rear of the shelter, and shivers, while the other squats over a
tantalizing fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling his
limbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be passed, food divided,
and it is poor food, poorly prepared at best. Sometimes men criticize
and voice longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks of this
kind have been known to result in tragedies, bitter words and flaming
curses--then, perhaps, wild actions, memories of which the later years
can never erase.
It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of its
silent forces.
Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willingly
accepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and "handy,"
he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in
every way--or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, and
the memory of his debt was like bitter medicine.
His resentment--in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begot
of isolation and silence--could not help but communicate itself to his
companion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which grew into a
dislike, then festered into something more, something strange,
reasonless, yet terribly vivid and amazingly potent for evil. Neither
man ever mentioned it--their tongues were clenched between their teeth
and they held themselves in check with harsh hands--but it was
constantly in their minds, nevertheless. No man who has not suffered the
manifold irritations of such an intimate association can appreciate the
gnawing canker of animosity like this. It was dangerous because there
was no relief from it: the two were bound together as by gyves; they
shared each other's every action and every plan; they trod in each
other's tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same plate. They
were like prisoners ironed to the same staple.
Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is hard to fight the
impalpable, hence their sick fancies grew in spite of themselves. Their
minds needed food to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticize
the other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate derisively
upon his peculiarities. After a time they no longer resisted the advance
of these poisonous thoughts, but welcomed it.
On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath were upon the point
of bursting into flame, but each realized that the first ill-considered
word would serve to slip the leash from those demons that were straining
to go free, and so managed to restrain himself.
The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog-team whirled around a bend
in the river and a white man hailed them. He was the mail-carrier, on
his way out from Nome, and he brought news of the "inside."
"Where are you boys bound for?" he inquired when greetings were over and
gossip of the trail had passed.
"We're going to the Stony River strike," Grant told him.
"Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?"
"Yes!"
The mail-man laughed. "Can you beat that? Ain't you heard about Stony
River?"
"No!"
"Why, it's a fake--no such place."
There was a silence; the partners avoided each other's eyes.
"MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his way to Dawson. There's
a gang after him, too, and if he's caught it'll go hard with him. He
wrote the letters--to himself--and spread the news just to raise a
grub-stake. He cleaned up big before they got onto him. He peddled his
tips for real money."
"Yes!" Grant spoke quietly. "Johnny bought one. That's what brought us
from Seattle. We went out on the last boat and figured we'd come in from
this side before the break-up. So--fake! By God!"
"Gee! You fellers bit good." The mail-carrier shook his head. "Well!
You'd better keep going now; you'll get to Nome before the season opens.
Better take dog-fish from Bethel--it's four bits a pound on the Yukon.
Sorry I didn't hit your camp last night; we'd 'a' had a visit. Tell the
gang that you saw me." He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at his
panting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a mitten on high as he
vanished around the next bend.
The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to Johnny, and repeated:
"Fake! By God! MacDonald stung you."
Cantwell's face went as white as the snow behind him, his eyes blazed.
"Why did you tell him I bit?" he demanded, harshly.
"Hunh! _Didn't_ you bite? Two thousand miles afoot; three months of
hell; for nothing. That's biting some."
"_Well!_" The speaker's face was convulsed, and Grant's flamed with an
answering anger. They glared at each other for a moment. "Don't blame
me. You fell for it, too."
"I--" Mort checked his rushing words.
"Yes, _you_! Now, what are you going to do about it? Welch?"
"I'm going through to Nome." The sight of his partner's rage had set
Mort to shaking with a furious desire to fly at his throat, but,
fortunately, he retained a spark of sanity.
"Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You--talk too damned much."
Mort's eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the carbine under the sled
lashings, and lingered there, then wavered. He opened his lips,
reconsidered, spoke softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog-whip
and smote the malamutes with all his strength.
The men resumed their journey without further words, but each was
cursing inwardly.
"So! I talk too much," Grant thought. The accusation struck in his mind
and he determined to speak no more.
"He blames me," Cantwell reflected, bitterly. "I'm in wrong again and he
couldn't keep his mouth shut. A hell of a partner, he is!"
All day they plodded on, neither trusting himself to speak. They ate
their evening meal like mutes; they avoided each other's eyes. Even the
guide noticed the change and looked on curiously.
There were two robes and these the partners shared nightly, but their
hatred had grown so during the past few hours that the thought of lying
side by side, limb to limb, was distasteful. Yet neither dared suggest a
division of the bedding, for that would have brought further words and
resulted in the crash which they longed for, but feared. They stripped
off their furs, and lay down beside each other with the same repugnance
they would have felt had there been a serpent in the couch.
This unending malevolent silence became terrible. The strain of it
increased, for each man now had something definite to cherish in the
words and the looks that had passed. They divided the camp work with
scrupulous nicety, each man waited upon himself and asked no favors. The
knowledge of his debt forever chafed Cantwell; Grant resented his
companion's lack of gratitude.
Of course they spoke occasionally--it was beyond human endurance to
remain entirely dumb--but they conversed in monosyllables, about trivial
things, and their voices were throaty, as if the effort choked them.
Meanwhile they continued to glow inwardly at a white heat.
Cantwell no longer felt the desire to merely match his strength against
Grant's; the estrangement had become too wide for that; a physical
victory would have been flat and tasteless; he craved some deeper
satisfaction. He began to think of the ax--just how or when or why he
never knew. It was a thin-bladed, polished thing of frosty steel, and
the more he thought of it the stronger grew his impulse to rid himself
once for all of that presence which exasperated him. It would be very
easy, he reasoned; a sudden blow, with the weight of his shoulders
behind it--he fancied he could feel the bit sink into Grant's flesh,
cleaving bone and cartilages in its course--a slanting downward stroke,
aimed at the neck where it joined the body, and he would be forever
satisfied. It would be ridiculously simple. He practised in the gloom of
evening as he felled spruce-trees for fire-wood; he guarded the ax
religiously; it became a living thing which urged him on to violence. He
saw it standing by the tent-fly when he closed his eyes to sleep; he
dreamed of it; he sought it out with his eyes when he first awoke. He
slid it loosely under the sled lashings every morning, thinking that its
use could not long be delayed.
As for Grant, the carbine dwelt forever in his mind, and his fingers
itched for it. He secretly slipped a cartridge into the chamber, and
when an occasional ptarmigan offered itself for a target he saw the
white spot on the breast of Johnny's reindeer parka, dancing ahead of
the Lyman bead.
The solitude had done its work; the North had played its grim comedy to
the final curtain, making sport of men's affections and turning love to
rankling hate. But into the mind of each man crept a certain craftiness.
Each longed to strike, but feared to face the consequences. It was
lonesome, here among the white hills and the deathly silences, yet they
reflected that it would be still more lonesome if they were left to keep
step with nothing more substantial than a memory. They determined,
therefore, to wait until civilization was nearer, meanwhile rehearsing
the moment they knew was inevitable. Over and over in their thoughts
each of them enacted the scene, ending it always with the picture of a
prostrate man in a patch of trampled snow which grew crimson as the
other gloated.
They paused at Bethel Mission long enough to load with dried salmon,
then made the ninety-mile portage over lake and tundra to the Yukon.
There they got their first touch of the "inside" world. They camped in a
barabara where white men had slept a few nights before, and heard their
own language spoken by native tongues. The time was growing short now,
and they purposely dismissed their guide, knowing that the trail was
plain from there on. When they hitched up, on the next morning, Cantwell
placed the ax, bit down, between the tarpaulin and the sled rail,
leaving the helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant thrust
the barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with the butt close by the
handle-bars, and it was loaded.
A mile from the village they were overtaken by an Indian and his squaw,
traveling light behind hungry dogs. The natives attached themselves to
the white men and hung stubbornly to their heels, taking advantage of
their tracks. When night came they camped alongside, in the hope of
food. They announced that they were bound for St. Michaels, and in spite
of every effort to shake them off they remained close behind the
partners until that point was reached.
At St. Michaels there were white men, practically the first Johnny and
Mort had encountered since landing at Katmai, and for a day at least
they were sane. But there were still three hundred miles to be traveled,
three hundred miles of solitude and haunting thoughts. Just as they were
about to start, Cantwell came upon Grant and the A. C. agent, and heard
his name pronounced, also the word "Katmai." He noted that Mort fell
silent at his approach, and instantly his anger blazed afresh. He
decided that the latter had been telling the story of their experience
on the pass and boasting of his service. So much the better, he thought,
in a blind rage; that which he planned doing would appear all the more
like an accident, for who would dream that a man could kill the person
to whom he owed his life?
That night he waited for a chance.
They were camped in a dismal hut on a wind-swept shore; they were alone.
But Grant was waiting also, it seemed. They lay down beside each other,
ostensibly to sleep; their limbs touched; the warmth from their bodies
intermingled, but they did not close their eyes.
They were up and away early, with Nome drawing rapidly nearer. They had
skirted an ocean, foot by foot; Bering Sea lay behind them, now, and its
northern shore swung westward to their goal. For two months they had
lived in silent animosity, feeding on bitter food while their elbows
rubbed.
Noon found them floundering through one of those unheralded storms which
make coast travel so hazardous. The morning had turned off gray, the sky
was of a leaden hue which blended perfectly with the snow underfoot,
there was no horizon, it was impossible to see more than a few yards in
any direction. The trail soon became obliterated and their eyes began to
play tricks. For all they could distinguish, they might have been
suspended in space; they seemed to be treading the measures of an
endless dance in the center of a whirling cloud. Of course it was cold,
for the wind off the open sea was damp, but they were not men to turn
back.
They soon discovered that their difficulty lay not in facing the storm,
but in holding to the trail. That narrow, two-foot causeway, packed by a
winter's travel and frozen into a ribbon of ice by a winter's frosts,
afforded their only avenue of progress, for the moment they left it the
sled plowed into the loose snow, well-nigh disappearing and bringing the
dogs to a standstill. It was the duty of the driver, in such case, to
wallow forward, right the load if necessary, and lift it back into
place. These mishaps were forever occurring, for it was impossible to
distinguish the trail beneath its soft covering. However, if the
driver's task was hard it was no more trying than that of the man ahead,
who was compelled to feel out and explore the ridge of hardened snow and
ice with his feet, after the fashion of a man walking a plank in the
dark. Frequently he lunged into the drifts with one foot, or both; his
glazed mukluk soles slid about, causing him to bestride the invisible
hog-back, or again his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off his
balance. At times he wandered away from the path entirely and had to
search it out again. These exertions were very wearing and they were
dangerous, also, for joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, and
tendons strained.
Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved by any change, unbroken
by any speck or spot of color. The nerves of their eyes, wearied by
constant near-sighted peering at the snow, began to jump so that vision
became untrustworthy. Both travelers appreciated the necessity of
clinging to the trail, for, once they lost it, they knew they might
wander about indefinitely until they chanced to regain it or found their
way to the shore, while always to seaward was the menace of open water,
of air-holes, or cracks which might gape beneath their feet like jaws.
Immersion in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death.
The monotony of progress through this unreal, leaden world became almost
unbearable. The repeated strainings and twistings they suffered in
walking the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; their legs grew
clumsy and their feet uncertain. Had they found a camping-place they
would have stopped, but they dared not forsake the thin thread that
linked them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing where the
shore lay. In storms of this kind men have lain in their sleeping-bags
for days within a stone's-throw of a roadhouse or village. Bodies have
been found within a hundred yards of shelter after blizzards have
abated.
Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except to bore into the
welter of drifting flakes.
It was late in the afternoon when the latter met with an accident.
Johnny, who had taken a spell at the rear, heard him cry out, saw him
stagger, struggle to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. The dogs
paused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice pellets from
between their toes.
Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle-bars: "Well! What's the
idea?"
It was the longest sentence of the day.
"I've--hurt myself." Mort's voice was thin and strange; he raised
himself to a sitting posture, and reached beneath his parka, then lay
back weakly. He writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He continued to
lie there, doubled into a knot of suffering. A groan was wrenched from
between his teeth.
"Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully.
It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man kicking around in the
snow.
"I've ripped something loose--here." Mort's palms were pressed in upon
his groin, his fingers were clutching something. "Ruptured--I guess." He
tried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen off and his
forehead glistened with sweat.
Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the first time in many days
that their hands had touched, and the sensation affected him strangely.
He struggled to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that Grant had
played out--it amounted to that and nothing less; the trail had
delivered him into his enemy's hands, his hour had struck. Johnny
determined to square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own mind
clean of that poison which corroded it. His muscles were strong, his
brain clear, he had never felt his strength so irresistible as at this
moment, while Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but a
nerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. Providence had arranged
it all. The younger man was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee,
and yet--his helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him.
He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at the face he had not met
for many days. He saw how white it was, how wet and cold, how weak and
dazed, then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph of his
moment was spoiled.
The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a piece of ice, its helve
protruded handily, but there was no need of it now; his fingers were all
the weapons Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in fact, for
Mort was like a child.
Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North had coarsened him,
yet underneath the surface was a chivalrous regard for all things weak,
and this the trail-madness had not affected. He had longed for this
instant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoyment, since he could
not harm a sick man and waged no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort had
rested, they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a place as
any. The storm hid them, they would leave no traces, there could be no
interruption.
But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; movement brought excruciating
pain.
Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: "Better wrap up and lie still for
a while. I'll get the dogs underway." His words amazed him dully. They
were not at all what he had intended to say.
The injured man demurred, but the other insisted gruffly, then brought
him his mittens and cap, slapping the snow out of them before rousing
the team to motion. The load was very heavy now, the dogs had no
footprints to guide them, and it required all of Cantwell's efforts to
prevent capsizing. Night approached swiftly, the whirling snow particles
continued to flow past upon the wind, shrouding the earth in an
impenetrable pall.
The journey soon became a terrible ordeal, a slow, halting progress that
led nowhere and was accomplished at the cost of tremendous exertion.
Time after time Johnny broke trail, then returned and urged the huskies
forward to the end of his tracks. When he lost the path he sought it
out, laboriously hoisted the sledge back into place, and coaxed his
four-footed helpers to renewed effort. He was drenched with
perspiration, his inner garments were steaming, his outer ones were
frozen into a coat of armor; when he paused he chilled rapidly. His
vision was untrustworthy, also, and he felt snow-blindness coming on.
Grant begged him more than once to unroll the bedding and prepare to
sleep out the storm; he even urged Johnny to leave him and make a dash
for his own safety, but at this the younger man cursed and told him to
hold his tongue.
Night found the lone driver slipping, plunging, lurching ahead of the
dogs, or shoving at the handle-bars and shouting at the dogs. Finally,
during a pause for rest he heard a sound which roused him. Out of the
gloom to the right came the faint, complaining howl of a malamute; it
was answered by his own dogs, and the next moment they had caught a
scent which swerved them shoreward and led them scrambling through the
drifts. Two hundred yards, and a steep bank loomed above, up and over
which they rushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a light
showed, and they were in the lee of a low-roofed hut.
A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made them welcome to his mean
abode, explaining that his wife and son had gone to Unalaklik for
supplies.
Johnny carried his partner to the one unoccupied bunk and stripped his
clothes from him. With his own hands he rubbed the warmth back into
Mortimer's limbs, then swiftly prepared hot food, and, holding him in
the hollow of his aching arm, fed him, a little at a time. He was like
to drop from exhaustion, but he made no complaint. With one folded robe
he made the hard boards comfortable, then spread the other as a
covering. For himself he sat beside the fire and fought his weariness.
When he dozed off and the cold awakened him, he renewed the fire; he
heated beef-tea, and, rousing Mort, fed it to him with a teaspoon. All
night long, at intervals, he tended the sick man, and Grant's eyes
followed him with an expression that brought a fierce pain to Cantwell's
throat.
"You're mighty good--after the rotten way I acted," the former whispered
once.
And Johnny's big hand trembled so that he spilled the broth.
His voice was low and tender as he inquired, "Are you resting easier
now?"
The other nodded.
"Maybe you're not hurt badly, after--all. God! That would be awful--"
Cantwell choked, turned away, and, raising his arms against the log
wall, buried his face in them.
* * * * *
The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As Johnny stiffly mounted
the creek bank with a bucket of water he heard a jingle of sleigh-bells
and saw a sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin.
"Hello!" he called, then heard his own name pronounced.
"Johnny Cantwell, by all that's holy!"
The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously with two old friends
from Nome.
"Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes," one of them explained. "Where
the deuce did you come from, Johnny?"
"The 'outside.' Started for Stony River, but--"
"Stony River!" The new-comers began to laugh loudly and Cantwell joined
them. It was the first time he had laughed for weeks. He realized the
fact with a start, then recollected also his sleeping partner, and said:
"'Sh-h! Mort's inside, asleep!"
During the night everything had changed for Johnny Cantwell; his mental
attitude, his hatred, his whole reasonless insanity. Everything was
different now, even his debt was canceled, the weight of obligation was
removed, and his diseased fancies were completely cured.
"Yes! Stony River," he repeated, grinning broadly. "I bit!"
Martin burst forth, gleefully: "They caught MacDonald at Holy Cross and
ran him out on a limb. He'll never start another stampede. Old man Baker
gun-branded him."
"What's the matter with Mort?" inquired the second traveler.
"He's resting up. Yesterday, during the storm he--" Johnny was upon the
point of saying "played out," but changed it to "had an accident. We
thought it was serious, but a few days' rest 'll bring him around all
right. He saved me at Katmai, coming in. I petered out and threw up my
tail, but he got me through. Come inside and tell him the news."
"Sure thing."
"Well, well!" Martin said. "So you and Mort are still partners, eh?"
"_Still_ partners?" Johnny took up the pail of water. "Well, rather!
We'll always be partners." His voice was young and full and hearty as he
continued: "Why, Mort's the best damned fellow in the world. I'd lay
down my life for him."