HARD MUSHING
Elliot and Holt left Kusiak in a spume of whirling, blinding snow. They
traveled light, not more than forty pounds to the dog, for they wanted
to make speed. It was not cold for Alaska. They packed their fur coats
on the sled and wore waterproof parkas. On their hands were mittens
of moosehide with duffel lining, on their feet mukluks above "German"
socks. Holt had been a sour-dough miner too long to let his partner
perspire from overmuch clothing. He knew the danger of pneumonia from
a sudden cooling of the heat of the body.
Old Gideon took seven of his dogs, driving them two abreast. Six were
huskies, rangy, muscular animals with thick, dense coats. They were in
the best of spirits and carried their tails erect like their Malemute
leader. Butch, though a Malemute, had a strong strain of collie in him.
It gave him a sense of responsibility. His business was to see that the
team kept strung out on the trail, and Butch was a past-master in the
matter of discipline. His weight was ninety-three fighting pounds, and
he could thrash in short order any dog in the team.
The snow was wet and soft. It clung to everything it touched. The dogs
carried pounds of it in the tufts of hair that rose from their backs.
An icy pyramid had to be knocked from the sled every half-hour. The
snowshoes were heavy with white slush. Densely laden spruce boughs
brushed the faces of the men and showered them with unexpected little
avalanches.
They took turns in going ahead of the team and breaking trail. It
was heavy, muscle-grinding work. Before noon they were both utterly
fatigued. They dragged forward through the slush, lifting their laden
feet sluggishly. They must keep going, and they did, but it seemed to
them that every step must be the last.
Shortly after noon the storm wore itself out. The temperature had been
steadily falling and now it took a rapid drop. They were passing through
timber, and on a little slope they built with a good deal of difficulty
a fire. By careful nursing they soon had a great bonfire going, in front
of which they put their wet socks, mukluks, scarfs, and parkas to dry.
The toes of the dogs had become packed with little ice balls. Gordon and
Holt had to go carefully over the feet of each animal to dig these out.
The old-timer thawed out a slab of dried salmon till the fat began to
frizzle and fed each husky a pound of the fish and a lump of tallow.
He and Gordon made a pot of tea and ate some meat sandwiches they had
brought with them to save cooking until night.
When they took the trail again it was in moccasins instead of mukluks.
The weather was growing steadily colder and with each degree of fall in
the thermometer the trail became easier.
"Mushing at fifty below zero is all right when it is all right,"
explained Holt in the words of the old prospector. "But when it isn't
right it's hell."
"It is not fifty below yet, is it?"
"Nope. But she's on the way. When your breath makes a kinder crackling
noise she's fifty."
Travel was much easier now. There was a crust on the snow that held up
the dogs and the sled so that trail-breaking was not necessary. The
little party pounded steadily over the barren hills. There was no sign
of life except what they brought with them out of the Arctic silence and
carried with them into the greater silence beyond. A little cloud of
steam enveloped them as they moved, the moisture from the breath of nine
moving creatures in a waste of emptiness.
Each of the men wrapped a long scarf around his mouth and nose for
protection, and as the part in front of his face became a sheet of ice
shifted the muffler to another place.
Night fell in the middle of the afternoon, but they kept traveling. Not
till they were well up toward the summit of the divide did they decide
to camp. They drove into a little draw and unharnessed the weary dogs.
It was bitterly cold, but they were forced to set up the tent and stove
to keep from freezing. Their numbed fingers made a slow job of the camp
preparations. At last the stove was going, the dogs fed, and they
themselves thawed out. They fell asleep shortly to the sound of the
mournful howling of the dogs outside.
Long before daybreak they were afoot again. Holt went out to chop some
wood for the stove while Gordon made breakfast preparations. The little
miner brought in an armful of wood and went out to get a second supply.
A few moments later Elliot heard a cry.
He stepped out of the tent and ran to the spot where Holt was lying
under a mass of ice and snow. The young man threw aside the broken
blocks that had plunged down from a ledge above.
"Badly hurt, Gid?" he asked.
"I done bust my laig, son," the old man answered with a twisted grin.
"You mean that it is broken?"
"Tell you that in a minute."
He felt his leg carefully and with Elliot's help tried to get up.
Groaning, he slid back to the snow.
"Yep. She's busted," he announced.
Gordon carried him to the tent and laid him down carefully. The old
miner swore softly.
"Ain't this a hell of a note, boy? You'll have to get me to Smith's
Crossing and leave me there."
It was the only thing to be done. Elliot broke camp and packed the sled.
Upon the load he put his companion, well wrapped up in furs. He
harnessed the dogs and drove back to the road.
Two miles farther up the road Gordon stopped his team sharply. He had
turned a bend in the trail and had come upon an empty stage buried in
the snow.
The fear that had been uppermost in Elliot's mind for twenty-four hours
clutched at his throat. Was it tragedy upon which he had come after his
long journey?
Holt guessed the truth. "They got stalled and cut loose the horses. Must
have tried to ride the cayuses to shelter."
"To Smith's Crossing?" asked Gordon.
"Expect so." Then, with a whoop, the man on the sled contradicted
himself. "No, by Moses, to Dick Fiddler's old cabin up the draw. That's
where Swiftwater would aim for till the blizzard was over."
"Where is it?" demanded his friend.
"Swing over to the right and follow the little gulch. I'll wait till you
come back."
Gordon dropped the gee-pole and started on the instant. Eagerness,
anxiety, dread fought in his heart. He knew that any moment now he might
stumble upon the evidence of the sad story which is repeated in Alaska
many times every winter. It rang in him like a bell that where tough,
hardy miners succumbed a frail girl would have small chance.
He cut across over the hill toward the draw, and at what he saw his
pulse quickened. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney of a cabin and
falling groundward, as it does in the Arctic during very cold weather.
Had Sheba found safety there? Or was it the winter home of a prospector?
As he pushed forward the rising sun flooded the earth with pink and
struck a million sparkles of color from the snow. The wonder of it drew
the eyes of the young man for a moment toward the hills.
A tumult of joy flooded his veins. The girl who held in her soft hands
the happiness of his life stood looking at him. It seemed to him that
she was the core of all that lovely tide of radiance. He moved toward
her and looked down into the trench where she waited. Swiftly he kicked
off his snowshoes and leaped down beside her.
The gleam of tears was in her eyes as she held out both hands to him.
During the long look they gave each other something wonderful to both
of them was born into the world.
When he tried to speak his hoarse voice broke. "Sheba--little Sheba!
Safe, after all. Thank God, you--you--" He swallowed the lump in his
throat and tried again. "If you knew--God, how I have suffered! I was
afraid--I dared not let myself think."
A live pulse beat in her white throat. The tears brimmed over. Then,
somehow, she was in his arms weeping. Her eyes slowly turned to his,
and he met the touch of her surrendered lips.
Nature had brought them together by one of her resistless and
unpremeditated impulses.