"I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the Apaches
has all got to cover and is looking scared.
"'Otra vez!' yells I again.
"'Boom!' says the Ole Virginia.
"This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. I ought
to have been halfway up the hill watching things from a safe distance,
but I wasn't. Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so she
didn't quite shoot my way. But she distributed about a ton over those
renegades. They sort of half got to their feet uncertain.
"'Otra vez!' yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her shooting
all day.
"It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn't go through I could see
me as an Apache parlor ornament. But it did. Those Chiricahuas give one
yell and skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got aboard
their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out on horses too tired to
trot.
"I didn't stop to get all the laughs, though. In fact, I give one jump
off that ledge, and I lit a-running. A quarter-hoss couldn't have beat
me to that shack. There I grabbed my good old gun, old Meat-in-the-pot,
and made a climb for the tall country."
Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to refill
his pipe. From the open mud fireplace he picked a coal. Outside, the
rain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfully
against the roof.
"That was the closest call I ever had," said he at last.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] From _Arizona Nights_. Reprinted by special permission of publisher
and author. Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page and Company.
[Illustration]
V.--The Weight of Obligation[5]
_By Rex Beach_
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. They had met by accident, but they remained together
by desire.
The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, 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 awful! 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 lifeboat 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 tablecloth 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 foothills 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
halfway. 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 reentered
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 foothills 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.
Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, "Feel bad,
Johnny?"
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 cleancut
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;
it'll do you good." He drew a bottle 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 snowshoed 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 proved 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 preeminence. 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;
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.
"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 blurr 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.