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
grubstake. 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!"
"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 dogfish 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! 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
Hades; 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? Welsh?"
"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 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 Malemutes 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 fine 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 merely to 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 practiced in the gloom of
evening as he felled spruce trees for firewood; 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
barabora 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
hogback, 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 nearsighted 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 road-house 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 malemute; 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 sleighbells
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 newcomers 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 fellow in the world. I'd lay down my
life for him."
FOOTNOTE:
[5] From _The Crimson Garden_. Copyright, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1916, by
Harper and Brothers. Reprinted by special permission of publisher and
author.
[Illustration]
VI.--That Spot[6]
_By Jack London_
I DON'T think much of Stephen Mackaye any more, though I used to swear
by him. I know that in those days I loved him more than my brother. If
ever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I shall not be responsible for my
actions. It passes beyond me that a man with whom I shared food and
blanket, and with whom I mushed over the Chilcoot Trail, should turn out
the way he did. I always sized Steve up as a square man, a kindly
comrade, without an iota of anything vindictive or malicious in his
nature. I shall never trust my judgment in men again. Why, I nursed that
man through typhoid fever; we starved together on the headwaters of the
Stewart; and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, after the
years we were together, all I can say of Stephen Mackaye is that he is
the meanest man I ever knew.
We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897, and we started
too late to get over Chilcoot Pass before the freeze-up. We packed our
outfit on our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, and then
we had to buy dogs in order to sled it the rest of the way. That was how
we came to get that Spot. Dogs were high, and we paid one hundred and
ten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say _looked_, because he was
one of the finest-appearing dogs I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds,
and he had all the lines of a good sled animal. We never could make out
his breed. He wasn't husky, nor Malemute, nor Hudson Bay; he looked like
all of them and he didn't look like any of them; and on top of it all he
had some of the white man's dog in him, for on one side, in the thick of
the mixed yellow-brown-red-and-dirty-white that was his prevailing
color, there was a spot of coal-black as big as a water bucket. That was
why we called him Spot.
He was a good looker all right. When he was in condition his muscles
stood out in bunches all over him. And he was the strongest-looking
brute I ever saw in Alaska, also the most intelligent-looking. To run
your eyes over him, you'd think he could outpull three dogs of his own
weight. Maybe he could, but I never saw it. His intelligence didn't run
that way. He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an instinct
that was positively gruesome for divining when work was to be done and
for making a sneak accordingly; and for getting lost and not staying
lost he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came to work, the
way that intelligence dribbled out of him and left him a mere clot of
wobbling, stupid jelly would make your heart bleed.