Bill made plans for an early start to his Twenty-three Mile cabin. The
hike would have been easy enough, considering the firm snow that covered
the underbrush, but the hours of daylight were few and swift. And he
had no desire to try to find his way in that trackless country in the
darkness.
"I'll leave before dawn--as soon as it gets gray," he told Virginia as
he bade her good night. "I'll come back the next day, with a backload
of supplies. And with the little we have left, we will have enough to
go on. We can start for Bradleyburg the day after that."
Virginia took no pleasure in bidding him good-by. She had already
learned that this winter forest was a bleak and fearful place when her
woodsman was away. Curiously, she could find little consolation in the
thought that she and Harold could have a full day together, alone. And
before the night was half over, it seemed to her, she heard his stealing
feet on the cabin floor outside her curtain.
He seemed to be moving quietly, almost stealthily. She heard the stove
door open, and the subdued crack of a match scratched gently. A warm
glow flooded her being when she understood.
For all the arduous day's toil that waited him, Bill hadn't forgotten to
build her fire. The cabin would still be warm for her to dress. She
didn't know that her eyes were shining in the gloom. She drew aside the
curtain.
"I'm awake, Bill. I want to tell you good-by again," she said.
"I don't see what makes me so clumsy," Bill returned impatiently. "I
thought I could get this fire going without waking you up. But I'm glad
enough to have another good-by."
"And you'll be--awfully careful?" Her voice did not hold quite
steadily. "So many--many things can happen in those awful
woods--when you are alone. I never realized before how they're always
waiting, always holding a sword over your head, ready to cut you down.
I'm afraid to have you go----"
He laughed gently, but the deathless delight he felt at her words
rippled through the laugh like flowing water. "There's nothing to be
afraid of, Virginia. You'll see me back to-morrow night. I've wandered
these woods by myself a thousand times----"
"And the thousandth and first time you might fall into their trap! But
why can't we take some of that grizzly meat----"
"Virginia, you'd break your pretty teeth on it. Of course we could in a
pinch--but this is no march, to-day. Good-by."
"Good-by." Her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her tones were sober
and earnest. "I'll pray for you, Bill--the kind of prayers you told
me about--entreating prayer to a God that can hear--and understand--and
help. A real God, not just an Idea such as I used to believe in. Here's
my hand, Bill."
He groped for it as a plant gropes for sunlight, as the blind grope to
find their way. He found it at last: it was swallowed in his own palm,
and the heart of the man raced and thrilled and burned. She couldn't
see what he did with it in the darkness. It seemed to her she felt a
warmth, a throbbing, a pressure that was someway significant and
portentous above any experience of her life. Yet she didn't know that
he had dropped to his knees outside the curtain and pressed the hand to
his lips. The door closed slowly behind him.
The last stars were fading, slipping away like ghosts into the further
recesses of the sky, as he pushed away from the cabin door. He didn't
need the full light of morning to find his way the first few miles. He
need only head toward the peak of a familiar mountain, now a shadow
against the paling sky.
The night was not so cold as it had a right to be. He had expected a
temperature far below zero: in reality it seemed not far below freezing.
Some weather change impended, and at first he felt vaguely uneasy. But
he mushed on, the long miles gliding slowly, steadily beneath him. Only
once he missed his course, but by back-tracking one hundred yards he
found it again.
Morning came out, the trees emerged from the gloom, the shadows faded.
He kept his direction by the landmarks learned while following his trap
lines. The day was surprisingly warm. His heavy woolens began to
oppress him.
As always the wilderness was silent and vaguely sinister, but after a
few hours it suddenly occurred to him that the air was preternaturally
still. A few minutes later, when he struck a match to light his pipe,
this impression was vividly confirmed. As is the habit with all
woodsmen he watched the match-smoke to detect the direction of the wind.
The blue strands, with hardly a waver or tremor, streamed straight up.
He was somewhat reassured, however, when he remembered that he had not
yet emerged from a great valley between low ranges that ordinarily
prevented free passage of the winds.
He mushed on, his snowshoes crunching on the white crust. The powers of
the wilderness gave him good speed--almost to the noon hour. Then
they began to show him what they could do.
He was suddenly aware that the fine edge of the wilderness silence had
been dulled. There was a faint stir at his ear drums, to dim to name or
identify or even to accept as a reality. He stopped, listening
intently.
The stir grew to a faint and distant murmur, the murmur to a long swish
like a million rustling garments. A tree fell, with a crash, far away.
Then the wind smote him.
In itself it was nothing to fear. It was not a hurricane, not even a
particularly violent storm, but only a brisk gale that struck him from
the side and more or less impeded his progress. Trees that were
tottering and ready to fall went down with reverberating reports; the
snowdust whirled through the forest, changing the contour of the drifts,
and filling up the tracks of the wild creatures. But for Bill the wind
held a real menace. It was from the southeast, and warm as a girl's
hand against his face.
No man of the Northwest Provinces is unacquainted with this wind. It is
prayed for in the spring because its breath melts the drifts swiftly,
but it is hated to death by the traveler caught far from his cabin on
snowshoes. The wind was the far-famed Chinook, the southeast gale that
softens the snow as a child's breath melts the frost on a window pane.
It did not occur to Bill to turn back. Already he was nearly halfway to
his destination. The food supplies had to be secured, sooner or later;
and when the Chinook comes no man knows when it will go away. He mushed
on through the softening snow.
Within an hour the crust was noticeably softer. One hour thereafter and
the snow was soft and yielding as when it had first fallen in early
winter. Mushing was no longer a pleasant pursuit. Henceforth it was
simply toil, rigorous and exhausting. The snowshoe sank deep, the snow
itself clung to the webs and frame until it was almost impossible to
lift.
A musher in the soft wet snow can only go at a certain pace. There is
no way to hurry the operation and get speedily over the difficulties.
Any attempt to quicken the pace results only in a fall. The shoe cannot
be pushed ahead as when the snow is well-packed or crusted. It has to
be deliberately lifted, putting the leg tendons to an unnatural strain.
It was too far to turn back. As many miles of weary snow stretched
behind him as before him. At Twenty-three Mile cabin he could pass a
night as comfortable as at home: there were food and blankets in plenty,
and the well-built hut contained a stove. Once there, he could wait for
a hard freeze that would be certain to harden the half-thawed snow and
make it fit for travel. His only course was to push on step by step.
The truth suddenly dawned upon him that he was face to face with one of
the most uncomfortable situations of all his years in the forest. He
didn't believe he would be able to make the cabin before the fall of
night; if indeed he were able to complete the weary miles, it would only
be by dint of the most cruel and exhausting labor. He carried no
blankets, and although with the aid of his camp ax he could keep some
sort of a fire, a night out in the snow and the cold was not an
experience to think of lightly.
Bill knew very well just what capabilities for effort the human body
holds. It has certain definite limits. After a few hours of such labor
as this the body is tired,--tired clear through and aching in its
muscles. Despondency takes the place of hope, the step is somewhat
faltering, hunger assails and is forgotten, even the solace of tobacco
is denied because the hand is too tired to grope for and fill the pipe.
Thereafter comes a deeper stage of fatigue, one in which every separate
step requires a distinct and tragic effort of will. The perceptions are
blunted, the uncertainty of footfall is more pronounced, the stark
reality of the winter woods partakes of a dreamlike quality. Then comes
utter and complete exhaustion.
In its first stages there can still be a few dragging or staggering
steps, a last effort of a brave and commanding will. Perhaps there is
even a distance of creeping. But then the march is done! There is no
comeback, no rallying. The absolute limit has been reached. But
fortunately, lying still in the snow, the wanderer no longer cares. He
wonders why he did not yield to this tranquil comfort long since.
Bill began to realize that he was approaching his own limit. The weary
miles crept by, but with a tragic languor that was like a nightmare.
But time flew; only a little space of daylight remained.
Bill's leg muscles were aching and burning now, and he had to force
himself on by sheer power of his will. He would count twenty-five
painful steps, then halt. The wind had taken a more westerly course by
now, and the snow was no longer melting. The air was more crisp:
probably one night would serve to recrust the snow. But the fact became
ever more evident that the darkness would overtake him before he could
reach the cabin.
But now, curiously, he dreaded the thought of pausing and making a fire.
Partly he feared--with the age-old fear that lay buried deep in every
cell--the long, bitter night without shelter, food or blankets; but
even the labor of fire-building appalled his spirit. I would be a
mighty task, fatigued as he was: first to clear away the snow, cut down
trees, hew them into lengths and split them--all with a light camp ax
that only dealt a sparrow blow--then to kneel and stoop and nurse the
fire.
His woodsman's senses predicted a bitter night, in spite of the warmth
of the day. It would harden the snow again, but it would also wage war
against his life. All night long he would have to fight off sleep so
that he could mend the fire and cut fuel. It mustn't be a feeble,
flickering fire. The cold could get in then. All night long the flame
must not be allowed to flag. In his fatigue it would be so easy to dose
off,--just for a moment, and the fire would burn out. In that case
the fire of his spirit would burn out too,--just as certain, just as
soon.
Late afternoon: already the shadows lay strange and heavy in the distant
tree aisles. And all at once he paused, thrilled, in his tracks.
A little way to the east, on the bank of a small creek, his father and
his traitorous partner had once had a mining claim,--a mine they had
tried unsuccessfully to operate before Bronson had made his big strike.
They had built a small cabin, and for nearly thirty years it had stood
moldering and forgotten. Twice in his life Bill had seen it,--once as
a boy, when his father had taken him there on some joyous, holiday
excursion, and once in his travels Bill had beheld it at a distance.
Its stove had rotted away years since; it contained neither food nor
blankets nor furniture, yet it was a shelter against the night and the
cold. And even now it was within half a mile of where he stood.
Exultant and thankful, Bill turned in his tracks and mushed over toward
it.