THE TOLL OF THE NORTH
Corporal Rand’s bloodshot eyes watched the bannock baking before the
fire. It was a small bannock, as bannocks go—a few ounces of flour,
water and salt, simmering and bubbling there in the bottom of the frying
pan. Unsupported by as much as a single pinch of baking powder, this
culinary effort of Rand’s wore an appearance of deep and utter
dejection. Either as a work of art or as an achievement in cookery the
thing was a failure—an unsavory, unappetizing mess. Yet the corporal
regarded it with elation in his heart. His mouth watered and his stomach
did an acrobatic flip-flop of happy anticipation. It was a wonderful
moment for Rand.
Half-starved, almost worn to the bone, in his desperate effort to make
Keechewan Mission before the final freeze-up, the young policeman was in
dire straits. For several days now he had subsisted chiefly on the dry
and withered berries of saskatoon, with an occasional small morsel of
bird meat. For hundreds of miles he had trekked along in worn moccasins,
flapping miserably about his ankles, the bare soles of his feet
pattering monotonously over a rough, difficult, uncertain trail.
Since leaving Mackenzie River barracks one disaster had followed
another. First, he had lost his horse and rifle in attempting to ford a
difficult river. Three days later, while he slept, there had come in the
night a soft-footed Indian prowler who had, without compunction, stolen
his only pair of service boots, his shoulder-pack and his revolver.
He had been placed in a terrible predicament. Barefooted, hungry, an
unabating rage in his heart, he had struggled on for a distance of
nearly twenty miles before luck favored him to the extent of directing
him to an Indian encampment, where he ate his first full meal in many
days and where, after many threats and much patient dickering, he had
been able to purchase a pair of moosehide moccasins.
A few days following this fortunate meeting, he had been reduced almost
to his previous condition of want and suffering. Then the tables had
turned again. Not more than an hour ago a great good fortune had
befallen him.
He had come down into a little valley between two hills; hobbling down
on tortured feet to a sizeable grove of poplar and jack-pine.
Half-cursing, half-moaning to himself, he had crossed a low ravine, then
scrambled up in the mellow afternoon sunlight to the edge of a small
natural clearing. His incurious gaze swept the view before him. For a
moment he paused, leaning somewhat dizzily against a small sapling
before continuing his course southward to the Wapiti River, where he had
planned to camp for the night.
In the short space of time in which he stood there, shaking with
fatigue, there impressed itself presently upon his vision an object of
unusual interest. It was the small stump of a tree—an ancient,
weather-beaten stump, probably not more than eight or ten inches in
diameter. As Rand looked at it, a half-hearted wonderment stole over
him, then a sudden quickening of the heart. Here before him was a
man-made stump, the first he had seen in the last two hundred miles of
steady travelling through the wilderness.
Someone, perhaps a long time ago, had felled a tree here. The corporal
could easily make out the imprint of an ax. And looking farther he had
found other stumps, upon which trees had once rested—about thirty of
them in all—standing there old and rotten at the heart, like so many
dreary sentinels in an unsightly garden of desolation.
Suddenly Rand gave vent to a sharp, quick cry of excitement. In spite of
the fact that his feet hurt him almost beyond endurance, he went forward
at a run, racing over the thick dry grass. The trees had been cut down
for a purpose, as he had surmised. He could see the cabin now, faintly
showing through the screen of underbrush on the opposite side of the
clearing.
But his heart fell as he came closer to the cabin. A sickening wave of
disgust and disappointment swept over him. He could see plainly that no
one lived there. The door, partially open, hung loosely on broken
hinges, while across the threshold, the grass had woven a tangled mat
which encroached a full twelve inches into the dark interior.
Years had passed probably since a human foot had stepped within that
cabin. In its present untenanted, dilapidated state it had very little
to offer to a man whose stomach gnawed with the irrepressible pangs of
hunger. In a fit of sudden despair, he stood and regarded it darkly.
Nevertheless, he strode through the doorway, for no apparent reason that
he could imagine, unless it was to satisfy a somewhat morbid curiosity
as to what he would find within. In the dim light of the single room, he
moved cautiously forward, peering about him with half-frightened eyes.
His feet stirred up a choking dust. There was a smell about the place he
did not like. It rose to his nostrils—a faintly sickening odor of
decayed plants.
A crudely constructed cupboard at one side of the room attracted his
attention. He walked over and examined it. The lower shelf contained
nothing of interest: a few black, dirty pots, covered with rust. On the
second shelf there was a miscellaneous assortment of knives and forks, a
small hammer with one of the claws broken, two enamelled plates, chipped
badly, but otherwise in fair condition.
The policeman found it necessary to rise on tiptoes in order to reach
the third shelf at all; but after a good deal of fumbling and groping
about, his hand came in contact with a round object, which he lifted
down for better inspection.
The weight of the thing, about six or seven pounds, indicated that it
was not entirely empty. It was round and cylindrical in shape and was
fitted on the top with an air-tight cover. Rand’s face became damp with
moisture as he turned the vessel slowly around in his hands. He shook it
several times, listening to the dull thud inside. Then, with a quick
in-taking of breath, he placed it hurriedly on the floor and attempted
to pry off the lid.
Several minutes later—for the cover was rusted down—he straightened up,
gibbering inanely. His eyes were bright with the joy of his discovery.
He laughed loudly, gleefully—a hint of madness in his laugh. He stooped
forward again, ramming one hand into the cool, white substance. For one
delicious moment he pawed around in it.
“Flour! Flour!” he gloated. “This is lucky!”
And so he ate the bannock with thankfulness in his heart. He had used
very little of the flour. With careful rationing, it would still last
him a long time—perhaps even to Keechewan Mission.
He sat now, staring into the fire, vaguely wondering what the morrow
would bring forth. He was in a much happier frame of mind than he had
been for many days. Things looked brighter somehow—after that bannock.
In the morning he would build a raft and cross the Wapiti. After that
there would be fairly smooth and open country until he came to the
Little Moose. More trouble there. A day or two crossing the divide—then
Keechewan Mission less than thirty miles away.
A short time later, Rand stirred himself and hobbled down to the river.
He would bathe his aching feet in ice-cold water before turning in. They
were in terrible condition and required immediate attention. If only he
could get the pain and fever out of them. Tomorrow morning he would tear
up his shirt and make soft cushions to wear inside his moccasins.
For several minutes he sat, dangling his feet in the glistening,
gurgling flood of the turbulent Wapiti. It was so dark now that he could
scarcely see. It was chilly sitting there on the rock with a north wind
whipping across his face and the water, like ice, around his ankles.
Much as he hated to admit it, the weather was not promising. In fact,
there was an indefinable something in the air, a vague, mysterious
portent that caused him to shiver with apprehension.
Suddenly, above the sound of the river and the moaning of the wind,
startled and alert, Rand heard a splashing out in mid-stream. A moose or
caribou, was his first thought. Too bad he didn’t have a gun. In his
half-famished state a moose-steak now would be his salvation.
A human voice carried across the water. Another voice. Rand could not
credit his senses. He rose, forgetting about his bare feet, and strained
his eyes until they hurt in the hope that he might be able to see
something. He was all atremble. It was dark out there, dark as black
midnight. The water rippled and the wind moaned in the pines. Surely he
was mistaken about those voices. He couldn’t hear a thing now—not even a
splash.
“Pull out! You’re gettin’ too close tuh shore,” warned a voice, deep and
resonant.
There was no mistaking it this time. Rand’s heart leaped. In the
tremendous excitement of the moment he forgot himself completely. Like
one daft, he sprang from the rock and raced wildly along the shore,
cutting his already bruised and battered feet. He screeched at the top
of his voice—one long and prolonged screech that shattered the silence.
“Yip! Yih!” shouted Rand, waving his arms.
“Did you hear that?”—from the river.
“Look out! Look out! You plagued fool. Look out! Now you’ve done it.
There!——”
A frenzied splashing of oars, another warning shout—a crash! It was the
crumpling impact of wood against rock that Rand heard, followed by the
shrieks of two men in mortal terror. Experienced in such matters, he
sensed immediately what had occurred. Sweeping down the swift,
treacherous current, the boat had veered in too close to shore, had
struck a rock and had overturned. The men were in the water. His fault
entirely. That foolish screech——
Shouting out his encouragement, the corporal waded out into the stream
and, without a moment’s hesitation, dove forward and commenced swimming
to their rescue.