Bob's face had grown pale and tense as he listened. With Mookoomahn's
last words he rose from the edge of the bunk where he had seated
himself, and turning to Ed Matheson, asked:
"Be you goin' with me, Ed? Th' moon's good for travellin', an' I knows
th' way."
"That I be," Ed responded, beginning his preparation at once. "I
couldn't be restin' here a minute knowin' them poor souls was dyin'
out there."
"I'm goin', too," declared Dick Blake, reaching for his adicky. "Three
can travel faster'n two, by changin' off in th' lead."
"What you doin', Bill, with your a dicky, now?" Ed suddenly asked,
observing that Bill Campbell was also drawing on his adicky. "Goin',"
answered Bill laconically.
"No, Bill, you better stay here with th' Injun," directed Ed.
"Somebody'll have t' stay with he. If they don't, by to-morrer he'll
get eatin' so much he'll kill hisself if he ain't watched.
"You stay an' keep an eye on he. Give he just a small bit t' a time,
till he gets over th' first sickness. He'll be wonderful sick
t'-night, an' for a week, but sick's he is, by day after t'-morrer
he'll be wonderful hungry, an' want t' eat everything in sight, an'
more too, an' if he eats too much 'twill kill he sure. His belly'll be
givin' he trouble for a month yet, whatever, two ways--wantin' t'
stuff un, an' makin' he sick because he does."
Bill Campbell was plainly disappointed, but there was no doubt Ed was
right, and laying aside his adicky he uncomplainingly assumed the role
of nurse to which Ed had assigned him.
The men set forth in haste upon their mission of life and death. The
moon, a white, cold patch, lay against the steel-blue sky. The snow,
thick coated with frost, glittered and scintillated in the moonlight.
A silence impressive, complete, tense, lay upon the frozen white
world. It spoke of death, as the bated breath of the storm, before it
breaks, speaks of calamity.
The three trappers, who had entered the tilt that evening wearied from
the day's labour upon the trail, forgot their weariness as they swung
forward at a rapid pace toward the camp on the Great Lake.
First one, then another, took the lead, breaking the trail and making
it easier for those who followed. To men less inured to hardship and
less accustomed to wilderness travel, it would have been a killing
pace, continued unabated, unvarying, hour after hour.
At length the moon, falling near the western horizon, threatened
quickly to withdraw her light; and then a halt was called, the tent
quickly stretched between two convenient trees, the sheet-iron stove
set up, a fire lighted, a few boughs spread for a bed, and the men
stretched themselves for a two hours' rest.
They were up again before light, a hurried breakfast was eaten, and
with daybreak they were away. Seldom was a word spoken. Each was
occupied with his own thoughts, and each was stingy of his breath. To
have talked would have been to expend energy.
Only once during the day did they halt, early in the evening, to make
tea and partake of much-needed refreshment, and then were quickly on
their way again, continuing by moonlight.
It was past midnight when, Ungava Bob in the lead, crossing a barren
rise, beheld the smooth white surface of the Great Lake stretching far
away to the northward. Descending the ridge and plunging into the thin
forest below, he turned with a nameless dread at his heart toward the
lodge where, three months before, he had said farewell to Shad and
Manikawan. Then they were in the full exuberance of health and
strength. How should he find them now? He dared not answer the
question.
A little farther, and the lodge, a black blot on the snow, loomed up
through the trees. Quickening his pace, he peered anxiously ahead for
smoke, half hoping, wholly dreading, the result. Yes, there it was!
The merest whiff rising above the protruding lodge poles at the top!
At least one lived!
Bob broke into a run, the others at his heels, and, scarcely halting
to drop the hauling rope of his toboggan from his shoulders, he lifted
the flap and entered, calling as he did so:
"Shad! Shad! Manikawan! Does you hear me?"
The place was dark. The smouldering embers of a fire gave out no
light, and receiving no answer Bob shouted to the others to bring a
candle. Ed Matheson had anticipated the need, and, close at Bob's
side, struck a light.