THE LONELY FIGURE AGAIN
The laden sled stood ready for the moment of starting on the day's long
run. Five train dogs, lean, powerful huskies, crouched down upon the
snow. They gave no sign beyond the alertness of their pose and the
watchfulness of their furtive eyes. Their haunches were tucked under
them. And their long, wolfish muzzles, so indicative of their parentage,
were pressed down between great, outstretched forepaws.
The man studied every detail of his outfit. He knew the chances, the
desperate nature of the long winter trail. He had no desire to increase
the hardship of it all by any act of carelessness.
Behind him lay the mockery of a camping ground. It was a minute,
isolated bluff of stunted, windswept trees, set in a white, wide
wilderness of barren land. Perhaps there was some half a hundred of
them. But that was all. They had served, but only by reason that their
shelter had satisfied habit, which, even in the men of the long trail,
will not be denied.
He turned away. Everything was to his satisfaction. So his tall,
fur-clad figure passed in amongst the dwarf trees.
The dogs remained crouching, their fierce eyes gazing out over the
desolate expanse of winter's playground. It lay at a great altitude,
several thousands of feet above the level of the sea. The sky was drab.
It was bitter with threat. It was unrelieved by any break in the
menacing winter cloud. It was a snow sky which only refrained from
releasing its burden by reason of the high, top wind that drove the
heavy masses relentlessly. The earthly prospect was no more inviting. It
was wide, and flat, and devoid of vegetation. There were no hills
anywhere, and the skyline was just a vanishing point similar to the
horizon of the open sea. One vast, wide field of snow and ice spread out
in every direction, and made desolation complete.
When the man re-appeared he was armed with a sturdy "gee-pole," and at
his belt was coiled a heavy-thonged, short-stocked driving whip.
Without a word he thrust the pole under the front of the sled runners,
and a sharp command broke from his lips. The effect was instantaneous.
Each dog sprang at his "tug." The man heaved on his pole. There was a
moment of straining, then the holding ice gave up its grip, and the sled
shot forward.
The man stood for a moment beating his mitted hands. Then he took his
place on the sled, buried his legs and feet under the heavy seal robes
set ready, and so the long-waited command to "mush" was hurled at the
waiting beasts.
The dogs leapt at their work and the sled swept forward with a rush. A
blinding flurry of snow dust rose in its wake, enveloping it, and the
dogs raced on, yelping with the joy of activity. Their great muscles
were aquiver with the eager spirit which is bred of the wild. And so
they would continue to run, for their load was light, and the
heavy-thonged whip was playing in skilful hands, and they knew, and
feared, and obeyed its constant threat.
The way lay across the frozen bosom of a great lake, no less than an
inland sea, and a hundred miles must be travelled before night, or the
snow, overtook them. It was a hard run. But it must be accomplished.
Failure? But failure must not be considered. No man could contemplate
failure and face the winter trail in the barren desolation of the lofty
interior of Labrador's untracked wild.
The austerity of the country was well-nigh overwhelming. The nakedness
of it all suggested a skeleton world robbed of everything that could
make existence possible. It suggested a world that was sick, and aged,
and too unfruitful to harbour aught but the fierce elemental storms of
the northern winter. And the cold of it ate into the bones of the lonely
figure passing through the great silence like a ghost.
* * * * *
The night was deathly still. A thermometer would have registered
something colder than sixty degrees below zero. Not a breath of wind
stirred. The only sound that came was the doleful note of a prowling
wolf in the forest belt near by, and the booming protest of the trees
against the bitterness of winter.
The sky was ablaze with a myriad jewels in a velvet setting. And a cold
wealth of aurora lit the northern heavens. Camp had been pitched well
wide of the nearby forests, and three men sat crouching over the fire.
There was little enough to differentiate between them. They were white
men, and all were clad, from their heads to the soles of their seal hide
moccasins, in heavy furs. The dark outlines of two sleds showed up a few
yards away, but the dogs, themselves, were not visible. Weary with their
day's run they had betaken themselves to their nightly snow burrows to
dream over past battles, past labours.
The men were talking earnestly in the low, slow tones which the silence
of the forests seems to inspire. Three pairs of bare hands were outheld
to the welcome blaze of the fire. Three pairs of clear gazing eyes
searched the heart of it. None were smoking. It would have been a burden
to keep the pipe stem from freezing even in the vicinity of the fire,
and none of them were in any mood to accept any added burden.
A blue-eyed, beardless youth shifted his gaze to the dark face directly
opposite him beyond the fire.
"Oh, we got that guy--good," he said. There was laughter in his eyes but
not in his tone. "We got him plumb at the game. He was chock full of
kerosene and tinder, and he'd fired the patch in several places. We were
on it quick. We beat the fire in seconds. As for him, why, I guess his
Ma's going to forget him right away. Leastways I hope so. He went out
like the snuff of a lucifer, and his body's likely handed plenty feed to
any wolf straying around."
The dark man across the fire nodded.
"Did he hand a squeal before--he went?"
"Not a word. Hadn't time. Peter here didn't ast a thing either."
The youth laughed softly, and the man called Peter took up the story.
"Tain't no use arguin' with a feller loaded with kerosene in these
forests," he said, in a low grumbling way. Then he reached down and
snatched a brand from the fire and flung it out on the snow. His action
was followed swiftly by a wolfish howl of dismay. Then he again turned
his grizzled, whiskered face to the dark man beyond the fire. "You see,
Father, it's our job keeping these forests from fire, an' it ain't easy.
It don't much concern us who's out to fire 'em. That's for other folks.
The feller with kerosene in these forests is goin' to get the stuff we
ken hand him. That's all. Bob an' me got our own way fer actin'."
Bob laughed
"We sure have," he said. "But we don't allers pull it off. No. We've had
ten fires on our range in two weeks. We've beat the fires, but we ain't
smashed the 'bugs' that set 'em."
"Would they be all one feller? The feller that got it?" The dark man's
eyes were serious. His tone was troubled.
Peter shook his head.
"No, sir. There's more'n one, sure. An' from the things I've heerd tell
from the boys on the neighbourin' ranges it's happening all along
through our limits. They tell me there's queer things doin' an' no one
seems to locate the meaning right."
"What sort of things?"
The dark man spoke sharply. Peter's reply came after profound
deliberation.
"Oh, things," he said. Then he thrust a gnarled brown hand up under his
fur hood, and scratched his head. "There's our forest 'phones. They're
bein' cut. It's the same everywhere. There's most always things to break
'em happenin', but a break aint a cut. No. They're cut. Who's cuttin'
'em, and why? Fire-bugs. It ain't grouchy jacks. No. I've heerd the
jacks are on the buck in parts, but that ain't their play. There ain't a
jack who'd see these forests afire, or do a thing to help that way. You
see, it's their living, it's their whole life. We got so we can't depend
a thing on the 'phones. An' cut our forests 'phones and we're gropin'
like blind men."
"Yes."
The leaping flames were dropping, and Bob moved out to the store of
fuel. He returned laden, and packed the wood carefully to give the
maximum blaze. Then he squatted again, and again his hands were thrust
out to the warmth which meant luxury.
Peter had no more to add. His grey eyes searched the heart of the fire
as he reflected on the things which were agitating his mind.
"I want to get word down, but I can't depend on the 'phones," he said
presently. "If they ain't cut I can't tell who's gettin' the message
anyway. Maybe the wires are bein' tapped."
The man across the fire nodded.
"I'm going down," he said.
"I'm glad." Peter's acknowledgment came with an air of relief. "I'll
hand you a written report before you pull out."
"It's best that way."
The fire was leaping again. Its beneficent warmth was very pleasant. Bob
turned his eyes skyward.
"You'll get a good trip, Father," he said. "That snow's cleared out of
the sky. It 'ud ha' been hell if it had caught you out on the lake."
"Yes. I wouldn't have made here. I wouldn't have made anywhere if that
had happened." The dark man laughed.
Peter shook his head.
"No. You took a big chance."
"I had to."
"So?"
"Yes. I had to get through. There's a big piece of trouble coming."
"To do with these fires?"
"I guess so."
"I see."
Peter's comment was full of understanding. After awhile the other looked
up.
"Guess I need a big sleep," he said. "I've got to pull out with
daylight. Anything you want besides that written report passed on down?"
Peter shook his head and sat on awhile blinking silently at the
firelight. Then the dark man scrambled to his feet. He stood for a
moment, very tall, very bulky in his fur clothing, and nodded down at
the others.
"So long," he said. And he moved off to his sleeping bag which was laid
out to receive his tired body.
* * * * *
The man stood just within the shelter of the twilit forests. He was a
powerful creature of sturdy build, hall-marked with the forest craft
which was his life. He was clad in tough buckskin from head to foot.
Even his hands, which he frequently beat in a desire for warmth, were
similarly clad. His weatherbeaten face was hard set, and his eyes were
narrowed to confront the merciless snow fog which the rage of the
blizzard outside hurled at him.
The cold was almost unendurable even here in the wooded shelter.
Outside, where the storm raged unrestrainedly over its fierce
playground, only blind hopelessness prevailed.
There was nothing to be done. He could only wait.
He could only wait, and hope, or abandon his vigil, and return to his
camp which was far back in the heart of the forests. Away out there,
somewhere lost in the blinding fog of the blizzard, which had only
sprung up within the last hour, a lonely fellow creature was making for
the shelter in which he stood. He was driving headlong towards him. Oh,
yes. He knew that. He had seen the moving outfit far off, several miles
away, over the snowy plains, before the storm had arisen. Now--where was
he? He could not tell. He could not even guess at what might have
happened. Blinded, freezing, weary, how long could the lonely traveller
endure and retain any sense of direction?
To the forest man the position was well-nigh tragic. Had he not
experience of the terror of a northern blizzard? Had he not many a time
had to grope his way along a life-line lest the slightest deviation in
direction should carry him out into the storm to perish of cold, blinded
and lost? Oh, yes. This understanding was the alphabet of his life.
As he stood there watching and wiping the snow from his eyes, he
reminded himself not only of his own experience but of every story of
disaster in a blizzard he had ever listened to. And so he saw no hope
for the poor wretch he had seen struggling to make the shelter.
But he could not bring himself to abandon his post. How could he with a
fellow creature out there in peril? Besides, there was other reason,
although it needed none. He had urgent news for this man, news which
must be imparted without delay, news which his employers must hear at
the earliest possible moment.
His trouble grew as he waited. He searched his mind for anything
calculated to aid the doomed traveller. He could find nothing. He
thought to call out, to burst his lungs in a series of shouts on the
chance of being heard in the chaos of the storm. But he realised the
uselessness of it all, and abandoned the impulse. No puny human voice
could hope to make impression on the din of the elemental battle being
fought out on the plain. No. His only service must be to stand there
beating life into his numbing hands, ready to act on the instant should
opportunity serve.
He was eaten up by anxiety, and so took no cognisance of time. He had
forgotten the passing of daylight. Therefore sudden realisation flung
him into headlong panic. The forest about him was growing dark. The snow
fog outside had changed to a deeper hue. Night was coming on. The man in
the storm was beyond all aid, human or otherwise.
The impulse of the moment was irresistible. He moved. He passed out from
behind the long limbs of his leafless shelter. He went at a run shouting
with all the power of his lungs. Again and again his prolonged cry went
up. And with each effort he waited listening, listening, only to receive
the mocking reply of the howling storm. But he persisted. He persisted
for the simple human reason that his desire outran his power to serve.
And in the end exhaustion forced him to abandon his hopeless task.
It was then the miracle happened. Far away, it seemed, a sound like the
faintest echo of his own voice came back to him, but it came from a
direction all utterly unexpected. For a moment he hesitated, bewildered,
uncertain. Then he sent up another shout, and waited listening. Yes.
There it was. Again came the faintly echoing cry through the trees. It
came not from the open battle ground of the storm, but from the shelter
of the forests somewhere away to the north of him.
* * * * *
A tall, fur-clad figure stood nearby to the sled which was already
partly unloaded. A yard or two away a fire had been kindled, and it
blazed comfortingly in the growing dusk of the forest. It was the moment
when the forest man came up somewhat breathlessly and flung out a mitted
hand in greeting.
"I guessed you were makin' your last run for shelter, Father," he cried.
"I just hadn't a hope you'd make through that storm. You beat it--fine."
The tall man nodded. His dark eyes were smiling a cordiality no less
than the other's.
"I guessed that way, too," he said quietly. "Then I didn't." He shrugged
his fur-clad shoulders. "No. It's not a northern trail that's going to
see the end of me. But it's your yarn I need to hear. How is it?"
"Bad."
The two men looked squarely into each others eyes, and the gravity of
the forest man was intense. The man who had just come out of the storm
was no less serious, but presently he turned away, and for a second his
gaze rested on the group of sprawling dogs. The beasts looked utterly
spent as they blinked at the fire which they were never permitted to
approach. He indicated the fire.
"Let's sit," he said. "It's cold--damnably cold."
The other needed no second invitation. They both moved back to the fire
and squatted over it, and the forest man pointed at the dogs.
"Beat?" he said.
"Yes. But they hauled me through. They're a great outfit. I fed 'em
right away and now they need rest. They'll be ready for the trail again
by morning. Anyway I can't delay."
"No. You've got to get through quick."
Both were holding outspread hands to the fire. Both were luxuriating in
the friendly warmth.
"Well?" The tall man turned his head so that his dark eyes searched the
other's face again. "You'd best tell it me, Jean. If the storm lets up I
pull out with daylight. I've come through every camp, and this is the
last. Maybe I know the stuff you've got to tell. It's been the same most
all the way."
Jean looked up from the heart of the fire.
"Trouble?" he enquired.
"Every sort." The tall man's eyes were smiling. "There's jacks quitting
and pulling out, and nobody seems to know how they're getting, seeing
it's winter. Others are going slow. There's others grumbling for things
you never heard tell of before. There's fire-bugs at work, and the
forest 'phones are being cut or otherwise tampered with all the time.
We've lost hundreds of acres by fire already."
"My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned back to the fire. "Say," he
went on, "have you heard of the things going on? The thing that's
happening?"
"You mean the outfit working it?"
"Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that's the talk of 'em.
They call 'em 'Bolshies,' whatever that means. They're chasing these
forests through. They make the camps by night, and get hold of the boys
right away. They throw a hurricane of hot air at them, preachin' the
sort of dope that sets those darn fools lyin' around when they need to
be makin' the winter cut. And when they're through, and started the bug
the way they want it, they pull out right away before the daylight
comes. We never get a chance at 'em. Our boys are all plumb on the buck.
I was just crazy for you to come along, Father. Guess you're the one man
to fix the boys right. An' when I see you caught up in that darn
storm--"
"I'll do the thing I know," the dark man replied. "I've been doing it
right along. But it's not enough. That's why I'm chasing down to the
coast. We've got to lay this spook that worries the boys at night. It's
no Bolshie outfit." He shook his head. "Anyway if it is it's got another
thing behind it. It's the Skandinavia."
He sat on for a few minutes in silence. He squatted there, hugging his
knees. He was weary. He was weary almost to death with the incessant
travel that had already occupied him weeks.
Quite abruptly his hands parted and he stood up. Jean followed his
movements with anxious eyes.
"You goin' down to talk to the boys?" he asked at last.
The man nodded.
"Yes. Right away. I'll do all I know."
"They'll listen to you."
The other smiled.
"Yes. Till the spook comes back."
Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes.
"That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut's right plumb down. If
this thing don't quit the mill's going to starve when the ice breaks.
I've lost nigh three weeks' full cut already. It's--it's hell!"
"Yes."
The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on over the fire. But his troubled
eyes watched the curious figure as it passed over to its outfit. He saw
the man stoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentangle some
garment from the rest. When he came back the furs he had been clad in
were either abandoned or hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered an
awesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in black from head to foot,
and his garment possessed the flowing skirts of a priest.
"I'm going right down to the boys now," he said. "You best stop around
here. Just have an eye to the dogs. It's best you not being with me."
Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by the camp boss this man's
influence with the boys would have been seriously affected. Alone he was
well-nigh all powerful.
"Good," he said. "For God's sake do what you can, Father," he cried.
"I'll stop right here till you get back. So long."