Jack lay upon the snow with the ground about him dyed red from a badly
crushed ankle. Tom and old Joe Picquet bent over him doing what they
could to ease his pain, for he had now regained consciousness.
It was a wolf trap that the boy had blundered into; a cruel, ponderous
affair with massive steel jaws, from whose grip it had been hard to
release him.
“Is the ankle broken, do you think?” asked Tom of old Joe.
“Tiens! I can no say now. But I teenk not. Zee trap was old, zee spring
was weak. Dat is good. Eef eet had been new, eet would have broken zee
bone lak you break zee pipe stem. Voila!”
“How do you feel now, Jack?” asked Tom.
Jack made a brave effort to disguise his pain.
“I’ll soon be all right, I guess,” he said, “but, Tom, I’ll tell you one
thing.”
“What is that?”
“I’ll never set another trap for a wild animal as long as I live. I know
now how they must suffer.”
After a brief consultation, Tom and old Joe lifted the suffering boy and
carried him back to the sled. A “snow-camp” had already been devised and
Jack was made as comfortable as possible in this.
By the firelight old Joe examined his injury. The flesh was badly
crushed and bruised, but so far as the old trapper could see there were
no bones broken.
“Sacre! I weesh dat eet was summer!” breathed the old man. “In summer
grow many herbs are good for heal. Zee Indians teach me many. But in
winter dere ees notheeng lak dat. Moost use what we can.”
With bandages made out of a flour sack, which, luckily, was almost
empty, old Joe dressed Jack’s injury after carefully bathing it. The boy
declared that he felt better almost at once after Joe had completed his
woodland surgery.
“It’s too bad that I should be giving all this trouble, especially right
now,” muttered Jack as he lay back.
“Say, if you say anything like that again, I’ll forget you are sick and
punch your head,” said Tom, with a look of affection, however, that
belied his words.
After supper old Joe announced that he had decided on a plan that he
thought would fit the exigencies of the situation. About ten miles from
where they then were a friend of his, Pierre La Roche, like himself a
trapper, had a hut. They must make their way there as quickly as
possible and leave Jack in La Roche’s care till he was fit to travel,
which might not be for some time. This done, they would go back to the
camp of the _Yukon Rover_, tell what had happened, and seek the advice
of Mr. Dacre and Mr. Chillingworth.
Tom felt that this was the best plan that could be evolved. After all,
they had done all they could to recover the skins, and if he was blamed
for not maintaining a better watch on the fox kennels, why he must face
the music. Jack, too, thought the plan a good one, so that they were all
satisfied, and, despite Jack’s injury, he slept as well that night as
his two companions.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. They were up and about early,
and Tom caught a good meal of fish for the dogs through the hole in the
ice. When he returned to the camp he carried with him the old rusty trap
that had caused Jack’s injury.
“Thought you might like this bit of jewelry for a souvenir,” he said
dryly.
“So far as I am concerned you can throw it into the next county,” was
the rejoinder.
No time was lost in despatching breakfast and getting an early start.
The way to La Roche’s cabin was what is known as a “bad trail.” In fact,
it would be necessary to break a path for a great part of the way. Jack
was made as snug as possible on the top of the sled, and when old Joe’s
whip cracked, he declared that he felt as luxurious as if he were riding
in his own automobile.
Not long after leaving the night camp the party found themselves
beginning to climb a steep and stony trail. It lay on the weather side
of a small range of hills remarkable for their ruggedness, and in places
where the wind had swept the snow clear, jagged masses of rock peeped
blackly out of the prevailing whiteness.
It was rough traveling, with a vengeance. From time to time they had to
stop and rest the dogs. By noon they had hardly made five miles and,
according to old Joe, the worst still lay before them. However, bad as
the trail was, it was preferable to taking Jack all the way back to
_Yukon Rover_ camp. That, in fact, would have been impossible, for the
extra weight on the sled was already telling on the mamelukes. They went
forward with drooping tails and sagging flanks.
But over that cruel road they showed how well old Joe’s faith in them
was justified. Fagged as they were, they did not falter, and when they
slacked pace a little the crack of old Joe’s whip in the frosty air
never failed to send them forward once more at their ordinary pace.
Tom began to have an immense respect for the mameluke. He understood how
it was that men paid large sums for such capable beasts. Savage,
intractable, and, as a rule, responding to none but the harshest
treatment, the mameluke dog is faithful unto death in only too many
instances. A halt was made at midday to eat a hasty snack and to feed
and rest the dogs. Then the journey was resumed once more.
It was not so cold as it had been, and in places the snow had softened,
affording only a treacherous foothold for the animals. Now and then,
too, the boys observed old Joe glancing upward at the precipitous walls
that began to tower above the trail.
At length his observations grew so frequent that Tom had to ask him what
it was that interested him so on the precipitous heights that overhung
their path.
Old Joe shook his head.
“Zee snow, he soft. Dat plenty bad. Snow soften, rocks loosen. Bimeby
maybe, one beeg rock come toomble down.”
“Gracious, one of those big fellows up there?” And Tom’s eyes roved
upward to where huge black rocks, shaped in some instances like
monstrous animals, could be seen sticking out of the snow field.
“Yes; eef no watch, one of dem might heet us when zee soft snow loosens
zee earth,” declared Joe, without any more concern in his voice than if
he were speaking of what they would have for supper.
“Well, if one of those ever struck this outfit, it would be the last of
it,” declared Tom, alarmed at the prospect.
“Weezout doubt,” rejoined old Joe, with a shrug of his shoulders, “but
for dat we moost watch all zee time. Dat ees zee law of zee north, to
watch always.”