A LONG SHOT
Hugh Spencer was working as upper man on the whip-saw, and an Indian was
trying to extract a cartridge from an old and rusty rifle at his camp
down the river. Suddenly there was a report, and Hugh tumbled headlong
from his position. His friends sprang to his side, and found blood
spurting from a hole in his neck.
The flow was not great, so that their first feeling of horror was
changed to hopefulness. John shouted and waved to Haskins, whom he saw
standing near his scows. Haskins came running up, was told what had
happened, and with the single word, "Wait!" bolted to his tent. He was
back again in little more than a minute, with a camp-bed, blankets and
all. Few words were spoken, and those in whispers. The injured man was
lifted on to the bed, and carried to the tent, his temporary home.
"George, hot water." George was off to the cook-tent at the word, while
Haskins got Hugh on his side, the wound uppermost, and Frank arrived
hurriedly.
"Boracic acid out of the medicine bag; Frank, you light the fire, and
then take off Hugh's boots."
"It don't look as if it was bad," said Haskins, when the wound was
washed.
"No," replied John, "I don't think the bullet is far in, it is the shock
that has knocked him out; but I have no instruments with which to get
the bullet out, and even if I were able to draw it, it might be followed
by a rush of blood I should not know how to stop; and then there is the
danger of blood poisoning."
"A doctor with his partner is building a boat at White Horse," said
Haskins.
"Good! I'll get him! George, you know what to do. Keep a good watch, and
when he comes round keep him quiet."
John left the tent, and saw four of the dogs before Frank's kitchen.
"See anything of Dude?" he called to Frank.
"Yes, he was in front of my kitchen all the afternoon." Frank looked out
of the tent door. "Say! I've left my door open. I bet he's stole
something!" They ran to look. "Yes, a side of bacon's gone. Damn that
'dood'--'heap dam dood,' he!" Frank's sense of humour could not be
suppressed by any calamity; but its expression did not stay his
activities. He was out of his kitchen and peering into the bushes on the
hillside.
"Yes, I thought so; there he is, been up to his cache I located the
other day; he's done quick work and is coming back. Don't call him,
he'll come quicker without, and he may think we want to lick him for
thieving. Come inside."
It seemed an age before the reprobate reappeared before the cabin.
"Don't let on you see him, but walk by and grab him," whispered Frank.
John followed the instructions and was successful.
"Where's the harness?" asked Frank.
"With the sleigh at the tent. I'll get it."
"Here, Two Bits; here, Four Bits; here, Tom, Jerry," and Frank had the
team in harness. "Dude!"
Dude went to his place in the lead.
"Hold on a minute."
Frank went into the kitchen, and returned with half a loaf of bread and
some fried bacon, in a piece of birch bark.
"Throw this into you as you go."
"How about the dogs?"
"Damn the dogs; I've been feeding them all day."
"Mush!"
Dude looked back and did not move.
"Mush!" He moved ahead at a slow walk.
"Mush, damn you!" John felt surprised to hear himself swear; but the
dogs were in the condition styled "ornery." Dude turned in by the side
of the building, the others followed; the sleigh bumped against the
corner. Frank had Dude by the collar in a moment, and was belabouring
him over the flank with a stout stick. The hills reverberated with
howls. He hauled the animals back into line, and with a kick for good
measure, said in a cold slow tone,
"Mush."
Dude trotted off. Frank ran by the side of the team till they were on
the lake. "They'll go all right if you once get them away from camp, but
lick 'em good and plenty if they turn mean," was his counsel on
quitting.
John Berwick was alone with the team on the great expanse of Lake Le
Berge. Before him, to the south, lay the thirty-mile stretch of ice,
flanked by rolling hills, flooded with opalescent tints and peace. For
an instant the exceeding beauty of the scene gladdened his mind.
He was anxious about Hugh. There were forty-five miles to traverse
before he would come to White Horse. The dogs were travelling at five
miles an hour: nine hours before he could reach White Horse; and then,
if the river were open, what then? The thought of the delay necessitated
by a journey overland staggered him. It were easier to travel thirty
miles on the ice than fifteen through the bush. He jumped off the sleigh
and ran; but the dogs moved no faster; and the labour in running would
soon exhaust him, for while there was no snow on the ice, the surface of
the lake was a coarse ice-sand, which constituted a poor foothold. The
sun was setting; already a chill was in the air. A crust would form
within the hour; perhaps the dogs would move faster then.
These thoughts ran through his mind, till his fear developed into a
lingering dread. He realized that to go through that intolerable process
of analyzing the details of his anxiety could only result in futility.
The surface of the lake became harder; he picked up pieces of ice, threw
them at Dude, and shouted. Every missile, with its accompanying shout,
brought a merely temporary increase of speed. All attempts to get the
dogs to gallop proved futile.
It was three o'clock on the following morning when Berwick pounded on
the door of the police cabin at White Horse, and was greeted sleepily.
He entered. The flicker of a match showed a man in the act of lighting a
candle by the head of a bed built against the wall.
"Man shot at the foot of Le Berge; bullet in his neck; wants doctor."
The policeman jumped from bed, slipped to the door, and pointed to a
tent by the river-side.
"The doctor with his partner live in that tent. What is it--accident?"
"Yes; Indian trying to extract a cartridge from an old rifle."
"Damn the Siwashes! Same old story. Well, I have no doubt the doctor
will go. I guess you'll need some sleep, so if those fellows can't put
you up, return here, and you can climb into bed with me."
John had intended returning to his friend with the doctor, but bolted
without comment, save a mere "Thank you."
There is no process of knocking at a tent door, so John used his voice
to rouse the occupants.
"What do you want?" was the gruff response.
John gave the necessary information.
"Doc," then said the man to his unseen companion, "there's a chance of
doing the Good Samaritan act the preachers talk about."
There was silence for a while as the doctor and his comrade were
dressing and preparing; then John asked,
"Can I build a fire outside and cook some dog feed? If you will let me
have some feed I'll return it, or pay for it."
"I thought you was a chechacho!" said the gruff voice. "You want the Doc
to travel quick?"
"Certainly."
"And the Doc's taking them dogs home?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't feed them."
John Berwick's nature revolted against this theory; but he made no
protest, as the life of his mate was in jeopardy.
The doctor packed his hand-bag, and was ready.
"You stay here," he said; "you can do no good down there. Roll in and
have a sleep."
Dude was alert, but the other dogs were in repose when they were jerked
into life again. The train moved down the river. Fatigued in body and
mind, Berwick gladly rested and slept.