Suddenly a great thrill shot through Philip, and for an instant he stood
rigid. What was that he saw out in the gray gloom of Arctic desolation,
creeping up, up, up, almost black at its beginning, and dying away like
a ghostly winding-sheet? A gurgling cry rose in his throat, and he went
on, panting now like a broken-winded beast in his excitement. It grew
near, blacker, warmer. He fancied that he could feel its heat, which was
the new fire of life blazing within him.
He went down between two great drifts into a pit which seemed
bottomless. He crawled to the top of the second, using his pulseless
hands like sticks in the snow, and at the top something rose from the
other side of the drift to meet him.
It was a face, a fierce, bearded face, the gaunt starvation in it hidden
by his own blindness. It seemed like the face of an ogre, terrible,
threatening, and he knew that it was the face of William DeBar, the
seventh brother.
He launched himself forward, and the other launched himself forward, and
they met in a struggle which was pathetic in its weakness, and rolled
together to the bottom of the drift. Yet the struggle was no less
terrible because of that weakness. It was a struggle between two
lingering sparks of human life and when these two sparks had flickered
and blazed and died down, the two men lay gasping, an arm's reach from
each other.
Philip's eyes went to the fire. It was a small fire, burning more
brightly as he looked, and he longed to throw himself upon it so that
the flames might eat into his flesh. He had mumbled something about
police, arrest and murder during the struggle, but DeBar spoke for the
first time now.
“You're cold,” he said.
“I'm freezing to death,” said Philip.
“And I'm--starving.”
DeBar rose to his feet. Philip drew himself together, as if expecting an
attack, but in place of it DeBar held out a warmly mittened hand.
“You've got to get those clothes off--quick--or you'll die,” he said.
“Here!”
Mechanically Philip reached up his hand, and DeBar took him to his
sledge behind the fire and wrapped about him a thick blanket. Then he
drew out a sheath knife and ripped the frozen legs of his trousers up
and the sleeves of his coat down, cut the string of his shoe-packs and
slit his heavy German socks, and after that he rubbed his feet and legs
and arms until Philip began to feel a sting like the prickly bite of
nettles.
“Ten minutes more and you'd been gone,” said DeBar.
He wrapped a second blanket around Philip, and dragged the sledge on
which he was lying still nearer to the fire. Then he threw on a fresh
armful of dry sticks and from a pocket of his coat drew forth something
small and red and frozen, which was the carcass of a bird about the
size of a robin. DeBar held it up between his forefinger and thumb, and
looking at Philip, the flash of a smile passed for an instant over his
grizzled face.
“Dinner,” he said, and Philip could not fail to catch the low chuckling
note of humor in his voice. “It's a Whisky Jack, man, an' he's the first
and last living thing I've seen in the way of fowl between here and Fond
du Lac. He weighs four ounces if he weighs an ounce, and we'll feast
on him shortly. I haven't had a full mouth of grub since day before
yesterday morning, but you're welcome to a half of him, if you're hungry
enough.”
“Where'd your chuck go?” asked Philip.
He was conscious of a new warmth and comfort in his veins, but it was
not this that sent a heat into his face at the outlaw's offer. DeBar
had saved his life, and now, when DeBar might have killed him, he was
offering him food. The man was spitting the bird on the sharpened end
of a stick, and when he had done this he pointed to the big Mackenzie
hound, tied to the broken stub of a dead sapling.
“I brought enough bannock to carry me to Chippewayan, but he got into
it the first night, and what he left was crumbs. You lost yours in the
lake, eh?”
“Dogs and everything,” said Philip. “Even matches.”
“Those ice-traps are bad,” said DeBar companionably, slowly turning the
bird. “You always want to test the lakes in this country. Most of 'em
come from bog springs, and after they freeze, the water drops. Guess
you'd had me pretty soon if it hadn't been for the lake, wouldn't you?”
He grinned, and to his own astonishment Philip grinned.
“I was tight after you, Bill.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the outlaw. “That sounds good! I've gone by
another name, of course, and that's the first time I've heard my own
since--”
He stopped suddenly, and the laugh left his voice and face.
“It sounds--homelike,” he added more gently. “What's yours, pardner?”
“Steele--Philip Steele, of the R.N.W.M.P.,” said Philip.
“Used to know a Steele once,” went on DeBar. “That was back--where it
happened. He was one of my friends.”
For a moment he turned his eyes on Philip. They were deep gray eyes,
set well apart in a face that among a hundred others Philip would have
picked out for its frankness and courage. He knew that the man before
him was not much more than his own age, yet he appeared ten years older.
He sat up on his sledge as DeBar left his bird to thrust sticks into the
snow, on the ends of which he hung Philip's frozen garments close to the
fire. From the man Philip's eyes traveled to the dog. The hound yawned
in the heat and he saw that one of his fangs was gone.
“If you're starving, why don't you kill the dog?” he asked.
DeBar turned quickly, his white teeth gleaming through his beard.
“Because he's the best friend I've got on earth, or next to the best,”
he said warmly. “He's stuck to me through thick and thin for ten years.
He starved with me, and fought with me, and half died with me, and he's
going to live with me as long as I live. Would you eat the flesh of your
brother, Steele? He's my brother--the last that your glorious law has
left to me. Would you kill him if you were me?”
Something stuck hard and fast in Philip's throat, and he made no reply.
DeBar came toward him with the hot bird on the end of his stick. With
his knife the outlaw cut the bird into two equal parts, and one of these
parts he cut into quarters. One of the smaller pieces he tossed to the
hound, who devoured it at a gulp. The half he stuck on the end of his
knife and offered to his companion.
“No,” said Philip. “I can't.”
The eyes of the two men met, and DeBar, on his knees, slowly settled
back, still gazing at the bird, said DeBar, after a moment, “don't be a
fool, Steele. Let's forget, for a little while. God knows what's going
to happen to both of us to-morrow or next day, and it'll be easier to
die with company than alone, won't it? Let's forget that you're the Law
and I'm the Man, and that I've killed one or two. We're both in the same
boat, and we might as well be a little bit friendly for a few hours, and
shake hands, and be at peace when the last minute comes. If we get out
of this, and find grub, we'll fight fair and square, and the best man
wins. Be square with me, old man, and I'll be square with you, s'elp me
God!”
He reached out a hand, gnarled, knotted, covered with callouses and
scars, and with a strange sound in his throat Philip caught it tightly
in his own.
“I'll be square. Bill!” he cried. “I swear that I'll be square--on those
conditions. If we find grub, and live, we'll fight it out--alone--and
the best man wins. But I've had food today, and you're starving. Eat
that and I'll still be in better condition than you. Eat it, and we'll
smoke. Praise God I've got my pipe and tobacco!”
They settled back close in the lee of the drift, and the wind swirled
white clouds of snow-mist over their heads, while DeBar ate his bird and
Philip smoked. The food that went down DeBar's throat was only a morsel,
but it put new life into him, and he gathered fresh armfuls of sticks
and sapling boughs until the fire burned Philip's face and his drying
clothes sent up clouds of steam. Once, a hundred yards out in the plain,
Philip heard the outlaw burst into a snatch of wild forest song as he
pulled down a dead stub.
“Seems good to have comp'ny,” he said, when he came back with his load.
“My God, do you know I've never felt quite like this--so easy and happy
like, since years and years? I wonder if it is because I know the end is
near?”
“There's still hope,” replied Philip.
“Hope!” cried DeBar. “It's more than hope, man. It's a certainty for
me--the end, I mean. Don't you see, Phil--” He came and sat down close
to the other on the sledge, and spoke as if he had known him for
years. “It's got to be the end for me, and I guess that's what makes me
cheerful like. I'm going to tell you about it, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind; I want to hear,” said Philip, and he edged a little
nearer, until they sat shoulder to shoulder.
“It's got to be the end,” repeated DeBar, in a low voice. “If we get out
of this, and fight, and you win, it'll be because I'm dead, Phil. D'ye
understand? I'll be dead when the fight ends, if you win. That'll be one
end.”
“But if you win, Bill.”
A flash of joy shot into DeBar's eyes.
“Then that'll be the other end,” he said more softly still. He pointed
to the big Mackenzie hound. “I said he was next to my best friend
an earth, Phil. The other--is a girl--who lived back there--when it
happened, years and years ago. She's thirty now, and she's stuck to me,
and prayed for me, and believed in me for--a'most since we were kids
together, an' she's written to me--'Frank Symmonds'--once a month for
ten years. God bless her heart! That is what's kept me alive, and in
every letter she's begged me to let her come to me, wherever I was.
But--I guess the devil didn't get quite all of me, for I couldn't, 'n'
wouldn't. But I've give in now, and we've fixed it up between us. By
this time she's on her way to my brothers in South America, and if I
win--when we fight--I'm going where she is. And that's the other end,
Phil, so you see why I'm happy. There's sure to be an end of it for
me--soon.”
He bowed his wild, unshorn head in his mittened hands, and for a time
there was silence between them.
Philip broke it, almost in a whisper.
“Why don't you kill me--here--now-while I'm sitting helpless beside you,
and you've a knife in your belt?”
DeBar lifted his head slowly and looked with astonishment into his
companion's face.
“I'm not a murderer!” he said.
“But you've killed other men,” persisted Philip.
“Three, besides those we hung,” replied DeBar calmly. “One at Moose
Factory, when I tried to help John, and the other two up here. They
were like you--hunting me down, and I killed 'em in fair fight. Was that
murder? Should I stand by and be shot like an animal just because it's
the law that's doing it? Would you?”
He rose without waiting for an answer and felt of the clothes beside the
fire.
“Dry enough,” he said. “Put 'em on and we'll be hiking.”
Philip dressed, and looked at his compass.
“Still north?” he asked. “Chippewayan is south and west.”
“North,” said DeBar. “I know of a breed who lives on Red Porcupine
Creek, which runs into the Slave. If we can find him we'll get grub, and
if we don't--”
He laughed openly into the other's face.
“We won't fight,” said Philip, understanding him.
“No, we won't fight, but we'll wrap up in the same blankets, and die,
with Woonga, there, keeping our backs warm until the last. Eh, Woonga,
will you do that?”
He turned cheerily to the dog, and Woonga rose slowly and with
unmistakable stiffness of limb, and was fastened in the sledge traces.
They went on through the desolate gloom of afternoon, which in late
winter is, above the sixtieth, all but night. Ahead of them there seemed
to rise billow upon billow of snow-mountains, which dwarfed themselves
into drifted dunes when they approached, and the heaven above them, and
the horizon on all sides of them were shut out from their vision by a
white mist which was intangible and without substance and yet which rose
like a wall before their eyes. It was one chaos of white mingling with
another chaos of white, a chaos of white earth smothered and torn by
the Arctic wind under a chaos of white sky; and through it all, saplings
that one might have twisted and broken over his knee were magnified into
giants at a distance of half a hundred paces, and men and dog looked
like huge specters moving with bowed heads through a world that was no
longer a world of life, but of dead and silent things. And up out of
this, after a time, rose DeBar's voice, chanting in tones filled with
the savagery of the North, a wild song that was half breed and half
French, which the forest men sing in their joy when coming very near to
home.
They went on, hour after hour, until day gloom thickened into night,
and night drifted upward to give place to gray dawn, plodding steadily
north, resting now and then, fighting each mile of the way to the Red
Porcupine against the stinging lashes of the Arctic wind. And through it
all it was DeBar's voice that rose in encouragement to the dog limping
behind him and to the man limping behind the dog--now in song, now in
the wild shouting of the sledge-driver, his face thin and gaunt in its
starved whiteness, but his eyes alive with a strange fire. And it was
DeBar who lifted his mittened hands to the leaden chaos of sky when they
came to the frozen streak that was the Red Porcupine, and said, in a
voice through which there ran a strange thrill of something deep and
mighty, “God in Heaven be praised, this is the end!”
He started into a trot now, and the dog trotted behind him, and behind
the dog trotted Philip, wondering, as he had wondered a dozen times
before that night, if DeBar were going mad. Five hundred yards down
the stream DeBar stopped in his tracks, stared for a moment into the
breaking gloom of the shore, and turned to Philip. He spoke in a voice
low and trembling, as if overcome for the moment by some strong emotion.
“See--see there!” he whispered. “I've hit it, Philip Steele, and what
does it mean? I've come over seventy miles of barren, through night an'
storm, an' I've hit Pierre Thoreau's cabin as fair as a shot! Oh, man,
man, I couldn't do it once in ten thousand times!” He gripped Philip's
arm, and his voice rose in excited triumph. “I tell 'ee, it means
that--that God--'r something--must be with me!”
“With us,” said Philip, staring hard.
“With me,” replied DeBar so fiercely that the other started
involuntarily. “It's a miracle, an omen, and it means that I'm going to
win!” His fingers gripped deeper, and he said more gently, “Phil, I've
grown to like you, and if you believe in God as we believe in Him up
here--if you believe He tells things in the stars, the winds and things
like this, if you're afraid of death--take some grub and go back! I mean
it, Phil, for if you stay, an' fight, there is going to be but one end.
I will kill you!”