THE WHITE DEATH
It was yet dark when Waseche Bill opened his eyes and blinked sleepily
into the small face that smiled down at him in the light of the
flickering fire. The rich aroma of boiling coffee and the appetizing
odour of bacon roused him to his senses and he grinned happily at the
words of the boy:
"Come on, pardner, grub's ready! And you better fly at it, too. 'Cause
if I know anything about it, we'll sure know we've done something by the
time we get the outfit out of this hole."
Waseche glanced upward where the tiny stars winked coldly between the
high walls of the gloomy gorge in which Sam Morgan's boy found himself
held prisoner when the huge mass of ice detached itself from the side
of the glacier and crashed into the canyon.
"Yo' sho's on the job, son--seem's if I jest got good an' asleep. What
time is it?" he asked, as he crawled from beneath his robes.
"Six o'clock," answered the boy extending a cup of steaming coffee.
"Six o'clock! Sufferin' cats! Three hours till daylight--Ain't yo got no
pity on the ol' man?"
"Old man, nothing!" grinned Connie over the rim of his tin cup. "But if
you wait for daylight to come down into the bottom of this well, you
will be an old man before you get out."
Breakfast over, the two packed the outfit and, without harnessing the
dogs, pulled the sled to the foot of the barrier. Here it was unloaded
and the pack made into bundles suitable for hoisting. The sled was the
heaviest piece and the only one that offered a serious problem. It was
decided that Connie should remain below and make the things fast, while
Waseche climbed to the top and did the hoisting. A sling was rigged
from a strip of old blanket, by means of which the dogs could be lifted,
by passing it under their bellies and fastening it to the rope at their
backs. When all was ready Waseche grasped the swaying _babiche_ line, by
means of which he had lowered himself the previous evening.
"Cain't grip nothin' with mittens on," he grumbled, as he bared his
hands to the intense cold. Next moment he was pulling himself jerkily
upward, hand over hand, while Connie Morgan stood below and watched the
indistinct outline of the man who swayed and dangled above him, for all
the world like a giant spider ascending a thread of invisible web.
The rope twitched violently as the man drew himself onto the top of the
barrier, and a few minutes later the regular taps of his ice axe
sounded, as Waseche chopped his "heel holts" as close to the edge as
safety permitted. The tapping ceased and the voice of the man rolled and
reverberated between the walls of the cistern-like chasm.
"All set, kid!"
"Haul away!" and immediately the bale containing the two sleeping bags
swung clear of the snow and was drawn upward, spinning and bumping the
ice wall. Other bales followed and soon there remained only the dogs and
the sled. After many unsuccessful efforts to induce the wolf-dogs to
submit to the unaccustomed sling, Connie hit upon the expedient of
harnessing them to the sled, for even McDougall's finely trained dogs,
like all _malamutes_, were wolves at heart and were trustworthy and
tractable only in harness. This accomplished, they submitted readily
enough and, beginning with the "wheel dogs," one at a time, Connie
passed the sling about them and cast off the harness at the same time.
Waseche hauled them, snarling and biting at the encircling band, up the
face of the perpendicular wall. Old Boris and good-natured Mutt
submitted without a growl of protest; but it was different with the
untamed savage Slasher. During the whole unusual proceeding the
suspicious wolf-dog had bristled and growled, and several times it was
only by the narrowest margin that Connie succeeded in averting a
tragedy, as Slasher leaped with flashing fangs toward a sled dog
dangling helplessly from the rope's end. At last Slasher alone remained.
The boy called him. He came, with hair abristle, stepping slowly and
stiffly. His eyes glared red, and way back in his throat rumbled long,
low growls.
"Come on! You can't bluff _me_--you old grouch, you!" laughed the boy,
and stooping, slipped a heavy collar about his neck. Passing a running
noose about the long pointed muzzle, he secured the free end to the
collar, and to make assurance doubly sure, he tied a strip torn from the
old blanket tightly about the dog's jaws, affixed the sling, and gave
the signal.
It was not for his own protection that the boy thus muzzled Slasher. In
all the Northland he was the only person who did not fear the wild,
vicious brute, for he knew that rather than harm him the _malamute_
would have allowed himself to be torn in pieces. But he feared for
Waseche Bill when he came to release him. Despite the fact that he had
lived with Waseche for a year, the dog treated him no whit differently
than he treated the veriest stranger. To one person in all the
world--and only one--the wolf-dog owed allegiance, and that person was
Connie Morgan--the first and only creature of the hated man tribe who
had used him with fairness.
Again the line was lowered and Connie, making his own line fast to the
sled, grasped the loose end, seated himself in the loop of Waseche's,
and gave the signal. Up, up, he rose, fending off from the wall with
feet and hands. At length he reached the top and the strong arms of
Waseche helped him over the edge. After a brief rest, both laid hold of
the remaining line and hauled away at the sled. The pull taxed their
combined strength to the utmost, but the heavy sled was up at last, and
they stood free upon the top of the barrier.
Their labours had consumed the greater part of the day, and it was well
after noon when they sat down to a hasty lunch of caribou _charqui_ and
suet.
"I would never have made it!" exclaimed the boy, thoughtfully, as his
eyes travelled over the perpendicular walls of the yawning chasm. "Put
her there, pardner," he said, gravely extending his hand toward Waseche.
The man grasped the small, mittened hand and wrung it hard:
"Sho' now! Sho' now!" he protested hastily. "Yo' mout of." But the boy
noticed that Waseche turned from the place with a shudder.
The work of packing the outfit down into the canyon occupied the
remainder of the day and that night they camped at the foot of the
barrier, where Waseche had left his own outfit.
"Now for Ten Bow! I sure do love every log and daub of chinking in that
cabin. When fellows own their own home--like we do--when they built it
with their own hands, you know--a fellow gets homesick when he's
away--'specially if he's all alone. Didn't you get homesick, too,
pardner?"
Waseche Bill dropped the harness he was untangling, and stepping to the
boy's side, laid a big hand upon the small shoulder:
"Yes, kid," he answered, in a soft voice, "I be'n homesick every minute
I be'n gone. An' that night--jest befo' I left, I was homesickest of
all. I thought it was the squa'h thing to do--but I've learnt a heap
since, that I didn't know then. Tell me, son, if yo' love the cabin so,
why did yo' come away? The claim was yo'n. I wrote it out that way a
purpose." The clear grey eyes of the boy looked up into the man's face.
"Why--why, after you were gone, it--it wasn't the same any more. I--I
_hated_ the place. Maybe it's because I'm only a boy----"
"Yes," interrupted the man, speaking slowly, as if to himself. "Yo' only
a boy--jest a little boy--an' yet--" his voice became suddenly husky,
and he turned away: "Folks calls Sam Mo'gan _unlucky_!" He cleared his
throat loudly, and again the big hand rested on the boy's shoulder:
"Listen, kid, I've had cabins befo' now--a many a one, on big creeks an'
little--an' I've come off an' left 'em all, an' neveh a onct was I
homesick. But this time I was--it was diffe'nt. Shucks, kid, don't yo'
see? It takes mo'n jest a cabin to make--_home_."
Soon the outfits were ready for the trail.
"We sho' got dawgs enough," grinned Waseche, as he eyed the two teams;
"McDougall's ten, eight of mine, an' them three of yo'n--we betteh mush,
too, 'cause it takes a sight of feed fo' twenty-one dawgs. I 'lowed to
run acrost meat befo' now--caribou, or moose, or sheep--but this heah
Lillimuit's as cold an' dead as the outeh voids that the lecture felleh
was tellin' about in Dawson. I got right int'rested in the place--till I
come to find out it was too fah off to botheh about, bein' located way
oveh back of the sun somewheahs."
At a crack of the whip, Waseche's dogs sprang into the lead, and
McDougall's _malamutes_, with Connie trotting beside them, swung in
behind. There was no wind, and in the narrow canyon sounds were
strangely magnified. The squeak of sled runners on the hard, dry snow
sounded loud and sharp as the creak of a windlass, and, as they passed
the foot of the snow-covered sheep trail, the voice of Waseche boomed
and reverberated unnaturally:
"Yondeh's the ol' sheep trail wheah I got out of the canyon. Neah's I
c'n make out it ain't be'n used fo' mo'n a month. I tell yo' what--times
is sho' hawd when the sheep pulls out of a country."
It was very cold. Toward midday the windings of the canyon allowed them
occasional glimpses of the low-hung sun. It had a strange unfamiliar
appearance, like a huge eye of polished brass, glaring coldly in a
bright white light not its own. As each turn of the trail cut off his
view, the boy glanced furtively at his partner and was quick to note the
man's evident uneasiness. Mile after mile they mushed in silence. The
fragmentary conversation of the earlier hours ceased, and each
experienced a growing sense of exhaustion. The motionless air hung heavy
and dead about them. Its vitality was wanting, so that they were forced
to breathe rapidly and concentrate their minds upon the simple act of
keeping up with the dogs. Each was conscious of a growing lethargy that
sapped his strength. Even the dogs were affected, and plodded
mechanically forward with lowered heads and drooping tails.
They were approaching the cavern in which Connie had sought refuge from
the blizzard. For several miles the boy had been wondering whether
Waseche would camp at the cave. He hoped that he would. He was growing
terribly sleepy and it was only by constant effort that he kept his eyes
open, although they had been scarcely five hours on the trail. His head
felt strangely light and hollow, and white specks danced before his
eyes. He closed his eyes and the specks were red. They danced in the
darkness, writhing and twisting like fiery snakes. He opened his eyes
and held doggedly to his place beside the team. His mind dwelt longingly
upon the soft, warm feel of his sleeping bag. The boy's nerves were
tense and strained, so that his lips and eyelids twitched spasmodically,
with a sting as of extreme cold.
As they drew nearer the mouth of the cavern he felt that he would scream
aloud if Waseche did not halt. His gaze became fixed upon the broad back
of his partner as he mushed beside his dogs, and he noted that the man
walked with quick, jerky steps. He wondered vaguely at this, for it was
not Waseche's way. This passing thought vanished, and again his mind
reverted to the all-important question: would Waseche camp? He would ask
him. He filled his lungs--then, suddenly the thought flashed through his
brain: "I'm a _piker!_ I won't ask him--I'll drop in my tracks first."
The deep breath stung his lungs and he coughed--a sharp, dry cough that
rasped his throat. The man turned at the sound and eyed him sharply.
"Keep yo' mouth shut! An' hurry--_hurry!_" The man's voice was low and
hard, and he, too, coughed.
At the mouth of the cavern the dogs stopped of their own accord and lay
down in harness. The boy noted this, and also that instead of waiting
alert, with cocked ears and watchful eyes for a word of command, they
lay with their pointed muzzles pressed close against the hard snow, as
if fearing to move.
Swiftly and silently Waseche began to remove the harness from the dogs
and Connie followed his example. As soon as a dog was released, instead
of rolling about and ploughing and rooting his snout into the snow, he
slunk quickly into the cave. The hitches were cast loose and sleeping
bags, robes, grub, and frozen fish for the dogs were carried into the
cavern. Waseche made another trip into the canyon while the boy sank
down upon his rolled sleeping bag and stared stupidly at the dogs
huddled together in the farther end of the cave, their eyes gleaming
greenly in the darkness. A quarter of an hour later the man returned
with a huge armful of gnarled, grubby brushwood that he had hacked from
the crevices of the rocks. Near the entrance he built a small fire,
filled the coffeepot with snow, and thawed some pemmican in the frying
pan. He filled his pipe, threw a handful of coffee into the pot, and
turned toward Connie. The boy had fallen asleep with his back against
the ice wall. Waseche shook him gently:
"Wake up, son! Grub pile!" He stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
"Let me alone," he muttered, sleepily, "I'm not hungry."
"Yo' got to eat. Heah's some hot coffee--jest climb outside of this, an'
then yo' c'n sleep long as yo' like."
The hot liquid revived the boy and he ate some pemmican and bannock.
Having finished, he spread his robes and unrolled his sleeping bag.
Before turning in, however, he stepped to the door and looked out. He
was surprised that it was yet daylight and the sun hung just above the
shoulder of a sharp, naked peak. Again the white spots danced before his
eyes, and he turned quickly:
"Look! Look at the sun!" he cried in a sudden panic. "One, two, three,
four--look Waseche, I can't count 'em."
"Come away, kid," said the man at his side, pulling at his sleeve.
"But the suns! Look! Can you count them?"
"No, kid, we cain't count 'em." The man's voice was very low.
"But what is the matter? There is only one real sun! Where do they come
from?"
"I do'no, I do'no. It's--we got to camp heah till--" He was interrupted
by the boy:
"It's what?" he asked, bewildered.
"It's--I neveh seen it befo'--but I've hea'd tell--It's the _white
death_. Heah, in the Lillimuit, an' some otheh places--nawth of the
Endicotts, some say. Tonight--the flashin' lights, an' the blood-red
aurora--tomorrow, a thousan' suns in the sky. They ain't no wind, an'
the air is dead--dead, an' so cold yo' lungs'll crackle an' split if
yo'r caught on the trail. We got to keep out of it, an' then--" His
voice trailed into silence.
"And then _what_?" asked the boy, drowsily.
"I do'no, I do'no, kid--that depends."
Connie Morgan was awakened by the whimpering of dogs. In his ears was a
strange sound like the hiss of escaping steam. He wondered, drowsily,
how long he had slept, and lay for some moments trying to collect his
senses. The sounds in the night terrified him--filled him with an
unnamed dread. The strange hissing was not continuous, but broken and
interrupted by a roaring crackle, like the sound of a burning forest.
But there was no forest--only ice and snow, and the glittering peaks of
ranges. With a trembling hand he raised the hood of his sleeping bag and
peered cautiously out. To the boy's distorted imagination the whole
world seemed on fire. The interior of the cave glowed dimly with a dull
red light, while beyond the entrance the snow flashed brilliant lights
of scarlet.
[Illustration: Connie Morgan "stared spellbound at the terrible
splendour of the changing lights."]
"Don't get scairt, son. It's only the aurora. It's like they
said--Carlson, an' one or two mo' I've hea'd talk. The blood-red aurora
in the night time, an' the thousan' suns in the day." Waseche's
sleeping bag was close against his own, and the sound of his voice
reassured the terrified boy. Together, in silence, they watched the
awful spectacle. Red lights--scarlet, crimson, vermilion flashed upon
the snow, and among the far-off peaks which stood out distinctly above
the farther wall of the long stretch of canyon that their viewpoint
commanded. Upon the green ice at the entrance to the cavern the lights
showed violet and purple. The boy stared spellbound at the terrible
splendour of the changing lights, while above the hiss and crackle of
the aurora he could hear the whimpering and moaning of the terrified
dogs. He shrank back into his sleeping bag, pulling the flap tight to
keep out the awful sights and sounds, and lay for hours waiting for
something to happen. But nothing did happen and when he awoke again it
was day. The dogs had ceased to whine, and Waseche Bill was moving about
in the cave. The man had hung a robe over the entrance, but around the
edges Connie could see narrow strips of light. The air was oppressive
and heavy. His head ached. The acrid smell of smoke permeated the
interior of the cavern and Connie wriggled from his sleeping bag and,
while Waseche busied himself with the coffee and bacon, he broke out a
bale of fish for the dogs.
"Cut 'em down to half ration, son," warned the man, eyeing the scanty
supply. "We got to get out of this heah Lillimuit--an' we got to get out
on what we got with us. I don't reckon they's a livin' critteh in the
whole blame country, 'cept us, an' we got to go easy on the grub."
"I heard a fox bark the other night," ventured the boy.
"Yo' won't get fat on fox bahks," grinned the man, "an' that's all the
clost yo' even get to 'em. Outside of white goats, them foxes is about
the hah'dest vahmint to get a shot at they is."
"Aren't we going to hit the trail?" asked the boy in evident surprise,
when, after breakfast, instead of packing the outfit, Waseche lighted
his pipe and stretched out on a robe.
"Not _this_ day, we ain't," replied the man; "An' me'be not tomorrow--if
the wind don't come. Do yo' know how fah we'd get today?"
"How far?"
"I do'no--a hund'ed steps, me'be--me'be half a mile--'twouldn't be fah."
"Tell me what's the matter, Waseche. What's going to happen? And why
have you closed up the door?"
"It's the _white death_," answered the man in an awed tone. "Nothin'
won't happen if we stay inside. I've hea'd it spoke of, only I
somehow--I neveh believed it befo'. As fo' the robe--hold yo' breath an'
peek out through that crack along the aidge. Hold yo' breath,
mind--_don't breathe that air!_"
Connie filled his lungs and drew back the edge of the robe. Instantly
his face seemed seared by the points of a million red-hot needles. He
scarcely noticed the pain, for he was gazing in awestruck wonder where a
thousand suns seemed dancing in the cloudless sky. As upon the previous
day, the air was filled with dancing white specks, and the suns glared
with a glassy, yellow brightness. They looked wet and shiny, but their
light seemed no brighter than the light of a single sun. No blue sky was
visible, and the mountain peaks, even the nearer ones, were nowhere to
be seen. The whole world seemed enveloped in a thick haze of sickly
yellow.
He let go the edge of the robe and drew back from the opening.
"Gee whiz! but it's cold," he exclaimed, rubbing his stinging cheeks.
"How cold is it, pardner?" For answer Waseche shifted his position,
reached swiftly beneath the bottom of the robe, and withdrew from the
outside a small spirit thermometer which he held up for the boy's
inspection. It was frozen solid!