THE SNOW TRAIL
The situation faced by Connie Morgan, Waseche Bill, and O'Brien when
they headed westward across the snow-ridden bench of the Lillimuit, was
anything but encouraging. Before them, they knew, lay Alaska. But how
many unmapped miles, and what barriers of frozen desert and
insurmountable mountains interposed, they did not know; nor did they
know the location of the Kandik, the river by which Carlson had returned
to the land of men. For Carlson's trail map lay hidden in the pocket of
O'Brien's discarded trousers in an _igloo_ in the village of the White
Indians, and upon their own worth must the three win--or die.
There was no turning back now. No returning to the Ignatook to face
starvation and the melting of the snow, for the solitary Indian who
witnessed their departure had dashed to the village, bearing the
information to his tribe.
If O'Brien were right in his conjecture that the Indians would not
venture into the open in a storm, there would, in all probability, be
several days in which to escape, for Arctic storms are rarely of short
duration. This seeming advantage, however, was offset by the fact that,
at best, the storm would seriously impede their own progress, and at
worst--well, if the worst happened, it would make no smallest particle
of difference whether the White Indians picked up their trail soon, or
late.
After the first fierce rush had passed, the storm lulled and settled
into a steady drive of wind-hurled pellets that cut the thick air in
long, stinging slants. The dry, shot-like particles burned and bit at
the faces of the three, and danced and whirled merrily across the hard
surface of the snow to drift deep against obstructions. The dogs were in
fine condition, well fed, and thoroughly rested during the days of
inactivity, and they strung out to the pull with a will. The trail was
fast. The hard crust of the old snow gave excellent footing and the
three heavily loaded sleds slipped smoothly and steadily in the wake of
Waseche Bill, who piloted the expedition at a long, swinging trot, with
Connie and O'Brien running beside their respective sleds.
It was well past noon when the start was made, and the thick gloom of a
starless night settled upon the storm-swept bench as the little
cavalcade reached O'Brien's "bit av a mountain," and swung into the
shelter of the thicket upon its lee side. The dogs were unharnessed and
fed, a fire lighted, and a snug camp sprang into existence under the
deft movements of the experienced _tillicums_.
"'Tis a foine shtar-rt we've made," said O'Brien, as he poured melted
suet over the caribou steak upon his tin plate, "but they'll be lookin'
f'r us here, f'r they've dhrug me out av th' scrub on this hill a full
dozen av toimes."
"We'll hit the trail at daylight," answered Waseche Bill.
"Ut slues to th' Narth a bit from here. Oi've thr-ravelled th' nixt tin
moile or so, but beyant that Oi've niver be'n able to git."
All night the hard, dry snow fell, and all night the wind swept out of
the North with a low, monotonous roar. By the light of the flaring fire
they breakfasted, and at the first hint of dawn again took the trail. A
dreary scene confronted the little party that pulled heavily out of the
sheltered thicket. All about them was the whirling, driving whiteness,
and beneath their feet the loose, dry snow shifted and they sank ankle
deep into the yielding mass. The sleds pulled hard, so that the dogs
clawed for footing, and the snowshoes were placed conveniently upon the
top of the packs, for soon the rackets would be necessary in the fast
deepening snow.
O'Brien insisted that the trail "slued to the Narth a bit," and as there
was nothing for it but to follow the Irishman's vague direction,
Waseche changed the course, a proceeding that added materially to the
discomfort of the journey, as it forced them to travel more nearly into
the teeth of the wind. At noon a halt was made for luncheon and a brief
rest in the shelter of the close-drawn sleds. During the last hour the
character of the storm had changed and the wind whipped upon them in
veering gusts that struck furiously from every point of the compass at
once. The snow, too, changed, and the hard, dry pellets gave place to a
fine, powdery snow-dust that filled the eyes and nostrils and worked
uncomfortably beneath the clothing. Snow-shoes were fastened on, and
with lowered heads and muffled faces the three headed again into the
unknown.
With the coming of darkness, they camped at the fork of a frozen river
where a sparse growth of stunted willow gave promise of firewood and
scant shelter. They were in a new world, now--a world, trackless and
unknown, for during the afternoon they had passed beyond O'Brien's
farthest venture and the Irishman was as ignorant of what lay before
them as were Connie and Waseche Bill, who knew only that they were in
the midst of a trackless void of seething snow, with the White Indians
behind them and Alaska before--and all about them, death, grim and
silent, and gaunt--death that stalked close, ready on the instant to
take its toll, as it had taken its toll from other men who had braved
the Lillimuit and never again returned.
"She's a _reg'lah_ blizzahd, now," remarked Waseche, as he lighted his
pipe with a brand from the camp-fire. "Any otheh time, we'd lay by an'
wait fo' it to weah down--but, we dastn't stop."
"The Indians will never pick up our trail when this storm quits,"
ventured Connie.
"No--'ceptin' they're wise that we-all tuck out this-away, havin'
followed O'Brien almost this fah befo'."
"Aye--her-re, or her-re abouts," assented the Irishman, "we nade
an-nyways wan mor-re day av thrailin' before we hole up, an' me'be be
that toime th' star-rm will be wor-re out."
On the morning of the third day they again started in the dull grey of
the dawn. Waseche, with lowered head, bored through the white smother
that surrounded them like a wall of frozen fog. The dogs, still in good
heart, humped bravely to the pull, and Connie and O'Brien, with hands
clutching the tail-ropes of the sleds, followed blindly. On and on they
plodded, halting at intervals only long enough to consult the compass,
for with nothing to sight by, they held their course by the aid of the
needle alone.
Suddenly Connie's sled stopped so abruptly that the boy tripped and
sprawled at full length beside its canvas-covered pack, while behind
him, Waseche's leaders, in charge of O'Brien, swerved sharply to avoid
the savage fangs of Slasher--for the wolf-dog knew his kind--he knew
that, once down, a man is _meat_, and the moment the boy fell helpless
into the snow, the great, gaunt brute surged back in the traces, jerking
old Boris and Mutt with him, and stood guard over the prostrate form of
his master, where he growled defiance into the faces of the dogs of the
following team. Scrambling hastily to his feet, Connie was joined by
O'Brien and together they stumbled forward where McDougall's big
ten-team had piled up in a growling, snapping tangle upon the very brink
of a perpendicular precipice. For the leaders had leaped back from the
edge so suddenly that they fouled the swing dogs which, with tooth and
nail, and throaty growl, were protesting against the indignity.
"Where's Waseche!" The voice of the boy cut high and thin above the roar
of the storm-choked wind, and O'Brien ceased abruptly his endeavour to
straighten out the fighting _malamutes_. He stumbled hastily to the
boy's side, but Waseche was no place to be seen, and upon the verge of
the chasm, the overhanging snow-rim was gouged deep and fresh with a
man-made scar.
The dogs were forgotten, and for a long moment the two stood peering
over the edge, striving to penetrate the writhing whirl of snow-powder
that filled the yawning abyss--but the opaque mass gave no hint of the
depth or extent of the chasm. Again and again they shouted, but their
voices were drowned in the bellow of the wind, and to their ears was
borne no faintest answering call.
To Connie Morgan it seemed, at last, he had come to the end of the
trail. A strange numbness overcame him that dulled his senses and
paralyzed his brain. His mind groped uncertainly.... Waseche was gone!
He had fallen over the edge of the cliff and was lying at the
bottom--and they would find him there--the men who were to come--and
himself and O'Brien they would find at the top--and the dogs were all
tangled--and it would be better, now, to sleep. No--they must push
on--they were on the trail.... Where were they going? Oh, yes, to
Alaska--back to Ten Bow, and the cabin, and the claim! But they couldn't
go on.... This was the _end_.... They had come to the place where the
world breaks off--and Waseche had fallen over the edge.
The boy gazed stupidly into the milky, eddying chaos. It looked soft,
down there--like feathers, or the meringue on pie. It is a good place to
fall, he thought, this place where the world stops--you could fall, and
fall, and fall, and you wouldn't have to light--and it would be fun. The
Lillimuit was a funny place, anyway--"the country where men don't come
back from," Joe had said, that night--back there in the hotel at Eagle.
Carlson didn't come back----
"Why, Carlson's dead!" he cried so sharply that, at his side, O'Brien
started.
"Sur-re, b'y, he's dead--but--" The man's voice aroused him as from a
dream. His brain cleared, and suddenly he realized that Waseche Bill was
lost--was even then lying wounded--probably dead, at the bottom of the
cliff. With a low, choking sob, the boy whirled on O'Brien, who jumped
at the sharp word of command:
"Get the ropes! Quick! While I unharness the dogs!" The Irishman sprang
to the rear sled where two forty-foot coils of _babiche_ line lay ready
for just such an emergency, while Connie sprang among McDougall's
tangled _malamutes_, slashing right and left with his coiled whiplash.
At the sudden attack the dogs ceased fighting and cowered whimpering
while the boy slipped their collars, and by the time O'Brien returned
with the lines, Connie was ready for the next move.
"Work the sled closer--crossways! _Crossways_--so she'll hold!" he
cried, as he knotted the lines securely together and made an end fast
about his body.
"Brace against the sled, now, and lower away!"
"Phwat ye goin' to do?" asked the man, eyeing the line.
"_Do!_ I'm going after Waseche, of course----"
"But, ye don't know how daype ut is--an' th' rope moight bre'k!"
"What difference does _that_ make?" cried the boy. "If the rope won't
reach--we'll make it reach! We'll splice on the harness, and the
blankets, and the tarps, and the robes, and whatever else we can lay
our hands on--and if it don't reach then, we'll kill the dogs! I'll get
my pardner out of there if I have to kill every dog in the outfit and
use their hides. And if the rope breaks--I'll be where Waseche is,
anyway!"
[Illustration: "Without waiting for a reply, Connie slipped softly over
the edge."]
Without waiting for a reply, the boy seated himself in the snow and
slipped softly over the edge. Slowly he descended into the riot of
whirling snow, while above him, O'Brien, with heels braced against the
runners of the heavy sled, carefully paid out the line. Down, down, he
went, scraping and bumping against the wall. It seemed to the impatient
boy as though each moment he must reach the end of his rope--surely, he
had descended eighty feet! But on he went, down, down, down--and then,
when the suspense was becoming almost unbearable, his feet touched
bottom, and he stood upright upon the snow. And, above, O'Brien felt the
line go slack, and heaved a great sigh of relief as he glanced at the
scant six feet of rope that remained.
Jagged rock-slivers protruded from the snow, here and there, at the base
of the cliff, and Connie shuddered as he gazed about him. Suddenly he
cried out, and plunged to the end of his line, for there, close beside a
huge block of stone, he made out a dark blur on the white surface of the
snow--it was the back of a fur _parka_!
The next instant, the boy was kneeling beside the inert form of Waseche
Bill. Frantically he pulled and hauled at the man until at length he
succeeded in turning him upon his back, and then it was he noticed the
leg doubled curiously beneath him. Very gently Connie laid hold of the
foot and drew it into position beside the other, and as the leg
straightened out he could feel the grating rasp of bone on bone--the
leg was broken!
His first thought was to arouse the unconscious man, but instead he
began swiftly to remove the rope from about his own body and fasten it
firmly under Waseche's armpits.
"If I wake him up now, it will hurt like thunder when O'Brien hauls him
up," he muttered, as he gave the three quick jerks to the line that had
been the agreed signal to "haul away." The next moment the rope went
taut, and slowly, very slowly, the inanimate form lifted and swung clear
of the snow.
O'Brien was a big man--and a strong one. But for the next few minutes he
had his work cut out.
"He's found um!" he panted, as he paused to rest, with the rope wrapped
tightly about his arm. "Sur-re, th' b'y's niver as heavy as that--an',
be jabbers! Oi belayve th' two av thim's cumin' up to wanst."
At length Waseche's body wedged against the edge of the cliff and
O'Brien, making the line fast to the heavy sled, dragged the
unconscious form clear, and weighting the line with an ice ax, lowered
it into the chasm. Five minutes later the boy scrambled over the rim,
and dropped to his knees beside the inert form in the snow.
"Get up the shelter tarp--quick!" he ordered, as he scraped the loose
snow from a wide space near the sled and, rummaging in his pack,
produced a quantity of grease-soaked moss and a bundle of dry firewood.
"His leg's broken, and we've got to set it," he explained, as a tiny
flame flared in the shelter of the wide tarpaulin, and he proceeded to
remove the man's _mukluk_ and heavy socks.
"Ye'll fr-reeze his leg!" exclaimed O'Brien, in alarm.
"Can't help it--we've got to take a chance. He'll die, or be crippled
for life if we don't set it--so here goes!"
The foot was badly swollen, and midway between the ankle and the knee
was a great bluish-green bruise where the leg had struck the rock at
the foot of the cliff. The blow had broken both bones, and the
overlapping ends made an unsightly bunch upon the side of the leg.
Deftly and skilfully the boy's fingers explored the hurt.
"We've got to pull 'em by and snap 'em into place," he explained. "I
know how--we set Newt Boyer's legs, in Ten Bow, when a log rolled on
him."
Again they made the line fast beneath the man's shoulders, and bound him
firmly to the loaded sled. O'Brien seized hold of the foot and, bracing
himself in the snow, pulled for all he was worth, while Connie pressed
against the bone ends with his palms.
"Pull! _Pull_--can't you!" urged the boy. "Only a quarter of an inch
more and they'll click--and the job will be done!" But O'Brien was
pulling, and although he strained and tugged to the very limit of his
strength, the ends still overlapped. Suddenly the boy leaped to his
feet.
"Swing those dogs in here!" he cried, pointing to Waseche's team that
remained still harnessed. "A little farther! Woah! That'll do--now,
wait!" Swiftly he stooped, and with a few quick turns, bound the injured
foot tightly to the back of the sled.
"Now, pull up--easy, at first--don't jerk! That's right!" he cried, as
the leg stretched taut, "now, make 'em _pull_!"
Again the boy dropped to his knees and worked rapidly with his fingers,
while under O'Brien's urging Waseche's _malamutes_ humped and clawed as
they pulled. There was a slight click, as the bone-ends snapped into
place, and the Irishman heard the delighted voice of the boy:
"Woah! She's set! She's set! Ease off, now, and hand me the splints!"
The splints, rudely split from pieces of firewood, were applied and held
in place by strips torn from the tarp, a blanket was wrapped about the
injured member, and the patient made as comfortable as possible beside
the fire in the lee of the shelter tarp. But it was an hour later
before Waseche Bill opened his eyes and gazed inquiringly about him.
"What happened?" he asked, as a sharp pain caused him to stare in
surprise toward his blanket-swathed leg.
"Sur-re, ye walked over th' edge av a clift, an' lit on th' rocks, a
mather av siventy feet below--an' th' b'y, here, wuz over an' afther yez
befoor ye lit. Yer leg's bruk squar-re in two, but th' lad set ut loike
an-ny docther c'd done--an' bether thin most."
"O'Brien helped!" interrupted Connie.
"Aye, a bit. An' so did the dogs. But, th' b'y--he wuz th' captain. Ye
sh'd o' seed um shlip over th' edge on th' ind av his thread av a loine,
into th' whirlin' scather av shnow, when ye c'd see nayther bottom nor
soides. 'Oi'm a-goin afther Waseche!' he says--An' he done so."
"O'Brien pulled you up," said the boy, as Waseche leaned over and
grasped the small hand in his own big one. He spoke no word, but in the
pressure of the mighty hand-grasp the boy read the man-sign of
_tillicums_.