THE DESERTER
Connie Morgan opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. Then, instantly he
became wide awake, with a strange, indescribable feeling that all was
not well. Waseche Bill stirred uneasily in his sleep and through the
cracks about the edges of the blanket-hung window and beneath the door a
dull grey light showed. The boy frowned as he tossed back his robes and
drew on his _mukluks_. This was the day they were to hit the trail and
O'Brien should have had the fire going and called him early. Suddenly
the boy paused and stared hard at the cold stove, and then at the floor
beside the stove--at the spot where O'Brien's blankets and robes should
have shown an untidy heap in the dull light of morning. Lightning-like,
his glance flew to the place at the base of the wall where the Irishman
kept his gold--but the blankets and robes were gone, and the gold was
gone, and O'Brien--? Swiftly the boy flew to the door--the big sled was
missing, the harness, and McDougall's dogs were gone, and O'Brien was
nowhere to be seen!
For a long, long time the boy stood staring out over the dim trail of
the river and then with clenched fists he stepped again into the room. A
hurried inspection of the pack showed that the man had taken most of the
remaining fish and considerable of the food, also Waseche Bill's rifle
was missing from its place in the far corner. With tight-pressed lips,
Connie laid the fire in the little stove and watched dumbly as the tiny
yellow sparks shot upward past the holes in the rusty pipe. Vainly the
mind of the boy strove to grasp the situation, but his lips formed only
the words which he repeated over and over again, as if seeking their
import:
"He's gone--he's gone--O'Brien's gone." He could not understand it.
Among the dwellers in the great white land the boy had known only men
whose creed was to stick together until the end. From the hour he first
set foot upon the dock at Anvik, to this very moment, with the single
exception of the little rat-faced man at Ten Bow, the boy had learned to
love the big men of the North--men whose vices were rugged
vices--flaunting and unashamed and brutish, perhaps--but men, any one of
whom would face privation, want, and toil--death itself--with a laugh in
his teeth for the privilege of helping a friend--and who would fight to
divide his last ounce of bacon with his enemy. For not by rule of
life--but life itself men live upon the edges of the world, where little
likes and hates are forgotten, and all stand shoulder to shoulder
against their common enemy--the North! These were the men the boy had
known. And now, for the first time, he was confronted by another kind of
man--a man so yellow that, rather than face the perils and hardships of
the trail, he had deserted those who had rescued him from a band of
savages--and not only deserted, but had taken with him the only means
by which the others could hope to reach civilization, and had left a
wounded man and a little boy to die in the wilderness--bushed!
The dull soul-hurt of the boy flashed into swift anger and, flinging
open the door, he shook a small fist toward the south.
[Illustration: "My dad followed British Kronk eight hundred miles
through the snow before he caught him--and then--you just wait."]
"You cur!" he shouted. "You dirty cur! You _piker_! You think you've
fixed us--but you wait! They say my dad followed British Kronk eight
hundred miles through the snow before he caught him--and then--_you just
wait!_ You tried to starve Waseche!"
"Heah! Heah! What's all this?" asked the man, who had raised himself to
his elbow upon the bunk. The boy faced him:
"He's beat it!" he choked. "He swiped Mac's dogs and breezed!" for a
moment the man stared uncomprehendingly:
"Yo' mean O'Brien--he's _gone_?"
"Yes, he's gone! And so are the dogs, and the sled, and your rifle, and
his robes, and his gold!"
"How about the grub?" asked Waseche. "Did he take that, too?"
"Only about a third of it--he's travelling light." For a fleeting
instant the boy caught the gleam of Waseche's eyes, and then the gleam
was gone and the man's lips smiled.
"Sho', now," he drawled. "Sho', now." The drawl was studied, and the
voice was low and very steady--too low and steady, thought the boy--and
shivered.
"Neveh yo' mind, son. We-all ah all right. Jest yo' keep on a huntin'
an' a fetchin' in rabbits an' ptarmigan, an' such like, an' now the
snow's hahdened, me'be yo'll get a crack at a moose oah a caribou. The
heahd ort to pass somewhehs neah heah soon. We'll jest lay up heah an'
wait fo' the break-up, an' then we'll build us a raft an' go akitin'
down to the Yukon--an' then--" The voice suddenly hardened, and again
the gleam was in the grey eyes, but the man ceased speaking abruptly.
"And then--what?" asked Connie, as he studied his partner's face. The
man laughed.
"Why, then--then we-all c'n go back to Ten Bow--to _home_! But, come
now, le's eat breakfast. We-all got to go light on the grub. Come on out
of that, yo' li'l ol' _tillicum_, standin' theah in the do' shakin' yo'
fist! Puts me in mind of a show I seen onct down to Skagway, in the
opery house: Julia See's Ah, I rec'lect was the name of it, an' they was
a lot of fist shakin' an' fancy speeches by the men, which they was
Greasers oah Dagoes that woah sheets wropped around 'em, 'stead of pants
an' shirts. They was one fellow, See's Ah, his name was--it was him the
show was about. Neah as we-all c'd figgeh, he was a mighty good soht of
a pahty, a king oah pres'dent, oah somethin', an' he had a friend, name
of Brutish, that he'd done a heap fo', an' helped along, an' thought a
heap of; an' anotheh friend name of Mahk Antony. Well, seems like this
heah Brutish got soah at See's Ah, I didn't rightly get what fo'--but it
don't make no dif'ence--anyhow, he got a fellow name of Cashus, an' a
couple mo' scoundrels an' they snuck up on See's Ah when he worn't
lookin' an' stabbed him in the back. It sho' made us mad, an' we-all
yelled at See's Ah to look out, 'cause we seen 'em fingehin' theah
knives in undeh theah sheets--but he didn't get what we was drivin' at,
an' when he did look it was too late. We waited a spell while the show
went on, to see what Mahk Antony, See's Ah's otheh friend, w'd do to
Brutish an' his gang--but he jest hung around makin' fancy speeches an'
such-like until we-all got plumb disgusted." Waseche Bill paused until
Connie, who had been listening eagerly, grew impatient.
"Well, what _did_ he do?"
"Nawthin'," replied the man. "We done it fo' him. Cou'se, it was only a
show, an' they didn't really kill See's Ah, but we-all didn't like the
idee, an' so when we seen Mahk didn't aim to do nawthin' but orate,
we-all let a yell out of us an' run up the aisle an' clim' onto the
stage an' grabbed Brutish an' Cashus an' Mahk Antony, too, an' run 'em
down an' chucked 'em into the Lynn Canal. It was winteh, an' the wateh
was cold, an' we soused 'em good an' propeh, an' when they got out they
snuck onto theah boat an' we-all went back to the opery house an' got
See's Ah, an' tuck him oveh to the _ho_tel an' give him a rousin' big
suppeh an' told him how we was all fo' him an' he c'd count on a squeah
deal in Skagway every time. An' Grub Stake John Billin's give him a
six-shooteh an' showed him how he c'd hide it in undeh his sheet an' lay
fo' 'em next time they snuck up on him that-a-way. See's Ah thanked us
all an' we walked down to the boat with him in case Brutish an' his gang
aimed to waylay him. An' then he made us a fine speech an' went on up
the gangway laughin' an' chucklin' fit to kill at the way he'd suhprise
them theah assinatehs next time they ondehtook to stick him in the
back." Waseche Bill finished, and after a long pause Connie asked:
"And O'Brien reminds you of Brutish?"
"Yes, son. An' I was jest a wondehin' what the boys'll do to him down in
Eagle when they see Mac's dawgs, an' ask him how come he to have 'em,
an' wheah yo' an' me is at. Yo' see, son, Big Jim Sontag an' Joe an'
Fiddle Face, an' a lot mo' of the boys was down to Skagway that night."
In the little cabin on the Kandik the days dragged slowly by. Waseche's
leg mended slowly, and despite the boy's most careful attention,
remained swollen and discoloured. Connie hunted during every minute of
daylight that could be spared from his camp duties, but game was scarce,
and although the boy tramped miles and miles each day, his bag was
pitifully small. A snowbird or a ptarmigan now and then fell to his
rifle and he found that it required the utmost care to keep from blowing
his game to atoms with the high-power rifle. How he longed for a shotgun
or a twenty-two calibre rifle as he dragged himself wearily over the
hard crust of the snow. The cold weather had driven the ground squirrels
into their holes and even the rabbits stuck close to cover. The boy set
snares made from an old piece of fishline, but the night-prowling
wolverines robbed them, as the line was too rotten for jerk snares.
The partners were reduced to one meal a day, now, and that a very scanty
one. Day after day the boy circled into the woods, and day by day the
circle shortened. He was growing weak, and was forced often to rest, and
the buckle tongue of his belt rested in a knife slit far beyond the last
hole.
Tears stood in Waseche Bill's eyes as each day he noted that the little
face was thinner and whiter than upon the preceding day, and that the
little shoulders drooped lower as the boy returned from his hunt and
sat wearily down upon the floor to pluck the feathers from a small
snowbird.
On the morning of the tenth day, Connie bravely shouldered his rifle and
with a cheery "Good-bye, pardner" carefully closed the door behind him.
Old Boris, Mutt, and Slasher had managed to eke out a scant living by
running rabbits at night, but they were little more than skin and bones,
at best, and during the day lay huddled together in the sunshine near
the cabin. As the boy passed out into the cold, clear air he noticed
that the dogs were gone from their accustomed place.
"That's funny," he thought. "I wonder if they pulled out, too?" And
then, as if ashamed of the thought, he jerked his shoulders erect. "Not
by a long shot! Those dogs will stick with us till the end! They are no
pikers! They're _tillicums_!"
Suddenly, from far down the river, came a clear, bell-like howl,
followed by a chorus of frantic yelps and savage growls.
"My dogs!" cried the boy and, gripping his rifle, made his way down the
steep bank and out upon the hard crust of the river. On and on he ran,
in the direction of the sounds that came from beyond a sharp, wooded
bend. The ice was slippery but uneven, and studded with sharp points of
frozen snow that cut cruelly into his feet through the holes of his worn
_mukluks_. In his weakened condition the effort was a serious drain upon
the boy's strength, but he kept on running, stumbling, slipping--and in
more places than one his footsteps were marked by dark patches of red.
Around the wooded bend he tore and there, upon the smooth ice of a
backwater pool, stood a huge bull moose, which, with lowered antlers and
bristling mane, fought off the savage attacks of the three dogs. Again
and again the dogs charged the great animal, whose hoofs slipped
clumsily upon the ice with each movement of the huge body. Round and
round they circled, seeking a chance to dash in past those broad
antlers, but with blazing eyes the moose faced them, turning swiftly
but awkwardly, as upon an uncentred pivot, while the breath whistled
through his distended nostrils and spread into frozen plumes. So intent
was the great beast upon the attack of the dogs that he gave no heed to
the small boy who gazed spellbound upon this battle of the wilds. For a
long time Connie stood, entirely forgetful of the rifle that remained
firmly clutched in his hands, and as he watched, a wave of admiration
and sympathy swept over him for this huge monarch of the barren lands
that, in his own fastnesses, stood at bay against the gleaming white
fangs of his tormentors. Then into his brain leaped another
thought--here was meat! Half a ton of good red meat that meant life to
his starving partner, to himself, and to his three beloved dogs. Slowly
and deliberately the boy dropped to his knee and raised his rifle. The
sights wavered to the trembling of his hands and, summoning all the
power that was in him, he concentrated upon the steadying of his aim.
_Bang!_ The sound of the shot rang sharp and clear through the cold
air, and the moose, with a loud snort, reared upward, whirled, and fell
crashing upon his side, while his powerful legs, with their sharp hoofs,
thrashed and clawed at the ice. Instantly Slasher was at his throat, and
old Boris and Mutt rushed blindly in, snapping and biting at the great,
hairy body. Hastily jamming a fresh cartridge into his barrel, Connie
sprang forward, and with muzzle held close, placed a finishing shot low
down behind the point of the shoulder. But the strain upon his poorly
nourished body had been too great for the boy to stand. The long run
down the river and the excitement of the kill had taxed his endurance to
the limit. A strange weakness seemed dragging at his limbs, pulling him
down, down, down into some vast, intangible depth. Mechanically he drew
the knife from its sheath and dragged himself to the body of the moose,
and then, suddenly, the world went dark, and he seemed to be whirling,
easily and slowly, into a place of profound silence. And almost at the
same moment, around another bend of the river, from the direction of
the Yukon, dashed a long, tawny dog team, and another, and another, and
with a wild yell of joy, O'Brien, red whiskers ablaze in the sunlight,
leaped from the foremost sled and gathered the unconscious form of the
boy into his arms; while beside him, all talking at once and hampering
each other's movements in their frantic efforts to revive the boy, were
Fiddle Face, and Joe, and Big Jim Sontag, and others of the men of
Eagle.
[Illustration: "Mechanically he drew the knife from its sheath and
dragged himself to the body of the moose."]
Slowly Connie Morgan opened his eyes and gazed, puzzled, into the
bearded faces of the men of the North. His glance rested upon the face
of O'Brien peering anxiously into his own, and strayed to the dogs of
the leading team--McDougall's dogs--and to the sleds loaded with
provisions, and then, with the tears streaming from his eyes, the boy
struggled to his feet and a small hand shot out and grasped the rough,
hairy hand of O'Brien--_the deserter who came back!_