Part 17 (1/2)
”Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and witness the start,”
grinned Brent, ”In the meantime, I am going to make the most of the fleeting hours.” He reached for the bottle, and Reeves held up a warning hand:
”You won't be in any shape to hit the trail in the morning, if you go too heavy on that.”
Brent laughed: ”Again, I may say, you don't know Joe Pete.”
At seven o'clock in the morning Reeves hurried to Brent's cabin. The snow about the door lay a foot deep, trackless and unbroken. Reeves'
heart gave a bound of apprehension. There was no dog team nor sled in evidence, nor was there any sign that the Indian had returned. A dull light glowed through the heavily frosted pane and without waiting to knock Reeves pushed open the door and entered.
Brent greeted him with drunken enthusiasm: ”H'l'o, Reeves, ol' top! Glad to she you. S'down an' have a good ol' drink! Wait'll I shave. h.e.l.l of a job to shave.” He stood before the mirror weaving back and forth, with a razor in one hand and a shaving brush in the other, and a gla.s.s half full of whiskey upon the washstand before him, into which he gravely from time to time dipped the shaving brush, and rubbing it vigorously upon the soap, endeavored to lather the inch-long growth of beard that covered his face. Despite his apprehension as to what had become of the paragon, Joe Pete, Reeves was forced to laugh. He laughed and laughed, until Brent turned around and regarded him gravely: ”Wash matter? Wash joke? Wait a minuit lesh have a li'l drink.” He reached for the bottle, that sat nearly empty upon the table, and guzzled a swallow of the liquor. ”d.a.m.n near all gone. Have to get nosher one when Joe Pete comes.”
”When Joe Pete comes!” cried Reeves, ”You'll never see Joe Pete again!
He's skipped out!”
”Skipped out? Washa mean skipped out?”
”I mean that it's a quarter past seven and he hasn't showed up and you told him you would start at eight.”
Brent laid his razor upon the table: ”Quar' pasht seven? Quar pasht seven isn't eight 'clock. You don' know Joe Pete.”
”But, man, you're not ready. There's nothing packed. And you're as drunk as a lord!”
”Sure, I'm drunk's a lord--drunker'n two lords--lords ain't so d.a.m.n'
drunk. If I don't get packed by eight 'clock I'll have to go wishout packin'. You don' know Joe Pete.”
At a quarter of eight there was a commotion before the door, and the huge Indian entered the room, dressed for the trail. He stood still, gave one comprehensive look around the room, and silently fell to work.
He examined rapidly everything in the cabin, throwing several articles into a pile. Brent's tooth brush, comb, shaving outfit, and mirror he made into a pack which he carried to the sled, returning a moment later with a brand new outfit of clothing. He placed it upon the chair and motioned Brent to get into it. But Brent stood and stared at it owlishly. Whereupon, without a word, the Indian seized him and with one or two jerks stripped him to the skin and proceeded to dress him as one would dress a baby. Brent protested weakly, but all to no purpose.
Reeves helped and soon Brent was clothed for the winter trail even to moose hide parka. He grinned foolishly, and drank the remaining liquor from the bottle. ”Whad' I tell you?” he asked solemnly of Reeves. ”You don't know Joe Pete.”
The Indian consulted a huge silver watch, and returning it to his pocket, sat upon the edge of the bunk, and stared at the wall. Brent puttered futilely about the room, and addressed the Indian. ”We got to get a bottle of hooch. I got to have jus' one more drink. Jus' one more drink, an' then to h.e.l.l wish it.”
The Indian paid not the slightest heed, but continued to stare at the wall. A few minutes later he again consulted his watch, and rising, grasped Brent about the middle and carried him, struggling and protesting out the door and lashed him securely to the sled.
Reeves watched the proceeding in amazement, and almost before he realized what was happening, the Indian had taken his place beside the dogs. He cracked his whip, shouted an unintelligible command, and the team started. Upon the top of the load, Brent wagged a feeble farewell to Reeves: ”Sho long, ol' man--she you later--I got to go now. You don'
know Joe Pete.”
The outfit headed down the trail to the river. Reeves, standing beside the door of the deserted cabin, glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He turned, closed the door and started for home chuckling. The chuckle became a laugh, and he smote his thigh and roared, until some laborers going to work stopped to look at him. Then he composed himself and went home to tell his wife.
CHAPTER XII
ON THE TRAIL
At noon Joe Pete swung the outfit into the lee of a thicket, built a fire, and brewed tea. Brent woke up and the Indian loosened the _bab.i.+.c.he_ line that had secured him, coiled the rope carefully, and without a word, went on with his preparation of the meal. Brent staggered and stumbled about in the snow in an effort to restore circulation to his numbed arms and legs. His head ached fiercely, and when he could in a measure control his movements, he staggered to the fire. Joe Pete tendered him a cup of steaming tea. Brent smelled of the liquid with disgust: ”To h.e.l.l with tea!” he growled thickly, ”I want hooch. I've got to have it--just one drink.”
Joe Pete drank a swallow of tea, and munched unconcernedly at a piece of pilot bread.