Part 18 (1/2)

The fourth day he did not resort to the sled at all. Nor all during the day did he once ask for a drink of hooch. Day after day they mushed eastward, and higher and higher they climbed toward the main divide of the mountains. As they progressed the way became rougher and steeper, the two alternated between breaking trail and work at the gee-pole. With the pa.s.sing of the days the craving for liquor grew less and less insistent. Only in the early morning was the gnawing desire strong upon him, and to a.s.suage this desire he drank great quant.i.ties of strong tea.

The outward manifestation of this desire was an intense irritability, that caused him to burst into unreasoning rage at a frozen guy rope or a misplaced mitten, and noting this, Joe Pete was careful to see that breakfast was ready before he awakened Brent.

On the tenth day they topped the Bonnet Plume pa.s.s and began the long descent of the eastern slope. That night a furious blizzard roared down upon them from out of the North, and for two days they lay s...o...b..und, venturing from the tent only upon short excursions for firewood. Upon the first of these days Brent shaved, a process that, by reason of a heavy beard of two months' growth, and a none too sharp razor, consumed nearly two hours. When the ordeal was over he regarded himself for a long time in the little mirror, scowling at the red, beefy cheeks, and at the little broken veins that showed blue-red at the end of his nose.

He noted with approval that his eyes had cleared of the bilious yellow look, and that the network of tiny red veins were no longer visible upon the eyeb.a.l.l.s. With approval, too, he prodded and pinched the hardening muscles in his legs and arms.

When the storm pa.s.sed they pushed on, making heavy going in the loose snow. The rejuvenation of Brent was rapid now. Each evening found him less tired and in better heart, and each morning found him ready and eager for the trail.

”To h.e.l.l with the hooch,” he said, one evening, as he and the Indian sat upon their robes in the door of the tent and watched the red flames lick at the firewood, ”I wouldn't take a drink now if I had a barrel of it!”

”Mebbe-so not now, but in de morning you tak' de beeg drink--you bet,”

opined the Indian solemnly.

”The h.e.l.l I would!” flared Brent, and then he laughed. ”There is no way of proving it, but if there were, I'd like to bet you this sack of dust against your other s.h.i.+rt that I wouldn't.” He waited for a reply, but Joe Pete merely shrugged, and smoked on in silence.

Down on the Gravel River, with the Mackenzie only three or four days away, the outfit rounded a bend one evening and came suddenly upon a camp. Brent, who was in the lead, paused abruptly and stared at the fire that flickered cheerfully among the tree trunks a short distance back from the river. ”We'll swing in just below them,” he called back to Joe Pete, ”It's time to camp anyway.”

As they headed in toward the bank they were greeted by a rabble of barking, snarling dogs, which dispersed howling and yelping as a man stepped into their midst laying right and left about him with a long-lashed whip. The man was Johnnie Claw, and Brent noted that in the gathering darkness he had not recognized him.

”Goin' to camp?” asked Claw.

Brent answered in the affirmative, and headed his dogs up the bank toward a level spot some twenty or thirty yards below the fire.

Claw followed and stood beside the sled as they unharnessed the dogs: ”Where you headin'?” he asked.

”Mackenzie River.”

”Well, you ain't got fer to go. Trappin'?”

Brent shook his head: ”No. Prospecting.”

”Where'd you come from?”

”Dawson.”

”Dawson!” exclaimed Claw, and Brent, who had purposely kept his face turned away, was conscious that the man was regarding him closely. Claw began to speak rapidly, ”This Dawson, it's way over t'other side the mountains, ain't it? I heard how they'd made a strike over there--a big strike.”

Brent nodded: ”Yes,” he answered. ”Ever been there?”

”Me? No. Me an' the woman lives over on the Nahanni. I trap.”

Brent laughed: ”What's the matter, Claw? I'm not connected with the police. You don't need to lie to me. What have you got, a load of hooch for the Injuns?”

The man stepped close and stared for a moment into Brent's face. Then, suddenly, he stepped back: ”Well, d.a.m.n my soul, if it ain't you!”

He was staring at Brent in undisguised astonishment: ”But, what in h.e.l.l's happened to you? A month ago you was----”

”A b.u.m,” interrupted Brent, ”Going to h.e.l.l by the hooch route--and not much farther to go. But I'm not now, and inside of six months I will be as good a man as I ever was.”

”You used to claim you always was as good a man as you ever was,”