Part 11 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow with his axe.”]

”It's an _igloo_, son--an _igloo_ buried in the snow. An' the'h's a man in the'h.”

”A _man_!” cried the astonished boy.

”Yes, kid--it's Carlson. He's _dead_.”

Tired as they were after a hard day on the trail, the two partners were unwilling to sleep without first making a thorough examination of the buried _igloo_. More firewood was cut, and by the light of the leaping flames Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow with his axe, while Connie busied himself in removing the cakes and loose snow from the excavation. At the end of an hour a squared pa.s.sageway was completed and the two entered the _igloo_.

”He had a plenty grub, anyways,” remarked Waseche, as he cast an appraising eye over the various bags of provisions piled upon the snow floor. ”He didn't stahve, an' it wasn't the red death (smallpox)--I looked pa'tic'lah, fo' I went out of heah.”

Connie glanced at the body which lay partially covered by a pile of robes. The man's features were calm and composed--one could have fancied him asleep, had it not been for the marble whiteness of the skin. One by one, they examined all the dead man's effects; the little Yukon stove, half filled with ashes, the bags of provisions, his ”war-bag”--all were carefully scrutinized, but not a map--not even a pencil mark rewarded their search.

”He's met up with Eskimos, somewhe'h,” said Waseche, examining a rudely shaped copper pan in which a bit of wicking made from frayed canvas protruded from a quant.i.ty of frozen blubber grease.

Finally the two turned to the body. The coa.r.s.e woollen s.h.i.+rt was open at the throat, and about the man's neck, they noticed for the first time, was a thin caribou skin thong. Cutting the thong Waseche removed from beneath the s.h.i.+rt a flat pouch of oiled canvas. Connie lighted the wick in the copper pan and together the two sat upon a robe and, in the guttering flare of the smoky lamp, carefully unwrapped the canvas cover.

The packet contained only a battered pocket notebook, upon whose worn leaves appeared a few rough sketches and many penciled words.

”Yo' read it, kid. I ain't no hand to read much,” said Waseche, handing the book to Connie, and his eyes glowed with admiration as the boy read glibly from the tattered pages.

”Tu'n to the last page an' wo'k back,” suggested Waseche.

”January tenth--” began Connie. ”Why, that was nearly a year ago! He couldn't have been dead a year!” His eyes rested on the white face of Carlson.

”A yeah, or a hund'ed yeahs--it's all the same. He's froze solid as stone, an' he'll stay like that till the end of time,” replied the man, gravely.

”It says,” continued the boy, ”'Growing weaker. For two days no fire.

Too weak. Pain gone, but cannot breathe. To-day'--That's all, it ends there.”

”Noomony,” laconically remarked Waseche. The preceding pages were devoted almost entirely to a record of the progress of the disease. The first notation was January third. Under the date of January fifth he wrote:

”I am afraid my time has come. If so, tell Pete Mateese the claims are staked on Ignatook--mine and his. See map in lining of _parka_. Maybe Pete is dead. He has been gone a year. He tried to go out by the Tatonduk. I can't find him. I can't find the divide. The Lillimuit has got me! They said it would--but the gold! It is here--gold, gold, gold--yellow gold--and it is all mine--mine and Pete Mateese's. But the steam! The stillness! The white, frozen forest--and the creeks that don't freeze! After Pete left _things_ came in the night. It is cold--yet my brain is on fire! I can't sleep!”

This proved to be the longest entry; the man seemed to grow rapidly weaker. When the boy finished Waseche Bill shuddered.

”The Lillimuit got him,” he said slowly. ”He went _marihuana_.” On the next page, under the date of January sixth, the boy read:

”Made a _cache_ here in timber. Growing weaker. Tomorrow I will turn back. Mapped the back trail. _2 caches_--then the claims on Ignatook, the creek of the stinking steam. I will go out by the Kandik. I mapped that trail. It is shorter, but I must find Pete Mateese. I must tell him--the claims.”

”Who is Pete Mateese? And where is Ignatook?” inquired the boy.

”Sea'ch me!” exclaimed Waseche. ”I ain't neveh hea'd tell of eitheh one, an' I be'n in Alaska goin' on fo'teen yeah.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”We'ah lost, kid. It's a cinch we cain't find the divide.”]

For an hour they studied Carlson's map, which they found as he had directed, concealed in the lining of his _parka_. Finally Waseche Bill looked up:

”We'ah lost, kid. It's a cinch we cain't find the divide if Carlson couldn't--he know'd the country. The thing fo' us to do is to follow Carlson's map to his camp, an' then on out by the Kandik. Neah's I c'n make out, it means about three or fo' hund'ed miles of trail--but we got to tackle it. Tomorrow we'll rest an' hunt up the _cache_--Carlson's past needin' it now. We sho' got hea'h jest in time!”