Part 19 (1/2)
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 pa.s.sed, 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 _tillic.u.ms_.
”'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 s.h.i.+fted and they sank ankle deep into the yielding ma.s.s. 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 compa.s.s 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 m.u.f.fled faces the three headed again into the unknown.
With the coming of darkness, they camped at the fork of a frozen river where a spa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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,” a.s.sented 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 compa.s.s, 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 ma.s.s 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: