Part 19 (1/2)
”The second reason is that it's the one hope we have left. I take it that none of us are deceived on that point. And no man can die tamely--if he is a man--while there's a chance. I mean a young man, like me,--not one who is old and tired. It sounds perfectly silly to talk about finding Cranston's winter quarters, and then, with my bare hands, conquering him, taking his food and his blankets and his snowshoes and his rifle to fight away these wolves, and bringing 'em back here.”
”You wouldn't be barehanded,” the girl reminded him. ”You could have the pistol.”
He didn't even seem to hear her. ”I've been thinking about it. It's a long, long chance--much worse than the chance we had of getting out by straight walking. I think we could have made it, if the wolves had kept off and the snowshoe hadn't broken. It would have nearly killed us, but I believe we could have got out. That's why I didn't try this other way first. A man with his bare hands hasn't much of a chance against another with a rifle, and I don't want you to be too hopeful. And of course, the hardest problem is finding his camp.
”But I do feel sure of one thing: that he is back to his old trapping line on the North Fork--somewhere south of here--and his camp is somewhere on the river. I think he would have gone there so that he could cut off any attempt I might make to get through with those letters. My plan is to start back at an angle that will carry me between the North Fork and our old house. Somewhere in there I'll find his tracks, the tracks he made when he first came over to burn up the house.
I suppose he was careful to mix 'em up after once he arrived there, but the first part of the way he likely walked straight toward the house from his camp. Somewhere, if I go that way, I'll cross his trail--within ten miles at least. Then I'll back-track him to his camp.”
”And never come back!” the girl cried.
”Maybe not. But at least everything that can be done will be done.
Nothing will be left. No regrets. We will have made the last trial. I'm not going to waste any time, s...o...b..rd. The sooner we get your fire built the better.”
”Father and I are to stay here--?”
”What else can you do?” He went back to his traces and drew the sled one hundred yards farther. He didn't seem to see the gaunt wolf that backed off into the shadows as he approached. He refused to notice that the pack seemed to be steadily growing bolder. Human hunters usually had guns that could blast and destroy from a distance; but even an animal intelligence could perceive that these three seemed to be without this means of inflicting death. A wolf is ever so much more intelligent than a crow,--yet a crow shows little fear of an unarmed man and is wholly unapproachable by a boy with a gun. The ugly truth was simply that in their increasing madness and excitement and hunger, they were becoming less and less fearful of these three strange humans with the sled.
It was not a good place for a camp. They worked a long time before they cleared a little patch of ground of its snow mantle. Dan cut a number of saplings--laboriously with his ax--and built a fire with the comparatively dry core of a dead tree. True, it was feeble and flickering, but as good as could be hoped for, considering the difficulties under which he worked. The dead logs under the snow were soaked with water from the rains and the thaws. The green wood that he cut smoked without blazing.
”No more time to be lost,” Dan told s...o...b..rd. ”It lies in your hands to keep the fire burning. And don't leave the circle of the firelight without that pistol in your hand.”
”You don't mean,” she asked, unbelieving, ”that you are going to go out there to fight Cranston--unarmed?”
”Of course, s...o...b..rd. You must keep the pistol.”
”But it means death; that's all it means. What chance would you have against a man with a rifle? And as soon as you get away from this fire, the wolves will tear you to pieces.”
”And what would you and your father do, if I took it? You can't get him into a tree. You can't build a big enough fire to frighten them. Please don't even talk about this matter, s...o...b..rd. My mind's made up. I think the pack will stay here. They usually--G.o.d knows how--know who is helpless and who isn't. Maybe with the gun, you will be able to save your lives.”
”What's the chance of that?”
”You might--with one cartridge--kill one of the devils; and the others--but you know how they devour their own dead. That might break their famine enough so that they'd hold off until I can get back. That's the prize I'm playing for.”
”And what if you don't get back?”
He took her hand in one of his, and with the other he caressed, for a single moment, the lovely flesh of her throat. The love he had for her spoke from his eyes,--such speech as no human vision could possibly mistake. Both of them were tingling and breathless with a great, sweet wonder.
”Never let those fangs tear that softness, while you live,” he told her gently. ”Never let that brave old man on the sled go to his death with the pack tearing at him. Cheat 'em, s...o...b..rd! Beat 'em the last minute, if no other way remains! Show 'em who's boss, after all--of all this forest.”
”You mean--?” Her eyes widened.
”I mean that you must only spend one of those three sh.e.l.ls in fighting off the wolves. Save that till the moment you need it most. The other two must be saved--for something else.”
She nodded, shuddering an instant at a menacing shadow that moved within sixty feet of the fire. The firelight half-blinded them, dim as it was, and they couldn't see into the darkness as well as they had before.
Except for strange, blue-yellow lights, close together and two and two about the fire, they might have thought that the pack was gone.
”Then good-by, Dan!” she told him. And she stretched up her arms. ”The thing I said--that day on the hillside--doesn't hold any more.”
His own arms encircled her, but he made no effort to claim her lips.