Part 73 (2/2)

”My gun.”

”Mine's here.”

Oh yes! His own old 44 Marlin was lying far down the river under eight-and-fifty hours of snow. It angered him newly and more than ever to remember that if he had a shot at anything now it must needs be by favour of the Colonel.

They listened for that sound again, the first since leaving Anvik not made by themselves.

”Seems a lot quieter than it did,” observed the Colonel by-and-bye.

The Boy nodded.

Without preface the Colonel observed: ”It's five days since I washed my face and hands.”

”What's the good o' rememberin'?” returned the Boy sharply. Then more mildly: ”People talk about the bare necessaries o' life. Well, sir, when they're really bare you find there ain't but three--food, warmth, sleep.”

Again in the distance that hollow baying.

”Food, warmth, sleep,” repeated the Colonel. ”We've about got down to the wolf basis.”

He said it half in defiance of the trail's fierce lessoning; but it was truer than he knew.

They built up the fire to frighten off the wolves, but the Colonel had his rifle along when they went over and crawled into their sleeping-bag. Half in, half out, he laid the gun carefully along the right on his snow-shoes. As the Boy b.u.t.toned the fur-lined flap down over their heads he felt angrier with the Colonel than he had ever been before.

”Took good care to hang on to his own shootin'-iron. Suppose anything should happen”; and he said it over and over.

Exactly what could happen he did not make clear; the real danger was not from wolves, but it was _something_. And he would need a rifle....

And he wouldn't have one.... And it was the Colonel's fault.

Now, it had long been understood that the woodman is lord of the wood.

When it came to the Colonel's giving unasked advice about the lumber business, the Boy turned a deaf ear, and thought well of himself for not openly resenting the interference.

”The Colonel talks an awful lot, anyway. He has more hot air to offer than muscle.”

When they sighted timber that commended itself to the woodman, if _he_ thought well of it, why, he just dropped the sled-rope without a word, pulled the axe out of the las.h.i.+ng, trudged up the hillside, holding the axe against his s.h.i.+rt underneath his parki, till he reached whatever tree his eye had marked for his own. Off with the fur mitt, and bare hand protected by the inner mitt of wool, he would feel the axe-head, for there was always the danger of using it so cold that the steel would chip and fly. As soon as he could be sure the proper molecular change had been effected, he would take up his awkward att.i.tude before the selected spruce, leaning far forward on his snow-shoes, and seeming to deliver the blows on tip-toe.

But the real trouble came when, after felling the dead tree, splitting an armful of fuel and carrying it to the Colonel, he returned to the task of cutting down the tough green spruce for their bedding. Many strained blows must be delivered before he could effect the chopping of even a little notch. Then he would s.h.i.+ft his position and cut a corresponding notch further round, so making painful circuit of the bole. To-night, what with being held off by his snow-shoes, what with utter weariness and a dulled axe, he growled to himself that he was ”only gnawin' a ring round the tree like a beaver!”

”d.a.m.n the whole--Wait!” Perhaps the cursed snow was packed enough now to bear. He slipped off the web-feet, and standing gingerly, but blessedly near, made effectual attack. Hooray! One more good 'un and the thing was down. Hah! ugh! Woof-ff! The tree was down, but so was he, floundering breast high, and at every effort to get out only breaking down more of the crust and sinking deeper.

This was not the first time such a thing had happened. Why did he feel as if it was for him the end of the world? He lay still an instant. It would be happiness just to rest here and go to sleep. The Colonel! Oh, well, the Colonel had taken his rifle. Funny there should be orange-trees up here. He could smell them. He shut his eyes. Something shone red and glowing. Why, that was the sun making an effect of stained gla.s.s as it shone through the fat pine weather-boarding of his little bedroom on the old place down in Florida. Suddenly a face. _Ah, that face!_ He must be up and doing. He knew perfectly well how to get out of this d.a.m.n hole. You lie on your side and roll. Gradually you pack the softness tight till it bears--not if you stand up on your feet, but bears the length of your body, while you worm your way obliquely to the top, and feel gingerly in the dimness after your snow-shoes.

But if it happens on a pitch-dark night, and your pardner has chosen camp out of earshot, you feel that you have looked close at the end of the Long Trail.

On getting back to the fire, he found the Colonel annoyed at having called ”Grub!” three times--”yes, sah! three times, sah!”

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