CHAPTER IX
THE WHITE DEATH
It was yet dark when Waseche Bill opened his eyes and blinked sleepilyinto the small face that smiled down at him in the light of theflickering fire. The rich aroma of boiling coffee and the appetizingodour of bacon roused him to his senses and he grinned happily at thewords of the boy:
"Come on, pardner, grub's ready! And you better fly at it, too. 'Causeif I know anything about it, we'll sure know we've done something by thetime we get the outfit out of this hole."
Waseche glanced upward where the tiny stars winked coldly between thehigh walls of the gloomy gorge in which Sam Morgan's boy found himselfheld prisoner when the huge mass of ice detached itself from the sideof the glacier and crashed into the canyon.
"Yo' sho's on the job, son--seem's if I jest got good an' asleep. Whattime is it?" he asked, as he crawled from beneath his robes.
"Six o'clock," answered the boy extending a cup of steaming coffee.
"Six o'clock! Sufferin' cats! Three hours till daylight--Ain't yo got nopity on the ol' man?"
"Old man, nothing!" grinned Connie over the rim of his tin cup. "But ifyou wait for daylight to come down into the bottom of this well, youwill be an old man before you get out."
Breakfast over, the two packed the outfit and, without harnessing thedogs, pulled the sled to the foot of the barrier. Here it was unloadedand the pack made into bundles suitable for hoisting. The sled was theheaviest piece and the only one that offered a serious problem. It wasdecided that Connie should remain below and make the things fast, whileWaseche climbed to the top and did the hoisting. A sling was riggedfrom a strip of old blanket, by means of which the dogs could be lifted,by passing it under their bellies and fastening it to the rope at theirbacks. When all was ready Waseche grasped the swaying _babiche_ line, bymeans of which he had lowered himself the previous evening.
"Cain't grip nothin' with mittens on," he grumbled, as he bared hishands to the intense cold. Next moment he was pulling himself jerkilyupward, hand over hand, while Connie Morgan stood below and watched theindistinct outline of the man who swayed and dangled above him, for allthe world like a giant spider ascending a thread of invisible web.
The rope twitched violently as the man drew himself onto the top of thebarrier, and a few minutes later the regular taps of his ice axesounded, as Waseche chopped his "heel holts" as close to the edge assafety permitted. The tapping ceased and the voice of the man rolled andreverberated between the walls of the cistern-like chasm.
"All set, kid!"
"Haul away!" and immediately the bale containing the two sleeping bagsswung clear of the snow and was drawn upward, spinning and bumping theice wall. Other bales followed and soon there remained only the dogs andthe sled. After many unsuccessful efforts to induce the wolf-dogs tosubmit to the unaccustomed sling, Connie hit upon the expedient ofharnessing them to the sled, for even McDougall's finely trained dogs,like all _malamutes_, were wolves at heart and were trustworthy andtractable only in harness. This accomplished, they submitted readilyenough and, beginning with the "wheel dogs," one at a time, Conniepassed the sling about them and cast off the harness at the same time.Waseche hauled them, snarling and biting at the encircling band, up theface of the perpendicular wall. Old Boris and good-natured Muttsubmitted without a growl of protest; but it was different with theuntamed savage Slasher. During the whole unusual proceeding thesuspicious wolf-dog had bristled and growled, and several times it wasonly by the narrowest margin that Connie succeeded in averting atragedy, as Slasher leaped with flashing fangs toward a sled dogdangling helplessly from the rope's end. At last Slasher alone remained.The boy called him. He came, with hair abristle, stepping slowly andstiffly. His eyes glared red, and way back in his throat rumbled long,low growls.
"Come on! You can't bluff _me_--you old grouch, you!" laughed the boy,and stooping, slipped a heavy collar about his neck. Passing a runningnoose about the long pointed muzzle, he secured the free end to thecollar, and to make assurance doubly sure, he tied a strip torn from theold blanket tightly about the dog's jaws, affixed the sling, and gavethe signal.
It was not for his own protection that the boy thus muzzled Slasher. Inall the Northland he was the only person who did not fear the wild,vicious brute, for he knew that rather than harm him the _malamute_would have allowed himself to be torn in pieces. But he feared forWaseche Bill when he came to release him. Despite the fact that he hadlived with Waseche for a year, the dog treated him no whit differentlythan he treated the veriest stranger. To one person in all theworld--and only one--the wolf-dog owed allegiance, and that person wasConnie Morgan--the first and only creature of the hated man tribe whohad used him with fairness.
Again the line was lowered and Connie, making his own line fast to thesled, grasped the loose end, seated himself in the loop of Waseche's,and gave the signal. Up, up, he rose, fending off from the wall withfeet and hands. At length he reached the top and the strong arms ofWaseche helped him over the edge. After a brief rest, both laid hold ofthe remaining line and hauled away at the sled. The pull taxed theircombined strength to the utmost, but the heavy sled was up at last, andthey stood free upon the top of the barrier.
Their labours had consumed the greater part of the day, and it was wellafter noon when they sat down to a hasty lunch of caribou _charqui_ andsuet.
"I would never have made it!" exclaimed the boy, thoughtfully, as hiseyes travelled over the perpendicular walls of the yawning chasm. "Puther there, pardner," he said, gravely extending his hand toward Waseche.The man grasped the small, mittened hand and wrung it hard:
"Sho' now! Sho' now!" he protested hastily. "Yo' mout of." But the boynoticed that Waseche turned from the place with a shudder.
The work of packing the outfit down into the canyon occupied theremainder of the day and that night they camped at the foot of thebarrier, where Waseche had left his own outfit.
"Now for Ten Bow! I sure do love every log and daub of chinking in thatcabin. When fellows own their own home--like we do--when they built itwith their own hands, you know--a fellow gets homesick when he'saway--'specially if he's all alone. Didn't you get homesick, too,pardner?"
Waseche Bill dropped the harness he was untangling, and stepping to theboy's side, laid a big hand upon the small shoulder:
"Yes, kid," he answered, in a soft voice, "I be'n homesick every minuteI be'n gone. An' that night--jest befo' I left, I was homesickest ofall. I thought it was the squa'h thing to do--but I've learnt a heapsince, that I didn't know then. Tell me, son, if yo' love the cabin so,why did yo' come away? The claim was yo'n. I wrote it out that way apurpose." The clear grey eyes of the boy looked up into the man's face.
"Why--why, after you were gone, it--it wasn't the same any more. I--I_hated_ the place. Maybe it's because I'm only a boy----"
"Yes," interrupted the man, speaking slowly, as if to himself. "Yo' onlya boy--jest a little boy--an' yet--" his voice became suddenly husky,and he turned away: "Folks calls Sam Mo'gan _unlucky_!" He cleared histhroat loudly, and again the big hand rested on the boy's shoulder:
"Listen, kid, I've had cabins befo' now--a many a one, on big creeks an'little--an' I've come off an' left 'em all, an' neveh a onct was Ihomesick. But this time I was--it was diffe'nt. Shucks, kid, don't yo'see? It takes mo'n jest a cabin to make--_home_."
Soon the outfits were ready for the trail.
"We sho' got dawgs enough," grinned Waseche, as he eyed the two teams;"McDougall's ten, eight of mine, an' them three of yo'n--we betteh mush,too, 'cause it takes a sight of feed fo' twenty-one dawgs. I 'lowed torun acrost meat befo' now--caribou, or moose, or sheep--but this heahLillimuit's as cold an' dead as the outeh voids that the lecture fellehwas tellin' about in Dawson. I got right int'rested in the place--till Icome to find out it was too fah off to botheh about, bein' located wayoveh back of the sun somewheahs."
At a crack of the whip, Waseche's dogs sprang into the lead, andMcDougall's _malamutes_, with Connie trotting beside them, swung inbehind
. There was no wind, and in the narrow canyon sounds werestrangely magnified. The squeak of sled runners on the hard, dry snowsounded loud and sharp as the creak of a windlass, and, as they passedthe foot of the snow-covered sheep trail, the voice of Waseche boomedand reverberated unnaturally:
"Yondeh's the ol' sheep trail wheah I got out of the canyon. Neah's Ic'n make out it ain't be'n used fo' mo'n a month. I tell yo' what--timesis sho' hawd when the sheep pulls out of a country."
It was very cold. Toward midday the windings of the canyon allowed themoccasional glimpses of the low-hung sun. It had a strange unfamiliarappearance, like a huge eye of polished brass, glaring coldly in abright white light not its own. As each turn of the trail cut off hisview, the boy glanced furtively at his partner and was quick to note theman's evident uneasiness. Mile after mile they mushed in silence. Thefragmentary conversation of the earlier hours ceased, and eachexperienced a growing sense of exhaustion. The motionless air hung heavyand dead about them. Its vitality was wanting, so that they were forcedto breathe rapidly and concentrate their minds upon the simple act ofkeeping up with the dogs. Each was conscious of a growing lethargy thatsapped his strength. Even the dogs were affected, and ploddedmechanically forward with lowered heads and drooping tails.
They were approaching the cavern in which Connie had sought refuge fromthe blizzard. For several miles the boy had been wondering whetherWaseche would camp at the cave. He hoped that he would. He was growingterribly sleepy and it was only by constant effort that he kept his eyesopen, although they had been scarcely five hours on the trail. His headfelt strangely light and hollow, and white specks danced before hiseyes. He closed his eyes and the specks were red. They danced in thedarkness, writhing and twisting like fiery snakes. He opened his eyesand held doggedly to his place beside the team. His mind dwelt longinglyupon the soft, warm feel of his sleeping bag. The boy's nerves weretense and strained, so that his lips and eyelids twitched spasmodically,with a sting as of extreme cold.
As they drew nearer the mouth of the cavern he felt that he would screamaloud if Waseche did not halt. His gaze became fixed upon the broad backof his partner as he mushed beside his dogs, and he noted that the manwalked with quick, jerky steps. He wondered vaguely at this, for it wasnot Waseche's way. This passing thought vanished, and again his mindreverted to the all-important question: would Waseche camp? He would askhim. He filled his lungs--then, suddenly the thought flashed through hisbrain: "I'm a _piker!_ I won't ask him--I'll drop in my tracks first."The deep breath stung his lungs and he coughed--a sharp, dry cough thatrasped his throat. The man turned at the sound and eyed him sharply.
"Keep yo' mouth shut! An' hurry--_hurry!_" The man's voice was low andhard, and he, too, coughed.
At the mouth of the cavern the dogs stopped of their own accord and laydown in harness. The boy noted this, and also that instead of waitingalert, with cocked ears and watchful eyes for a word of command, theylay with their pointed muzzles pressed close against the hard snow, asif fearing to move.
Swiftly and silently Waseche began to remove the harness from the dogsand Connie followed his example. As soon as a dog was released, insteadof rolling about and ploughing and rooting his snout into the snow, heslunk quickly into the cave. The hitches were cast loose and sleepingbags, robes, grub, and frozen fish for the dogs were carried into thecavern. Waseche made another trip into the canyon while the boy sankdown upon his rolled sleeping bag and stared stupidly at the dogshuddled together in the farther end of the cave, their eyes gleaminggreenly in the darkness. A quarter of an hour later the man returnedwith a huge armful of gnarled, grubby brushwood that he had hacked fromthe crevices of the rocks. Near the entrance he built a small fire,filled the coffeepot with snow, and thawed some pemmican in the fryingpan. He filled his pipe, threw a handful of coffee into the pot, andturned toward Connie. The boy had fallen asleep with his back againstthe ice wall. Waseche shook him gently:
"Wake up, son! Grub pile!" He stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
"Let me alone," he muttered, sleepily, "I'm not hungry."
"Yo' got to eat. Heah's some hot coffee--jest climb outside of this, an'then yo' c'n sleep long as yo' like."
The hot liquid revived the boy and he ate some pemmican and bannock.Having finished, he spread his robes and unrolled his sleeping bag.Before turning in, however, he stepped to the door and looked out. Hewas surprised that it was yet daylight and the sun hung just above theshoulder of a sharp, naked peak. Again the white spots danced before hiseyes, and he turned quickly:
"Look! Look at the sun!" he cried in a sudden panic. "One, two, three,four--look Waseche, I can't count 'em."
"Come away, kid," said the man at his side, pulling at his sleeve.
"But the suns! Look! Can you count them?"
"No, kid, we cain't count 'em." The man's voice was very low.
"But what is the matter? There is only one real sun! Where do they comefrom?"
"I do'no, I do'no. It's--we got to camp heah till--" He was interruptedby the boy:
"It's what?" he asked, bewildered.
"It's--I neveh seen it befo'--but I've hea'd tell--It's the _whitedeath_. Heah, in the Lillimuit, an' some otheh places--nawth of theEndicotts, some say. Tonight--the flashin' lights, an' the blood-redaurora--tomorrow, a thousan' suns in the sky. They ain't no wind, an'the air is dead--dead, an' so cold yo' lungs'll crackle an' split ifyo'r caught on the trail. We got to keep out of it, an' then--" Hisvoice trailed into silence.
"And then _what_?" asked the boy, drowsily.
"I do'no, I do'no, kid--that depends."
Connie Morgan was awakened by the whimpering of dogs. In his ears was astrange sound like the hiss of escaping steam. He wondered, drowsily,how long he had slept, and lay for some moments trying to collect hissenses. The sounds in the night terrified him--filled him with anunnamed dread. The strange hissing was not continuous, but broken andinterrupted by a roaring crackle, like the sound of a burning forest.But there was no forest--only ice and snow, and the glittering peaks ofranges. With a trembling hand he raised the hood of his sleeping bag andpeered cautiously out. To the boy's distorted imagination the wholeworld seemed on fire. The interior of the cave glowed dimly with a dullred light, while beyond the entrance the snow flashed brilliant lightsof scarlet.
Connie Morgan "stared spellbound at the terriblesplendour of the changing lights."]
"Don't get scairt, son. It's only the aurora. It's like theysaid--Carlson, an' one or two mo' I've hea'd talk. The blood-red aurorain the night time, an' the thousan' suns in the day." Waseche'ssleeping bag was close against his own, and the sound of his voicereassured the terrified boy. Together, in silence, they watched theawful spectacle. Red lights--scarlet, crimson, vermilion flashed uponthe snow, and among the far-off peaks which stood out distinctly abovethe farther wall of the long stretch of canyon that their viewpointcommanded. Upon the green ice at the entrance to the cavern the lightsshowed violet and purple. The boy stared spellbound at the terriblesplendour of the changing lights, while above the hiss and crackle ofthe aurora he could hear the whimpering and moaning of the terrifieddogs. He shrank back into his sleeping bag, pulling the flap tight tokeep out the awful sights and sounds, and lay for hours waiting forsomething to happen. But nothing did happen and when he awoke again itwas day. The dogs had ceased to whine, and Waseche Bill was moving aboutin the cave. The man had hung a robe over the entrance, but around theedges Connie could see narrow strips of light. The air was oppressiveand heavy. His head ached. The acrid smell of smoke permeated theinterior of the cavern and Connie wriggled from his sleeping bag and,while Waseche busied himself with the coffee and bacon, he broke out abale of fish for the dogs.
"Cut 'em down to half ration, son," warned the man, eyeing the scantysupply. "We got to get out of this heah Lillimuit--an' we got to get outon what we got with us. I don't reckon they's a livin' critteh in thewhole blame country, 'cept us, an' we got to go easy on the grub."
"I heard a fox bark the other night,
" ventured the boy.
"Yo' won't get fat on fox bahks," grinned the man, "an' that's all theclost yo' even get to 'em. Outside of white goats, them foxes is aboutthe hah'dest vahmint to get a shot at they is."
"Aren't we going to hit the trail?" asked the boy in evident surprise,when, after breakfast, instead of packing the outfit, Waseche lightedhis pipe and stretched out on a robe.
"Not _this_ day, we ain't," replied the man; "An' me'be not tomorrow--ifthe wind don't come. Do yo' know how fah we'd get today?"
"How far?"
"I do'no--a hund'ed steps, me'be--me'be half a mile--'twouldn't be fah."
"Tell me what's the matter, Waseche. What's going to happen? And whyhave you closed up the door?"
"It's the _white death_," answered the man in an awed tone. "Nothin'won't happen if we stay inside. I've hea'd it spoke of, only Isomehow--I neveh believed it befo'. As fo' the robe--hold yo' breath an'peek out through that crack along the aidge. Hold yo' breath,mind--_don't breathe that air!_"
Connie filled his lungs and drew back the edge of the robe. Instantlyhis face seemed seared by the points of a million red-hot needles. Hescarcely noticed the pain, for he was gazing in awestruck wonder where athousand suns seemed dancing in the cloudless sky. As upon the previousday, the air was filled with dancing white specks, and the suns glaredwith a glassy, yellow brightness. They looked wet and shiny, but theirlight seemed no brighter than the light of a single sun. No blue sky wasvisible, and the mountain peaks, even the nearer ones, were nowhere tobe seen. The whole world seemed enveloped in a thick haze of sicklyyellow.
He let go the edge of the robe and drew back from the opening.
"Gee whiz! but it's cold," he exclaimed, rubbing his stinging cheeks."How cold is it, pardner?" For answer Waseche shifted his position,reached swiftly beneath the bottom of the robe, and withdrew from theoutside a small spirit thermometer which he held up for the boy'sinspection. It was frozen solid!