CHAPTER XIX
ON THE KANDIK
To the conqueror of far places comes disaster in many guises--to thesailor who sails the uncharted seas, and to the adventurer who pushespast the outposts into the unmapped land of the long snow trails. Forthe lone, drear lands are lands of primal things--lands rugged and grim,where life is the right of the strongest and only the fit survive.
Men die when ships, in the grip of the fierce hurricane, are buriedbeneath crashing waves or dashed against the rocks of a towering cliff;and men die in blizzards and earthquakes and in the belching fire ofvolcanoes and amid the roar and smoke of burning forests--but these men_expect_ to die. They match their puny strength against the mighty furyof the elements and meet death gladly--or win through to glory in theadventure. Such battles with the giants of nature strike no horror tothe hearts of men--they are recounted with a laugh. Not so the deaththat lurks where nature smiles. Calm waters beneath their sparklingsurface conceal sharp fangs of rock that rip the bottom from anunsuspecting ship; a beautiful mirage paints upon the shimmering horizona picture of cool, green shade and crystal pools, and thirst-choked menare lured farther into the springless desert; the smooth, velvetysurface of quicksand pits and "soap-holes" beguiles the unsuspectingfeet of the weary traveller; and the warm Chinook wind softens the deepsnow beneath a smiling winter sky. In all these things is death--asardonic, derisive death that lurks unseen and unsuspected for its prey.But the claws of the tiger are none the less sharp because concealedbetween soft pads. And the men who win through the unseen death neverrecount their story with a laugh. These men are silent. Or, if theyspeak at all, it is in low, tense tones, with clenched fists, and manypauses between the words, and into their eyes creeps the look ofunveiled horror.
Connie Morgan, Waseche Bill, and O'Brien laboriously worked the outfitdown the steep trail that led from the divide to the snow-buried surfaceof the Kandik. The distance, in an air line, was possibly threemiles--by the steep and winding caribou trail it was ten. And each milewas a mile of gruelling toil with axe and shovel and tail-rope andbrake-pole, for the snow lay deep upon the trail which twisted anddoubled interminably, narrowing in places to a mere shelf high upon theside of a sheer rock wall. At such spots Connie and O'Brien took turnswith axe and shovel, heaving the snow into the canyon; for to ventureupon the drifts, high-piled upon the edge of the precipice, would havebeen to invite instant disaster.
Waseche Bill, despite the pain of his broken leg, insisted upon beingpropped into position to brake his own sled. It was the heavier sled,double-freighted by reason of the stampede of Waseche's dogs, thatcaused Connie and O'Brien the hardest labour; for its loss meant deathby exposure and starvation.
Night overtook them with scarce half the distance behind them, and theycamped on a small plateau overlooking a deep ravine.
Morning found them again at their work in the face of a stiff gale fromthe south-west. The sun rose and hung low in the cloudless sky above thesea of gleaming white peaks. The mercury expanded in the tube of thethermometer and the wind lost its chill. Connie and O'Brien removedtheir heavy _parkas_, and Waseche Bill threw back his hood and frowneduneasily:
"Sho' wisht this heah Chinook w'd helt off about ten days mo'," he said."I ain't acquainted through heah, but I reckon nine oah ten days had ortto put us into Eagle if the snow holds."
"It's too early for the break-up!" exclaimed Connie.
"Yeh, fo' the break-up, it is. But these heah Chinooks yo' cain't counton. I've saw three foot of snow melt in a night an' a day--an' then tuhn'round an' freeze up fo' two months straight. If this heah wind don'tshift oah die down again tomorrow mo'nin', we ah goin' to have to holeup an' wait fo' a freeze."
"The grub won't hold out long," ventured Connie, eyeing the sled. "Butthere must be game on this side of the divide."
"They betteh be! I sho' do hate it--bein' crippled up this-a-way an'leavin' yo'-all to do the wo'k."
"Niver yez moind about that!" exclaimed O'Brien. "Sur-re, we'd all bewor-rkin' as har-rd as we could an-nyways, an' ut w'dn't make ut noaisyer f'r us bekase ye was wor-rkin', too. Jist set ye by an' shmokeyer poipe, an' me an' th' b'y'll have us on th' river be noon."
By dint of hard labour and much snubbing and braking, O'Brien'sprediction was fulfilled and the midday meal was eaten upon thesnow-covered ice of the Kandik.
"All aboard for Eagle!" cried Connie, as he cracked his long-lashed whipand led out upon the broad river trail. And McDougall's big _malamutes_as though they understood the boy's words, humped to the pull and theheavily loaded sled slipped smoothly over the surface of the softeningsnow. Upon the trail from the divide, protected from wind and sun byhigh walls, the snow had remained stiff and hard, but here on the riverthe sled runners left deep ruts behind them, and not infrequentlyslumped through, so that Connie and O'Brien were forced to stop and prythem out, and also to knock the balls of packed snow from the webs oftheir rackets.
"Saints be praised, ut's a house!" called O'Brien, as toward evening hehalted at a sharp bend of the river and pointed toward a tiny cabin thatnestled in a grove of balsam at the edge of the high cut-bank.
"Ut's th' fur-rst wan Oi've seed in six year--barrin' thim haythen_igloos_ av' dhrift-wood an' shnow blocks! We'll shtay th' night widum, whoiver they ar-re--an' happy Oi'll be wid a Christian roof over mehead wanst more!"
The outfit was headed for the cabin and a quarter of an hour later theyswung into the small clearing before the door.
"Them dawgs has be'n heah," remarked Waseche Bill, as he eyed thetrodden snow. "Don't reckon nobody's to home." O'Brien pushed open thedoor and entered, closely followed by Connie.
Save for a rude bunk built against the wall, and a rusted sheet-ironstove, the cabin was empty, and despite the peculiar musty smell of anabandoned building, the travellers were glad to avail themselves of itsshelter. Waseche Bill was made comfortable with robes and blankets, andwhile O'Brien unharnessed the dogs and rustled the firewood, Connieunloaded the outfit and carried it inside. The sun had long set, butwith the withdrawal of its heat the snow had not stiffened and the windheld warm.
"Betteh let in the dawgs, tonight, son," advised Waseche, "I'm 'fraidwe ah in fo' a thaw. Still it mout tuhn cold in the night an' freeze 'eminto the snow."
"How long will it last--the thaw?" asked the boy, as he eyed the supplyof provisions.
"Yo' cain't tell. Two days--me'be three--sometimes a week--then, anyway,one day mo', till she freezes solid."
"O'Brien and I will have to hunt then--grub's getting low."
"We'll see how it looks tomorrow. If it's like I think, yo' ain'ta-goin' to be able to get fah to do no huntin'. The snow'll be likemush."
As O'Brien tossed the last armful upon his pile of firewood, Connieannounced supper, and the three ate in silence--as hungry men eat.
Worn out by the long, hard day on the trail, all slept soundly, and whenthey awoke it was to find the depressions in the dirt floor filled withwater which entered through a crack beneath the door.
"We-all ah sho' 'nough tied up, now," exclaimed Waseche, as he eyed thetiny trickle. "How much grub we got?" Connie explored the pack.
"Three or four days. We better cut the dogs to half-ration."
"Them an' us, both," replied the man in the bunk, and groaned as a hotpain shot through his injured leg.
Breakfast over, Connie picked up his rifle, fastened on his snowshoes,and stepped on the wind-softened snow. He had taken scarcely ahalf-dozen steps when he was forced to halt--anchored fast in the soggysnow. In vain he tried to raise first one foot and then the other--itwas no use. The snow clung to his rackets in huge balls and afterrepeated efforts he loosened the thongs and stepped on the melting snow,into which he promptly sank to his middle. He freed his rackets, tossedthem toward the cabin, and wallowed to the door.
"Back a'ready?" grinned Waseche. "How's the huntin'?" Connie laughed.
"You wait--I haven't started yet!"
"Betteh keep inside, son. Yo' cain't do no good out theah
. They cain'tno game move in a thaw like this."
"Rabbits and ground squirrels and ptarmigan can," answered the boy.
"Yeh--but yo' cain't!"
"I'm not going far. I'm wet now, and I'm not going to give up withouttrying." Three hours later he stumbled again through the door, bearingproudly a bedraggled ptarmigan and a lean ground squirrel, each neatlybeheaded by a bullet from his high-power rifle. As he dried his clothingbeside the rusty stove, the boy dressed his game, carefully dividing theoffal between old Boris, Mutt, and Slasher, and the dogs greedilydevoured it to the last hair and feather.
"Every little bit helps," he smiled. "But it sure is a little bit ofmeat for such a lot of work. I bet I didn't get a quarter of a mileaway."
For three days the wind held, the sun shone, and the snow melted.Streams forced their way to the river and the surface of the Kandikbecame a raging torrent--a river on top of a river! Each day Conniehunted faithfully, sometimes in vain, but generally his efforts wererewarded by a ptarmigan, or a brace of lank snowshoe rabbits or groundsquirrels, lured from their holes by the feel of the false spring.
On the fourth night it turned cold, and in the morning the snow wascrusted over sufficiently to support a man's weight on the rackets. Thecountless tiny rills that supplied the river were dried and the floodsubsided and narrowed to the middle of the stream, while upon the edgesthe slush and anchor-ice froze rough and uneven.
Waseche Bill's injured leg was much swollen and caused him great pain,but he bore it unflinchingly and laughed and joked gaily. But Connie wasnot deceived, for from the little fan of wrinkles at the corners of theman's eyes, and the hard, drawn look about his mouth, the boy knew thathis big partner suffered intensely even while his lips smiled and hiswords fell lightly in droll banter.
Thanks to the untiring efforts of the boy, their supply of provisionsremained nearly intact, his rifle supplying the meat for their frugalmeals. For two days past, O'Brien had brooded in silence, sitting forhours at a time with his back against the log wall and his gaze fixed,now upon the wounded man, and again upon the boy, or the great shaggy_malamutes_ that lay sprawled upon the floor. He did his full share ofthe work: chopped the firewood, washed the dishes, and did whatever elsewas necessary about the camp while Connie hunted. But when he hadfinished he lapsed into a gloomy reverie, during which he would speak noword.
With the return of cold weather, the dogs had been expelled from thecabin and had taken up their quarters close beside the wall at the back.
"Me'be tomorrow we c'n hit the trail," said Waseche, as he noticed thatthe sun of the fourth day failed to soften the stiffening crust.
"We ought to make good time, now!" exclaimed the boy. But Waseche shookhis head.
"No, son, we won't make no good time the way things is. The trail isrough an' the sha'p ice'll cut the dawg's feet so they'll hate to pull.Likewise, yo'n an' O'Brien's--them _mukluks_ won't last a day, an' thesleds'll be hahd to manage, sluein' sideways an' runnin' onto the dawgs.I've ice-trailed befo' now, an' it's wo'se even than soft snow. If yo'c'n travel light so yo' c'n ride an' save yo' feet an' keep the dawgsmovin' fast, it ain't so bad--but mushin' slow, like we got to, an'sho't of grub besides--" The man shook his head dubiously and relapsedinto silence, while, with his back against the wall, O'Brien listenedand hugged closer his cans of gold.