The soft footfalls that he was sure he had heard outside the rift, hewas now almost certain had been made by the wolves. Some of the strongerof the pack had scrambled up on the rocks and were waiting outside hisplace of refuge till a favorable moment presented itself for an attack.
Sandy clutched his rifle nervously. He was determined when the momentcame to sell his life as dearly as possible. How many in number his foeswould be he had no means of telling. But he knew full well that hiscartridges were all too few.
With his weapon gripped ready for instant action, Sandy waited the nextmove on the part of his implacable foes. But minute succeeded minute andthe sounds from without the rift were not repeated.
The boy began to think that he might have been mistaken. Perhaps, afterall, it was his excited imagination that had conjured up the sounds.
He rose and looked outside once more. It was a clear, starlit night. Therocks towered up blackly like some giant's castle amidst thebluish-whiteness of surrounding snow wastes. A sensation of terribleloneliness ran through Sandy as he reflected that he was the only humanbeing for miles and miles in that immense solitude. Probably the partyin search of the thief were the nearest of his own kind within a greatdistance.
It was small wonder that the boy trembled a little as out there underthe stars he revolved the situation. There was no use evading it, ifhelp did not arrive, or the wolves retreat, he was doomed either to dieby starvation on the rocks, or be rent by the teeth of the pack in theevent of his attempting to escape.
Seasoned men of the northland might well have been dazed by such aprospect. There did not appear to be one chance in a hundred for theboy. Sandy looked the question fairly and squarely in the face. It is tohis credit that by a supreme effort of pluck and grit he averted asecond breakdown and retained a grip upon his nerves and courage.
As he stood there, the pack below him rent the air with their wildhunting cry. The sound chilled him to the marrow, and trembling despitehimself, he crept back into the rift and sought the companionship of thefire.
About five minutes later there came a sort of scraping noise from themouth of the rift. Sandy gazed up, and there, confronting him, withhungrily gaping jaws, and great, yellow, signal-lamps of eyes thatflashed evilly in the firelight, were three huge wolves--the leaders ofthe pack. With a wild cry, Sandy sprang up with his rifle in his hand.He was ready for the fight.
The wolves dashed forward, and as he aimed and fired----!
The rifle turned into a stick of firewood. The wolves into three blackrocks piled at the mouth of the rift.
Sandy had been dreaming. But it was a dream that might come true, as herealized with a sensation of helplessness.
CHAPTER XXX--THE LAW OF THE NORTH.
Jack lay upon the snow with the ground about him dyed red from a badlycrushed ankle. Tom and old Joe Picquet bent over him doing what theycould to ease his pain, for he had now regained consciousness.
It was a wolf trap that the boy had blundered into; a cruel, ponderousaffair with massive steel jaws, from whose grip it had been hard torelease him.
"Is the ankle broken, do you think?" asked Tom of old Joe.
"Tiens! I can no say now. But I teenk not. Zee trap was old, zee springwas weak. Dat is good. Eef eet had been new, eet would have broken zeebone lak you break zee pipe stem. Voila!"
"How do you feel now, Jack?" asked Tom.
Jack made a brave effort to disguise his pain.
"I'll soon be all right, I guess," he said, "but, Tom, I'll tell you onething."
"What is that?"
"I'll never set another trap for a wild animal as long as I live. I knownow how they must suffer."
After a brief consultation, Tom and old Joe lifted the suffering boy andcarried him back to the sled. A "snow-camp" had already been devised andJack was made as comfortable as possible in this.
By the firelight old Joe examined his injury. The flesh was badlycrushed and bruised, but so far as the old trapper could see there wereno bones broken.
"Sacre! I weesh dat eet was summer!" breathed the old man. "In summergrow many herbs are good for heal. Zee Indians teach me many. But inwinter dere ees notheeng lak dat. Moost use what we can."
With bandages made out of a flour sack, which, luckily, was almostempty, old Joe dressed Jack's injury after carefully bathing it. The boydeclared that he felt better almost at once after Joe had completed hiswoodland surgery.
"It's too bad that I should be giving all this trouble, especially rightnow," muttered Jack as he lay back.
"Say, if you say anything like that again, I'll forget you are sick andpunch your head," said Tom, with a look of affection, however, thatbelied his words.
After supper old Joe announced that he had decided on a plan that hethought would fit the exigencies of the situation. About ten miles fromwhere they then were a friend of his, Pierre La Roche, like himself atrapper, had a hut. They must make their way there as quickly aspossible and leave Jack in La Roche's care till he was fit to travel,which might not be for some time. This done, they would go back to thecamp of the _Yukon Rover_, tell what had happened, and seek the adviceof Mr. Dacre and Mr. Chillingworth.
Tom felt that this was the best plan that could be evolved. After all,they had done all they could to recover the skins, and if he was blamedfor not maintaining a better watch on the fox kennels, why he must facethe music. Jack, too, thought the plan a good one, so that they were allsatisfied, and, despite Jack's injury, he slept as well that night ashis two companions.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. They were up and about early,and Tom caught a good meal of fish for the dogs through the hole in theice. When he returned to the camp he carried with him the old rusty trapthat had caused Jack's injury.
"Thought you might like this bit of jewelry for a souvenir," he saiddryly.
"So far as I am concerned you can throw it into the next county," wasthe rejoinder.
No time was lost in despatching breakfast and getting an early start.The way to La Roche's cabin was what is known as a "bad trail." In fact,it would be necessary to break a path for a great part of the way. Jackwas made as snug as possible on the top of the sled, and when old Joe'swhip cracked, he declared that he felt as luxurious as if he were ridingin his own automobile.
Not long after leaving the night camp the party found themselvesbeginning to climb a steep and stony trail. It lay on the weather sideof a small range of hills remarkable for their ruggedness, and in placeswhere the wind had swept the snow clear, jagged masses of rock peepedblackly out of the prevailing whiteness.
It was rough traveling, with a vengeance. From time to time they had tostop and rest the dogs. By noon they had hardly made five miles and,according to old Joe, the worst still lay before them. However, bad asthe trail was, it was preferable to taking Jack all the way back to_Yukon Rover_ camp. That, in fact, would have been impossible, for theextra weight on the sled was already telling on the mamelukes. They wentforward with drooping tails and sagging flanks.
But over that cruel road they showed how well old Joe's faith in themwas justified. Fagged as they were, they did not falter, and when theyslacked pace a little the crack of old Joe's whip in the frosty airnever failed to send them forward once more at their ordinary pace.
Tom began to have an immense respect for the mameluke. He understood howit was that men paid large sums for such capable beasts. Savage,intractable, and, as a rule, responding to none but the harshesttreatment, the mameluke dog is faithful unto death in only too manyinstances. A halt was made at midday to eat a hasty snack and to feedand rest the dogs. Then the journey was resumed once more.
It was not so cold as it had been, and in places the snow had softened,affording only a treacherous foothold for the animals. Now and then,too, the boys observed old Joe glancing upward at the precipitous wallsthat began to tower above the trail.
At length his observations grew so frequent that Tom had to ask him whatit was that interested him so on the preci
pitous heights that overhungtheir path.
Old Joe shook his head.
"Zee snow, he soft. Dat plenty bad. Snow soften, rocks loosen. Bimebymaybe, one beeg rock come toomble down."
"Gracious, one of those big fellows up there?" And Tom's eyes rovedupward to where huge black rocks, shaped in some instances likemonstrous animals, could be seen sticking out of the snow field.
"Yes; eef no watch, one of dem might heet us when zee soft snow loosenszee earth," declared Joe, without any more concern in his voice than ifhe were speaking of what they would have for supper.
"Well, if one of those ever struck this outfit, it would be the last ofit," declared Tom, alarmed at the prospect.
"Weezout doubt," rejoined old Joe, with a shrug of his shoulders, "butfor dat we moost watch all zee time. Dat ees zee law of zee north, towatch always."
CHAPTER XXXI--A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
"To watch always!"
Old Joe's words echoed in Tom's mind. Yes, that was the law of thenorthland, and in some parts of it all the law that there was. Constantwatchfulness was necessary to life itself in the frozen regions.
Tom's cheeks flushed as he thought that if constant watchfulness hadbeen observed at Camp _Yukon Rover_ there would have been no necessityfor their journey and all that it had led to.
The trail wound upward into country that grew more and more gloomy anddispiriting. There was something about the great rock masses poisedabove the trail, the slaty, leaden sky and the occasional gusts ofwind-blown snow that struck a chill to Tom's heart.
There was little to break the monotony of precipice and sky on the oneside, while beside the trail on the other was a deep crevasse, andbeyond another wall of rock. Tom peered over into the depths from timeto time and thought, with a shudder, of the consequences of a fall. Andthat possibility was by no means remote. One slip on the treacherousfoothold of the path that hung on the mountainside like an eyebrow on aface, and the victim of the accident would go sliding and plunging downthe slippery slopes into that forbidding pit.
It was not a thought to inspire cheerfulness, and Tom refrained fromspeaking of it to his companions. But it might have been noticed that hekept to the inside of the trail. The mameluke dogs, too, by instinctavoided the outer edge and kept hugging the inside wall of the trail asfar as possible from the gaping chasm.
It must have been toward mid-afternoon, as time is reckoned in thoselatitudes, that old Joe paused with a worried look on his face.
"Attendez!" he cried, holding up one finger.
The mamelukes stopped, their red tongues lolling out and their breathcoming in long heaves. They were glad of the respite, whatever hadcaused it.
Tom halted behind the sled, and Jack turned his eyes on old Joe, whoseface betokened the most eager attention. His body was tense withconcentrated energy, as if he were putting every fiber of his being intowhat he was doing, which was listening.
Tom thought of the old man's watchword, "To watch always."
For some minutes they stood like this, and then old Joe signified thatall was well and they went forward again. But ever and anon the old mancast an uneasy eye about him. It was plain that he was worried andwished the long trail were at an end.
In that gloomy canyon between the beetling walls that rose on eitherside seemingly straight up to the gray sky, the old trapper's voice rangstridently as he called to his dogs or cracked his whip with loud wordsof encouragement.
"Courage, mes enfants!" he would cry to his struggling team. "Soon we beat Pierre La Roche's; den plentee feesh for you--bien--Boosh! En avant!"
His words always had a magical effect on the drooping mamelukes. Withstubborn determination they bent again to their task, their flaggingspirits revivified by the cries of their owner.
Jack turned to Tom after one of these intervals.
"Gee whiz! but I feel like a useless log," he exclaimed, "lolling hereon a pile of soft blankets while those poor beasts are pulling me alongat the expense of almost all their strength."
"It can't be helped," rejoined Tom briefly. "No one supposes that youwalked into that trap deliberately."
"It's just one of those accidents that have been happening to us rightalong," rejoined Jack irritably. "We have had nothing but bad luck sofar on this trip. It is too bad."
"I agree with you," rejoined Tom, "but, after all, whose fault is it?"
"Nobody's, that I can see."
"Think again."
"What's on your mind?"
"Just this, that it all comes from our not having forced ourselves, touse Joe's words, 'to watch always.'"
"Great Scott! we couldn't have sat up all night to watch those foxes!"
"One of us could. We might have taken it in turns. However, it is toolate to worry about that now. But we will have to face the music when wemeet Uncle Chisholm and Mr. Chillingworth. I fancy they will havesomething to say on the subject."
"Ouch! The thought of that hurts me worse than my foot," exclaimed Jack."I don't much care about the idea of the explanations that will be up tous to make."
"Yet they have to be made."
"Er-huh," gloomily.
"I fancy that is just the usual result of neglected duty," respondedTom. "It is part of the price you have to pay for not being on the job."
"Goodness, are you turning into a moralizer?"
"No. I've just been thinking things over. Somehow this canyon----"
Above them there was a sudden sharp crackling sound, like the tramplingof a thicket full of twigs. It was followed, or rather accompanied, by ayell from old Joe.
"Back! Get back!"
The next instant Tom echoed his cry.
Simultaneously old Joe sprang forward and tried to turn the mamelukes,but they, maddened by fright, plunged forward.
From above, loosened from its foundation by the softened snow, a hugerock was bounding down upon them. Had the mamelukes stopped where theywere they might have been saved. As it was, their plunge forward hadbrought them directly in the path of the great boulder. The destructionof the sled appeared certain.
And on the sled was Jack, crippled and unable to make a move to savehimself from the impending doom.
CHAPTER XXXII--A PROVIDENTIAL MEAL.
Sandy's nightmare had the effect of keeping him awake, save for spellsof uneasy dozing, for the remainder of the night. It was one that henever forgot. There were times when he sank into a half waking stuporand allowed the fire to die low. Then, waking up, he would see crouchingin the dark corners of the rift all sorts of fantastic shapes. At suchtimes he hastened to hurl on more wood, and then, as the bright flamescrackled up, the shadows fled away and he breathed more freely again.
Sometimes he would creep to the mouth of the rift and gaze down upon thesnowy flat beneath. Each time he had a faint hope in his heart that thedark shapes that he knew were the watching wolves might have abandonedthe siege and gone away.
But every time he was disappointed. Every fresh inspection showed himthe dark forms massed beneath him. They were gazing upward at the glowof fire proceeding from the rift. Once Sandy hurled down a red-hot brandamong them. With yelps and cries those whom it touched loped away fromthe main body, but they soon joined them again. As for the others, theynever moved. There was something uncanny in this immobility. Itexpressed a calm determination to see the matter through to the bitterend, be that what it might, which was far from comforting to one inSandy's predicament.
At last, somehow, the night wore itself out. In the east, on one of hisvisits to the entrance of his hiding place, Sandy descried a faint graylight.
The coming of the day inspired him with a fresh hope. Perhaps with thelight of day the wolves would betake themselves elsewhere. Night istheir favorite hunting time and they do not usually go much abroad tillat least the afternoon.
But as the light grew stronger, Sandy saw that hope, too, fade away. Farfrom expressing any intentions of deserting their posts, the wolvesgreeted the slow rise of the sun w
ith a howl that echoed up to theheavens. It sent a shudder through Sandy as he stood there looking downupon the massed gray backs and the hungry upturned faces.
"Is this the end?" he found himself thinking.
But just then something occurred to divert his thoughts. Across the snowcame winging, in full flight, a flock of fine, plump snow-grouse. Theplumage of these birds changes in winter from its summer russet andbrown to a snowy white. Except when in flight it is almost impossible todistinguish them against a white background.
The flight of the birds inspired Sandy with a sudden interest. And itwas no wonder that it did, for grouse are excellent food and not wild orhard to shoot. If they landed upon his rocky fortress he was reasonablysure of being able to get one or two of them.
The wolves, too, saw the coming of the grouse, and watched them withalmost equal interest. Wolves by no means despise grouse, and sometimesstalk a flock miles in the snowy wastes, seeking a chance to pounce onthem. And so, as the flight came on, they were watched by the boy andhis besiegers with equal interest.
Sandy ran within his shelter so as not to frighten the birds fromalighting on the rocks, which appeared to be their intention. Somestunted bushes, covered with a sort of hard, red berry must haveattracted them, so Sandy guessed, or perhaps the rocks were a regularfeeding ground on account of these same berries. From the mouth of hisrift Sandy could command a view of a patch of the berry-bearing bushes.If only the grouse would alight in that particular patch he would besure of a good shot or two. But would they?