CHAPTER XVI
His first impulse, after those few appalling seconds following theirescape from the fire, was to save something from the cabin. Stilltalking to Celie he dropped on his knees and tucked her up warmly inthe bearskin, with her back to a tree. He thanked God that it was a bigskin and that it enveloped her completely. Leaving her there he ranback through the gate. He no longer feared the wolves. If they had notalready escaped into the forest he knew they would not attack him inthat hot glare of the one thing above all others they feared--fire. Fora space thought of the Eskimos, and the probability of the firebringing them from wherever they had sought shelter from the storm, wassecondary to the alarming necessity which faced him. Because of hisrestlessness and his desire to be ready for any emergency he had notundressed when he threw himself on his bunk that night, but he waswithout a coat or cap. And Celie! He cried out aloud in his anguishwhen he stopped just outside the deadline of the furnace of flame thatwas once the cabin, and standing there with clenched hands he cursedhimself for the carelessness that had brought her face to face with aperil deadlier than the menace of the Eskimos or Bram Johnson's wolves.He alone was responsible. His indiscretion in overfilling the stove hadcaused the fire, and in that other moment--when he might have snatchedup more than the bearskin--his mind had failed to act.
In the short space he stood there helplessly in the red heat of thefire the desperateness of the situation seared itself like the hotflame itself in his brain. As prisoners in Bram's cabin, guarded by thewolves and attacked by the Eskimos, they still had shelter, food,clothing--a chance to live, at least the chance to fight. And now--
He put a hand to his bare head and faced the direction of the storm.With the dying away of the wind snow had begun to fall, and with thissnow he knew there would come a rising temperature. It was probablytwenty degrees below zero, and unless the wind went down completely hisears would freeze in an hour or two. Then he thought of the thickGerman socks he wore. One of them would do for a cap. His mind workedswiftly after that. There was, after all, a tremendous thrill in thethought of fighting the odds against him, and in the thought of thegirl waiting for him in the bearskin, her life depending upon himutterly now. Without him she could not move from the tree where he hadleft her unless her naked feet buried themselves in the snow. Ifsomething happened to him--she would die. Her helplessness filled himsuddenly with a wild exultation, the joy of absolute possession thatleapt for an instant or two above his fears. She was somethingmore--now--than the woman he loved. She was a little child, to becarried in his arms, to be sheltered from the wind and the cold untilthe last drop of blood had ceased to flow in his veins. His was themighty privilege now to mother her until the end came for them both--orsome miracle saved them. The last barrier was gone from between them.That he had met her only yesterday was an unimportant incident now. Theworld had changed, life had changed, a long time had passed. Shebelonged to him as utterly as the stars belonged to the skies. In hisarms she would find life--or death.
He was braced for the fight. His mind, riding over its first fears,began to shape itself for action even as he turned back toward the edgeof the forest. Until then he had not thought of the other cabin--thecabin which Bram and he had passed on their way in from the Barren. Hisheart rose up suddenly in his throat and he wanted to shout. That cabinwas their salvation! It was not more than eight or ten miles away, andhe was positive that he could find it.
He ran swiftly through the increasing circle of light made by theburning logs. If the Eskimos had not gone far some one of them wouldsurely see the red glow of the fire, and discovery now meant death. Inthe edge of the trees, where the shadows were deep, he paused andlooked back. His hand fumbled where the left-pocket of his coat wouldhave been, and as he listened to the crackling of the flames and staredinto the heart of the red glow there smote him with sudden andsickening force a realization of their deadliest peril. In thattwisting inferno of burning pitch was his coat, and in the left-handpocket of that coat WERE HIS MATCHES!
Fire! Out there in the open a seething, twisting mass of it, tauntinghim with its power, mocking him as pitiless as the mirage mocks athirst-crazed creature of the desert. In an hour or two it would begone. He might keep up its embers for a time--until the Eskimos, orstarvation, or still greater storm put an end to it. The effort, in anyevent, would be futile in the end. Their one chance lay in finding theother cabin, and reaching it quickly. When it came to the point ofabsolute necessity he could at least try to make fire as he had seen anIndian make it once, though at the time he had regarded the achievementas a miracle born of unnumbered generations of practice.
He heard the glad note of welcome in Celie's throat when he returned toher. She spoke his name. It seemed to him that there was no note offear in her voice, but just gladness that he had come back to her inthat pit of darkness. He bent down and tucked her snugly in the bigbear-skin before he took her up in his arms again. He held her so thather face was snuggled close against his neck, and he kissed her softmouth again, and whispered to her as he began picking his way throughthe forest. His voice, whispering, made her understand that they mustmake no sound. She was tightly imprisoned in the skin, but all at oncehe felt one of her hands work its way out of the warmth of it and layagainst his cheek. It did not move away from his face. Out of her souland body there passed through that contact of her hand the confessionthat made him equal to fighting the world. For many minutes after thatneither of them spoke. The moan of the wind was growing less and lessin the treetops, and once Philip saw a pale break where the clouds hadsplit asunder in the sky. The storm was at an end--and it was almostdawn. In a quarter of an hour the shot like snow of the blizzard hadchanged to big soft flakes that dropped straight out of the clouds in awhite deluge. By the time day came their trail would be completelyhidden from the eyes of the Eskimos. Because of that Philip traveled asswiftly as the darkness and the roughness of the forest would allowhim. As nearly as he could judge he kept due east. For a considerabletime he did not feel the weight of the precious burden in his arms. Hebelieved that they were at least half a mile from the burned cabinbefore he paused to rest. Even then he spoke to Celie in a low voice.He had stopped where the trunk of a fallen tree lay as high as hiswaist, and on this he seated the girl, holding her there in the crookof his arm. With his other hand he fumbled to see if the bearskinprotected her fully, and in the investigation his hand came in contactagain with one of her bare feet. Celie gave a little jump. Then shelaughed, and he made sure that the foot was snug and warm before hewent on.
Twice in the nest half mile he stopped. The third time, a full milefrom the cabin, was in a dense growth of spruce through the tops ofwhich snow and wind did not penetrate. Here he made a nest ofspruce-boughs for Celie, and they waited for the day. In the blackinterval that precedes Arctic dawn they listened for sounds that mightcome to them. Just once came the wailing howl of one of Bram's wolves,and twice Philip fancied that he heard the distant cry of a humanvoice. The second time Celie's fingers tightened about his own to tellhim that she, too, had heard.
A little later, leaving Celie alone, Philip went back to the edge ofthe spruce thicket and examined closely their trail where it hadcrossed a bit of open. It was not half an hour old, yet the deluge ofsnow had almost obliterated the signs of their passing. His one hopewas that the snowfall would continue for another hour. By that timethere would not be a visible track of man or beast, except in the heartof the thickets. But he knew that he was not dealing with white men orIndians now. The Eskimos were night-trackers and night-hunters. Forfive months out of every twelve their existence depended upon theirability to stalk and kill in darkness. If they had returned to theburning cabin it was possible, even probable, that they were close ontheir heels now.
For a second time he found himself a stout club. He waited, listening,and straining his eyes to penetrate the thick gloom; and then, as hisown heart-beats came to him audibly, he felt creeping over him a slowand irresistible foreboding--a premonition of somethi
ng impending, of agreat danger close at hand. His muscles grew tense, and he clutched theclub, ready for action.