CHAPTER XIII
THE FAITH OF MEN
The men crouched for warmth and the shadow of comfort over a miserablefire. The dogs were beyond, herded far within the shelter, their fierceeyes agleam with a reflection of the feeble firelight as they gazed outhungrily in its direction. It was a cavernous break in the rock-boundconfines of a nameless Northern river.
Steve passed a hand down his face. He brushed away the moisture ofmelting ice. It was a significant gesture, accompanied as it was by adeep breath of weariness. Two hundred miles and more of Arctic terrorlay behind him. As yet he had no reckoning of how much more lay ahead.
The world outside was lost in a chaos of warring elements. So it hadlain for a week. In the fury of the blizzard the Arctic night wasreduced to a pitchy blackness worse than the sightlessness of the blind.
How long? It was the question haunting Steve's mind, and the minds ofthose others with him. But the shrieking elements refused to enlightenhim. It was their joy to mock, and taunt, and, if possible, to slay.
Steve rose from his seat over the fire. He turned and moved towards themouth of the shelter. Beyond the light of the fire he had to grope hisway. At the opening the snow was piled high, driven in by the storm.There was left only the narrowest aperture leading to the blackdarkness beyond.
He paused at the opening. He was half buried in the drift, and the lashof the storm whipped his face mercilessly. For some moments he enduredthe assault, then his voice came back to the figures of his companionssquatting moveless over the fire.
"Ho, you, Julyman!" he called sharply.
Moments later the Indian stood beside the white man, peering out intothe desolation beyond.
"She's not going to last a deal longer."
Steve was wiping his face with a _bare_ hand.
Julyman missed the movement in the darkness.
"She mak' him break bimeby--soon. Oh, yes."
There was something almost heroic in the attempt Julyman made to throwconfidence into his tone. But Steve needed no such support. He waspreoccupied with his own discoveries. His bare hand was still wipingaway the curiously moist snow that beat upon his face.
"Yes," he said conclusively. "She'll break soon." Then after a moment:"She's breaking _now_."
An interruption came from the distant dogs. It was the snarling yap of aquarrel. Then came the echo of Oolak's harsh voice and the thud of hisclub as he silenced them in the only manner they understood.
Steve's announcement failed to startle his companion. Nothing stirredJulyman but the fear of "devil-men," and his queer native superstitions.
"Him soften. Oh, yes," he said. "Wind him all go west. Him soft. Yes."
The wind had been carrying "forty below zero" on its relentless bosom.Its ferocity still remained, but now it was tempered by a warmth whollyunaccounted for by the change in its direction. A western wind in theselatitudes was little less terrible than when it blew from the north. Ithad over three thousand miles of snow and ice to reduce its temperature.
Steve's voice again came in the howl of the wind.
"Guess we'll get back to the fire," he said decisively.
Julyman needed no second bidding; he turned and moved away.
Back at the fire Oolak watched his companions retake their places. Hehad no questions to ask. He simply waited. That was his way. He seemedto live at all times with a mind absorbed.
Steve pointed at the diminished pile of scrub wood.
"Best make up the fire," he said, addressing Julyman.
The Indian eyed him doubtfully. Their store of fuel was perilously low.
"Sure," Steve nodded. And the Indian obeyed without further demur.
Steve re-lit his pipe and sucked at it comfortably. Then he spoke withan assurance he could not have displayed earlier.
"Say," he exclaimed, without looking up from the fire. "You get themeaning of it? Maybe you don't get the meaning I do."
He laughed. It was a curious laugh. It had no mirth. But it was anexpression of feelings which required outlet.
"No. Maybe you don't," he went on. "You see, I got a--notion. The wind'swest--now. It should be a hell of a cold wind. It isn't. No. It shouldbe hellish cold," he reflected. "Why isn't it? The hills lie west. Thebig hills. Maybe _the_ big hill. Well? I kind of wonder. Maybe it'sthat. It's a guess. A hell of a guess. Does the west wind hereaboutsblow across the big fire hill? And are those fires so almighty hot theyset the snow melting where all the world's freezing at 60 deg. below? Is ita sort of chinook in the dead of winter?"
He raised his eyes to the faces of his companions. The dusky figureswere half hidden behind the smoke of the fire, which rose between them.He nodded at the steady gazing black eyes.
"Yes," he said. "Guess that break's come. We'll be out on the trailright away. And we'll beat up against a breeze that's warming. It'lllead us to--the Heart of Unaga."
* * * * *
The splendour of the Arctic night was shining over the world. There wasscarcely a breath of wind. The air currents were still from the west,but the wind had died out. For the moment the amazing warmth which hadstirred the imagination of Steve and his companions had passed.
A silver sheen played upon the limitless fields of snow. It was like aworld of alabaster. The light came from every corner of the heavens. Itcame from the glory of a full moon, hard-driven to retain supremacy overits satellites. It came from the myriads of burnished stars, gleamingwith a clarity, a penetrating sparkle, unknown to their brethren oflower latitudes. It came from the supreme magnificence of an aurora ofmoving light, dancing and curtseying with ghostly grace, as thoughstepping the measure of a heavenly minuet. Its radiance filled half thedome of night. It was a glory of frigid colour to ravish the artist eye.
The men on the trail had lost all sense of degrees of cold. It wassimply cold. Always cold. A thermometer would have frozen solid. Theyknew that. Cold? So long as a strong, warm life burned in their bodies,and their stores of food remained, it was the best they could hope for.
And the dogs. They were bred to the Arctic cold. So is the bear of thePole. They needed no better than to follow their labours with a couchburrowed beneath the snows, and hours for the dream feast which theirravening appetites yearned and never tasted.
The outfit had broken trail as Steve had promised, and it was movingthrough the ghostly world like insects a-crawl over the folds of anill-spread carpet.
The course had been deflected in response to the change of wind. Stevehad left the shelter of the river where it had definitely turnednorthward. He had left it without regret. He had no regret for anythingwhich did not further his purpose. Adresol! The quest of the Adresolpastures was the whole aim and object of his life. Somewhere out thereover the desolate wastes he believed the great secret of it all layawaiting his discovery. Nothing else, then, was of any significance.
For the moment Nature seemed bent on favouring him. For over two hundredmiles she had beaten him well-nigh breathless. She had hurled her stormsat him without mercy, and, at the end of her transcendent fury, she hadfound him undismayed, undefeated. Perhaps his tenacity excited heradmiration. Perhaps she was nursing her wrath for a more terribleonslaught. Whatever her mood he was ready to face it.
At the beginning of the third week since leaving the shelter on theriver Steve trod the first of the western hills under foot, and awaitedthe coming of the train upon its summit. His dark, fur-clad figure stoodout in relief against the world about him. It looked squat, it wasutterly dwarfed in the twilit vastness. But there was somethingtremendous in the meaning of that living presence in the voicelesssolitudes which the ages have failed to stir.
* * * * *
The sleds were still. The dogs lay sprawled for rest awaiting the willof their masters. Julyman stood abreast of Steve, tall, lean, but bulkyin his frosted furs. Oolak stood over his dogs, which were his firstcare.
"You can feel it now," Steve said, thrusting a hand under his furhelmet. A
moment later he withdrew fingers that were moist with sweat."If the wind came down at us out of the hills now we'd need to quit ourfurs. Do you get that? Quit our furs here in the dead of winter. It'sgetting warmer every mile."
"It warm. Much warm. Oh, yes."
Julyman's resources of imagination were being sorely taxed.
Steve nodded.
"Yes," he said. "It isn't wind now. There's no wind. It's the air. It'swarm. It's getting warmer. Later it'll get hot as hell."
He drew a profound breath. He felt that victory was very near. It onlyneeded----
"We got to beat on all we know," he said, examining the brilliantheavens. "We need to grab every moment of this weather. We don't know.We can't guess the things waiting on us. Yes. We'll 'mush' on."
His tones were deep. The restraint of years which the Northland had bredinto him was giving way before the surge of a hope that was almostcertainty. And his order was obeyed by men who knew no law but his will.
But for all the urgency of his mandate, for all his efforts, progressslackened from the moment the first hill was passed. From the seeminglylimitless plains of snow, rolling maddeningly in a succession of lowhills and shallow hollows, now it seemed that Nature spurned the milkand water fashioning of her handiwork, and had hurled the rest of theworld into a wreckage of broken, barren hills.
Into the midst of this chaos Steve plunged.
For awhile the confusion robbed him of all certainty. It notinfrequently left decision floundering. The mountains leapt at him witha rush from every side, confusing direction and reducing even instinctto something like impotence. With familiarity, however, his trained mindadapted itself. Then the rush went on with the old irresistibleconfidence.
But human endurance was sorely tested. The tasks often became well-nighinsuperable. There were moments when dogs and Indians lay beaten in themidst of their labours, without will, without energy to stir anotheryard. It was at such times that despair knocked at the strong heart ofthe man who had never learned to yield, and who had never quite knowndefeat.
But even in the worst moments the steadily warming air never failed tolure. It breathed its soft message of promise into Steve's ready ears,supporting a heart powerless to resist the appeal.
The change to warmth, however, had another and less pleasing aspect. Thesnow lost its icy case-hardening. A rot set in. On the hill-tops the icewas not always reliable. In the valleys men sank up to their knees inslushy depths. Even the broad tread of snow-shoes failed to save them.Then, too, the dogs floundered belly-deep, and the broad bottoms of thesleds alone saved the outfit from complete disaster. The increasinghardships left Steve without respite. It was only on the hill-tops, whenthe veer of the wind carried it to the northward, and, for a briefspell, Arctic conditions returned, that any measure of ease wasironically vouchsafed.
The effort was tremendous. It went on for days whose number it wasdifficult to estimate in the grope of the unchanging twilight. A day'swork might be a single hill conquered. It might be a moist, clammyvalley crossed. Perhaps two miles, three, or even five. Distanceremained unconsidered. For always was the next effort no less than thelast, till mind, and heart, and body were worn well-nigh threadbare.There was no pause, no hesitation. It must be on, on to the end,or--disaster.
Steve knew. Only the barest necessity of rest could be permitted bothfor himself, his men, his dogs. The faith of his men still burnedstrongly in hearts which he had never known to fail, but he dared notrisk the chance of a prolonged inactivity with its opportunity forcontemplation of the hell through which they were all passing. He knew.Oh yes. He knew from his understanding of his own feelings and emotions.
He lived in the daily hope of discovering something with which to dazzleimagination already dulling. His faith was pinned to the summit of agreat, grey headland towering amongst its fellows ahead. He haddiscovered its presence long since, and, from the moment of discovery,he had sought its elusive slopes. Instinct, that had no great reason tosupport it, warned him that the view from its summit would tell them thethings they desired to know. And they were the things they all mustlearn quickly if failure were not to rob them of the fruits of theirgreat adventure.
Yes. He desired that dull grey summit just now as he desired nothingelse in the world.
Every emotion was stirring when, at length, Steve found himself climbingthe last of the upward slopes of the "Hill of Promise," as he had namedit. He had laughed as he coined the name. But there had been no laughterin his heart. If the promise were not fulfilled----?
But it would be fulfilled. It must be fulfilled. These were the thingsSteve told himself in that fever of straining which only mentalextremity knows.
He topped the last rugged lift to the summit. His men were somewherebelow, floundering in his wake. He had no heed for them just now. Hope,a fever of hope alone sustained his weary limbs over the inhospitableice.
A great shout echoed down the slope. It came with all the power of astrong man's lungs.
"Ho, you! Quick!"
Steve had reached the rugged crest. A second shout came back to thefloundering Indians.
"God! It's a--wonder!"
* * * * *
The moment was profound. Eyes that were prepared for well-nigh anythingmonstrous gazed out spellbound. Tongues had no words, and hearts werestirred to their depths. The whole world ahead was afire. It was aconflagration of incalculable immensity.
The horizon was one blaze of transcendent light. It was rendered ahundred-fold more amazing by its contrast against the grey of the Arcticnight. At a given point, in the centre of all, a well of fire wasbelching skywards. It was churning the overhanging clouds of smoke, andlighting them with the myriad hues that belong to the tumbled glory of astormy summer sunset. Then, too, rumblings and dull thunders came up tothe watching men like the groanings of a world in travail.
For miles the hill-tops seemed to have been swept clear of ice and snow.They were shorn of their winter shroud. They stood up like black,unsightly, broken teeth, against a cavernous background of fire burningin the maw of some Moloch colossus. They stood out bared to the bone ofthe world's foundations.
Julyman shaded his eyes with hands that sought to shut out a vision hissavage superstition could no longer support. Oolak had no such emotion.He turned from it to something which, to his mind, was of greaterinterest. Steve alone remained absorbed in that radiant beyond.
The Arctic night no longer reigned supreme. It seemed to have beendevoured at a gulp. The heavenly lights had lost all power in face ofthis earthly glory. A mist of smoke had switched off the gleam ofstarlight, and the moon and mock-moons wore the tarnished hue of silverthat has lost its burnish. The ghosts of the aurora no longer trod theirmeasure of stately minuet. They had passed into the world of shadow towhich they rightly belonged.
The heart of Unaga was bared for all to see, that fierce heart whichdrives the bravest Indian tongue to the hush of dread.
"We not mak' him--that! Oh, no!"
Julyman's tone was hushed and fearful. He moved close to the white manin urgent appeal.
"Boss Steve not mak' him. No. Julyman all come dead. Julyman not mushon. Oh, no."
"Julyman'll do just as 'Boss' Steve says."
Steve had dragged his gaze from the wonder that held it. He was coldlyregarding the haunted eyes of a man he knew to be fearless enough as menunderstand fearlessness.
This was no time for sympathy or weakness. It was his purpose topenetrate to that blazing heart, as nearly as the object of his journeydemanded. He was in no mood to listen patiently to words inspired bybenighted superstition.
"Him--Unaga!" Julyman protested, his outstretched arm shaking. "No--mak'him? Yes?"
"We mak' this!"
It was Oolak who answered him. He spoke with a preliminary, contemptuousgrunt. He, too, was pointing. But he was pointing at that which lay nearat hand. He stood leaning his crippled body on his gee-pole, and gazingdown at that which lay immediately in front of them,
groaning andgrumbling like some suffering living creature.
Steve followed the direction of the outstretched arm. He had beenabsorbed in the distance. All else had been forgotten. He found himselfgazing down upon what appeared to be a cascading sea of phosphorescentlight. He recognized it instantly, and the fiery heart of Unaga wasforgotten.
A mighty glacier barred the way, and the peak on which they stood wasits highest point. It stretched out far ahead. It reached beyond suchrange of vision as the Arctic night permitted. It sloped away down,down, so gradually, yet so deeply, so widely that it warned him of theopening of the jaws of a mighty valley, through the heart of which thereprobably flowed the broad bosom of a very great river. The play of thephosphorescent light was the reflection of Unaga's lights caught by themyriad facets of broken ice upon its tumbled surface.
Steve nodded.
"Yes. We make this," he cried, in a fashion to forbid all discussion.Then after a pause that gave his decision due effect: "There's a valleyaway out there. And I guess it'll likely hand us the things we got toknow. We've beaten those darn hills. We've beaten the snow and ice--andthe cold. The things we're going to find down there need beating, too."
He turned from the barrier which left him undismayed. A great light wasshining in his eyes as he passed Julyman by. They rested eagerly,questioningly, upon the unemotional face of Oolak whose keenunderstanding he knew to be profound.
"Well?" he demanded in the fashion of a man aware that his question isnot in vain.
Oolak turned. He raised his face, and his sensitive nostrils distendedwith a deep intake of breath. A moment later he made a swift gesturewith the gee-pole on which he had been supporting himself.
"I mak' him smell. So!"
He spoke with unusual animation.
Steve had been seeking and waiting for just such words.
"You smell--what?" he demanded.
"Oolak smell him all sweet--lak'--lak'----"
Steve interrupted with a nod.
"I know," he cried. "Like--like----"
But that which he would have said remained unspoken. There was no needfor words. The rest was in his eyes, in his voice. Oolak's corroborationof the evidence of his own senses meant the final triumph he wasseeking.