Connie Morgan in Alaska Part 21

"That's funny," thought the boy, as he watched the dogs closely, "I never saw those dogs act like that before--seems like they wanted to lead." Hour after hour the boy mushed at the tail rope, and always he watched the strange behaviour of Waseche Bill's dogs. The sun sank behind the mountains and, at last, O'Brien halted at the edge of a patch of scraggy spruce. The dogs were unharnessed and fed, and after Waseche was made comfortable at the fireside, Connie prepared supper.

Suddenly, all three were startled by the long howl of a sled dog and, turning quickly saw Waseche's huge leader standing with up-pointing muzzle, upon a low hill, some fifty yards distant, and about him stood the seven dogs of his team. Again he howled, and then, as though this were the signal, the whole pack turned tail and dashed into the North.

"Well, of all the doggone, ornery tricks I eveh heahed tell of--that takes the cake!" cried Waseche. "Pulled out on us! Jes' plumb pulled out! An' them's good dawgs, too!"

"Where did you get that team?" asked Connie excitedly.

"Picked 'em up off a man in Eagle," answered Waseche. "He aimed to go outside, come spring. He got 'em off a breed, a yeah back."

"Where do you s'pose they've gone?" asked the boy.

"Sea'ch me! I cain't onde'stand it."

"Ut's th' Lillimuit!" croaked O'Brien. "Ut wuz th' same wid Craik an'

Greenhow!" The man shuddered and drew closer to the fire. "They's things here that ondly some c'n see! An' phwin they see um--always they head into th' Narth!"

"Sho'! Quit yo' calamatatin', O'Brien! Dawgs has pulled out on folks befo'."

"Thim wans ain't," returned the Irishman, and relapsed into gloomy silence.

With the first sign of dawn the outfit was again on the trail. The bulk of the pack had been removed from Waseche's sled and added to the other two, and the sled and harness _cached_ in the bush. For several miles Connie, who was travelling in the lead, followed the trail of the stampeded dog-pack, when suddenly he paused where a narrow creek canyon clove the rock-wall of a mountain. The trail led into the gorge, which appeared to be a mere crack in the mighty wall.

"Follow 'em up, son!" called Waseche from his sled. "We need them dawgs."

So the boy swung McDougall's team into the canyon, and his own dogs followed, with O'Brien fast to the tail rope. On and on led the narrow trail--westward, and upward, winding and twisting between its rocky walls--but always westward, and upward. The floor was surprisingly smooth for so narrow a trail, and the outfit made good time, but all three expected that each turn would be the last, and that they would find the runaway dogs huddled against a dead end. Toward midday, the canyon grew lighter, the walls seemed not so high, and the ascent grew steeper. Suddenly, as they rounded a sharp turn, a brilliant patch of sunlight burst upon them, and the next moment they found themselves upon the summit of a long divide.

Never in their lives had any of the three gazed upon so welcome a sight, for there, to the westward, lay an unending chaos of high-flung peaks and narrow valleys, and easily traceable--leading in a broad path of white to the south-westward, was the smooth trail of a river!

"The Kandik!" cried Connie, "and _Alaska_!"

"H-o-o-r-a-y!" yelled O'Brien, dancing about in the snow, while the tears streamed unheeded from his eyes. "Ut's good-bye Lillimuit, foriver! Av ye wuz pure gold from th' middle av th' wor-rld to th' peak av ye're hoighest hill, Oi w'dn't niver go no closter thin th' furthest away Oi c'd git from ye! A-h-r-o-o! Wid ye're dead min--an' ye're cowld!"

CHAPTER XIX

ON THE KANDIK

To the conqueror of far places comes disaster in many guises--to the sailor who sails the uncharted seas, and to the adventurer who pushes past the outposts into the unmapped land of the long snow trails. For the 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 buried beneath crashing waves or dashed against the rocks of a towering cliff; and men die in blizzards and earthquakes and in the belching fire of volcanoes and amid the roar and smoke of burning forests--but these men _expect_ to die. They match their puny strength against the mighty fury of the elements and meet death gladly--or win through to glory in the adventure. Such battles with the giants of nature strike no horror to the hearts of men--they are recounted with a laugh. Not so the death that lurks where nature smiles. Calm waters beneath their sparkling surface conceal sharp fangs of rock that rip the bottom from an unsuspecting ship; a beautiful mirage paints upon the shimmering horizon a picture of cool, green shade and crystal pools, and thirst-choked men are lured farther into the springless desert; the smooth, velvety surface of quicksand pits and "soap-holes" beguiles the unsuspecting feet of the weary traveller; and the warm Chinook wind softens the deep snow beneath a smiling winter sky. In all these things is death--a sardonic, derisive death that lurks unseen and unsuspected for its prey.

But the claws of the tiger are none the less sharp because concealed between soft pads. And the men who win through the unseen death never recount their story with a laugh. These men are silent. Or, if they speak at all, it is in low, tense tones, with clenched fists, and many pauses between the words, and into their eyes creeps the look of unveiled horror.

Connie Morgan, Waseche Bill, and O'Brien laboriously worked the outfit down the steep trail that led from the divide to the snow-buried surface of the Kandik. The distance, in an air line, was possibly three miles--by the steep and winding caribou trail it was ten. And each mile was a mile of gruelling toil with axe and shovel and tail-rope and brake-pole, for the snow lay deep upon the trail which twisted and doubled interminably, narrowing in places to a mere shelf high upon the side of a sheer rock wall. At such spots Connie and O'Brien took turns with axe and shovel, heaving the snow into the canyon; for to venture upon the drifts, high-piled upon the edge of the precipice, would have been to invite instant disaster.

Waseche Bill, despite the pain of his broken leg, insisted upon being propped into position to brake his own sled. It was the heavier sled, double-freighted by reason of the stampede of Waseche's dogs, that caused Connie and O'Brien the hardest labour; for its loss meant death by exposure and starvation.

Night overtook them with scarce half the distance behind them, and they camped on a small plateau overlooking a deep ravine.

Morning found them again at their work in the face of a stiff gale from the south-west. The sun rose and hung low in the cloudless sky above the sea of gleaming white peaks. The mercury expanded in the tube of the thermometer and the wind lost its chill. Connie and O'Brien removed their heavy _parkas_, and Waseche Bill threw back his hood and frowned uneasily:

"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 ort to 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 count on. 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't shift oah die down again tomorrow mo'nin', we ah goin' to have to hole up an' wait fo' a freeze."

"The grub won't hold out long," ventured Connie, eyeing the sled. "But there 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 be wor-rkin' as har-rd as we could an-nyways, an' ut w'dn't make ut no aisyer f'r us bekase ye was wor-rkin', too. Jist set ye by an' shmoke yer 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's prediction was fulfilled and the midday meal was eaten upon the snow-covered ice of the Kandik.

"All aboard for Eagle!" cried Connie, as he cracked his long-lashed whip and 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 the heavily loaded sled slipped smoothly over the surface of the softening snow. Upon the trail from the divide, protected from wind and sun by high walls, the snow had remained stiff and hard, but here on the river the sled runners left deep ruts behind them, and not infrequently slumped through, so that Connie and O'Brien were forced to stop and pry them out, and also to knock the b.a.l.l.s of packed snow from the webs of their rackets.

"Saints be praised, ut's a house!" called O'Brien, as toward evening he halted at a sharp bend of the river and pointed toward a tiny cabin that nestled 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 wid um, whoiver they ar-re--an' happy Oi'll be wid a Christian roof over me head wanst more!"

The outfit was headed for the cabin and a quarter of an hour later they swung into the small clearing before the door.

"Them dawgs has be'n heah," remarked Waseche Bill, as he eyed the trodden snow. "Don't reckon n.o.body's to home." O'Brien pushed open the door and entered, closely followed by Connie.

Save for a rude bunk built against the wall, and a rusted sheet-iron stove, the cabin was empty, and despite the peculiar musty smell of an abandoned building, the travellers were glad to avail themselves of its shelter. Waseche Bill was made comfortable with robes and blankets, and while O'Brien unharnessed the dogs and rustled the firewood, Connie unloaded the outfit and carried it inside. The sun had long set, but with the withdrawal of its heat the snow had not stiffened and the wind held warm.

"Betteh let in the dawgs, tonight, son," advised Waseche, "I'm 'fraid we ah in fo' a thaw. Still it mout tuhn cold in the night an' freeze 'em into the snow."

"How long will it last--the thaw?" asked the boy, as he eyed the supply of 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't a-goin' to be able to get fah to do no huntin'. The snow'll be like mush."

As...o...b..ien tossed the last armful upon his pile of firewood, Connie announced 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 when they awoke it was to find the depressions in the dirt floor filled with water which entered through a crack beneath the door.

"We-all ah sho' 'nough tied up, now," exclaimed Waseche, as he eyed the tiny trickle. "How much grub we got?" Connie explored the pack.

"Three or four days. We better cut the dogs to half-ration."