Pardners Part 24

"That's why you left the Indian there when we came away, eh? To keep a fire."

"Shoor! and I thought I shall kill you and go back alone so n.o.body shall make for the rescue. Then I should have the great laugh."

Captain bared his head to the cold outside the tent. He was dazed by the thought of it. The man was crazed by abuse. The camp had paid for its folly!

Then a hope sprang up in him. It was too late to go on and return with the deer; that is, too late for George, and he thought only of him; of the big, brave man sitting alone in the cabin, shunned by the others, waiting quietly for his coming, tracing the relentless daily march of the disease. Why didn't the Jew die so he could flee back?

He had promised not to desert him, and he could not break his word to a dying man, even though the wretch deserved d.a.m.nation. But why couldn't he die? What made him hang on so? In his idle hours he arranged a pack for the start, a.s.sembling his rations. He could not be hampered by the sled. This was to be a race--he must travel long and fast. The sick man saw the preparations, and cried weakly, the tears freezing on his cheeks, and still he lingered, lingered maddeningly, till at last, when Captain had lost count of the days, he pa.s.sed without a twitch and, before the body had cooled, the northward bluffs hid the plodding, snow-shoed figure hurrying along the back trail.

He scarcely stopped for sleep or food, but gnawed raw bacon and frozen bread, swinging from shoe to shoe, devouring distance with the steady, rhythmic pace of a machine. He made no fires. As darkness settled, rendering progress a peril, he unrolled his robe, and burrowed into some overhanging drift, and the earliest hint of dawn found him miles onward.

Though the weather was clear, he grew numbed and careless under the strain of his fatigue, so that the frost bit hungrily at his features. He grew gaunt, and his feet swelled from the snow-shoe thongs till they puffed out his loose, sealskin boots, and every step in the morning hours brought forth a groan.

He was tortured by the thought that perhaps the Indian had carelessly let go the fire in Klusky's cabin. If so, the precious potatoes would freeze in a night. Then, if the native rebuilt it, he would arrive only to find a mushy, putrifying ma.s.s, worse than useless.

The uncertainty sickened him, and at last, as he sighted the little hamlet, he paused, bracing his legs apart weakly.

He searched fearfully for traces of smoke above Klusky's cabin.

There were none. Somehow the lone shack seemed to stare malignantly at him, as he staggered up the trail, and he heard himself muttering.

There were no locks in this land, so he entered unbidden. The place was empty, though warm from recent habitation. With his remaining strength he scrambled up a rude ladder to the loft where he fumbled in the dark while his heart stopped. Then he cried hoa.r.s.ely and, ripping open the box, stuffed them gloatingly into pockets and shirt front. He dropped from the platform and fled out through the open door, capless and mittenless; out and on toward the village.

His pace slackened suddenly, for he noted with a shock that, like Klusky's cabin, no smoke drifted over the house toward which he ran, and, drawing near, he saw that snow lay before the door; clean, white, and untrodden. He was too dazed to recall the light fall of the night previous, but glared blankly at the idle pipe; at the cold and desolate front.

"Too late!" he murmured brokenly. "Too late!" and stumbled to the snow-cushioned chopping block.

He dared not go in. Evidently the camp had let George die; had never come near to lift a hand. He was afraid of what lay within, afraid to face it alone. Yet a dreadful need to know pulled him forward.

Three times he approached the door, retreating each time in panic.

At last he laid soft hands upon the latch and entered, averting his eyes. Even so, and despite the darkness inside, he was conscious of it; saw from his eye corners the big, still bulk that sat wrapped and propped in the chair by the table. He sensed it dazedly, inductively, and turned to flee, then paused.

"Ye made it, boy! It's the twelfth to-day." George's voice came weakly, and with a great cry Captain sprang to him.

"Bout all in," the other continued. "Ain't been on my feet for two days. I knowed you'd come to-day, though; it's the twelfth."

Captain made no reply, for he had knelt, his face buried in the big man's lap, his shoulders heaving, while he cried like a little boy.