The Great Gold Rush Part 15

"Hold on a minute."

Frank went into the kitchen, and returned with half a loaf of bread and some fried bacon, in a piece of birch bark.

"Throw this into you as you go."

"How about the dogs?"

"d.a.m.n the dogs; I've been feeding them all day."

"Mush!"

Dude looked back and did not move.

"Mush!" He moved ahead at a slow walk.

"Mush, d.a.m.n you!" John felt surprised to hear himself swear; but the dogs were in the condition styled "ornery." Dude turned in by the side of the building, the others followed; the sleigh b.u.mped against the corner. Frank had Dude by the collar in a moment, and was belabouring him over the flank with a stout stick. The hills reverberated with howls. He hauled the animals back into line, and with a kick for good measure, said in a cold slow tone,

"Mush."

Dude trotted off. Frank ran by the side of the team till they were on the lake. "They'll go all right if you once get them away from camp, but lick 'em good and plenty if they turn mean," was his counsel on quitting.

John Berwick was alone with the team on the great expanse of Lake Le Berge. Before him, to the south, lay the thirty-mile stretch of ice, flanked by rolling hills, flooded with opalescent tints and peace. For an instant the exceeding beauty of the scene gladdened his mind.

He was anxious about Hugh. There were forty-five miles to traverse before he would come to White Horse. The dogs were travelling at five miles an hour: nine hours before he could reach White Horse; and then, if the river were open, what then? The thought of the delay necessitated by a journey overland staggered him. It were easier to travel thirty miles on the ice than fifteen through the bush. He jumped off the sleigh and ran; but the dogs moved no faster; and the labour in running would soon exhaust him, for while there was no snow on the ice, the surface of the lake was a coa.r.s.e ice-sand, which const.i.tuted a poor foothold. The sun was setting; already a chill was in the air. A crust would form within the hour; perhaps the dogs would move faster then.

These thoughts ran through his mind, till his fear developed into a lingering dread. He realized that to go through that intolerable process of a.n.a.lyzing the details of his anxiety could only result in futility.

The surface of the lake became harder; he picked up pieces of ice, threw them at Dude, and shouted. Every missile, with its accompanying shout, brought a merely temporary increase of speed. All attempts to get the dogs to gallop proved futile.

It was three o'clock on the following morning when Berwick pounded on the door of the police cabin at White Horse, and was greeted sleepily.

He entered. The flicker of a match showed a man in the act of lighting a candle by the head of a bed built against the wall.

"Man shot at the foot of Le Berge; bullet in his neck; wants doctor."

The policeman jumped from bed, slipped to the door, and pointed to a tent by the river-side.

"The doctor with his partner live in that tent. What is it--accident?"

"Yes; Indian trying to extract a cartridge from an old rifle."

"d.a.m.n the Siwashes! Same old story. Well, I have no doubt the doctor will go. I guess you'll need some sleep, so if those fellows can't put you up, return here, and you can climb into bed with me."

John had intended returning to his friend with the doctor, but bolted without comment, save a mere "Thank you."

There is no process of knocking at a tent door, so John used his voice to rouse the occupants.

"What do you want?" was the gruff response.

John gave the necessary information.

"Doc," then said the man to his unseen companion, "there's a chance of doing the Good Samaritan act the preachers talk about."

There was silence for a while as the doctor and his comrade were dressing and preparing; then John asked,

"Can I build a fire outside and cook some dog feed? If you will let me have some feed I'll return it, or pay for it."

"I thought you was a chechacho!" said the gruff voice. "You want the Doc to travel quick?"

"Certainly."

"And the Doc's taking them dogs home?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't feed them."

John Berwick's nature revolted against this theory; but he made no protest, as the life of his mate was in jeopardy.

The doctor packed his hand-bag, and was ready.

"You stay here," he said; "you can do no good down there. Roll in and have a sleep."

Dude was alert, but the other dogs were in repose when they were jerked into life again. The train moved down the river. Fatigued in body and mind, Berwick gladly rested and slept.

CHAPTER XV

REVELATION

John awoke at five in the afternoon. At the first opportunity his new acquaintance began to talk.

"My name's Jim G.o.dson. 'Shorty' the boys call me; sometimes 'Long-Shorty.' That's what you call a blooming paradox, ain't it, Parson?"

"I'm not a parson."

"Well, if you ain't, you look as if you ought to be. What's your name?... Oh, is it?... Ain't you got no appellation yet?"

"Not as yet."

"Well, I'll call you Parson Jack, though I guess you look too good a man for a parson. Parsons is mostly parsons because they're too lazy to work; and you don't act lazy. No, you ain't lazy; not if you are in tow with an old-timer."

G.o.dson's light chatter kept away the sense of apprehension which was ever tending to creep into Berwick's mind.

"Say! I knew a parson once that was worth having. Yes, sir; Father Pat was his name, and his run was down in the Kootenays. A whiter parson never lived than Father Pat."