The Promise Part 47

The scarcity of wood and the danger of suffocation precluded the building of an adequate fire, and the miserable night wore interminably upon the nerves of the imprisoned pair.

At last the dull gray light of morning dispersed the gloom, and the two crept to the snow-choked door.

The storm raged unabated, and their eyes could not penetrate the opaque whiteness of the powdery snow. Bill gathered more firewood, cut up the lynx, and roasted the hams, shoulders, and back.

The meat was dry and stringy, with a disagreeable, strong flavor that savored intimately of the rancid odor of the den. Nevertheless, they devoured a great quant.i.ty of the tough, unpalatable food, washing it down with bitter drafts from the pool of dirty snow-water, thick with ashes and the pungent animal reek.

Again the man filled his pipe and sat gazing out upon the whirling void.

"Bill, let's try it," said a voice at his elbow. "She's waiting for us--and worrying."

Carmody glanced quickly into the determined little face. The boy had voiced his own thoughts to the letter, and he remained long without speaking, carefully weighing the chances.

"It's better than staying here," pursued the youngster; "'Cause, if we don't snufficate, we'll starve to death, or freeze. We can tie us to each other so we won't get lost, and all we got to do is stick to the river. I can make it if you can," he added navely.

Bill grinned, and then his eyes became serious and he began methodically to stow the remains of the roast cat into his pockets.

"It's going to be an awful pull, kid. You are a man, now, and I'll give it to you straight--maybe we'll make it, and maybe we won't. But I'd hate to 'snufficate'--and she _is_ worrying. We'll try it--and G.o.d help us, if we don't keep the river."

The skin of the lynx was cut into strips and fashioned into a rawhide line which Bill made fast to their belts, leaving plenty of slack to allow free use of the rackets. The rifle was left in the cave, and, m.u.f.fled to the ears, the two stepped out into the storm.

Bill judged it to be well after noon when a sudden tightening of the line brought him to an abrupt halt.

Many times during the long hours in which they forged slowly ahead had the line gone taut as the boy fell in the snow, but each time it was followed by a wriggling and tugging, and the youngster scrambled gamely to his feet and floundered on in the wake of his big friend.

But this time Carmody waited in vain for the movement of the line that would tell him that the boy was regaining his feet--the line remained taut, and Bill turned and groped in the snow. He lifted the boy to his feet, but the small body sagged limply against his own, and the head rolled weakly.

He shook him roughly and, with his lips close to the boy's ear, shouted words of encouragement. But his only answer was a dull look from the half-closed eyes, and a sleepily muttered jumble of words, in which he made out: "Can't make it--all in--go on--she does love you."

Again and again he tried to rouse him, but all to no purpose; the boy had battled bravely to the end of his endurance, and now only wanted to be let alone. Bill sat beside him in the snow and, sheltering him as best he could from the sting of the wind-driven particles, produced a piece of the meat from his pocket.

The boy gnawed it feebly, and the food revived him somewhat, so that for a few rods he staggered on, but the line again tightened, and this time the man knew that it was useless to attempt to arouse his little companion.

Hurriedly removing his mackinaw, he wrapped it around the body of the boy and, by means of a "squaw hitch" sling, swung him to his back. The boy's dangling rackets hindered his movement, and he slashed the thongs and left them in the snow.

Then, straining the last atom of his vitality, he plunged ahead.

The early darkness of the North country settled about the staggering man. His progress was painfully slow and, without sense of direction, he wallowed forward, stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet only to fall again a few rods farther on.

The weight of the boy seemed to crush him into the snow, and each time it became harder and harder to regain his feet against the merciless rush of the blizzard.

He lost all hope of making camp. He did not know whether it was near or far, he only knew that he was upon the river, and that he must push on and on.

He realized dully that he might easily have pa.s.sed the rollways hours ago. He even considered doubling back; but what was the use? If he pa.s.sed them once, he would pa.s.s them again.

Every drop of his fighting blood was up. He would push on to the end.

He would die, of course; but he wouldn't die _yet_! And when he did die, he would _fall_ to die--he would never _lie down_ to die!

It was not far off, he knew--that fall, when he would never get up. He wondered who would find them; Blood River Jack, probably. As he leaned into the whirling, cutting wind, he thought of Jeanne and of his promise to Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.

His fists clenched, and a few more rods were gained. He thought of Ethel, and of what Charlie had told him in the cave:

"_She needs us; we're all she's got--you and me._"

Again the fists in the heavy mittens clenched, and more rods were covered. It was growing black; the white smother of snow ceased to dance before his eyes. His advance now was hesitating, dogged; each step became a measure of time.

He reeled suddenly against an unyielding object. A tree, he thought, and grasped it for support as he struggled to get his bearings. He was off the river; yet, when had he ascended the bank?

The tree felt smooth to the touch, and he moved his mittens up and down the trunk. Suddenly he realized that it was no tree, but a skinned pole. His numbed brain groped dully as his hands traveled up and down its smooth length.

At the height of his waist he encountered a rope, and at the feel of the heavy line the blood surged to his head, clearing his brain.

"The _water-hole_!" he cried thickly. "They've roped off the water-hole!" Frantically he pulled himself along, hand over hand. The rope seemed endless, stretching from stake to stake.

He was ascending the bank now at the foot of the rollways--and, at the top was the camp!

He exerted his strength to the uttermost ounce, heaving and lifting with the huge muscles of his legs, and pulling with his arms until it seemed they must be torn from his shoulders, inching himself along, gasping, sweating, straining.

The incline grew steeper, his frozen mittens slipped, the guide-rope tore from his grasp, and he pitched heavily backward into the soft smother.

He struggled helplessly. Something seemed pressing him down, down--at last he was _home_. He had won out against the terrible odds, and the boy was safe.

He had brought him back to her, and now he must sleep. How warm and comfortable it was in the bunk. He did not know a man could be so sleepy.

What was it the girl was singing as he pa.s.sed her window only a few nights ago--when he paused in the darkness of the clearing to listen?

Dreamily the words floated through his brain:

"And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town."

But he had come back. He smiled vaguely; they needn't wring their hands and weep--and the rest of it:

"For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep, And good-by to the bar and its moaning."

Sleep! That's what he needed--sleep. He could sleep forever and ever, here in his warm, warm bunk. And the moaning of the bar--he liked that; he could hear it moaning now--roaring and moaning.

Bill Carmody closed his eyes. The fine, sifting snow came and covered his body and the smaller body of the boy who was lashed firmly to his broad back--and all about him the blizzard howled and roared and moaned.

And it was night!

CHAPTER XLIII

IN CAMP AGAIN