To Win or to Die Part 48

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE LAST BIVOUAC.

Shortening days and shortening distances in and out of the wild ravine, where the water ran trickling merrily along in the brief sunny hours, but froze hard again at night. Every halting-place was more difficult to reach than the last, and climbing up the slippery sides of the stream bed was as often the means of progression as the simple tramp.

The sledge grew more difficult to draw, though its weight was really less and less: but in a mechanical way all joined hands in getting it over ma.s.ses of rock, or through cracks where at times it became wedged in fast. For it could not be left behind, loaded as it was with the links which held them to life.

And at last the brief day came to an end, when the shortest journey of all had been made, little more than a mile along the narrow rift with its often perpendicular sides, where the greater part of the way had been one constant climb over the rock-burdened bed of the stream, whose sources were somewhere in the icy region, apparently as far away as when they started on their journey.

They had halted in a narrow amphitheatre of rocks, on one side of which lay a shelf dotted with dwarf pines, thick, st.u.r.dy, and old, many having shed their last needles years before, and displaying nothing now but thin bare trunks and a few jagged, weather-worn boughs. Snow had fallen heavily in the mountains during the previous night, and the side of the amphitheatre at the back of the shelf to which they had dragged the sledge was glazed with ice, where the snow above had melted in the warm mid-day rays, and _frozen_ again and again.

It was bitter winter all around as the short day began to close in; but there was plenty of wood, and they felt if they climbed higher next day it would be into the region of wiry heaths and moss.

Quite instinctively, axe in hand, each of the weary three made for the dead wood and began to cut and break down the brittle boughs.

"Ay, that's right, my sons," said Tregelly, with the ghost of a smile; "let's have a good fire if it is to be the last."

The smile was reflected in Dallas's face, and he nodded; but he did not speak--only went on hacking away in a mechanical fashion, and the small wood was heaped-up against the icy wall at the back of the broad shelf.

Then a match was struck and sheltered till the smallest twigs caught; these communicated with the larger, and in a very short time there was a roaring fire, whose heat was reflected from the glazed surface of the rock, making the snow melt all around and run off till there was dry bare rock, on one piece of which, full in the warm glow, Scruff curled-up and went to sleep.

Outside the snow lay deep and high, as it had been drifted in the heavy fall, forming a good shelter from the wind; and by a liberal use of their axes the dwarf firs that they cut down proved a good shelter when laid in a curve on the other side, while when no longer wanted for that purpose they would be free from the clinging snow and more fit to burn.

Roof there was none save the frosty sky, spangled with myriads of stars; but the weary party paid no heed to that want. There was the fire, and in due time the tin of hot tea to pa.s.s round, and the roughly made bread. They seemed to want no more, only to lie down and rest in the warmth shed by the crackling wood--to take a long, long rest, and wake-- where?

The question was silently asked by each of his inner self again and again, but never answered, for no answer seemed to be needed. The weary, weary day two years long was at an end. They had worked well and failed; they could do no more; all they wanted was rest and forgetfulness--peace, the true gold after all.

Sleep was long coming to Dallas, weary though he was; and he lay there with his head slightly raised, gazing at the weird scene, distorted and full of strange shadows, as the fire rose and fell.

There lay, big and heavy, the st.u.r.dy friend and companion in so many adventures, just as he had lain down; and close by, poor Abel, the most unfortunate of the party, so near that he could rest his hand upon the rough coat of the dog.

"Poor Bel!" mused Dallas; "how unfortunate he has been!"

But the next minute he was thinking of how trivial the troubles of the past seemed to be in comparison with this--the greatest trouble of them all. For though they had all lain down to sleep so calmly, and with the simple friendly good-night, they had all felt that it was for the last time, and that their weary labours were at an end.

"All a mistake--a vain empty dream of a golden fortune," Dallas said to himself. "The idea was brave and strong, but it was the romance of a boy. Fortunes are not to be made by one stroke, but by patient, hard work, long thought as to how that work shall bring forth fruit, and then by constant application. Ah, well, we are not the first to make such mistakes--not the first to turn our backs upon the simple substance to grasp at the great shadow."

He lay gazing sadly at the crackling fire, whose flames danced, and whose sparks eddied into spirals and flew upwards on the heated air; and then with eyes half-closed he watched the glowing embers as the great pieces of wood became incandescent. He was still gazing into the fire with a dull feeling of pitying contempt for himself, seeing imaginary caverns and ravines of burnished gold, when with a sigh upon his lip as he thought of the simple-hearted, loving mother watching and waiting at home for those who would never cross the threshold again, sleep came to press heavily upon the half-closed eyelids, and all was blank.

CHAPTER FORTY.

THE SOLID REALITY.

A strange feeling of stiffness and cold so painful that for some moments Dallas could not move, but lay gazing straight before him at the heap of ashes, which gave forth a dull glow, just sufficient at times to show the curled-up form of the great dog, and beyond him, rolled up like a mummy and perfectly still, Abel, just as he had last seen him before he closed his eyes. It was so dark that he could not see Tregelly, and he lay trying in vain to make him out.

His head was dull and confused, as if he had slept for a great length of time, and his thoughts would not run straight; but every train of thought he started darted off into some side track which he could not follow, and he always had to come back to where he had made his start.

There it was--some time ago, when they had piled up the fire to a great height so that it might burn long and well while they all sank painlessly and without more trouble into the sleep of death.

And now by slow degrees he began to grasp what seemed to be the fact, that while his companions, even the dog, had pa.s.sed away, he was once more unfortunate, and had come back, as it were, to life, to go alone through more misery, weariness, and despair.

He shivered, and strangely inconsistent worldly thoughts began to crawl in upon him. He felt he must thrust the unburned pieces of pine-wood closer together, so that they might catch fire and burn and radiate some more heat. It was so dark, too, that he shuddered, and then lay staring at the perpendicular wall beyond the fire--the wall that looked so icy and cruel over-night, but now dim, black, and heavy, as if about to lean over and crush them all out of sight.

Yes, he ought, he knew, to thrust the unburned embers together and put on more wood, so as to make a cheerful blaze; but he had not the energy to stir. He wanted another rug over him; but to get it he would have had to crawl to the sledge, and he was too much numbed to move.

Besides, he shuddered at the idea of casting a bright light upon his surroundings, for he felt that it would only reveal the features of his poor comrades hardened into death.

And so it was that he lay for long enough in the darkness, till the numb sensation began to give way to acute pain, which made him moan with anguish and mentally ask what he had done that he should have been chosen to remain there and go through all that horror and despair again.

The natural self is stronger than the educated man in times of crisis.

A despairing wretch tells himself that all is over, and plunges into a river or pool to end his weary life; but the next moment the nature within him begins to struggle hard to preserve the life the trained being has tried to throw away.

It was so here. Dallas made a quick movement at last, turned over, and picked up a half-burned, still smouldering piece of pine, painfully raked others together with it, and threw it on the top, glad to cower over the warm embers, for the heat thrown out was pleasant.

As he sat there after raking the ashes more together, and getting closer, it was to feel the warmth strike up into his chilled limbs, and fill the rug he had drawn round his shoulders with a gentle glow.

Soon after, the collected embers began to burn, and a faint tongue of flame flickered, danced, went out, and flickered up again, illuminating the darkness sufficiently to let him make out that the banked up snow had largely melted, and that Tregelly had crawled away from where he had lain, and come over to his, Dallas's, side, apparently to place his heavy bulk as a shelter to keep off the bitter wind from his young companion.

There was something else, too, which he did not recognise as having seen before he lay down--something dark where the bank of snow had been, which had wonderfully melted away in the fierce glow of the fire; for that sheltering bank had been so big before.

What did it matter to one who was suffering now the agonising pangs of hunger to augment those of cold?

But the sight of the big motionless figure dimly seen by the bluish flickering light appealed strongly to the sufferer, and something like a sob rose to his throat as he thought of Tregelly's brave, patient ways, and the honest truth of his nature.

These feelings were sufficient to urge him forward from where he crouched, to go and lean over the rec.u.mbent figure and lay a hand upon the big clenched fist drawn across the breast of the dead.

It was a hand of ice, and with a piteous sigh Dallas drew back and crept to where Abel lay rolled in his rugs. Just then the dancing flame died out, and it was in the pitchy darkness that Dallas felt for his cousin's face.

The next moment he uttered a cry, and there was a quick rustling sound as of something leaping to its feet. Then the dog's cold nose touched his cheek, and there was a low whine of satisfaction, followed by a panting and scuffling as the dog transferred his attentions to Abel.

"And we're both left alive," half groaned Dallas; but the dog uttered a joyous bark, and he sprang painfully to his feet, for a familiar gruff voice growled:

"Now, then, what's the matter with you, my son?" And then: "Fire out?

How gashly dark!"

"Bob!" faltered Dallas.

"You, Master Dallas? Wait a bit, my son, and I'll get the fire going.

How's Mr Wray?"

There was a weary groan, and Abel said dreamily: "Don't--don't wake me.

How cold! How cold!"

Tregelly sighed, but said nothing for the moment, exerting himself the while in trying to fan the flickering flame into a stronger glow, and with such success that the horrible feeling of unreality began to pa.s.s away, with its accompanying confusion, and Dallas began to realise the truth.

"I--I thought you were lying there dead," he said at last.

"Oh, no, my son; I'm 'live enough," said Tregelly, who still bent over the fire; "but I never thought to open my eyes again. Shall I melt some snow over the fire? There is a sc.r.a.p or two more to eat, and when it's light we might p'r'aps shoot something. But I say, we must have slept for an awful long time, for we made a tremendous fire, and the snow's melted all about wonderful."