To Win or to Die Part 31

"I don't want to hinder you," said Dallas to his cheery friend.

"You won't hinder me, my son. I like letting the fire have a good burn out, and then for it to cool down before I begin. Come along; but how's your cousin?"

"Better this morning, but very low-spirited last night, with his frost-bitten foot."

"Poor lad! It is hard on him."

"The fact is, we are terribly short of provisions."

"You are? Same here, my son; but why didn't you come down and tell me?

I haven't got much, but you're welcome to what I can spare. There you are; sit down by the fire and I'll see what we can do. Bacon's horribly close, and I've only two of those mahogany salt solids they call 'Merican hams; but I can let you have a tin or two of meal and some flour."

"If you can," cried Dallas, "it will be a blessing to us now, and as soon as ever--"

"Yes, yes, all right, my son: I know. But how's the gold turning out?"

"The gravel seems fairly rich, but somehow I'm afraid we shall do no good."

"That's how it seems with me," said the miner. "One just gets enough to live upon and pay one's way; and one could do that anywhere, without leading such a life as this."

Dallas thought of his friend's words as he tramped back through the snow with his sack of provender on his back, for the life they were leading was that of the lowest type of labourer, the accommodation miserable, and the climate vile.

"It will not do--it will not do," he said sadly; but he returned, all the same, in better spirits with the results of his foraging, to find Abel waiting for him anxiously, and the dog curled-up by the fire sleeping heavily.

The stores obtained were carefully husbanded, and during the next few days, in spite of intense frost, Dallas worked hard in the shaft on their claim, heating it with the abundant wood till a certain amount of gravel was thawed, and then throwing it out ready for was.h.i.+ng when the next summer came.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ABEL'S NIGHT ALARM.

"It's no good, Bel," said Dallas one day; "I can't go begging round again. It's not fair to the men. I must go down to the town and bring back as much as I can."

"Very well," said Abel. "When do you start?"

"To-morrow morning."

"So soon? Well, if it has to be done, the sooner the better."

"I can get back within four or five days, I believe, and I'll ask Tregelly to come in once or twice to see you, so that you will not be so lonely."

"You need not do that, because I shall not be here," said Abel quietly.

"Not be here?"

"Of course not. I shall be with you."

"Impossible."

"No, I shall manage to limp along somehow."

"Impossible, I tell you!" cried Dallas. "You must stay to take care of the claim; and then there is the gold--and the dog."

Abel was silenced; and the next morning, taking his empty sledge, and trusting to obtain enough food at the shanties which he would pa.s.s on the track, Dallas started.

Abel watched him pa.s.s away into the gloom of the dark morning, and then turned and limped back sadly to where the dog lay dozing by the fire, apparently still too weak to stir.

Abel's bed had been drawn aside, and there was a hole in the ground, while upon the upturned barrel which formed their table stood a little leather bag half full of scales, sc.r.a.ps, and nuggets of gold--that which remained after Dallas had taken out a sufficiency to purchase stores at the town on the Yukon.

Abel's first act was to stoop down, mend the fire, and pat the dog, which responded by rapping the earth with his tail. Then the leather bag was tied up, replaced in the bank hole, which was then filled up, the earth beaten down flat, and the sacks and skins which formed the bed drawn back into their places.

He stooped down and patted the dog.

"Pah! Why don't you lie farther from the fire? You make the hut smell horribly with your burnt hair."

The dog only whined, opened one eye, blinked at him, and went off to sleep again.

"Poor old chap!" mused Abel. "I didn't think I could care so much for such a great, rough, ugly brute as you are; but adversity makes strange friends."

Abel finished that day wondering how Dallas was getting on, and trying to picture his journey through the snow by the side of the ice-bound stream; grew more melancholy from his lonely position, and then tried to rouse himself by being practical and planning.

He made up his mind to content himself with one good, hearty meal a day, so as to make the provisions last out well, in case Dallas should not be back to time, and only to be extravagant with the fuel.

Lastly, he went to the door and looked out, to find that it was a clear, frosty night, with the brilliant stars peering down.

He knew it was night, for no fires were to be seen in any direction, and, after making all as snug as he could, he rolled himself in his blankets, drew the skin bag up about him, and followed his dumb companion's example, sleeping till morning, when the logs were just smouldering and had to be coaxed into a good warm blaze again.

And so the days and nights glided by. He would awake again to find the fire burning low, the dog still sleeping, and the horror of another dreary day to pa.s.s. For his foot seemed no better, his spirits were lower than ever, and at last it was long past the time when Dallas should have returned.

How the days pa.s.sed then he never afterwards could quite recall, for it was like a continuous nightmare. But in a mechanical way he kept up the fire, with the wood piled in one corner by the door getting so low that he knew he must bestir himself soon, and get to the stack by the shaft, knock and brush off the snow, and bring in more to thaw in the warmth of the hut.

All in a strange, dreamy way he sat and watched, cooked a large pot of skilly, and shared it with the still drowsy dog, which took its portion and curled-up again, after whining softly and licking his hand.

One night all seemed over. No one had been near, and he had felt too weak and weary to limp to the nearest hut in search of human companions.h.i.+p. He was alone in his misery and despair. Dallas must be dead, he felt sure, and there was nothing for him to do now but make another good meal for himself and the dog, and then sleep.

"Sleep," he said aloud, "and perhaps wake no more."

He ate his hot meal once more and watched the dog take his portion before going to the door, to look out feebly and find all black, depressing darkness; not even a star to be seen.

"Night, night, black night!" he muttered as he carefully fastened up again, pegged the blankets across to keep out the cruel wind, carefully piled up the pieces of wood about the fire, as an afterthought carried out with a smile, with a big log that would smoulder far on into the next day for the sake of the dog.

"For I shall not want it," he said sadly. "Poor brute! What will he do when I'm dead?"

The thought startled him, and he sat down and fixed his eyes upon the s.h.a.ggy, hairy animal curled-up close to the fire, whose flames flickered and danced and played about, making the hair glisten and throwing the dog's shadow back in a curious grotesque way.

Something like energy ran in a thrill through the watcher, and he shuddered and felt that he must do something to prevent _that_--it would be too horrible.

It was in a nightmare-like state he seemed to see people coming to the door at last. He could even hear them knocking and shouting, and at last using hatchets to crash a way in. For what? To find the dog there alive and stronger, ready to resent their coming, even to fighting and driving them away; but only to return, rifle or pistol armed, to destroy the brute for what it had done according to its nature, to keep itself alive.