Blake's Burden Part 32

There was no time to lose, since the swift creature would take flight in an instant, and almost as he caught sight of it the rifle went up to his shoulder. For a moment the foresight wavered across the indistinct form, and then his numbed hands grew steady, and, trusting that nothing would check the frost-clogged action, he pressed the trigger. He felt the jar of the b.u.t.t, a little smoke blew in his eyes, and he could make out nothing on the crest of the ridge. It, however, seemed impossible that he had missed and next moment he heard a heavy floundering in the snow among the rocks above. He went up the slope at a savage run and plunged down a precipitous hollow, on the farther side of which a half-seen object was moving through the gloom of the trees. Stopping a moment, he threw up the rifle and after the thin red flash the deer staggered and collapsed.

Running on in desperate haste, he fell upon it with his hunting knife; and then stopped, feeling strangely limp and breathless, with the long blade dripping in his hand. Now the caribou lay dead before him, the strain of the last few minutes made itself felt. Surprised when exhausted and weak from want of food by an opportunity he had not looked for, he had forced upon himself sufficient steadiness to shoot.

It had cost him an effort; the short fierce chase had tried him hard, and now the reaction had set in. For all that, he was conscious of a savage, exultant excitement. Here was food, and food meant life.

His first impulse was to light a fire and feast, but as he grew calmer he began to think. He was a long way from camp and feared that if he rested he could not force himself to resume the march. Besides, there were the wolves to reckon with, and he could not escape if they followed him in the dark. Prudence suggested that he should cut off as much meat as possible, and after placing it out of reach in a tree set off for camp at his best speed without taking any of the raw flesh to scent the air; but this was more than he could bring himself to do.

His comrades were very hungry, and some animal might climb to the frozen meat. It was unthinkable that he should run any risk of losing the precious food. He decided to take as much as he could carry and make a depot of the rest, and set to work with the hunting knife in anxious haste.

It was now quite dark; he could not see what he was cutting, and if he gashed his hand, which was numbed and almost useless, the wound would not heal. Then the haft of the knife grew slippery and tough skin and bone turned the wandering blade. It was an unpleasant business, but he was not fastidious and he tore the flesh off with his fingers, knowing that he was in danger while he worked. There were wolves in the neighbourhood, and their scent for blood was wonderfully keen; it was a question whether they would reach the spot before he had left it, and when he stopped to clean the knife in the snow he cast a swift glance about.

He could see nothing farther off than a fallen trunk about a dozen yards away; beyond that the trees had faded into a sombre ma.s.s. A biting wind wailed among them, and he could hear the harsh rustle of the needles, but except for this there was a daunting silence. He began to feel a horror of the lonely wood and a longing to escape into the open, though he would be no safer there. But to give way to this weakness would be dangerous and, pulling himself together, he went to work more calmly.

It was difficult to reach the branches of the spruce he chose, and when he had placed the first load of meat in safety he was tempted to flight. Indeed, for some moments he stood irresolute, struggling to hold his fears in subjection; and then went back for another supply.

He climbed the tree three times before he was satisfied that he had stored enough, and afterwards gathered up as much of the flesh as he could conveniently carry. It would soon freeze, but not before it had left a scent that any wolf which might happen to be near could follow.

He left the wood with a steady stride, refraining from attempting a faster pace than he could keep up, but when he had gone a mile he felt distressed.

His load, which included the rifle, was heavy, and he had been exerting himself since early morning. The wind was in his face, las.h.i.+ng it until the cold became intolerable, the dry snow was loose, and he could not find his outward trail. Still, he was thankful that no more had fallen and thought he knew the quarter he must make for. Now he was in the open, he could see some distance, for the snow threw up a dim light. It stretched away before him, a sweep of glimmering grey, and the squeaking crunch it made beneath his shoes emphasized the silence.

Skirting a bluff he did not remember, he stopped in alarm until a taller clump of trees which he thought he knew caught his searching eyes. If he were right, he must incline farther to the east to strike the shortest line to camp, and he set off, breathing heavily and longing to fling away his load. Cold flakes stung his face and a creeping haze obscured his view in the direction where he expected to find the next wood. He was within a hundred yards of the nearest trees when he saw them and as he left the last it was snowing hard. His heart sank as he launched out into the open, for he had now no guide, and having neither axe nor blanket he could not make a fire and camp in a bluff, even if he could find one. It looked as if he must perish should he fail to reach the camp. The thought of the wolves no longer troubled him, but when he had gone a mile or two he imagined he heard a howl behind him and quickened his speed.

After that he had only a hazy recollection of floundering on, pa.s.sing a bluff he could not locate and here there and a white rock, while the snow fell thicker and its surface got worse. Then, when he felt he could go no farther, a faint glow of light broke out and he turned towards it with a hoa.r.s.e cry. An answer reached him; the light grew brighter, and he was in among the trees. Benson met him, and in another minute or two he flung himself down, exhausted by the fire.

"I've brought you your supper, boys," he said. "We'll have a feast to-night."

They ate with keen appet.i.te and afterwards went to sleep, but when they reached the wood next morning nothing was left of the caribou except the meat in the tree and a few clean-picked bones.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FACTORY

Light snow was driving across the waste before a savage wind when the party sat at breakfast one morning a fortnight after Blake had shot the caribou. They had spent the first two days enjoying a badly needed rest, but the rest of the time had been pa.s.sed in forced marches which severely taxed their strength. Part of their way, however, had lain across open country, for they were near the northern edge of the timber belt, and the straggling trees, dwarfed and bent by the wind, ran east and west in a deeply indented line. In some places they boldly stretched out towards the Pole in long promontories; in others they fell back in wide bays which Blake, steering by compa.s.s, held straight across and afterwards again plunged into the scrub. Three days were spent in struggling through the broadest tongue, but as a rule, a few hours' arduous march brought them out into the open. Even there the ground was very rough and broken, and they were thankful for the numerous frozen creeks and lakes which provided an easier road.

Pus.h.i.+ng on stubbornly, camping where they could find shelter and wood, since they could hardly have survived a night spent without a fire in the open, they had made, by calculation, two hundred miles, and Blake believed they might by a determined effort reach the Hudson's Bay post about nightfall. This was necessary since their strength was nearly exhausted, and provisions had run out, but an Indian trapper whom they had met two days before had given them directions and landmarks, some of which they recognized.

Day had broken, but there was little light and Blake, looking out from behind a slab of rock in the shelter of which a few junipers clung, thought that three or four miles would be the longest distance that he could see. This was peculiarly unfortunate, because he understood that their course led across a wide untimbered stretch, on the opposite side of which one or two isolated bluffs would indicate the neighbourhood of the factory. Disastrous consequences might follow the missing of these woods.

A pannikin of weak tea made from leaves which had already been once or twice infused stood among the embers, and by and by Benson, who was dividing the last of the meat, held up a piece.

"I had thought of saving this, but it hardly seems worth while," he said. "If we make the factory, we'll get a good supper."

"You don't mention what will happen if we miss it," Harding remarked with grim humour. "Anyhow, that piece of meat won't make much difference. What do you think, Blake?"

Blake forced a cheerful laugh. "Put it all in; we're going to make the post; as a matter of fact, we have to. How's the leg this morning?"

"I don't think it's worse than it was last night," Harding answered.

"If I'm careful how I go, it ought to stand another journey."

He made a grimace as he stretched out the limb, which was very sore, for during the last few days the strain the snowshoe threw on the muscles had nearly disabled him. Now he knew it would be difficult to hold out for another journey, but he had grown accustomed to pain and weariness and hunger. They were, he imagined, the lot of all who braved the rigours of winter in the northern wilds.

"Well," said Benson, "there's no use in carrying anything that's not strictly needful and the empty grub-bag may stay behind. Then here's a pair of worn out moccasins I was keeping as a stand by. I should be able to get new ones at the factory."

"It's still some distance off," Harding drily reminded him.

"If we don't make it, the chances are that I won't need the things.

But what about your collection of gum?"

Nothing had been said on this point for some time, but Harding's face wore a curious look as he took up a bag which weighed three or four pounds.

"Some of the stuff might be used for low-grade varnish, but that's not what I'm out for. I've been trying to believe that a few of the specimens might prove better on a.n.a.lysis, but I guess it's a delusion."

With a quick resolute movement he threw the bag into the fire and when the resin flared up with a thick brown smoke the others regarded him with silent sympathy. This was the end of the project he had expected so much from, but it was obvious that he could meet failure with fort.i.tude. Nothing that would serve any purpose could be said, and they quietly strapped on their blankets.

There was not much snow when they set off and fortunately the wind blew behind them, but the white haze narrowed in the prospect and Blake, who broke the trail, kept his eyes upon the compa.s.s. He was not quite sure of the right line, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was, at least, going straight. After a few minutes, Harding glanced behind.

Their camping place had vanished, they were out in an open waste, and he knew that he had started on the last march he was capable of making.

Where it would lead him he could not tell, though the answer to the question was of vital importance.

For a time he thought of his wife and wondered with keen anxiety what would become of her if his strength gave way before they reached the post, but he drove these cares out of his mind. It was dangerous to harbour them and served no purpose; his part was to struggle on, swinging the net shoes while he grappled with the pain each step caused him. He shrank from contemplating the distance yet to be covered; it seemed vast to him in his weakness, and he felt himself a feeble, crippled thing. Soft snow and Arctic cold opposed his advance with malignant force, but his worn-out body still obeyed the spur of his will, and he roused himself to fight for the life that had some value to another. He must march, dividing up the distance into short stages that had less effect upon the imagination; limping forward from the ice-glazed rock abreast of him to the white hillock which loomed up dimly where the snow blurred the horizon. Then he would again look ahead from some patch of scrub to the most prominent elevation that he could see.

The marks he chose and pa.s.sed seemed innumerable, but the wilderness still ran on, pitilessly empty, in front of him. His leg was horribly painful, he knew he must break down soon, and they had seen nothing of a stony rise they were looking for. To find it would simplify matters, because the Indian had made them understand that the bluffs about the post lay nearly east of it.

Noon pa.s.sed and they still pressed forward without a halt, for there was little more than three hours' daylight left, and it was unthinkable that they should spend the night without food or shelter. The horizon steadily narrowed as the snow thickened; there was a risk of their pa.s.sing the guiding-marks or even the factory.

It was nearly three o'clock when Harding stumbled and falling into the snow found himself unable to get up until Benson helped him. In his attempt to rise he further strained his weakened leg and for a moment or two he leaned on his companion, his face contorted with pain.

"The fall seems to have hurt you," Benson said sympathetically.

"I'll have to go on," Harding gasped and, setting his teeth, strode forward, made a few paces with horrible pain, and then sank down on his knees.

The others stopped in consternation and Blake said, "If I've kept the right line, we can't be far from the factory."

"I'm played out," said Harding. "You'll have to leave me here. If you make the post, you can come back with a sledge."

"No," Blake answered shortly. "How are we to find you with our trail drifting up? Besides, you'd be frozen in a few hours. If you can't walk, you'll have to be carried. Get hold of him, Benson."

Benson lifted him to his feet, Blake seized his arm, and, both supporting him, they resumed the march. Leaning on them heavily, Harding was dragged along, and they silenced the feeble protests he made now and then.

"Stop talking that rot! We see this out together," Blake told him roughly.

None of them had much doubt as to what the end would be, but they stubbornly held on. Nothing further was said; Blake and Benson's pinched faces were set and stern and Harding's drawn up in a ghastly fas.h.i.+on by suffering. Still, their overtaxed muscles somehow obeyed the relentless call on them.

At length, when the light had almost gone, Benson stepped into a slight depression that slanted across their path.

"Hold on!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely. "Look at this!"

Blake stooped while Harding, swaying awkwardly with bent leg, held on to him. The hollow was small, a smooth groove of slightly lower level than the rest of the snow.