A Claim on Klondyke Part 8

He tried hard, groaning with pain; he really swooned more than once as he endeavoured to drag himself out, and somehow, I cannot remember how, he did get out, and I got him clear and on to a level place on the bank, and then I let him rest whilst I got him some whisky--for we had brought a little with us, "in case of accident," we said, and here was an accident indeed.

After a little while my chum revived. He said the agony in one leg was intense. He was quite unable to help himself or to discuss the situation.

First thing, I was sure, was to get him inside; then we must discover what was really wrong. He declared he knew that his thigh was fractured. The slightest movement made him scream with anguish. Yet moved he must be--but how was I alone to do it? I am a big fellow. I endeavoured to lift him bodily. I could not. His constant cry was, "Let me lie--and die!"

Suddenly an idea occurred to me. We had just been reading about Swiss mountaineering, and that to get wounded people or ladies unable to walk over the ice and snow they use hides, or, failing them, sacking--anything really which is strong enough.

Well, I remembered the bearskin we had--would that do?

I tore it from the tree, spread it out by Meade, the fur side up, then with all the tenderness I could exert I contrived to get it under him: he could help himself but little, and half the time he appeared to be unconscious.

As for my thoughts, I cannot recall them really. If, as he said, his thigh was broken, what could _I_ do for him? I had no knowledge at all of surgery. I was almost despairing, and began to fear it would indeed be that he would die!

Good old Patch seemed to realise that some great disaster had occurred.

The expression on his face was almost human. He sat perfectly still, intently watching us.

To get Meade in, and lying on his far from comfortable bed, was the first thing to do--of that I was quite sure. It was no easy task. I did, however, manage by attaching a rope to the bearskin to haul him along by degrees, and at last got him near the fire. Still on the bearskin, I arranged him with rugs and blankets, as we had plenty.

Next thing was to examine his hurts. I cut off his boots and clothing.

I found one leg was much cut and bruised, but he could move it--it was the other that was seriously damaged. I found that it was broken just above the knee!

Naturally my first thought was that we must have a doctor. But how could it be managed? Could I leave him for a forty-mile tramp to the boat? Could I launch it alone? Could I navigate it alone to Dawson?

When I did get there, could I get a doctor to come out with me?

It would take at the very least ten days to go and come, and where would my poor friend be then? He would die indeed without me. He would freeze to death, even if I left food and water handy, for it froze every night, and the earth itself was frozen always, summer and winter, you must remember, and if the fire died out he could not rekindle it.

No--it was impossible. I could not leave him.

We talked this over, at least I talked, and he agreed with me--that we must sink or swim together, that we could not be parted. He was awfully depressed.

I plied him with hot tea and whisky--that is all I could think of then, and he became calmer after a little. But soon he became uneasy again.

"Bertie, dear friend," said he, with a mournful sigh, "I see clearly nothing can be done. I must die here--that is plain."

"Not if I can help it," I declared, and I begged him to tell me what he thought I could do for him; that as it was evident I could not leave him, I must do something--if only to alleviate his pain.

He asked what I knew of surgery, if I had ever seen a leg set, if I thought that I could do it. I was grieved at heart to have to tell him that I was absolutely ignorant about all such matters.

He lay silently for a long time--I thought he slept. I made up the fire, closed the door, lit the lamp, for it was evening, then I sat on the ground beside him, very sorrowful--ay, far more than sorrowful--I was despairing.

A broken leg--no surgeon--no appliances--a fearful journey before us through an Arctic winter, for I knew that at the best many weeks, perhaps months, must elapse before my friend could possibly start homewards, and what could I do alone? I was utterly ignorant about sickness and sick-nursing, and I knew nothing about cooking food suitable for a sick man, even if we had the materials to cook.

There was a long, long silence, only the crackling of the fire in the corner, the sough of the wind amongst the pines outside, or the weird howl of a wolf prowling around our miserable home.

Patch sat upright by the fire, almost motionless. He scarcely shut an eye; he appeared to be full of sad thoughts. Occasionally he turned his head slowly and gazed first at Meade a while, and then at me, and then, as if he too was quite despairing, he gazed long and sorrowfully at the burning wood. Certainly that good dog knew that something terrible had happened to his friends.

CHAPTER V.

It was about midnight before Meade spoke again. He had been lying motionless, though occasionally a low groan escaped him. I thought he had been sleeping, from the effect of the whisky I had given him; however it was not so.

Suddenly, with a cry of anguish, with eyes wide open, pupils dilated, he gazed at me fixedly. "Bertie," he murmured, "the pain has been bearable, but now it is increasing; if I move in the least the agony is dreadful. Inflammation is beginning I suppose, and if something is not done speedily I must die!"

What could I answer? I expect I looked as dismayed as I felt, for he went on, "But don't grieve, my boy, don't you give up; it's a miserable affair, I know, for you as well as for me, but I am not hopeless; no!

if you could follow the instructions I can give you I may pull through--I've been thinking it all out."

I was alert instantly. "Everything you tell me I will do," said I; "your every wish I will carry out. I'm an awful m.u.f.f at anything like this, you know, yet I'll do my best, and G.o.d helping us, we may, as you say, pull through."

At which he told me that some years before he left England he had attended what was called an ambulance cla.s.s, where instructions were given about "first aid to the injured," and he had been striving to remember all he had learned about broken bones. He told me I must get a strip of wood, smooth and strong, about four feet long, and a number of shorter and thinner pieces for splints.

These I quickly procured. The next things were bandages. We had very little stuff that would answer for them, but our tent, which was of thin duck, would do; so I ripped some of that into strips.

To put the fracture into place was a most difficult task. I hardly dared to handle him, for every touch gave him exquisite pain; yet I had to twist and pull and push until I believed the bones were in the right position. He directed me as best he could, but only at intervals, on account of the torture my unskilled hands were giving him. When, as I hoped, all was as it should be, I placed the splints, each wrapped in the softest stuff I had, close together round the injury; then I wound long bandages over all, tightly and smoothly.

Lastly, outside, from his armpit to his foot, I placed the long strip of wood and bound it to him, round his chest, his middle, and his ankle, fastening it securely and firmly with plenty of bands above and below the fracture.

Meade thanked me when I had finished. He said, with a sad smile, that he believed I had done it as well as if I had been through the course of instructions which he had; then he closed his eyes, exhausted.

He had borne all this with the greatest fort.i.tude, but now a kind of stupor appeared to creep over him. I hoped that it would end in healthy sleep; therefore I quietly made up the fire, lowered the light, and slipped out into the night.

It was absolutely still in the open air, and not so very cold. Not a breath of wind stirred the surrounding foliage; only the ripple of the creek was audible as it flowed tinkling over the stones a few yards from me, and the swish of the water swirling through the sluice.

Patch had come out with me. He was so quiet, so subdued, so sorrowful; it was just wonderful the almost human sagacity of that dog. I had said to him gently as we came out, "We must be very quiet, Patch; you must not bark; your poor master is very ill; we must let him sleep,"

and the way that dear old fellow looked at me was as if he quite understood what I had said. I believe he did, too, by his actions.

From the hot stuffy cavern, little more than a burrow, where I had been attending to my poor friend, to the clear air outside, the change was great and most refres.h.i.+ng. I stood beside the creek for some time breathing in the sweet pine-scented air, and thinking very deeply, very seriously.

The sky was cloudless, the stars were gleaming near the southern horizon in great brilliancy, but over the rest of the heavens they were hardly discernible--they were overpowered by the blaze of the Northern Lights. This was no unusual occurrence; rarely when the sky was clear were they absent at night, though on this particular time they were remarkably bright.

I was naturally terribly depressed, wretchedly anxious, all but despairing; yet when I observed this grand display of Almighty power my thoughts rose from these mundane troubles, and I felt that He who marshalled these mysterious forces, whose hand was so plainly visible there, would, if it pleased Him, help us out of this terrible strait, and enable us to bear whatever He chose to send us with patience and trustfulness. I am not ashamed to add that I lifted up my heart in prayer to Him, beseeching Him to be with us.

Certainly I received great relief from this. I took my seat upon an upturned sluice-box, I drew my blanket-coat close round me, for it was freezing, and with dear old Patch beside me, I remained there ruminating for an hour or more.

I could not hide from myself that the position was most serious. I hoped, though I feared, that what I had done for Meade would prove to be successful. I had heard of people fracturing their limbs, and in a few weeks being out and about again as well as ever. But they had skilled attention, whilst we knew nothing about the treatment. I believed that the princ.i.p.al thing was to keep my patient's general health good. I wondered what food I should give him. I ran over the stores we still possessed, and was thankful to remember how much we had, and what a variety. Surely amongst it all I could concoct wholesome and proper things for him.

Then my mind travelled to our work there. I realised that it was all ended for the present, and I fell to wondering how we should ultimately get all our gold away and our gear, for of course there would be no rafting. The creek, the whole country, would be frozen solid and covered deep in snow, long before my poor friend could travel.

It recurred to me next that in the winter, with snow, one could haul heavy loads upon a sleigh, and I believed that we two and Patch could move everything. I actually caught myself planning how I should build one. Indeed it crossed my mind that even if Meade was not strong enough to help drag, that Patch and I could pull him, with our gold too, as far as Dawson City. There, I thought, there might be a doctor, and surely more comfort than in our dismal hole. Women were at Dawson: one whom I had met at that store, it seemed to me, would prove a good friend to us in our need.

As regards our gold, I felt most grateful that we had secured so much, for there would be no lack of means to carry out our needs.

I sat outside thus, thinking of these and many other subjects, until I noticed that the aurora had faded clean away, that the sky in the north-east was crimson, and that ere many minutes another day would have dawned. Then I went inside. Meade was sleeping naturally, breathing gently and regularly, so I lay down myself and slept too.

It was broad day when I awoke. The brilliant sun was scintillating on the ripples of the creek before our doorway. Meade was calling me.

"Bertie, dear boy," said he, "I grieve to have awakened you, but oh! I am so thirsty; give me some cold water."

Well, now, I was afraid to do so. I said I must make some hot, open a tin of Swiss milk, and give him that, but he said "No;" that he remembered well when one of his sisters had been ill, she had suffered much because cold water was refused when she craved for it. When the doctor came he gave it her, telling them to remember that at all times it could be given with safety.