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CHAPTER XXXVIII
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL
Tom believed that Beresford's delirious words had condemned them bothto death. He could not nurse his friend, watch West night and day,keep the camp supplied with food, and cover the hundreds of milesof bleak snow fields which stretched between them and the nearestsettlement. He did not think that any one man lived who was capable ofsucceeding in such a task.
Yet his first feeling was of immediate relief. The horrible duty thathad seemed to be laid upon him was not a duty at all. He saw hiscourse quite simply. All he had to do was to achieve the impossible.If he failed in it, he would go down like a soldier in the day's work.He would have, anyhow, no torturings of conscience, no blight restingupon him till the day of his death.
"You're reprieved, West," he announced simply.
The desperado staggered to the sled and leaned against it faintly. Hishuge body swayed. The revulsion was almost too much for him.
"I--I--knowed you couldn't treat an old pardner thataway, Tom," hemurmured.
Morse took the man out to a fir tree. He carried with him a blanket, abuffalo robe, and a part of the dog harness.
"Whad you aimin' to do?" asked West uneasily. He was not sure yet thathe was out of the woods.
"Roll up in the blankets," ordered Morse.
The fellow looked at his grim face and did as he was told. Tom tiedhim to the tree, after making sure that his hands were fast behindhim.
"I'll freeze here," the convict complained.
The two officers were lean and gaunt from hard work and insufficientnourishment, but West was still sleek and well padded with flesh.He had not missed a meal, and during the past weeks he had been apassenger. All the hard work, the packing at portages, the making ofcamp, the long, wearing days of hunting, had fallen upon the two whoseprisoner he was. He could stand a bit of hardship, Tom decided.
"No such luck," he said brusquely. "And I wouldn't try to break awayif I were you. I can't kill you, but I'll thrash you with the dog-whipif you make me any trouble."
Morse called Cuffy and set the dog to watch the bound man. He did notknow whether the St. Bernard would do this, but he was glad to seethat the leader of the train understood at once and settled down inthe snow to sleep with one eye watchful of West.
Tom returned to his friend. He knew he must concentrate his efforts tokeep life in the battered body of the soldier. He must nurse and feedhim judiciously until the fever wore itself out.
While he was feeding Win broth, he fell asleep with the spoon in hishand. He jerkily flung back his head and opened his eyes. Cuffy stilllay close to the prisoner, evidently prepared for an all-night vigilwith short light naps from which the least movement would instantlyarouse him.
"I'm all in. Got to get some sleep," Morse said to himself, halfaloud.
He wrapped in his blankets. When his eyes opened, the sun was beatingdown from high in the heavens. He had slept from one day into thenext. Even in his sleep he had been conscious of some sound drummingat his ears. It was the voice of West.
"You gonna sleep all day? Don't we get any grub? Have I gotta starvewhile you pound yore ear?"
Hurriedly Tom flung aside his wraps. He leaped to his feet, a new man,his confidence and vitality all restored.
The fire had died to ashes. He could hear the yelping of the dogs inthe distance. They were on a private rabbit hunt of their own, all ofthem but Cuffy. The St. Bernard still lay in the snow watching West.
Beresford's delirium was gone and his fever was less. He was veryweak, but Tom thought he saw a ghost of the old boyish grin flickerindomitably into his eyes. As Tom looked at the swathed and bandagedhead, for the first time since the murderous attack he allowedhimself to hope. The never-say-die spirit of the man and the splendidconstitution built up by a clean outdoor life might pull him throughyet.
"West was afraid you never were going to wake up, Tom. It worried him.You know how fond of you he is," the constable said weakly.
Morse was penitent. "Why didn't you wake me, Win? You must be dying ofthirst."
"I could do with a drink," he admitted. "But you needed that sleep.Every minute of it."
Tom built up the fire and thawed snow. He gave Beresford a drink andthen fed more of the broth to him. He made breakfast for the prisonerand himself.
Afterward, he took stock of their larder. It was almost empty. "Enoughflour and pemmican for another mess of rubaboo. Got to restock rightaway or our stomachs will be flat as a buffalo bull's after a longstampede."
He spoke cheerfully, yet he and Beresford both knew a hunt for gamemight be unsuccessful. Rabbits would not do. He had to provide enoughto feed the dogs as well as themselves. If he did not get a moose, abear, or caribou, they would face starvation.
Tom redressed the wounds of the trooper and examined the splints onthe arm to make sure they had not become disarranged during the nightin the delirium of the sick man.
"Got to leave you, Win. Maybe for a day or more. I'll have plenty ofwood piled handy for the fire--and broth all ready to heat. Think youcan make out?"
The prospect could not have been an inviting one for the wounded man,but he nodded quite as a matter of course.
"I'll be all right. Take your time. Don't spoil your hunt worryingabout me."
Yet it was with extreme reluctance Tom had made up his mind to go. Hewould take the dog-train with him--and West, unarmed, of course. Hehad to take him on Beresford's account, because he dared not leavehim. But as he looked at his friend, all the supple strength strickenout of him, weak and helpless as a sick child, he felt a queer tug atthe heart. What assurance had he that he would find him still alive onhis return?
Beresford knew what he was thinking. He smiled, the gentle,affectionate smile of the very ill. "It's all right, old fellow. Gotto buck up and carry on, you know. Look out--for West. Don't give himany show at you. Never trust him--not for a minute. Remember he's--awolf." His weak hand gripped Tom's in farewell.
The American turned away hurriedly, not to show the tears thatunexpectedly brimmed his lids. Though he wore the hard surface of thefrontier, his was a sensitive soul. He was very fond of this gay,gallant youth who went out to meet adventure as though it were a loverwith whom he had an appointment. They had gone through hell together,and the fires of the furnace had proved the Canadian true gold. Afterall, Tom was himself scarcely more than a boy in years. He cherished,deep hidden in him, the dreams and illusions that long contact withthe world is likely to dispel. At New Haven and Cambridge lads of hisage were larking beneath the elms and playing childish pranks on eachother.
West drove the team. Tom either broke trail or followed. He cameacross plenty of tracks, but most of them were old ones. He recognizedthe spoor of deer, bear, and innumerable rabbits. Toward noon freshcaribou tracks crossed their path. The slot pointed south. Over a softand rotting trail Morse swung round in pursuit.
They made heavy going of it. He had to break trail through slushysnow. His shoes broke through the crust and clogged with the sludgystuff so that his feet were greatly weighted. Fatigue pressed like aload on his shoulders. The dogs and West wallowed behind.
By night probably the trail would be much better, but they dared notwait till then. The caribou would not stop to suit the convenience ofthe hunters. This might be the last shot in the locker. Every dragginglift of the webs carried Morse farther from camp, but food had to befound and in quantity.
It was close to dusk when Tom guessed they were getting near the herd.He tied the train to a tree and pushed on with West. Just beforenightfall he sighted the herd grazing on muskeg moss. There were abouta dozen in all. The wind was fortunately right.
Tom motioned to West not to follow him. On hands and knees the huntercrept forward, taking advantage of such cover as he could find. It wasa slow, cold business, but he was not here for pleasure. A mistakemight mean the difference between life and death for him and WinBeresford.
For a stalker to determine the precise moment when to shoot is usuallya
nice decision. Perhaps he can gain another dozen yards on his prey.On the other hand, by moving closer he may startle them and lose hischance. With so much at stake Tom felt for the second time in his lifethe palsy that goes with buck fever.
A buck flung up his head and sniffed toward the hidden danger. Tomknew the sign of startled doubt. Instantly his trembling ceased. Heaimed carefully and fired. The deer dropped in its tracks. Again hefired--twice--three times. The last shot was a wild one, sent on ahundredth chance. The herd vanished in the gathering darkness.
Tom swung forward exultant, his webs swishing swiftly over the snow.He had dropped two. A second buck had fallen, risen, run fifty yards,and come to earth again. The hunter's rifle was ready in case eitherof the caribou sprang up. He found the first one dead, the other badlywounded. At once he put the buck out of its pain.
West came slouching out of the woods at Tom's signal. Directed by theofficer, he made a fire and prepared for business. The stars wereout as they dressed the meat and cooked a large steak on the coals.Afterward they hung the caribou from the limb of a spruce, drawingthem high enough so that no prowling wolves could reach the game.
With the coming of night the temperature had fallen and the snowhardened. The crust held beneath their webs as they returned tothe sled. West wanted to camp where the deer had been killed. Heprotested, with oaths, in his usual savage growl, that he was deadtired and could not travel another step.
But he did. Beneath the stars the hunters mushed twenty miles back tocamp. They made much better progress by reason of the frozen trail andthe good meal they had eaten.
It was daybreak when Morse sighted the camp-fire smoke. His heartleaped. Beresford must have been able to keep it alive with fuel.Therefore he had been alive an hour or two ago at most.
Dogs and men trudged into camp ready to drop with fatigue.
Beresford, from where he lay, waved a hand at Tom. "Any luck?" heasked.
"Two caribou."
"Good. I'll be ready for a steak to-morrow."
Morse looked at him anxiously. The glaze had left his eyes. He was nolonger burning up with fever. Both voice and movements seemed strongerthan they had been twenty-four hours earlier.
"Bully for you, Win," he answered.